We have gas lamps in our neighborhood; real, old-fashioned gas lamps that turn on automatically at twilight and remain softly lit until sunrise the next morning. The light is beautiful and atmospheric (though not really authentically atmospheric, since my neighborhood was built by Levitt Brothers in the mid 1960s.) They're also useful. A few years ago, we were plagued with frequent power failures, and the gas lamps were the only available light during those times. Of course, if a gas lamp is on your property, as in our case, you have to pay for the gas. Some of our neighbors have gotten rid of their gas lamps for that reason; we like ours so much, though, that we've never bothered to really analyze how much it affects our gas bill.
*****
If you want to write a novel, you have to read novels, and a lot of them. This isn't hard for me. I still read novels for the story and for the characters, but I also like to study the differences between one approach and another.
For example, Rebecca West versus Penelope Fitzgerald, not that I compare myself to either of them, since they were two of the greatest writers of the 20th century. I just finished Fitzgerald's The Beginning of Spring, which takes place in Russia just before the revolution. It's hard to imagine that anyone could write anything about early 20th century Russia in fewer than 1000 pages, but The Beginning of Spring is just barely 200 pages, and it's really a novel, not just an overly long short story or novella. Fitzgerald was a late-in-life novelist, and I have to wonder if she didn't spend years writing this and her other novels in her head before finally setting them down on paper. Because in her novels, including The Beginning of Spring, the reader understands the story and the characters and the conflict (though not how it will be resolved) almost from the first page. There's nothing gradual; you're immersed in this very foreign world (and apparently, Fitzgerald herself never even visited Russia) from the very first moment.
Rebecca West's The Fountain Overflows, on the other hand, is over 400 pages long, and it meanders for the first 150 or so. I love Rebecca West; I've read The Thinking Reed at least three times, and Black Lamb and Grey Falcon is one of the best books, in any genre, of the 20th century. And I'm usually (not always, but usually) extremely reluctant to abandon a book once I reading it, but I almost made an exception for this one. I'm glad I stayed with it, though. The story really picks up momentum about a third of the way through, and then it doesn't let go.
The Fountain Overflows is about an Edwardian family who were apparently very much like West's own family. The book was written many years later, after World War II, and is told in the first person by Rose, one of three sisters whose father is a brilliant but careless writer, and whose mother was a concert pianist in her youth. Rose, who is also telling the story from the perspective of late adulthood many years after the events of the story take place, is neither nostalgic nor sentimental. She's just aware that the world in which she grew up is irretrievably gone, and that no one other than her father was aware that their world was endangered until it was too late. I'm a little slow on the uptake sometimes, so it took me a while to figure out why Rose keeps mentioning the gas lamps in her family's house. Light from gas lamps is softer, less harsh and glaring, then light from electric lamps. But once the electric lamps took over, gas light was gone, almost for good, except for decorative purposes, just like my gas lamp. I suppose that someone who spent years studying to earn an English degree should recognize an extended metaphor before it has to come and beat her over the head, but I learn everything the hard way.
*****
The Beginning of Spring (and it just occurred to me now that this title might have been ironic--again, slow on the uptake) and The Fountain Overflows are very different books, with one very big thing in common. Both books take place in worlds that will soon vanish, completely and violently, and the occupants of those worlds are mostly completely unaware of what's about to happen. This seems relevant right now, for some weird reason.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Friday, February 5, 2016
Bibliography
I don't really keep a diary or a journal, other than this silly thing, but I do make lists. Most of my lists are of the to-do variety, but I also keep longer-term lists, including lists of books that I've read.
My 2015 list was long, and now that I look at it, kind of crazy. Apparently, I'll read just about anything. Most of these books were library book sale books, purchased for less than a dollar. A few of them made enough of an impression that I actually wrote about them; on the other hand, a few of them made so little impression that I forgot about having read them until I re-read my list. The rest of them fall somewhere between those two extremes. My 2015 list:
The Gulag Archipelago, Alexander Solzhenitsyn. I had to look up the English spelling of his name, again.
Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis, Volume III, C.S. Lewis
Holy Days and Gospel Reflections, Heather King Read her blog, and then read everything else she has ever written.
Men at Arms, Evelyn Waugh
Officers and Gentlemen, Evelyn Waugh
The End of the Battle, Evelyn Waugh
That Hideous Strength, C.S. Lewis
Wallenberg, Kati Marton. No good deed goes unpunished.
Anthem, Ayn Rand. Silly. Just ridiculous. I had never read anything of Ayn Rand's and felt that I should. Too stupid for words.
How to be a Woman, Caitlin Moran. 1/3 genuinely funny and heartfelt memoir; 2/3 beat-you-over-the-head doctrinaire feminism. The 2/3 part made me tired.
Whose Body? Dorothy L. Sayers
The Elements of Style, E.B. White and William Strunk, Jr.
Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, Lynne Truss. I approve of a zero-tolerance approach to punctuation.
Eminent Victorians, Lytton Strachey
American Heritage History of the United States, Douglas Brinkley
De Profundis, Oscar Wilde
Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut, Jill Kargman
The Lords of Discipline, Pat Conroy. This was one of my 14-year-old's summer reading selections--we took turns.
The Soviet Communist Party, Ronald J. Hill and Peter Frank. I don't know what I was thinking. Lent maybe? Penance? Anyway, I knew more about the Soviet Communist Party after I read this than before I had read it. So there's that.
To Asmara, Thomas Keneally
Offshore, Penelope Fitzgerald. My favorite Penelope Fitzgerald, but they're all so good. I don't know how she did it.
Circle of Friends, Maeve Binchy
Tales of the City, Armistead Maupin. I liked this so much better than I expected to.
Who Killed My Daughter? Lois Duncan. I loved Lois Duncan's paranormal YA novels when I was growing up, and was so sorry to learn that her daughter had been murdered. Sadly, this book is a scatter-brained foray into occult psychic phenomena, and I couldn't finish reading it. Too crazy.
The Secret Letters, Abby Bardi. Abby Bardi was one of my college instructors; I took three classes with her. I liked this novel a lot; believable and very funny.
People I Want to Punch in the Throat, Jen Mann
Memories of the Good and the Great, Alistair Cooke
The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook, Joshua Piven and David Borgenicht
The Chaneysville Incident, David Bradley
If You Can't Say Something Nice, Calvin Trillin. Useful 1980s political and cultural background for something I'm writing.
A Way of Life Like Any Other, Darcy O'Brien
Life Lessons from the Hiding Place, Pamela Rosewell Moore
The Loved One, Evelyn Waugh
The Loved One, Evelyn Waugh
Well, that actually looks even weirder in (electronic) print than it does in my chicken-scratchy handwriting in the back of my 2015 planner. Not really a unifying theme here, although the list does tend to skew in favor of dead English authors and 20th century killing fields. The party never stops.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
You won't believe what this cat does next
Dear Internet,
- "This" is either a pronoun or a determiner. As the former, it's often used at the end of a clause, as in "Look at this." As the latter, it's usually used at the beginning of the clause, as in "This is interesting; consider reading it." In no case is the word "this" meant to be used as a one-word sentence to indicate the writer's approval of or agreement with something. If you want me to click on your link or like your post, then write "Look at this," or "This is interesting/funny/crazy; you should read it." If you write simply "This," then I'm going to ignore whatever it is.*
- "This is everything" is not an acceptable use of "this" as the determiner; accordingly, I'll also ignore anything prefaced by that sentence.*
- I'll consider reading your top ten list or viewing your top 17 slide show. There are rules, however. If it's a list, then you have exactly one click. The entire content of the list must be visible at the first click (if it's a long list, I'll allow a second page.) If it's a slide show, then you have exactly one click per entry/image. I will bail out of any slide show that forces me to click once to see the image, then to click again to see the caption, then again to see additional description, then again to move on to the next image. One click per entry.*
- If I see "you won't believe what happens next" in the title or subtitle, then I'll take you at your word and will decline to click on the link at all.
- Pick a platform. Almost nothing is worthy of appearing on Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, AND Instagram. Each of those platforms has its own particular uses. Determine the best medium for the message or image you want to share, and post accordingly. If I already liked it on IG, then I probably don't want to see it on Facebook or Twitter.**
Well, that's all for now. Hope all is well.
Sincerely,
CDP
* Unless there are funny cats.
** See previous note; in this case, however, they better be really funny cats.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Lovely weather we're having
This is the proverbial calm before the proverbial storm. I finally turned off the local news channel because I just couldn't bear to hear one more word about the potentially historic snowstorm that's bearing down on Washington, DC right now, nor about the very real possibility that we'll be snowbound and without power for days after the snow hits. Right now, we're cozy and secure: The house is stocked with food and other essentials, schools are closed tomorrow, and there's a neat pile of recently chopped firewood right outside. We'll be fine.
My husband loves me, and I love him. This doesn't stop us, though, from engaging in frequent marital chop-busting. There are variations. Sometimes, it's event-specific, like after I received my fifth speed camera ticket in 2009*; or like when security man, who never stops nagging me about locking my car, went out and left the front door WIDE OPEN (an event which he denies any memory of, two years after it most assuredly took place.) At other times, the busting of chops is focused on particular quirks. I never answer my phone, and he'll interrupt anything to answer his. I misplace things all the time, while he can engage in a lengthy conversation with me and then just minutes later, forget that the entire conversation took place. Today, we went a few rounds of what I call situational chop-busting. This is distinguished from event-specific chop busting in that it occurs during a recurring situation, such as putting up Christmas lights, or negotiating over playlists for a road trip. Or shoveling snow.
My normal snow-shoveling method consists of standing at the kitchen window. That's why I got married, I'll think to myself as I watch my husband shovel. Today, however, there's really just too much snow for one person to handle. So I put on my boots and jacket, picked up a shovel, and started to move snow with it. How long do you suppose it took for him to begin offering helpful critiques of my shoveling technique? If you guessed anything longer than 10 seconds, you're wrong.
"Hey hon?" he said.
Holy Mother of God, I thought. Already? He has a helpful snow-shoveling hint already?
"What?" I said, in what I hoped was a "don't start with me" voice. By the way, I'm not sure why I even bother with the "don't start with me" voice, because it has no effect whatsoever on him.
"Try to move the snow to your right, not to your left. See, that just adds more snow in back of your car, and I'm eventually going to have to shovel that out, too."
"Fine," I said, in what I felt was a very clear "shut the hell up" tone. The "shut the hell up" tone, incidentally, is also lost on him.
Since we were trying to shovel out his truck, because that's the only thing we'll be able to drive in an emergency, I thought that it would be wise to clean the truck off first, so that I could then shovel up the snow already on the ground along with the snow that I cleaned off the truck. That's good thinking, right? I thought so, too.
"Hon?"
Jesus Christ on the Cross, I thought.
"WHAT?"
"You should use the broom on my car. Good idea to clean the truck off first, but you should use the broom."
"There's two fucking feet of snow on this truck," I said. "Nothing but a shovel is going to make the slightest dent in this snow. I'm not going to hurt your car." I couldn't promise that I wouldn't assault him with the shovel, but I was very careful with the car.
He continued to shovel without further comment. HA, I thought, I WIN! How long do you think his diplomatic silence lasted? If you guessed any length of time longer than thirty seconds, you are wrong again.
"Hon?"
"WHAAAAAT????" A blind and deaf person would have clearly discerned the "God help you if you say one more word" tone, but he missed it entirely.
"Don't you see where you're shoveling? That's the grass, there. You don't need to shovel the snow off the grass. Just concentrate on making a path down to the street for the truck."
"NO, I can't see where I'm shoveling because AGAIN, there's TWO FEET OF SNOW OUT HERE. How am I supposed to distinguish grass from pavement when they're both under two feet of snow?"
"Yeah, but the truck is parked on the bump-out, and the grass is right behind the bump-out. Even you should know where the driveway ends and the grass begins".
"Oh REALLY? Well you know what else? EVEN I know that you're wearing a woman's hat!"
"What are you talking about? My mom made this hat."
"Yeah, I know. She made it for me. It's a lavender and teal crocheted cap with a tassel on top. What about this hat says menswear to you?"
"The fact that it's keeping my head warm. I don't care what the hat looks like, my head feels just fine."
"And it looks downright pretty. I have a scarf to match, I can get it for you."
"No, don't bother. You just keep shoveling out the lawn in case someone wants to play badminton. When you're finished, you can climb up and shake the snow off the tree branches...you never know if a hibernating squirrel's going to need an ambulance up there."
I crack up at things that are far less funny than that, so the back-and-forth ceased for a few minutes. I'm nothing if not gracious in defeat. This was a good-natured argument to begin with, but even if it wasn't, I'd have laughed at the tree suggestion.
We continued to shovel for a bit, talking about this and that. Did I see how the mailboxes were just barely poking out of the snow? Yes, I did. Did he know that the Postal Service had announced that there would be no mail delivery today? No, really? Yes, and they'll probably close school on Monday, too.
I was finally tired, so I decided to take a break. "Go ahead," he said indulgently. "I'm going to keep going for a while...it's good that you cleared off some of that grass, just in case anyone needs to practice putting."
I put my shovel down. "That's still a woman's hat," I said.
* So many more speed camera tickets since then. I lost count at 12. I wish I was joking about that.
We get a fair amount of snow in DC, but the last (crippling, historic, catastrophic, fill-in-the-blank adjective) snowstorm that I can remember was in early 2010. This is something I wrote the day after that storm. I'm posting it again because we're nothing if not predictable, and it's very likely that some variation of this will play out on Saturday. Snow is not the only thing we need shovels for.
January 2010
I like snow as well as the next person, which is to say not much at all. This is entirely too much snow.
My husband loves me, and I love him. This doesn't stop us, though, from engaging in frequent marital chop-busting. There are variations. Sometimes, it's event-specific, like after I received my fifth speed camera ticket in 2009*; or like when security man, who never stops nagging me about locking my car, went out and left the front door WIDE OPEN (an event which he denies any memory of, two years after it most assuredly took place.) At other times, the busting of chops is focused on particular quirks. I never answer my phone, and he'll interrupt anything to answer his. I misplace things all the time, while he can engage in a lengthy conversation with me and then just minutes later, forget that the entire conversation took place. Today, we went a few rounds of what I call situational chop-busting. This is distinguished from event-specific chop busting in that it occurs during a recurring situation, such as putting up Christmas lights, or negotiating over playlists for a road trip. Or shoveling snow.
My normal snow-shoveling method consists of standing at the kitchen window. That's why I got married, I'll think to myself as I watch my husband shovel. Today, however, there's really just too much snow for one person to handle. So I put on my boots and jacket, picked up a shovel, and started to move snow with it. How long do you suppose it took for him to begin offering helpful critiques of my shoveling technique? If you guessed anything longer than 10 seconds, you're wrong.
"Hey hon?" he said.
Holy Mother of God, I thought. Already? He has a helpful snow-shoveling hint already?
"What?" I said, in what I hoped was a "don't start with me" voice. By the way, I'm not sure why I even bother with the "don't start with me" voice, because it has no effect whatsoever on him.
"Try to move the snow to your right, not to your left. See, that just adds more snow in back of your car, and I'm eventually going to have to shovel that out, too."
"Fine," I said, in what I felt was a very clear "shut the hell up" tone. The "shut the hell up" tone, incidentally, is also lost on him.
Since we were trying to shovel out his truck, because that's the only thing we'll be able to drive in an emergency, I thought that it would be wise to clean the truck off first, so that I could then shovel up the snow already on the ground along with the snow that I cleaned off the truck. That's good thinking, right? I thought so, too.
"Hon?"
Jesus Christ on the Cross, I thought.
"WHAT?"
"You should use the broom on my car. Good idea to clean the truck off first, but you should use the broom."
"There's two fucking feet of snow on this truck," I said. "Nothing but a shovel is going to make the slightest dent in this snow. I'm not going to hurt your car." I couldn't promise that I wouldn't assault him with the shovel, but I was very careful with the car.
He continued to shovel without further comment. HA, I thought, I WIN! How long do you think his diplomatic silence lasted? If you guessed any length of time longer than thirty seconds, you are wrong again.
"Hon?"
"WHAAAAAT????" A blind and deaf person would have clearly discerned the "God help you if you say one more word" tone, but he missed it entirely.
"Don't you see where you're shoveling? That's the grass, there. You don't need to shovel the snow off the grass. Just concentrate on making a path down to the street for the truck."
"NO, I can't see where I'm shoveling because AGAIN, there's TWO FEET OF SNOW OUT HERE. How am I supposed to distinguish grass from pavement when they're both under two feet of snow?"
"Yeah, but the truck is parked on the bump-out, and the grass is right behind the bump-out. Even you should know where the driveway ends and the grass begins".
"Oh REALLY? Well you know what else? EVEN I know that you're wearing a woman's hat!"
"What are you talking about? My mom made this hat."
"Yeah, I know. She made it for me. It's a lavender and teal crocheted cap with a tassel on top. What about this hat says menswear to you?"
"The fact that it's keeping my head warm. I don't care what the hat looks like, my head feels just fine."
"And it looks downright pretty. I have a scarf to match, I can get it for you."
"No, don't bother. You just keep shoveling out the lawn in case someone wants to play badminton. When you're finished, you can climb up and shake the snow off the tree branches...you never know if a hibernating squirrel's going to need an ambulance up there."
I crack up at things that are far less funny than that, so the back-and-forth ceased for a few minutes. I'm nothing if not gracious in defeat. This was a good-natured argument to begin with, but even if it wasn't, I'd have laughed at the tree suggestion.
We continued to shovel for a bit, talking about this and that. Did I see how the mailboxes were just barely poking out of the snow? Yes, I did. Did he know that the Postal Service had announced that there would be no mail delivery today? No, really? Yes, and they'll probably close school on Monday, too.
I was finally tired, so I decided to take a break. "Go ahead," he said indulgently. "I'm going to keep going for a while...it's good that you cleared off some of that grass, just in case anyone needs to practice putting."
I put my shovel down. "That's still a woman's hat," I said.
* So many more speed camera tickets since then. I lost count at 12. I wish I was joking about that.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Stranger things have happened
There's a lady in our neighborhood who runs every day, almost without fail. Rain, shine, cold, heat, wind, snow; it doesn't matter. Running Lady (we call her Running Lady, although I do know her real name) runs.
I used to joke about running. If you ever see me run, I'd tell people, then you'd better run too. Don't ask questions, don't waste time looking to see what's coming, just run. The idea being that if I'm running, then something is chasing me; and you, to save your life, don't need to outrun whatever it is. You only need to outrun me, and that's not hard. The bar is pretty low.
Well, never say never, is what I always say (although I suppose you should never say always, either.) Unpursued by anything life-threatening, I started to run a few weeks ago, and I feel strangely compelled to continue. I'm really terrible at it, and I mean really terrible. I'm slow, awkward, and lack endurance.
Every runner hits a wall at some point; for me, it's usually about 15 or 20 steps in. That's no exaggeration. I'm barely out of my driveway when I start to feel like I can't go on, but I push past it, and once I do, I can usually focus, for a few steps at least, on something other than how much I hate to run. Each time I run now, the number of steps that I can run while thinking something other than "When can I stop? Now? Did I run a mile yet? No? Not quite two blocks? That felt like a mile. Damn it," increases, and my determination to go just a few more steps grows. Eventually, I stop and walk, and then I start running again.
I hope that someday, maybe even one day soon, I'll be able to run for longer distances and that the walking breaks will be fewer and shorter and farther between. For now, I'll take what I can get. I'm not planning to train for a marathon (even a 5K would be ridiculously ambitious at this point) but never say never.
I used to joke about running. If you ever see me run, I'd tell people, then you'd better run too. Don't ask questions, don't waste time looking to see what's coming, just run. The idea being that if I'm running, then something is chasing me; and you, to save your life, don't need to outrun whatever it is. You only need to outrun me, and that's not hard. The bar is pretty low.
Well, never say never, is what I always say (although I suppose you should never say always, either.) Unpursued by anything life-threatening, I started to run a few weeks ago, and I feel strangely compelled to continue. I'm really terrible at it, and I mean really terrible. I'm slow, awkward, and lack endurance.
Every runner hits a wall at some point; for me, it's usually about 15 or 20 steps in. That's no exaggeration. I'm barely out of my driveway when I start to feel like I can't go on, but I push past it, and once I do, I can usually focus, for a few steps at least, on something other than how much I hate to run. Each time I run now, the number of steps that I can run while thinking something other than "When can I stop? Now? Did I run a mile yet? No? Not quite two blocks? That felt like a mile. Damn it," increases, and my determination to go just a few more steps grows. Eventually, I stop and walk, and then I start running again.
I hope that someday, maybe even one day soon, I'll be able to run for longer distances and that the walking breaks will be fewer and shorter and farther between. For now, I'll take what I can get. I'm not planning to train for a marathon (even a 5K would be ridiculously ambitious at this point) but never say never.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Interior design
I just saw a televised tour of El Chapo's hideout. It looked like a 27-year-old software engineer's apartment. White walls, unadorned by anything other than a wall-mounted flat screen TV; beige, builder's grade carpet; a brown microfiber living-room suite, with the couch, love seat, and overstuffed chair pushed up against the bare white walls; and a bedroom furnished with a bare mattress and box-spring set, with a pile of pillows and blankets that looked like they'd been recently slept on or under. Pizza boxes, newspapers, and DVDs were strewn about. Minus the bullet holes, the place looked like it belongs in a garden apartment complex in Reston.
Maybe El Chapo should consider a career change. Defense contractors in the DMV are always hiring engineers. He'd have to settle for $100,000 or so a year, rather than $100 million, but his apartment would be just as nice as the one he just vacated, and he'd be able to leave home once in a while without a disguise. And it's not likely that Sean Penn would come around pestering him, either. Something to think about.
Maybe El Chapo should consider a career change. Defense contractors in the DMV are always hiring engineers. He'd have to settle for $100,000 or so a year, rather than $100 million, but his apartment would be just as nice as the one he just vacated, and he'd be able to leave home once in a while without a disguise. And it's not likely that Sean Penn would come around pestering him, either. Something to think about.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
You should see the other guy
What's the first thing that pops into your mind when a minor catastrophe befalls you? Is it "Well, there goes my plan for the morning?"
I woke up this morning a little before 7. It was still dark outside. I walked through the house, opening blinds, as I always do. Our L-shaped living room/dining room combination has six windows; two windows on the short side of the L, and two sets of two each on the long side. I always start on the short side and work my way around. Our Christmas tree is in front of the piano, which sits between the two sets of windows, and there's not much clearance between the dining room table and the Christmas tree, which I squeeze between in order to open the last two sets of blinds and plug in the Christmas tree.
Inclined as I am to expect the worst-case scenario, I thought, as I do each morning, that I needed to be careful so that I wouldn't end up tangled in the cords, tripping and falling and taking the tree down with me. That never happens, of course, and it didn't happen today, either. What did happen is that I got tangled in another extension cord on the other side of the dining room table (where a computer, which my son is using for a stop-motion video project, was plugged in), and I tripped and fell down, hard, hitting my face on the slate tile in the foyer, just where it begins and the carpet ends.
I haven't fallen down hard in a very long time. Maybe not since childhood. I could feel my upper lip swelling and when I touched my face, I felt blood, so I panicked a little. There was a moment or two when I just wasn't sure how much damage I had done. It was still dark, and I didn't have glasses on or contact lenses in yet, and the whole thing was very disconcerting and disorienting.
When I sat up, I realized that the damage was relatively minor. I had grabbed a chair on the way down, which probably saved me from making harder contact with the slate. I scraped the skin off the bridge of my nose (that was the source of the blood) and slightly broke the skin on my upper lip, which is about twice its normal size now. My teeth seem to be fine, but my cheek and forehead are bruised and a little scraped. I have a few other bruises and sore spots, too, but nothing that won't heal in a day or so.
For a few moments after the initial shock, I was afraid that I might have a concussion. I recited the names of the Presidents in reverse order starting with Obama and ending with Roosevelt (TR), and then started on the Popes, beginning with Francis. I could only remember as far back as Pius XI, but I'm not sure I'd have correctly remembered who preceded him with or without head trauma. Meanwhile, my punctuation skills, as always, are excellent, and I can still type 90 WPM give or take. My head still hurts a little, but I think that my brain is fine, or at least no more damaged than it normally is.
As for my initial reaction, I have still managed to complete most of the items on today's to-do list; if I can manage to avoid extension cords and other trip hazards for the next few days, then I should be back on track in no time. If anyone tells me that I look like I was in a bar fight, I'll say "Maybe I was. Maybe I was."
I woke up this morning a little before 7. It was still dark outside. I walked through the house, opening blinds, as I always do. Our L-shaped living room/dining room combination has six windows; two windows on the short side of the L, and two sets of two each on the long side. I always start on the short side and work my way around. Our Christmas tree is in front of the piano, which sits between the two sets of windows, and there's not much clearance between the dining room table and the Christmas tree, which I squeeze between in order to open the last two sets of blinds and plug in the Christmas tree.
Inclined as I am to expect the worst-case scenario, I thought, as I do each morning, that I needed to be careful so that I wouldn't end up tangled in the cords, tripping and falling and taking the tree down with me. That never happens, of course, and it didn't happen today, either. What did happen is that I got tangled in another extension cord on the other side of the dining room table (where a computer, which my son is using for a stop-motion video project, was plugged in), and I tripped and fell down, hard, hitting my face on the slate tile in the foyer, just where it begins and the carpet ends.
I haven't fallen down hard in a very long time. Maybe not since childhood. I could feel my upper lip swelling and when I touched my face, I felt blood, so I panicked a little. There was a moment or two when I just wasn't sure how much damage I had done. It was still dark, and I didn't have glasses on or contact lenses in yet, and the whole thing was very disconcerting and disorienting.
When I sat up, I realized that the damage was relatively minor. I had grabbed a chair on the way down, which probably saved me from making harder contact with the slate. I scraped the skin off the bridge of my nose (that was the source of the blood) and slightly broke the skin on my upper lip, which is about twice its normal size now. My teeth seem to be fine, but my cheek and forehead are bruised and a little scraped. I have a few other bruises and sore spots, too, but nothing that won't heal in a day or so.
For a few moments after the initial shock, I was afraid that I might have a concussion. I recited the names of the Presidents in reverse order starting with Obama and ending with Roosevelt (TR), and then started on the Popes, beginning with Francis. I could only remember as far back as Pius XI, but I'm not sure I'd have correctly remembered who preceded him with or without head trauma. Meanwhile, my punctuation skills, as always, are excellent, and I can still type 90 WPM give or take. My head still hurts a little, but I think that my brain is fine, or at least no more damaged than it normally is.
As for my initial reaction, I have still managed to complete most of the items on today's to-do list; if I can manage to avoid extension cords and other trip hazards for the next few days, then I should be back on track in no time. If anyone tells me that I look like I was in a bar fight, I'll say "Maybe I was. Maybe I was."
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Come thou long-expected cookies
That's not blasphemous, is it?
Today is cookie-making day, and while the cookies are long-expected among a certain demographic in my household, the cookie-making is long-dreaded by the cookie baker. I don't like to bake. I don't mind cooking, but baking just fills me with despair.
OK, slight hyperbole. Despair would be overstating the case. Dismay is much better. I plan for cookie-making day several weeks in advance, and when it finally dawns, I'm filled with dismay. The despair comes when the cookies are baked and I'm left to consider the wreckage that was once my kitchen. Flour sticks to black countertops like white on rice. Or flour. The countertops will be dusty until Valentine's Day, and I still haven't figured out how I'll dig the crusted cookie dough particles out of my keyboard.
The first batch is in the oven now, so I'm tempting fate. I'm not sure that my multi-tasking skills are good enough that I can time cookies and blog at the same time, and the idea of having to throw away even one batch leaves me quaking with horror and dread. So Merry Christmas.
Today is cookie-making day, and while the cookies are long-expected among a certain demographic in my household, the cookie-making is long-dreaded by the cookie baker. I don't like to bake. I don't mind cooking, but baking just fills me with despair.
OK, slight hyperbole. Despair would be overstating the case. Dismay is much better. I plan for cookie-making day several weeks in advance, and when it finally dawns, I'm filled with dismay. The despair comes when the cookies are baked and I'm left to consider the wreckage that was once my kitchen. Flour sticks to black countertops like white on rice. Or flour. The countertops will be dusty until Valentine's Day, and I still haven't figured out how I'll dig the crusted cookie dough particles out of my keyboard.
The first batch is in the oven now, so I'm tempting fate. I'm not sure that my multi-tasking skills are good enough that I can time cookies and blog at the same time, and the idea of having to throw away even one batch leaves me quaking with horror and dread. So Merry Christmas.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Saturday, November 14, 2015
How to...
In almost any given situation, I will find a way to predict and then panic about the worst possible outcome. Sometimes, this quality benefits me. I'm constantly foreseeing dreadful traffic accidents; maybe that's why I never have one. I also seldom run out of anything, ever. When you wake up every morning bracing for a siege, then you're not likely to run low on canned goods, or bottled water, or toilet paper.
I subscribe to several daily-deal electronic book services, and every day, I receive emails listing the day's book deals. Novels, biographies, history (and for some reason, Amish romance novels. Who knew?), and niche, fad-of-the-day books from two years ago are all offered for a dollar or two. It occurred to me, but only for a moment, that a person with my tendency to borrow trouble at high rates of interest might want to think twice before buying a copy of The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook, but then I decided that it was high time that I learned how to fend off a shark attack, or how to survive a hang-glider emergency (My advice: Stay away from hang-gliders altogether. That's for damn fools.)
Maybe I should start to read The New York Review of Books or something, because I didn't realize that The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook was a humor book. It does offer actual advice on how to survive actual life-threatening situations, but at least half of the entries are ironic instructions on how to survive first-world emergencies like blind dates and job interviews.
So this is what I think. Unless you're a genius, you should stick to one thing or another. A book that represents itself as a survival handbook should be nothing but a survival handbook. A book that identifies itself as humorous must actually be funny. Maybe the next edition (apparently, it's a series) should include a chapter on how to survive a coordinated terrorist attack on a major city. Sadly, hashtags won't stop bullets or bomb blasts, and profile photos superimposed with semitransparent tricolores won't prevent the next one. Vive la France.
I subscribe to several daily-deal electronic book services, and every day, I receive emails listing the day's book deals. Novels, biographies, history (and for some reason, Amish romance novels. Who knew?), and niche, fad-of-the-day books from two years ago are all offered for a dollar or two. It occurred to me, but only for a moment, that a person with my tendency to borrow trouble at high rates of interest might want to think twice before buying a copy of The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook, but then I decided that it was high time that I learned how to fend off a shark attack, or how to survive a hang-glider emergency (My advice: Stay away from hang-gliders altogether. That's for damn fools.)
Maybe I should start to read The New York Review of Books or something, because I didn't realize that The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook was a humor book. It does offer actual advice on how to survive actual life-threatening situations, but at least half of the entries are ironic instructions on how to survive first-world emergencies like blind dates and job interviews.
So this is what I think. Unless you're a genius, you should stick to one thing or another. A book that represents itself as a survival handbook should be nothing but a survival handbook. A book that identifies itself as humorous must actually be funny. Maybe the next edition (apparently, it's a series) should include a chapter on how to survive a coordinated terrorist attack on a major city. Sadly, hashtags won't stop bullets or bomb blasts, and profile photos superimposed with semitransparent tricolores won't prevent the next one. Vive la France.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Truth to power
I started reading e-books in 2010, when I bought a Barnes & Noble Nook device. I still like actual books, but I love the electronic format. It's nice to be able to carry all of your books in one compact device.
Right now, I'm reading Alistair Cooke's Memories of the Good and the Great, which I purchased for $1.99 on an e-book daily deal site. I have vague childhood memories of Alistair Cooke as host of "Masterpiece Theater," and I knew that he was a writer, but that was the extent of my experience with him. I bought the book based on the description (short essays about 20th-century figures whom Cooke had covered as a correspondent for the BBC), and had no expectations at all.
I'm surprised by how much I like the book. The very short essays telescope in and out: A short discussion of the person's significance (the subjects include FDR, Winston Churchill, George Marshall, George Bernard Shaw, Eleanor Roosevelt, P.G. Wodehouse, etc., so they're all pretty significant) and then a close observation of a moment in the person's life or a particular characteristic or event. Cooke met all of the subjects at some point during his career as a foreign correspondent for the BBC and host of the TV series Omnibus, and although he clearly admired all of his subjects, the essays do not read as hagiographic.
I'm surprised by how much I like the book. The very short essays telescope in and out: A short discussion of the person's significance (the subjects include FDR, Winston Churchill, George Marshall, George Bernard Shaw, Eleanor Roosevelt, P.G. Wodehouse, etc., so they're all pretty significant) and then a close observation of a moment in the person's life or a particular characteristic or event. Cooke met all of the subjects at some point during his career as a foreign correspondent for the BBC and host of the TV series Omnibus, and although he clearly admired all of his subjects, the essays do not read as hagiographic.
A few months ago, more because I was avoiding other things than because of any burning desire to read it, I read Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians. Apart from the obvious similarities (both books contain biographical sketches of prominent people; Strachey covered the 19th century and Cooke the 20th) there's not much resemblance between the two books. Cooke is an interesting contrast to Strachey, whose goal was to take his subjects down a peg or two.
Cooke approached his biographies with just the opposite in mind: He already saw his subjects as great and good and wanted his readers to see them the same way. In a possibly intentional metatextual comment on journalism, Cooke notes that many (if not most) Americans at the time of FDR's presidency never knew that he was unable to walk, and that even the Hearst organization, known for its hostility toward the New Deal and toward FDR personally, observed the taboo against mentioning his disability. Cooke guessed that the almost 16-year embargo on reporting about FDR's physical condition wouldn't have lasted for a week today, that today being 1999, when his book was published. Today as in 2015, it wouldn't last for five minutes.
Did the news organizations that didn't report or comment on FDR's obvious disability do a disservice to the truth? Did people have a right to know that their President was in a wheelchair? I don't know. I do know that I have no interest in the sort of spurious truth-telling that unmasks faults and shines a spotlight on blemishes, not for the sake of honesty, but for the sake of exposure.
Some people actually are great or good. Nothing useful comes of breaking them down in print, making them smaller and more like the rest of us. If unvarnished truth means unvarnished by flattery or a political agenda, then it might also mean unvarnished by kindness or sympathy for human failings. I think I'd prefer hagiography.
Cooke approached his biographies with just the opposite in mind: He already saw his subjects as great and good and wanted his readers to see them the same way. In a possibly intentional metatextual comment on journalism, Cooke notes that many (if not most) Americans at the time of FDR's presidency never knew that he was unable to walk, and that even the Hearst organization, known for its hostility toward the New Deal and toward FDR personally, observed the taboo against mentioning his disability. Cooke guessed that the almost 16-year embargo on reporting about FDR's physical condition wouldn't have lasted for a week today, that today being 1999, when his book was published. Today as in 2015, it wouldn't last for five minutes.
Did the news organizations that didn't report or comment on FDR's obvious disability do a disservice to the truth? Did people have a right to know that their President was in a wheelchair? I don't know. I do know that I have no interest in the sort of spurious truth-telling that unmasks faults and shines a spotlight on blemishes, not for the sake of honesty, but for the sake of exposure.
Some people actually are great or good. Nothing useful comes of breaking them down in print, making them smaller and more like the rest of us. If unvarnished truth means unvarnished by flattery or a political agenda, then it might also mean unvarnished by kindness or sympathy for human failings. I think I'd prefer hagiography.
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Recipes for the gulag
As the person responsible for preparing and serving 95% of the food that my family consumes, I'm sometimes overwhelmed by the immediacy and relentlessness of the chore. These people want to eat EVERY SINGLE DAY, several times per day. It's exhausting.
If you ask most people who cook because they have to, and not because they want to, they will probably tell you that the actual cooking process is not so bad (and in fact, it can be rather pleasant at times.) What's hard is the figuring out part: planning meals, securing ingredients, working planned menus and mealtimes around various schedule demands. If someone showed up at my house every day and told me what to cook and when to cook it, and then handed me a bag filled with the necessary meal components, then I'd happily do the rest, even the cleaning-up part. This hasn't happened yet, but hope springs eternal. Someday...
My ever-sunny disposition and my persistently optimistic outlook don't stop me from being preoccupied (often) with plague, violent upheaval, complete social and political breakdown, and famine. Especially famine. At any given time in history, in some place in the world, people starve because there's no food, anywhere, and no hope of getting any. Never mind unexpected deliveries of neatly packaged groceries with handy instructions; there's not so much as a slice of moldy bread or a wormy apple to be found, and people just literally die from hunger.
20th-century famines, so often manmade, are a particular preoccupation, as are the excesses of the Soviet Union, especially under Stalin (see previous paragraph re: sunny disposition/optimistic outlook.) When I'm not grieving for the purge victims, I'm worrying about the ones who starved during the Ukraine famine, or the siege of Leningrad, or fill-in-the-blank Soviet hellhole. Apparently, cannibalism was not uncommon in the Ukraine in 1933; meanwhile, in Leningrad during the siege, the rat problem was pretty well in hand.
It's dinner time again. Thoughts of famine are a sure (though temporary) way to silence the internal complaint monologue about the fact that it's dinner time again. It's helpful to imagine that you're cooking for the rat-hunting victims of the Leningrad siege, or for the unfortunate kulaks of Ukraine. Sometimes, I imagine them sitting down to a meal with us, and marveling at the feast before them (This appears to work best when the meal involves potatoes, or bacon. Not so much for salad or grilled salmon.) I don't feel like cooking, because I never feel like cooking, but I feel like eating, and I feel lucky that thoughts of eating aren't limited to the abstract. Bon appetit.
If you ask most people who cook because they have to, and not because they want to, they will probably tell you that the actual cooking process is not so bad (and in fact, it can be rather pleasant at times.) What's hard is the figuring out part: planning meals, securing ingredients, working planned menus and mealtimes around various schedule demands. If someone showed up at my house every day and told me what to cook and when to cook it, and then handed me a bag filled with the necessary meal components, then I'd happily do the rest, even the cleaning-up part. This hasn't happened yet, but hope springs eternal. Someday...
My ever-sunny disposition and my persistently optimistic outlook don't stop me from being preoccupied (often) with plague, violent upheaval, complete social and political breakdown, and famine. Especially famine. At any given time in history, in some place in the world, people starve because there's no food, anywhere, and no hope of getting any. Never mind unexpected deliveries of neatly packaged groceries with handy instructions; there's not so much as a slice of moldy bread or a wormy apple to be found, and people just literally die from hunger.
20th-century famines, so often manmade, are a particular preoccupation, as are the excesses of the Soviet Union, especially under Stalin (see previous paragraph re: sunny disposition/optimistic outlook.) When I'm not grieving for the purge victims, I'm worrying about the ones who starved during the Ukraine famine, or the siege of Leningrad, or fill-in-the-blank Soviet hellhole. Apparently, cannibalism was not uncommon in the Ukraine in 1933; meanwhile, in Leningrad during the siege, the rat problem was pretty well in hand.
It's dinner time again. Thoughts of famine are a sure (though temporary) way to silence the internal complaint monologue about the fact that it's dinner time again. It's helpful to imagine that you're cooking for the rat-hunting victims of the Leningrad siege, or for the unfortunate kulaks of Ukraine. Sometimes, I imagine them sitting down to a meal with us, and marveling at the feast before them (This appears to work best when the meal involves potatoes, or bacon. Not so much for salad or grilled salmon.) I don't feel like cooking, because I never feel like cooking, but I feel like eating, and I feel lucky that thoughts of eating aren't limited to the abstract. Bon appetit.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Progress
It's November 2, and I'm behind schedule. If I'm to finish writing a 50,000-word novel in the next 28 days, I'll need to step up my production considerably. I had the best intentions, of course. I think I heard something once about good intentions paving a road that leads to somewhere; I just can't remember where.
Today was a day off from school, and my sons had friends over. I did actually start to work, but when you hear someone say "Wait--don't start doing the whip and the nae-nae until you have the spacesuit on," how can you not stop what you're doing to investigate? And that wasn't even the most entertaining thing I overheard today.
The bad news is that I only wrote about 200 words (not counting these words.) The good news is that I had a scathingly brilliant idea that might really pull the whole thing together. 200 down and 49,800 to go. Onward.
Today was a day off from school, and my sons had friends over. I did actually start to work, but when you hear someone say "Wait--don't start doing the whip and the nae-nae until you have the spacesuit on," how can you not stop what you're doing to investigate? And that wasn't even the most entertaining thing I overheard today.
The bad news is that I only wrote about 200 words (not counting these words.) The good news is that I had a scathingly brilliant idea that might really pull the whole thing together. 200 down and 49,800 to go. Onward.
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