Gesturing wildly at everything

Is anyone else having a hard time concentrating on anything except *waves arms, gesturing wildly at everything*? It’s not just me, right? 

*****

It’s February 5, 2025. We’re now on, as far as I know, day 5 of Elon Musk’s hostile and illegal takeover of the government. Democratic elected officials are finally on the streets, just in time because just one more performative outrage post on social media would have pushed me right past the limits of reason. What they are starting to do is good, but it’s not enough. Senators and Congresspeople are still online posting about having been denied entry to USAID headquarters and the Treasury building. They cannot stand for this. They must try to force their way in, and let the American people see a foreign-born unelected cartoon villain centibillionaire order the arrest of their democratically elected representatives. That’s what it has come to. It’s been just 16 days, and on the 53-day Hitler timeline, we’re just shy of a third of the way to the end of American democracy. Any day now, the Republicans will pass their own Enabling Act. Any day now, we’ll have our own Reichstag fire. 

*****

It’s February 6 now, and oddly enough I’m calmer today even though I’m not sleeping much, and I’m consuming news coverage like it’s cocaine, and Elon Musk has not yet been denaturalized and deported. Today is the “Fork in the Road” deadline for all of my Federal colleagues and friends, and I don’t know one single person who intends to accept this suspect “buyout” offer. Meanwhile, I am running into people who voted for Trump - including a few who I didn’t expect would have voted for him, but what do I know - who are now wringing their hands and claiming that they “didn’t vote for this,” except that I am sorry to say that yes you did, yes you MFing did vote for exactly this, all of this, and I don’t understand how you can pretend otherwise. They told us what they were planning to do. It’s all written down. Plus, everyone knew how much money Elon was spending on Trump’s campaign and since he’s not known as a philanthropist, it stands to reason that he expected a pretty big return on his investment, and he’s getting it. That’s the best $250M that anyone ever spent, really. 

*****

It’s Friday now. My son came home from school last night. He felt sick and feverish and went to the student health clinic with what turned out to be a 103-degree fever. A few tests later, and he had a flu diagnosis, some meds, and an order to stay away from his classes and activities for the next few days. My older son picked him up at school last night, and he slept on the couch in front of the Capitals game until about 10:30 PM, and then went to bed, where he remained until 9 this morning. It’s very hard to convince that child (who is now 20 and I know he’s not a child, but he’s my child) to rest and avoid activity. He is a perpetual motion machine. The AEC Championship is less than a week away and I know he’s quite anxious about missing workouts. I want him to do well in the meet, and hope he’ll recover his strength in time to do that, but as long as he’s healthy then I don’t really care how fast he swims. Meanwhile he’s not getting in a pool until at least Monday. I will stand on that business. 

*****

It’s Saturday morning, February 8. Thankfully, my son is starting to feel better. Of course, he is plotting his return to the pool even as we speak. I might not win this battle. 

The sky is lead gray and although I haven’t been outside yet, I can tell it’s cold. We’re expecting a winter storm today. We’re expecting another winter storm on Tuesday. Remember a few weeks ago when I said that I was starting to like winter, just a tiny little bit? Yeah, that’s off now. I’m done with this weather. This weather is for polar bears and penguins and ice fishing enthusiasts from International Falls, MN. It’s not for middle-aged ladies from the DMV. 

I have a lot of work to do, at work and on the volunteer front. I’m going to do some of it today because I’m not going out in the freezing rain and because getting some things done will make me feel like I have some control over something. 

*****

It’s Super Bowl Sunday. Fly Eagles Fly. I don’t care very much about football, but Philadelphia is my hometown and I want an Eagles win for my family at home. And of course, I want Harrison Butker’s team to lose. We’ll watch the game, of course, because we always watch the Super Bowl. I hope that the whole stadium boos Donald Trump, who is expected to attend because what’s a better way to cut government costs than to send the President and several hundred Secret Service agents to the most high-risk high-profile event in American life? Very efficient. 

Of course I know that Trump is planning to attend the Super Bowl because I’ve been following every detail of everything that’s been happening. My no Trump on weekends rule is out the window. I’m checking my phone every five minutes. When I wake up in the small hours assuming I was asleep to begin with, I check my phone to see what might have happened, what news might have broken. It’s not good. It’s not healthy. 

*****

Fly Eagles Fly! I’m much happier about this win than I have any right to be. My mom and aunts and uncles and siblings and nephews and cousins are very happy today, and I’m happy for them. There was a pool - one of those little square things - at the Super Bowl party that I attended, and I won $100. And the TV crew kept their cameras away from Trump except for that one stupid shot of him saluting the flag (imagine me rolling my eyes here). I didn’t even know he left at halftime until after the game. I hope he left in a huff. I hope he was pissy and grouchy about the stupid Chiefs losing. 

Yes, that’s petty. Our pettiness will sustain us as a people until 2029. 

My son is 100 percent better now. Other than some lingering raspiness in his voice, he’s back to normal and will be back at school and back in the pool this week. And the last time the Eagles won the Super Bowl, the Washington Capitals won the Stanley Cup. I know that correlation is not the same as causation, but I’m still taking it as a harbinger. And it was nice to be with people last night. It was nice to be with my friends. It’s nice to feel like we are all in this *gesturing wildly at everything* together. 

Meanwhile, I’m going to splurge with that $100. Maybe a sweater. Maybe some new books. Maybe a dozen eggs. Anything goes. Anything is possible. 

He-Man Woman-Hater's Club

A few weeks ago, I was sitting at Mass minding my own business when the priest, a priest whom I have always liked, decided that “Catholic marriages would be so happy if you women could stop being bitches for five hot minutes” was a good theme for a homily. I am exaggerating, of course, but only slightly. He scolded us, all of the Catholic married women sitting quietly in our pews, for never letting things go, for throwing things in our husbands’ faces that happened years ago. “Maybe he forgot to pay a bill,” he said, by way of example. “Or maybe he forgot a birthday. Or maybe he cheated. Love is forgiving - if he’s doing his best, you should forgive him and move on.” 

Yes, let’s do that shall we? Let’s be more forgiving. And let’s agree that a married man who is having sex with another woman is “doing his best.” Let’s also agree that forgetting a birthday or forgetting to take out the trash are offenses of exactly the same magnitude as infidelity; and that we women, bitches that we are, will react in exactly the same way to all three. And let’s further agree that it is the women, and only the women, who make mistakes in a marriage. The men always do their best and their best should always be good enough. Got it. Thanks, Father. 

*****

I was just about over this routine Sunday morning misogyny, and then my news feeds started to fill up with stories about an NFL kicker named Harrison Butker, who was the commencement speaker at a small Catholic college. 

First of all, I won’t make fun of this guy's name (although my gosh silver platter amirite?) but I will make fun of his smug pious Catholic punchable bearded millennial face. What is it with young traddy men and their glossy beards? Are you emulating Jesus? Because I'm pretty sure that He didn't spend much time grooming and trimming His beard, nor cutting and styling His hair. 

But really, Mr. Butker, that's none of my business. It's your face. You grow whatever you want on it. And that applies to everything else in your life that doesn't hurt anyone else. You want a million kids? Great. Enjoy, and I wish nothing but good health and happiness for as many children as you have. Mrs. Butker wants to stay at home and take care of you and the children, and forgo a paycheck and a career? Good for her. As long as she is happy and the children are well cared for, then I applaud her decision and wish her only the best. I know many brilliant SAHMs. I was one myself for a short while. 

The whole “you do you” thing breaks down for me a bit in your public utterances about what women other than your wife should do, and how people other than yourself should live. Let’s discuss, shall we? 

*****

First, though, a quick digression. Who decided that a person who kicks a ball for a living is qualified to speak at a college commencement? I understand that Mr. Butker is among the very best at this particular job, but it IS a very particular job, with skills that don’t really translate to any other endeavor of life. What is it that conservatives on the Fox News always like to say? “Stick to dribbling?” Let’s adapt that advice for Harrison Butker. Stick to kicking.

And let’s further digress. Who at Benedictine College, an apparently very religious Catholic institution, decided that a representative of the NFL was the best person to speak to Catholic life and morality? Is anyone at Benedictine familiar with the National Football League’s relationship with organized professional gambling? Is the learned administration of that institution aware that domestic violence and scantily clad cheerleaders are the NFL’s main exports vis a vis women? Is there NO ONE ELSE who could come speak to your graduates? 

But fine, let’s assume, for the sake of discussion, that the very selection of Harrison Butker was not problematic in and of itself. Let’s assume that it’s perfectly reasonable to invite a guy who kicks a ball for a living (nothing else - no throwing, no catching, no running - just kicking) and who represents a famously greedy and corrupt organization to address the graduates of Benedictine College, a college whose student population is over half female. Would it not then be reasonable to expect Mr. Butker to deliver a simple commencement speech, which is supposed to be about the graduates and their accomplishments and their futures, and not about the speaker and his stupid hot takes on a “woman’s vocation?” 

*****

This is the part that really bothers me most; or rather, it would bother me most if I was in that audience as a graduate or a parent. That speech was disrespectful and downright rude. Instead of allowing these young women five damn seconds to enjoy their accomplishments and their moment in the sun, this MF-er saw his opportunity to record a Newsmax audition tape, and he went all in. Watch the video and you can just see how proud of himself he is, out there owning the libs. “Bouta go viral in five, four, three, two, one...the feminists are going to lose their minds.” Yes the speech was misogynist and homophobic and hateful but it was also predictable, boring, and tiresome. And rude - just plain rude. 

*****

I almost hate to post this now, a week later. This bearded little ball-kicker has dominated the discourse for days, and he’s had just about enough attention, as far as I’m concerned. We are now in the backlash to the backlash stage, with the usual suspects screaming as loudly as they can about this tiny tiny tiny little man’s “First Amendment rights” as though the First Amendment is some guarantee that the world owes you a platform for all of your dumb-ass opinions and as though anyone who disagrees with you and says so is somehow infringing on your freedom. 

And at this point, what else is there to say? OK, just a few more things. First of all, wife and mother is a vocation, but so is husband and father. Why is it that only a husband and father can “fulfill his vocation” while also using his God-given talents and making money and generally contributing to the life of the world, and a wife and mother can’t? 

And one other question for Mr. Butker: Did Mrs. Butker’s life really only begin when she married you? Because I thought it began at conception. 

*****

I’m a Catholic - a faithful, believing, Rosary-praying, Mass-going Catholic. And I know that Jesus loves women. I just wish that Catholic men did, too. 

Super Bowl Snow Day

Another snowy Sunday morning. A very light gray sky and very large white feathery flakes of snow, the kind that comes down heavily and piles up quickly and shovels easily, light and fluffy. The trees look pretty. It’s going to snow for a few more hours, I think. Then it’ll warm up enough tomorrow and Tuesday to melt some of it, before the real winter weather hits again, just in time for the holiday weekend. 

The Super Bowl is later today. I don’t care at all about any wintertime professional sporting event that doesn’t involve pucks and skates and ice. I do like the parties, though. We almost always go to a Super Bowl party, but well, you know. It’s the ‘rona. It’s always the ‘rona. We’ll watch the game and eat snacks and rank the commercials, and we’ll wait for next year. Just like everything else in 2020 and now early 2021, nearly 365 days in. There’s always next year.

Ninotchka

Early last Sunday morning, I watched a few minutes of “Ninotchka,” one of my favorite movies. I just love Greta Garbo’s performance in this movie. It’s so hard to reconcile Ninotchka with the Garbo of popular myth--the forbidding, unapproachable, unsmiling Swede who famously wanted to be alone. The movie poster for Ninotchka reads “Garbo Laughs!” because it was the first time moviegoers would see Greta Garbo as anything other than serious.

Garbo plays the lead character, Ninotchka Ivanovna Yakushova, an ambitious Soviet bureaucrat and party apparatchik. She is stern and earnestly dedicated, but full of wry cheer. Ninotchka is torn between her genuine commitment to the ideals of the Russian revolution and her honest and clear-eyed realization of its grim reality in practice. The political conflict is real and timely (“Ninotchka” was made in 1939, just as the worst of Stalin's purges were winding down) but it's also a metaphor for Ninotchka's personal conflict, between her desire to succeed in her work and her desire to be a happy woman. Ninotchka is resigned to the demands of life as a rising star of the Russian Communist party but she can't hide her love for life and people and her lively sense of humor, especially from Count Leon, played by Melvyn Douglas. He falls in love with her and she with him. Their only problem is the jealous Duchess Swana. And the vise grip of the party, of course.

Greta Garbo as Ninotchka with Melvyn Douglas as Count Leon.
Was there a more fun couple in any movie, ever?
No, there was not. 

"Ninotchka" is a comedy about the most serious of subjects. It was banned in the USSR and its satellite states, possibly for brilliant dialogue like this:

Buljanoff (the errant party apparatchik whom Ninotchka is sent to Paris to retrieve): How are things in Moscow? 

Ninotchka: Very good. The last mass trials were a great success. There are going to be fewer but better Russians.

Despite her determination to complete her assignment in Paris and return to Moscow, and her uncompromising dedication to the Revolution, Ninotchka falls in love with more than Count Leon. She falls in love with the beauty and joie de vivre of pre-war Paris. “I’m so happy,” she says. “Oh I'm so happy. No one can be so happy without being punished. I will be punished and I should be punished.” Ninotcha’s devotion to the Fatherland and her guilty love for Paris form just one of the movie’s love triangles. The other is between Ninotchka, Count Leon, and Grand Duchess Swana, a White Russian exile in Paris and Ninotchka’s rival for Leon’s affections. Ninotchka and Swana first meet at a Paris nightclub:

Grand Duchess Swana (commenting on Ninotchka’s elegant evening dress): Isn't it amazing? One gets the wrong impression of the new Russia. It must be charming. I'm delighted conditions have improved so. I assume this is what the factory workers wear at their dances?

Ninotchka: Exactly! You see, it would have been very embarrassing for people of my sort to wear low-cut gowns in the old Russia. The lashes of the Cossacks across our backs were not very becoming. And you know how vain women are.

Grand Duchess Swana : Yes. You're quite right about the Cossacks. We made a great mistake when we let them use their whips. They had such reliable guns.

Like everything else in “Ninotchka,” this conversation is about more than one thing. And like almost everything else in the movie, it is both modern and timeless. It’s a perfect verbal sparring match between two beautiful and brilliant women who both want the same man, and the political passive aggression makes it as relevant today as it was in 1939.

Political intrigue and aggression aside, "Ninotchka" ends happily because love wins over all. Given a choice, people prefer beauty and friendship and art and fun and laughter to ideology and dialectics and the vanguard of revolution. It’s 1939 again, and most of us prefer Paris to Moscow. 

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.

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.

Carry on

As a child, I used to feel ever so sorry for my mother and her friends and my aunts and my grandmother, all of whom carried handbags that they called "pocketbooks." My mother's pocketbook was a shoulder bag, but older women  still carried satchel-style bags that they carried by their short little handles, or hung on their forearms. Like all children, I hated to carry anything, and I thought that having to carry a thing full of other things, every day, even on the weekend, would be an intolerable burden on my life.

I gave this considerable thought, in fact. I planned to get around the pocketbook thing the same way men seemed to: with pockets. If every single article of clothing I ever bought and wore had pockets, then I'd never need a pocketbook. One pocket for my money, one pocket for the keys that were the one thing that I envied adults, and maybe one more pocket for random small items. I was also certain that I would never ever wear makeup; and I didn't see any reason why I wouldn't continue to wear a ponytail every single day, which would obviate the need to carry a comb, and so voila! Problem solved.

*****

So last week, I finally finished reading Lina and Serge. I learned a lot about artists and musicians in the early Soviet Union. For example, I learned that Serge Prokofiev was a jerk. I also learned that in the most dire of circumstances, a woman needs a handbag more than almost anything else. Lina was a musician, too; a singer, though not a very successful one. When she was shipped off to the gulag, she carried some sheet music with her. During her eight-year-long imprisonment, she managed to piece together a tote bag and to embroider it with her own designs, all using whatever scraps of fabric or thread she could scrounge up. Of all of the things that she could have used her limited energy and resources toward, she chose a handbag. And of all of the things that might have survived her trip to and from the gulag, and then her later travels around the Soviet Union and abroad, the tote bag survived. No recordings of her singing are known to exist, but the tote bag remained with her until she died and was preserved by one of her sons for years afterward.

*****

I'm not a fan of the NFL. I think that football is boring, and not just boring compared to a real sport like hockey, but super-long meeting with a monotone presenter kill-me-now BORING. I think that NFL cheerleading degrades women (not that anyone cares about that). I think that NFL owners are either greedy cowards or cowardly greedy people (noun for greedy person--anyone?) for failing to stand up to our ridiculous President on the anthem-kneeling why-is-this-even-an-issue issue. But my biggest objection to the NFL and all its works and pomps is the clear handbag rule, about which I haven't decided yet which is more astonishing:

• That the NFL has the nerve to demand that women expose the contents of their handbags not just to security screening (a necessary evil, I suppose) but to public scrutiny.  Not even scrutiny, because to scrutinize is to examine carefully, and you don't have to look that carefully to see through a damn plastic bag. 
• OR that so many women still attend games, carrying their clear plastic NFL-branded handbags, paying for the privilege of being insulted by the National Football League.

Men and women are different. I'm perfectly fine with according men their privileges (no, not THAT kind of privilege), as long as women can have theirs. My privileges are few but treasured: I park my car in the garage, and not in the driveway. I'm not responsible for pest control. And my handbag is sacred.

*****

The Kate Spade bag arrived, and I've been carrying it for a few weeks now. And because I couldn't get it out of my mind, I also bought the little Coach bag. The Kate Spade is a little nicer, and it's a light color, so I don't carry it when it rains. And it rains all the time. So it's not quite true to say that I've been carrying it for a few weeks; more like I've carried it two or three times during the last few weeks. But they're both beautiful and practical bags that accommodate everything I need for any day not spent in Siberia or Kolyma.

Never say never; that's what I always say. Or almost always, because I guess you should never say always either. My ten-year-old self would never have believed me if I'd gone back 40 years to tell her that when she grew up, she'd not only carry a handbag every day, but that handbags would be among her favorite things. I still wish I had more pockets, but I'll always have a pocketbook.

Frame of reference

Sunday: I'm sick today. Again. I'm not sure why my immune system, once nearly impenetrable, has abandoned me. This actually feels like the flu, but I might be a little better today than yesterday. It's Sunday night at 6:30, and I haven't moved from the couch since I got out of bed this morning.

I hate being sick; it makes me anxious and depressed. But I got to watch six hours of Super Bowl pre-game coverage on TV, so there's that. I was half asleep at some point, when I heard my 13-year-old son say "Muzak? Why is he calling it 'Muzak'? Is that just a weird way of saying 'music'?"

"No," I said. "Muzak is a thing. It's hard to explain." So I tried to explain it and found that I was 100% right--it is hard to explain. My son was alternately curious and puzzled. "Did they only play it in elevators?"

"No," I said. "Elevators, and doctor's offices, and grocery stores--and other places."

"Why?" he asked. "Why did they have music in elevators? And why didn't they just play the real songs?"

"It's hard to explain," I said again. "But it was everywhere when I was growing up, and then it just became much less popular, and now you don't hear it anymore."

*****
So that's a lot of background for the next conversation with a kid; this time, the 16-year-old. I was waiting to drive him to a swim team event last week, and he decided to change his sweatshirt at the last minute. "Hurry up," I told him. "You're already running late."

"I know," he said, pulling off his red hooded sweatshirt. "But this sweatshirt looks weird. I feel like Little Red Robin Hood."

"Like who?" I asked.

"Little Red Robin Hood. You know--with the grandmother and the wolf?"

"You mean Little Red RIDING Hood?" I asked.

He scoffed. "That's not her name. It's Little Red Robin Hood. Isn't it?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's not. There's Robin Hood, and there's Little Red Riding Hood. They're two different people. Not related."

"Hmm," he said. "I've been saying Little Red Robin Hood for a long time. Someone could have told me."

*****
Back to the 13-year-old, on another day last week.

"Mr. R's jokes don't make any sense," he said. Mr. R. is his band teacher.

"How so?" I asked. "Give me an example."

He thought for a moment. "OK. Here's one. What do you get when you throw a piano down a well?"

"I don't know," I said. "What?"

"A flat minor," he said. "See? What does that even mean?"

I thought for a minute. "Are you sure he said well? Did he maybe say mine shaft? What do you get when you throw a piano down a mine shaft?"

"Yeah!" he said. "He did say mine shaft! But that makes even less sense. What's a mine shaft?"

I explained what a mine shaft is. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then the look of recognition dawned. "OH! So it's a MINER and a MINOR! Like a guy who works in a mine, and a FLAT MINOR, like in music! Ha ha ha! That's actually a pretty good one!"

*****
Frame of reference is everything. I read to my children all the time when they were little, but I guess we missed the Little Red Riding Hood. I'm not sure what happened with the 13-year-old and the mine shaft and the well. I know that mining is a dying industry, but he's also never seen a well in his life, so I don't know how his mind subconsciously substituted well for mine shaft. And I never did ask what prompted the Muzak conversation in the first place. There are just so many things that were household words when I was their age, which are now obsolete, no longer even remembered.

*****
Tuesday: Some things, however, don't change that much. I just helped my 16-year-old with a paper SAT registration form. You still have to fill in the boxes with block letters, and then color in the little circles. What's different now is that you have to supply a picture. We didn't have a picture that met all of the specifications (of which there are many) so we took one and printed it.

He's wearing a different hoodie in this one. I wonder who reviews the applications; which College Board employee sees the thousands of pictures of  eager, optimistic teenagers with their hoodies and their floppy hair, and their sweet, barely formed faces.

Head and shoulders visible; full face view
(required). Floppy hair and hoodie (optional)

*****
Thursday: So I'm not much of a football fan, and I've lived in a Redskins household for many years, but I grew up in Philadelphia, among the hardest-core of hard-core Philadelphia sports fans. I watched the game from my sick-person nest on the couch, and although I'd been rooting for the Eagles all along, I was surprised at how happy I felt about the win. My grandfather was a huge fan, loyal through the franchise's worst years, when they made the Browns look like contenders. My brother and nephews are also dedicated fans. My brother, one of my sisters, four of my nephews, and my 72-year-old aunt all went to the parade today, which was patrolled by my cousin, a Philadelphia Police officer. I'm pretty sure that none of them punched horses or climbed light poles, but I saw some pictures of my hometown doing some crazy things. I'm happy for them. Fly Eagles Fly.

Everyone talks about the weather, but no one does anything about it

And just like that, it's all over, and it's all starting again. A week ago, it was still summer. Now I'm up to my neck in fantasy football (no, not me, because ain't nobody got time for that) and back-to-school nights, and fall sports, and weekend fire pits, and it's not so bad. Not summer, but it's OK.

*****
Saturday: Today is my birthday. And it's a beautiful day, but it's definitely a fall day. For lots of people, that's the ideal weather. "Crisp." I spend most of early October restraining the urge to punch people who go around rhapsodizing about the crispness of the weather, and the beauty of the changing leaves, and the pumpkin fucking spice. Yes, it's nice out and the leaves are beautiful (pumpkin, however, is fit for nothing but pie; and pumpkin spice latte is revolting) but fall is just a prelude to winter. And winter is dark and cold and interminably long.

But enough of that. Lots of people in Texas and the Caribbean and Florida would slap me for complaining about cold weather that's coming three months from now, and they'd be right.

*****

We went to the Smithsonian American Art Museum today, which I had never been to, and which I never realized was in the same building with the National Portrait Gallery. I love American art, and art museums in general, and 20th century history, so the place is a veritable gold mine.

The building itself is astonishingly beautiful, too. I wouldn't want to live in the 19th century, but they knew how to build public spaces then. If a building of similar beauty and durability were to be built today, it'd be a Silicon Valley corporate headquarters, or a country club where a PGA tour event would be held every year.

I didn't even know about the American Visionary: JFK's Life and Times exhibit (which ends next week) until we arrived. I'm still reading The Crisis Years, so this was good timing.

Kennedy and Khrushchev met for the first time in 1961. The meeting didn't
go very well, but Jackie seemed to have had a good time.

The National Portrait Gallery has a rotating exhibit of photographs and paintings and sculptures of 20th-century Americans, divided into eras (1900-1920, etc.) 

Gertrude Stein and my younger son. It looks like they're gossiping about Ernest
Hemingway and Ezra Pound. Pound would probably have voted for Trump.

It's Sunday now. I have work to do, though I'm not sure how much I'll actually accomplish, given that half of the neighborhood (the male half) is in my backyard.

Of the many things that send me into a tailspin of panic and anxiety, my least favorites are administrative and bureaucratic processes and proceedings, especially new ones that replace ones that I finally managed to master. For years, the Montgomery County Public Schools used an online grade tracking tool called Edline. After a few years, I had finally reached a  point at which keeping on top of my sons' progress in school was an easy and routine task. And now Edline is gone, replaced by what appears to be a homegrown system, that I'll have to learn all over again. Edline allowed one log-in and password per parent, but the new system issues a new password and log-in for each child, meaning I'll have two accounts, not just one. Why?

And now that I've become almost totally dependent on Google Drive and Google Photos, they're going away, too, to be replaced by something whose name I could easily look up (on Google), but I won't. And my son is a junior, which means that I have to learn how to get a kid into college. Apparently, the process has changed since the 1980s. The Internet and all.

Oh my gosh, I'm the worst. It's a beautiful day, and I don't have a single real problem in the world, and I don't even mind spending the afternoon copy editing. At least I don't have to pay attention to the football game. I mean, I want the Redskins to win and everything, but you'll never convince me that one football game isn't exactly like every other football game, ever. I've seen one; ergo, I've seen them all. I hope that Florida is spared. Meanwhile, HTTR, I guess.

Christmas Eve in Silver Spring

I saw two things yesterday: the video for "Christmas in Hollis,"  and an article about "hygge," which was apparently a contender for most hated word of 2016.  I had never even heard that word before, but I usually only become aware of cultural trends when they're already in everyone else's rear view mirror.

I'd never actually seen the Run-DMC video, even though I was young in the 80s, when the song debuted.  We lived in Philadelphia, which was the last major city to get cable TV.  MTV used to air almost nothing but music videos, but I didn't see most of them, because we didn't have cable. 

The family home depicted in the video looked a lot like the house that I grew up in looked at Christmas.  Small, even a little cramped; clean, but cluttered looking; and not temporary clutter, but the settled and lived-in clutter of thick carpet,  slightly mismatched, slightly oversized furniture and wallpaper, and surfaces covered with knick-knacks and framed pictures  Add in a Christmas tree that's bigger than the couch, presents, plates of cookies and dishes of candy, and a Nativity scene, and you have quite the cozy and abundant little Christmas scene.  

But not hygge.  Because hygge is not just warmth and happiness and home and hearth. It's  an aesthetic; one that doesn't include Hummel figurines and fake Christmas trees with glass ornaments and boxes of Russell Stover Christmas candy.  Hygge depends on uncluttered surfaces, warm but minimalist Scandinavian furniture, hardwood floors, and a wood-burning fire.  A hygge Christmas scene would include cashmere Fair Isle socks and real mistletoe and holly.  It definitely would not include "Christmas Vacation" playing on a big TV or a framed Currier and Ives print.  Homemade cookies and mulled cider: Hygge. Chips and dip in knock-off Spode Christmas dishes: Not hygge. 

I could make fun of this artificially authentic aesthetic all day long, but there's no denying its appeal.  I mock Real Simple magazine, but secretly covet the perfectly organized softly watercolored rooms that shine from its photo spreads.  I love stacks of perfectly folded color drenched blankets, stored on polished blond wood shelves.  I imagine a kitchen where a single handmade ceramic bowl, holding a few perfect ripe pears, sits alone on a gleaming countertop. But I'm also a little nostalgic for a less demanding aesthetic; a little more comfortable, and a little less austere. 

This being 2016 (almost over, thank God), the whole idea is further complicated by politics, because according to some cultural observers, only upper middle class privileged white people would ever aspire to anything as bourgeois and impractical as cozy home comfort or beautiful surroundings.  I'm too lazy right now to really break this down; I'll just say that the only thing that bores me more than identity politics is tiresome privilege narratives. When the revolution comes, I'm going to end up in a re-education camp. 

As usual, I'm trying to write this while I do fifteen other things (it's Christmas Eve; I'm busy) so I'm not sure how I'm going to bring this winding and pointless train into the station.  We're home now.  My house, not quite mid-century Scandinavian serenity, but not quite Christmas in Hollis sensory overload, is clean and decorated.  Most of the presents are wrapped, and the kitchen is pretty well-stocked with treats.  We're not around the fire, though; we're around the TV watching the Redskins.  Christmas Eve Mass at 6 pm.  Not quite hygge, maybe, but we'll take it.  Merry Christmas. 

Monday Night Football

I met some football players last week.  Real football players, whose names would impress you if you were even a casual fan, especially of the Washington Redskins.  My small company's CEO is a huge fan, and a member of the Redskins Charitable Foundation's board. Knowing that my husband is also a huge fan, he offered me tickets to the annual luncheon.  We ate lunch with Josh Norman (look him up) and my husband took selfies with some of his favorite players.

The players were, surprisingly, rather nice, normal people.  Mr. Norman was a delight, and Kirk Cousins, Ryan Kerrigan, and Chris Baker were also very nice.  I used to think that professional athletes in general, and football players in particular, must all be arrogant, standoffish, and conceited.  The Redskins players, however, were very approachable and friendly.  They chatted with fans, patiently posed for selfies, and signed memorabilia and programs for everyone who asked.

(True story: My 11-year-old son, looking at the program, asked me "Why does it say 'lunch-ee-awn'?" "It's 'luncheon'," I said. "And you need to read more."
"What?" he said scornfully.  "That's not a word."
"It is a word," I said. "And not a 50-cent word, either.  Not an SAT word.  Just a common, frequently used word."
"Oh," he said.  "Hmm.")

*****

A few days ago, Lena Dunham sparked a huge controversy (by "huge controversy" I mean a bunch of people spluttering in outrage on Twitter) when she complained to Amy Schumer that Odell Beckham had ignored her at the Met Gala.  (And I really can't believe that I just wrote that sentence. What is this, Gawker?  Sheesh.) Apparently, Ms. Dunham felt that Mr. Beckham had looked at her, deemed her unattractive, and then dismissed her accordingly.

There's a lot going on here.  Mr. Beckham was, according to the many reports, scrolling through his phone during dinner, which on its own is just simple bad manners.  But Ms. Dunham also claimed that the phone preoccupation was the result of Mr. Beckham's lack of sexual interest in a woman who isn't conventionally attractive. (Note: I think she's rather pretty, but I'm in the minority on this, I suppose.)

If the complaint is actually that this man wasn't attracted to this woman, then that would mean that men who prefer conventionally beautiful women (like most men) are somehow to be faulted for that.  According to SJWs who are all over this case, however, the real issue is that Lena Dunham, being a white woman, feels somehow entitled to sexual attention from black men, no matter who they are.

What if neither interpretation is correct?  What if one particular person, Odell Beckham, just didn't feel like talking to one other particular person, Lena Dunham, at a particular moment?  OR, what if  one particular person, Lena Dunham, misinterpreted polite indifference from another particular person, Odell Beckham (phone-scrolling at the dinner table notwithstanding) as a negative judgement regarding her appearance, because she was feeling unattractive on that particular day?

*****
It's Monday night, and I'm watching the Redskins play the Steelers.   I've actually met some of the players, and now I feel invested.  I'm rooting for Josh Norman, Kirk Cousins, Ryan Kerrigan, and Chris Baker in particular. They wouldn't remember me, of course, but I remember them, and now I can't see them as White Men or Black Men or NFL Players or representatives of any other identity group.  They're people who I met and smiled at and shook hands with and ate lunch with. No two are alike. HTTR.