Exit the Dragon

I write these silly things all the time, and sometimes writing a title takes longer than writing the whole essay. But sometimes, a perfect title comes along and just writes itself. 

*****

Not only is this a perfect title, it's also not a metaphorically perfect title. This post really is about a dragon. See? It’s huge, isn’t it? 

What? You have an even better title?
No, you don't. Come on. 

This dragon is notable for several reasons. First of all, it’s notable that a neighbor has a huge inflatable dragon on their front lawn. Secondly, the dragon has been there for months. Maybe years. I don’t know. I walk past it all the time, and only in the last few days has it occurred to me, just barely, to wonder about it. It can’t be a birthday thing, and it can’t be there to commemorate some dragon-focused holiday because it’s been there forever. Though some people do keep their Christmas decorations up until March, so who knows. 

When I say that the dragon is on a neighbor’s front lawn, I mean a distant neighbor, six or seven streets away. I see the dragon only when I pass their house during my neighborhood walks. I don’t know how the actual neighbors, who have to look at the dragon all the time, feel about it. On the one hand, I think that people should be able to do what they want to do on their own property. On the other hand, it’s a huge red dragon, and what the hell? What in the actual hell? 

*****

My husband and I went for a walk the day after I wrote this. When we turned onto the street where the dragon lives, I didn’t see it right away and I thought well, isn’t that ironic that the dragon disappeared the very day after I realized that he had been there for months. We don’t know what we have until it is gone, I suppose. But then we walked a few more steps, and found that he was right there where he belonged; he just isn’t visible from the intersection. 

“How long has that dragon been there?” I asked my husband. “When did you first notice him?” 

“A while ago,” my husband said helpfully. A while. I could have come up with that timetable myself. “Maybe it’s a corona thing,” he said. 

I hadn’t considered this, but perhaps he’s right. Perhaps the bright red dragon is meant to represent the ever-present threat of the plague. I thought backward to try to pinpoint the time when I first noticed the dragon, and I realized that I don’t really remember anything pre-corona. If it happened any time before March 13, 2020, then it’s ancient history, from a time when dragons maybe actually did roam the earth. 

*****

In 2019, I read Maeve Brennan’s The Long-Winded Lady. Maeve Brennan was an Irish writer who lived in New York City in the 1950s and 1960s (and possibly before and after). She wrote a column, also called "The Long-Winded Lady," for the New Yorker. The book is a best-of compilation of those columns. 

Maeve Brennan might have been long-winded in person. I guess that’s the stereotype of Irish people: talkative, even garrulous. But her columns weren’t long-winded at all. They were very spare and succinct. She wrote mostly about New York City, and how every time she felt settled somewhere, that somewhere would change. She moved around all the time, from one temporary furnished apartment or hotel suite to another. Sometimes, she had to move because a building she lived in would soon be razed to make way for a bigger, more modern building. She didn’t complain about change itself, but she lamented the pace. It was as if she was trying to maintain a record, a point-in-time snapshot of how a neighborhood or block looked during the time that she occupied it, but change came so rapidly and so unexpectedly that sometimes a whole building would disappear before she could describe it to herself, and then its memory was gone too.

*****

So I wrote the dragon part of this essay months ago, and promptly forgot about it, because what was the point? A post about a giant inflatable dragon seemed apropos of exactly nothing in life. And then I started walking around the neighborhood again, because the pool was closed, and it was walking weather again. And I walked past the dragon house, and the dragon was gone. 

I couldn't remember for sure if it was the right house, but I knew the street, and that street was entirely free of dragons, real or imagined. There was a SOLD sign on the front lawn of the house that I thought was the dragon house, and when I looked back at the picture, I saw that it was the same house. I don't know if the old owner banished the dragon for fear that it would scare off potential buyers, or if the new owner managed to look past the dragon to see the house behind it, but then got rid of him as the first order of new home ownership business. No matter, one way or the other. The dragon is gone. People live and work on Maeve Brennan's New York streets, and have no idea what they looked like fifty years ago. And a few months from now, the new home will host friends and family who will never know that the street they're visiting was once a dragon's home. He was once a part of the neighborhood landscape, but things change. Things move on. 

Friends old and new

It always happens, doesn’t it? You think you want something and then when you get it, you don’t want it anymore. Not that I am ever happy to see the end of summer, but one thing that I thought I was looking forward to was not wearing shorts and a t-shirt every darn day. And then I woke up this morning, a sunny Saturday with temperatures in the 40s (in SEPTEMBER!) and I put on jeans and a top and a sweater, and I felt like I’d been stuffed into a straitjacket, bound up like a mummy in clothes that restricted my freedom of movement in a way that I am no longer accustomed to. 

It’s later in the day now, and a little warmer than this morning. It’s not t-shirt and shorts warmer but with leggings, a short-sleeved t-shirt, and a ¼ zip pullover thing, I am quite comfortable. I’m going to walk with my friend. More writing later. 

*****

It’s Sunday morning now, November cold but brilliantly sunny, almost blinding. I walked with my friend and her dog yesterday. My friend is younger and more energetic than I am, and her dog is more energetic than either of us. I like walking with them, because they make me walk faster and farther than I would on my own. We walk together pretty often, and we usually resume our ongoing conversation from whatever point we left off at the end of the last walk. We talk about work, or books and movies and politics, or family. Yesterday, my friend told me that she’d spoken to her mother a few days earlier. “We had lunch at Panera today,” her mother told her. “It was a treat, but quite a bit more food than we expected, so we’re just going to have a snack for dinner.” 

“There it is,” my friend said. “My parents are an insurance commercial.” 

*****

I don’t think much about what I wear when I’m with my close friends. They’re my friends. They know me. They know what I look like. But when I see newer friends, I take more trouble with my clothes and overall appearance. Earlier in the day on Saturday, I had an appointment with a church acquaintance. We work together in a volunteer group that helps new mothers in need, and we were to meet a new client together. So I wanted to look nice, to make a good first impression. This woman is stylish, in an affluent outdoorsy suburban woman way, and she always looks well-dressed and put-together, and I wanted to look well-dressed and put-together too. Or rather, I wanted her to think of me as well-dressed and well put-together. 

*****

Back in late July and early August, I started searching for a barn jacket. Something or someone put me in mind of a barn jacket, like the J. Crew ones that were so popular in the early ‘90s. I have no idea if they’re making a comeback or not, or if this was just one of my short-lived style whims. I looked high and low for exactly the right barn jacket. I couldn’t decide between vintage or new, between red or a dark tan, between canvas with a leather or corduroy collar or lightweight quilted nylon. Eventually, I lost interest because after all, it was still summer and I don’t like thinking about fall clothes in the summer; and because really, I’m not a barn jacket person. I don’t have a barn. I like going outside, but I’m not outdoorsy. I have never been on a horse in my entire life and God willing, I never will be. Nothing against horses, of course. They’re beautiful creatures. I just don’t want to go anywhere near one. I finally got a nice insulated canvas utility jacket with patch pockets and a hood; and I hung it in my closet thinking that I’d get to wear it sometime late in October. And then it was 45 degrees on a Saturday morning in the middle of September and I was glad that I had that jacket. 

*****

Back to my church friend. I’ve known her to say hello to, as my mother always said, for a few years, but we have never really interacted other than to greet one another at church or at kids’ sports practices (our sons ran cross-country together a long time ago). She called me a little while before we were to meet, to let me know that she was running late, and as I listened to her voice, I realized that I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t recognize her telephone voice right away, and her speech patterns and conversational style were not familiar to me. As we spoke, I wondered if we’ll remain friendly acquaintances, or if we’ll eventually become friends.

****

While we’re on the topic of jackets, is there really that much of a difference between a barn jacket and a utility jacket? In terms of function, not so much. Both are generally boxy or relaxed fit canvas jackets, with plenty of spacious pockets to warm your hands or hold your things. Both generally come in rather muted, drab colors. They might be insulated or not. Appearances aside, though, there’s a philosophical difference between a utility jacket and a barn jacket. They say different things about the wearer. The utility jacket is city mouse, and the barn jacket is its country cousin. The utility jacket goes to the museum or to Starbucks, and the barn jacket goes to the stables or to a fall festival. They might have different taste in movies. They might be on opposite political sides. 

*****

My church friend and I finished our task, and we spent a few minutes chatting before continuing on with our day.  We ended up talking about politics (more and more my least favorite subject) and I learned that she is a reluctant but unwavering Trump supporter, because she believes that he is the better option for pro-life voters. I disagree vehemently, but I understand her position. She’s not enthusiastic about Trump, and I’m not enthusiastic about Biden, but on November 3, we’re going to cancel out one another’s votes. 

I’m reading back over this now, and I think that I intended the jackets to serve as a metaphor. One jacket is an acquaintance, and the other is a friend. They don’t look that different until you really start to examine them closely. And it’s not a bad metaphor, is it?  A person might need a barn jacket AND a utility jacket. It depends on the occasion. And a person needs friends and acquaintances. I still don’t know if my church friend and I are going to be real friends or not, but I have not ruled it out and I don’t think she has either. That’s a good sign, I think. Some of us are still willing to reach across the ever-widening political divide to make a friend on the other side. It's not a bad idea to try on a different jacket now and then. 

The reading (and writing) life

Sometimes I write about reading, and sometimes I read about writing, and sometimes I write about writing. And I just finished reading C.S. Lewis’s The Reading Life, so now it seems that I also  read about reading. This book was a fitting selection, since I have been reading a lot lately, even more than usual. I’m in the middle of writing several different book essays right now. I hesitate to call them reviews; first of all, because I seldom read anything brand-new; and secondly, because I am not very good at figuring out why I do or don’t like a book, and “it was great; you should totally read it” is not compelling criticism. 

*****

One thing I don’t write very much about is work, because I like work and I want to keep doing it, and writing about your job on the Internet is a good way to lose it. All I will say is that when I click on the “share” button in a presentation that’s saved on SharePoint, and I see no fewer than three people trying to edit it at the same time as I’m trying to edit it, then we might have a case of too many cooks, know what I mean? And that is all I have to say about that. 

*****

But back to my book-reading. I also just finished Hyperbole and a Half, ten years after everyone else finished it; and This is My Life, almost 30 years after Nora Ephron directed the movie adaptation. I loved both of these books, for entirely different reasons, and I’ll tell you why at another time, as soon as I finish writing my half-baked essays about them. 

*****

In The Reading Life, C.S. Lewis lists four characteristics of true readers. They are: 

1. Loves to re-read books
2. Highly values reading as an activity (vs. as a last resort)
3. Lists the reading of particular books as a life-changing experience
4. Continuously reflects and recalls what one has read

Check, check, check, and check. 

*****

You know what? It’s September, ¾ of the way through the reading year, and I haven’t re-read a single book this year. But I did read all of Helene Hanff’s books, and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy and I expect to read all of them again. Right now, I’m reading Giving Up the Ghost, Hilary Mantel’s memoir. It reminds me very much of Curriculum Vitae, Muriel Spark’s autobiography. This is very high praise. Sadly, there won’t be any new Helene Hanff or Muriel Spark books; but Hilary Mantel is still living, and even though she’s finished with Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII, that doesn’t mean that she’s finished writing. At least I hope not. 

*****

Thanks to the never-ending pandemic (2022? Really, Dr. Fauci? REALLY?), I still don't get out much. But I’m living the reading life and the writing-about-almost-everything (except work) life. It’s a pretty good life. God willing, I’ll get to keep writing more words and reading more books. And maybe I'll have a party in two years, give or take. 

 

Subject line

I have my Gmail account set up with tabs for Promotions, Social, Updates, etc. When I opened this account 10 years or so ago, I vowed that I’d use it only for private email, and give my old Yahoo address to all of the businesses that demand my email address every time I buy something. But with one thing and another, my system got corrupted and everyone in the world has my Gmail address. The tabs help me to control the spam, to the extent that a person can control spam. 

Every so often I check the spammy emails, just to make sure that I’m not missing something important. Yesterday, I saw an email with no subject line, from a brand-new sender: Coronavirus. Yes, now it’s sending me emails. Maybe the novel coronavirus has merged with a computer virus and it’s trying to infect me and my computer at the same time. But I’m too smart to fall for that, aren’t I? Coronavirus will have to get up earlier in the morning if it wants to get me via email. 

*****

Yesterday it was an email from the coronavirus and today it's a text message from the dentist’s office. I'm sitting in the "virtual waiting room," also known as my car, parked in the parking lot, and the office just texted me that my dentist is running late. Well, someone who works in the office texted me but it feels disembodied and impersonal as if the desk or the building is tapping away on an iPhone, keeping me abreast of waiting times. I had to take time away from a busy work day to come here, and I arrived ten minutes early as instructed. I live very close by, and it occurs to me that they probably knew that the dentist was running late and they could have let me know this before I left the house. I guess I can't blame a disembodied text message. So I'm multitasking. 

This isn't a routine check up. I have an old filling that's broken and I'm here to get it fixed. I can't stand novocain, but I'm glad that people can still take care of minor health problems even amid the pandemic. Coronavirus isn't the only game in town. Maybe that's why it's out there sending email messages. Maybe it doesn't want us to forget about it. It probably shouldn't worry. 

Another day

Today is my birthday. I’m older; but as they say, no one is getting younger, and this is simply true. For the first time ever, I might have been able to swim outdoors on my birthday, which always falls after Labor Day; but it’s supposed to rain this afternoon, with possible thunder and lightning. Rain alone wouldn’t stop me from swimming, because how much wetter can you get, but thunder and lightning closes the pool and it’ll be out of my hands. We’ll see what happens. 

For my entire childhood and most of my early adult life, I was very lucky when it came to birthday weather. My birthday would dawn clear and sunny, and would remain so all day. My memory is not what it was so maybe I’m completely wrong about this, but I honestly think that I was in my late thirties the first time it rained on my birthday. Since then, the birthday weather has been hit or miss. But that’s OK because when you are my age, it’s mostly just another day. 

Maybe I’ll get to swim. I hope so. But I won’t have to cook dinner, and I plan to eat ice cream for lunch. The weather might be sketchy but ice cream and chicken souvlaki and french fries from my favorite Greek restaurant taste good no matter what it’s like outside. Happy Birthday, if it’s your birthday, too. 

Pointless

So I did swim, and it was cold, just as I feared it would be; but it was fine, just as I knew it would be. I swam almost every day this summer. I have as many adjectives to describe pool swimming conditions as Greenlanders have to describe snow. Which is to say not that many because apparently, the whole idea of native Alaskans and Greenlanders having a separate vocabulary just to describe snow was debunked years ago. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, Tuesday’s pool conditions might best be described as “dank.” A slightly cool, slightly damp, pearly day; and chilly pool water that looked darker blue than usual, without the sparkling reflected sunlight. A few laps, and I was almost not freezing cold. But it was great, and I’d do it again. I will do it again. 

The point of swimming (for me, that is) is that there’s really no point, other than the fun of doing it. No matter how often I swim (as often as possible during the summer), my technique never really improves, and I never get faster, though I do build endurance as the summer goes on. Endurance and flexibility are my only athletic advantages. I’m slow, I’m not that strong, and I’m terribly uncoordinated. 

When I’m in the water, I do try to think about improving my technique. I realize sometimes that I’m swimming with my fingers spread apart, and I remind myself to keep my hands closed, like paddles. I prompt myself to kick, so that my upper body isn’t doing all the work. I try to engage my core. I don’t even know what that means, but I try to do it. But I’m not not a kinesthetic learner. The best way I can think of to describe this is that I can watch someone performing an activity correctly, and I try to imitate their form, and I feel like my body is doing exactly what I’m seeing in my mind, but observers tell me that I’m not even close. 

For example, what I think of as “breaststroke” would never pass a judge’s scrutiny, at least from the waist down. I try to kick outward, so that I’m gaining propulsion from the soles of my feet rather than the tops, but even as I’m thinking about what it should look like and consciously trying to do it, I know that my feet are kicking downward. And I can’t keep the kick simultaneous either. I’m going to DQ on a downward butterfly kick (or a scissors kick or an alternating kick) every single time. 

And that takes me back to the point, which is that there is no point, except that I really love to swim. I don’t have to pass a judge’s scrutiny. I don’t have to beat anyone. I don’t have to improve my time; this is why I don’t even bother to know what my time is. I just like the feeling of moving through water. 

*****

It’s Friday now, the Friday of Labor Day weekend. I hate Labor Day weekend. Normally, I hate it because it marks the end of summer, at least what I consider summer. And of course, the pool usually closes on Labor Day. This year, because so many of the kids who work as lifeguards (mine included) are attending school from home, the management company decided to keep the pool open for a few extra weeks. (The ‘rona mostly taketh, but it also giveth a little). This year, I hate Labor Day for entirely different reasons. I am actually happy to see the end of this summer, and that makes me sad, because it’s sad to wish summer away.

It rained on Wednesday and Thursday night; heavy, drenching rain that broke up the warmth and humidity that had begun to build again. The fall lovers are planning for the first taste of PSL weather this weekend, hoping that it will be cool enough to break out the sweaters and the backyard fire pits and the gaiter scarves that double as face masks. I’m not doing any of that nonsense. I’m going to swim.  

It's all your fault

It’s the virtual first day of school, or the first day of virtual school, or whatever you want to call it, here in Maryland. My older son started his second year of college with a 9 AM Zoom session, and my younger son started his second year of high school with another 9 AM Zoom session; and thankfully, our Wi-Fi is capable of supporting all of this simultaneous activity because I also had a call at 9 o’clock, but on Teams rather than Zoom. 

Because we’re back to starting before Labor Day (make up your mind, Maryland), the first day of school doesn’t make me feel like summer is over. The weather is doing that--it’s raining and cool today, more like the end of September than the last day of August. So far, only two of my Instagram friends have posted first-day-of-school pictures. I suppose there’s no point, but I do like first-day-of-school pictures. Is there nothing that the damn ‘rona won’t take away? Now I don’t even get to scroll through a feed full of smiling faces and first-day outfits and new backpacks? You’re a bitch, 2020. I said what I said. 

*****

Now it’s the second day of school. Just like that, the routine that I have become accustomed to during the last few months is over, and I have to adjust to a new one. Another test of my well-honed change management skills. 

I blame 2020 for a lot of shit, but I can’t blame it for my time-wasting indecisiveness, because that long out-dates this terrible year. I’m almost finished working for the day, and I’m just about paralyzed with indecision about what to do for the rest of the day. Or more accurately, when and how to do what I’m going to do, because I know exactly what I need to do for the rest of the day; it’s just that I can’t decide when to do what, and I’m going to fritter away at least 30 minutes while I weigh pros and cons and compare approaches and consider possible outcomes. Maddening, I tell you. 

I want to exercise outside. I’d always rather swim, but I know that the water will be much colder than I like. But time is running out for outdoor swimming, and it might be better to suffer a few minutes of cold than to lose one of the few remaining pool days. But I also have to shop for my old lady today, and swimming will take longer than walking because I’ll have to take a shower afterward. And dinner--what am I supposed to do about dinner? People expect to eat every day, several times a day; and they all look to me to make that happen. And they’re not wrong, because someone has to be responsible and it might as well be me. Why not me? 

The cold water will be invigorating. It will clear my mind. It might be a new season but I will still cling to the vestiges of the old one while I can. Suck it, 2020. 

*****

Yes, I know that I said that I wasn’t blaming 2020, but a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. There’s nothing bad that 2020 can’t make worse, including my decision-making skills. 

Who knew hair weighed so much?

Have you ever cut your own hair? If not, you should probably try it at least once, just to see if you can. During the stay-at-home order, I learned that I can cut my own hair. I can’t cut it in any particular style or anything, but I can trim the ends and take off a little excess length, and generally reshape it a bit so that it’s not unreconstructed elderly hippie hair, because no one wants that on her head. 

The first time I cut my own hair was actually in January, so nothing to do with the coronavirus. I just didn’t feel like waiting for a hair appointment. I had to have my hair cut that minute at that particular time, so I got some scissors and got to work, and was pleasantly surprised at the results. And then I promised myself that I would never do it again because that was nothing more than rank beginner’s luck, and I wasn’t going to get lucky a second time. And then March 2020 happened. After a few months on lockdown, my hair was approaching the I-was-at-Woodstock-but-I-don’t-remember-details growth stage. It was intolerable. So I got the scissors out again, and that’s how I learned that the first time wasn’t a fluke, and that I actually can cut my own hair when it gets too long, like this sentence. 

When I cut my own hair, though, what I have is hair. Which is fine, as far as it goes. I wash it, I comb it out, I pull it back into a clip, and it dries however it dries, and that’s the end of it. I missed having an actual style. So I got a real, proper haircut. And now I don’t know what the point of all this was, because I avoid conversations about hair and grooming whenever I can, and here I am halfway through about 500 words on the world’s most boring topic. But it’s a good haircut that has an actual shape and style. For at least a few weeks, I’ll be able to leave the house without a clip or a headband or a hair tie (and all three at once is not unheard-of), and that’s a nice change. It makes me feel normal again. Maybe life will resume. Maybe I’ll soon have a reason to fix my hair and put on real clothes and leave the house and join the world of purpose and energy and endeavor. If not, then this haircut should withstand a few months of growth before I have to get out the scissors again. If that happens, I’ll spare you the details. You’re welcome. 

One Line a Day

 I have been drafting a project charter, which is more interesting than it sounds. It’s like writing something into being. I worked at a biotech company many years ago, and the QA Manager had a favorite saying: “If it’s not documented, then it didn’t happen.” I could say the same thing about future events: If it’s not documented, then it won’t happen. 

Speaking of documenting, I have a little journal that has a title: One Line a Day: A Five-Year Memory Book. It’s a five-year diary, with short little entries for each day of the year, for five years--the same day on one page, so you can, I suppose, compare August 26, 2020 with August 26, 2024 and see what’s changed. 

My sister gave me the One Line a Day journal for Christmas, and I almost just put it on a bookshelf as a quasi-decorative item. It’s very pretty, with an abstract-design pastel design hard cover and gold print, with gold leaf trim on all of the pages. So it’s nice to just look at. But then I thought that it might be nice, as a project, just to add an entry every day. Too bad I didn’t have this last year. It would be interesting to see the difference between 2019 and 2020. 

Anyway, you see what’s coming, don’t you? Yes, the journal went from being just a nice, middle-aged sister Christmas present to yet another anxiety-fueled compulsive must-do daily task. I already write every day; I also already keep a little planner. So this is a completely unnecessary layer of documentary complexity in my already well-documented life. But it’s not that much of a burden, really. Sometimes one line a day becomes just one word; just a single word that sums up or expresses something about my state of being on that day. 

One day last week, I wrote a very cryptic entry, thinking that I’d look at it next year and see if I could remember what it meant. Joke was on me (as it always is) because I looked at the entry 48 hours later, and I had no fucking idea what I was talking about. The thought of encroaching senility is never far from my mind. I should write more about that. I should make a note. 

*****

Oh, I know what it meant! And it was funny, too. Gosh, I crack myself up. 

*****

Sometimes I record several days’ worth of entries at one time. Cheating, I know, but a person has to find efficiencies wherever she can. (And there is proof, in case any was needed, that I have been working as a Federal government contractor for too long, because no one other than a Federal government contractor would use the plural form of the noun “efficiency,” except maybe a real estate agent in New York City.) Until yesterday, though, I hadn’t written entries for any future days, only for the current and past days. Yesterday, I wrote on today’s page “First real haircut since January.” As soon as I wrote it, I realized that I really should have waited. What if I changed my mind? What if the hairdresser didn’t show up for the appointment? What if some catastrophe prevented me from showing up for the appointment? Then what? Then I’d have falsified a record, or I’d have to cross out an entry and write something else. 

To make a long story short(er), my long(ish) hair is now short(er). Not only did I avoid catastrophe, but I got a really good haircut. Or maybe it’s just so much better than the cumulative results of my own DIY scissor work during the last six months, that it just seems like a good haircut. Does it make a difference? No, it does not. I’m glad I wrote it down in advance. If it hadn’t been documented, then maybe it wouldn’t have happened. 

Little Fires Everywhere. BURN.

Nora Ephron wrote or said something about how one of the worst things about getting older is that when you watch a movie or a TV show, you notice when period details are off, and it ruins the show for you. I knew exactly how she felt when I watched "Little Fires Everywhere."

LFE is a limited Hulu series based on Celeste Ng’s novel of the same title. I have not read the novel and probably won’t, now that I know how it ends. And also because I hated every minute of this terrible hot TV mess, though I did watch all eight episodes, so the joke is on me, I suppose.

Why did I hate this show so much? Well, let’s start with the period detail. It's so wrong in so many ways that I don’t have time to enumerate them all here. Suffice to say that you’ll need to do better than a few bars of “Tubthumping” before I will believe that the year is 1997. I was alive in 1997. I remember 1997. Frozen yogurt existed, but no one called it “froyo.” Cardigan sweaters existed, but not the open-front cascade-style cardigans that became all the rage in 2010 or so. I could list ten more examples, but I won't. And when LFE does get the period details right, it beats you over the head with them. Poor Sarita Choudhury probably sustained serious shoulder and neck damage from the weight of the 7-pound chunky David Yurman necklace that she wears in her first scene. It hurt me just to look at it.

The soundtrack is also a source of pain, with its terrible, terrible covers of angsty 90s girl singer-songwriter songs. I like Alanis as well as the next person, but I do not want to watch a self-important angry teenager perform “You Oughta Know” as a goshdarn violin solo. And “Uninvited” is apparently not slow and sad enough, because the wailing, agonized cover version on the LFE soundtrack is a mental health crisis set to music.

Reese Witherspoon and Kerry Washington are both fine actresses. In fact, it's their fault that I kept watching this drivel. “It has to get better,” I kept thinking. “Kerry and Reese won’t let me down.” Kerry and Reese: You let me down. I’m disappointed, ladies.

Obviously, Kerry and Reese are not solely to blame for the dreadfulness of LFE. Even with terrible material, their performances are reasonably good; even compelling in a few scenes. But they did serve as producers, so they bear at least some of the responsibility for clunky, obvious characterizations, completely lacking in subtlety. How do we know that Reese’s Elena is a raging, entitled bitch? Well, just look at that sleek blond grown-up Tracy Flick hair and those St. John ensembles and that French manicure, and that perfect Shaker Heights mansion with the insanely complicated family calendar hanging on the refrigerator. Of course she’s a raging, entitled bitch. And how do we know that Kerry’s Mia is an artist? She wears black clothes and chunky silver jewelry (not David Yurman chunky, though, or she'd never have the strength to lift her fucking paintbrush) and she listens to Velvet Underground and Nina Simone and she drives an old Chevy hatchback. Of course she’s an artist.


*****

Did you ever see “A League of Their Own?” If not, then stop reading this trash pile, and go and watch it. I’ll wait.


OK, so did you see the scene when the black spectator catches a ball, and Geena Davis’s Dottie smiles and motions to the woman to toss it back to her? And instead, the woman, who is excluded from participation in the all-white All American Girls’ Professional Baseball League, drills the ball 60 feet or so to Fredda Simpson’s Ellen Sue, who catches it and then rubs her hand, wincing a little. Ellen Sue and Dottie both give the woman a surprised smile and respectful nod; and she nods in return, satisfied that the players recognize her power. The whole scene takes about 15 seconds, and it says more about the injustice of racism and segregation than any 10,000-word polemic ever could.

“Little Fires Everywhere” is well-meaning. It has lots of true and important things to say about race and sex and privilege, about justice and injustice. It just doesn’t say them very well. It could have thrown a baseball; but instead, it wrote a 10,000-word polemic and then it shoved it down our throat, one compound-complex sentence at a time. Rather than trying to be Important and Relevant for eight hours, maybe it should have just gotten over itself and told us a story. I'm always all in for a story. 

I can see (pretty) clearly now

Our community has an emergency operations planning committee, of which I am a member. I don’t know how I ended up on an emergency operations committee. Anyone who reads this blog should know that I’m the least qualified person to handle an emergency, unless “handling” is synonymous with “panicking and breathing into a paper bag.” But there I am. They’ll realize their mistake at some point, but then it will be too late. 

Anyway, we were discussing the upcoming Annual Meeting and Board of Trustees election. Did I mention that I’m also  a candidate for the Board of Trustees? I know. I have no idea how this happened, either. I’ll have an entirely separate post about that topic. Mark your calendars. 

So anyway, we’re on this interminable Zoom call, discussing the contingency plan for the annual meeting, and all of a sudden, I was literally dying from heat, like 104-degree fever heat. Ironic, I thought. We’re discussing COVID-19 emergency workarounds, and now I myself have the ‘rona.

Actually, what I have is a super-helpful Nest thermostat, which thinks with its little Google-powered brain that what we really want is not to be cool in the summer, but to save as much energy as possible, which is why it will adjust the indoor temperature to 88 degrees the second you turn your back on it. A thermostat set at 88 in August and an hour and a half with a computer on my lap and I felt like I had Ebola. I got off the call, turned off the computer, turned down the temperature, and was miraculously restored to health. 

*****

I worked today, because it’s Thursday, and everybody works on Thursday. I am part of a pilot test group for a new software application, and I found the testing process harder to understand than usual. Normally, I just follow the instructions, and I get the expected results (or I don’t, but not because of user error) and I submit my completed test script, and that’s the end of it. 

This application is less straightforward than others that I have tested, and the engineers created a video to go along with the instructions and test script. Even with the video, though, I struggled a bit to follow the steps. I had to keep stopping the video and switching back to the application to see what step I missed, because I kept missing steps. Finally, I finished testing, submitted the results, and crossed “pilot test” off my list of things to do. But I didn’t feel the normal list-crossing-off satisfaction. The whole job had been such a mental struggle that I wasn’t confident that I’d done everything correctly; and if the job isn’t done correctly, it isn’t done at all, and then where do I get off crossing it off a list? That is a clear and distinct violation of the to-do list EULA. (Look it up). 

Not only that, but this was the second time in as many days that I had a hard time following directions. I do not now, or ever, claim to be the proverbial sharpest knife in the drawer, but I can usually follow simple written instructions without any difficulty. So not only am I a viral plague vector, but I’m also suffering from early dementia. Or just dementia, because I’m almost 55 and it’s not too early for me to suffer the infirmities of old age.

*****

It’s Friday now. I don’t have coronavirus, and I got things done today. I’m pretty sharp, cognitively speaking. And you know what else? I’m not going blind, either. I finally replaced my Fitbit, when the charger broke. The screen on the old one had gotten very dim; and being me, I naturally thought that my eyesight was failing. So in just a few short days, I recovered from coronavirus, reversed a decline into dementia, and regained my sight. One miracle after another. 

Ants marching in circles

It’s Sunday morning, and we’re back from a week away. We’re watching the Capitals, who seem determined to exit the playoffs at the hands of the Islanders. I care a lot less about hockey than I usually do, because I care a lot less about a lot of things than I usually do. Damn ‘rona. 

I kept a daily diary during our vacation, and I just cleaned it up and published it on the blog. I was just worried enough about the NJ “travel advisory,” whatever that means, that I didn’t want to post anything online until we were safely over the Delaware Memorial Bridge and heading back toward Maryland. Who knows? Maybe they were monitoring blogs and social media as a way to identify non-quarantining invaders from Maryland and Virginia and half of the rest of the country. But the travel advisory turned out to be a non-event. I held my breath for a bit as we approached the bridge, wondering if we’d see flashing electronic warnings to out-of-state visitors to quarantine or else. Not only were there no signs or reminders on the road, there were no signs or reminders anywhere. It was nothing. We lived our lives on vacation as if the NJ state government didn’t exist. 

*****

Now it’s Monday, and was that thunder? Yes, it was; and my timing is impeccable. I just got home from the pool. I’m rearranging my days a little bit, shaking up the routine so that I don’t sink back into the corona-funk that I just managed to pull myself out of last week. Normally I write first and swim later. Today, I decided to reverse that order and if I hadn’t, I’d be sidelined because of a thunderstorm. I swam my laps and now I’m sitting on the couch writing about it. Yes, I know that this is the same damn thing that I do every day, but I REVERSED THE ORDER. Don’t you get it? It makes all the difference, I’m telling you. 

The thunderstorm that’s happening right now is an August, pre-fall thunderstorm, not an apocalyptic July heat purge. It was pretty sunny for most of the day, but cooler than normal. The days are getting a little shorter. The crape myrtle is in full bloom, and the pool water is chilly. Everyone is talking about school, such as school will be in a few weeks. Everything is uncertain. Everything is up in the air. Even the thunderstorms can’t make up their minds. I’d usually describe a thunderstorm as “raging” or some other hyperbolic adjective; but this one isn’t even shouting. It’s rumbling gently, explaining itself more than anything else. It’s not mad. It’s just there.

*****

Now it's Tuesday afternoon and I'm sitting poolside, waiting for my nephew to finish swimming. I finished my laps and got out because it's cold in there today, but 7-year-olds don't get out of the pool until someone makes them. The whistle will blow in 20 minutes, ending this swim session, so I'll let him stay in the water until then. 

We don't have chairs at the pool this year. Thanks 'rona. So I'm wrapped in a towel, sitting on the warm pavement of the deck, watching a red ant run around in circles. I don't know why he's doing this. I don't have a particular interest in entomology in general nor the habits of ants in particular, but this does seem like out of the ordinary behavior, given ants' reputation for industry and purposefulness. It's a word. Summer 2020 is getting to everyone, even the ants. 

Or maybe the ant is trying to disrupt the routine a little bit. Maybe it needs a break from the daily grind. Maybe it's tired of working from home and distancing from the other ants. They're social creatures, I know that much. 

I spent just a week away from the constant crush of current events, and I’m just like that thunderstorm. I’m here, and I don’t want you to forget about me, but I don’t have to shout. I’m just like that ant. I’m going to shake things up here and there; defy expectations. I like this newly nonchalant, uncharacteristically insouciant attitude. It won’t last, but I’ll enjoy it for now.

A week off

August 8: We're going on vacation today, against my better judgment and definitely against my inclination to follow the rules and stay under the radar. We're going to New Jersey, which has travel restrictions against residents of over 30 states, including Maryland. This is crazy because Maryland is outperforming Pennsylvania in almost every COVID metric, but Pennsylvanians are free to cross the Delaware River into New Jersey without quarantining for two weeks, and Marylanders are not. But the travel restriction is actually an advisory: "Voluntary, but compliance is expected." No one seems to know what this extremely equivocal language means, and my research indicated that the state is not enforcing the quarantine requirement, and we paid a lot of money for this beach rental, so we're taking the risk. We're just about to get on the road now. The car is packed with the bikes are securely fastened to the rack. The weather is cloudy and unsettled, much like my mood. We're not sure about today, the weather and I. We'll see how it goes. We'll see what happens. 

Leaving the state feels like leaving the country. Every state has its own rules now. I feel like I need to make sure my papers are in order. But that's the least of my worries because my papers are always in order. My mental health is suspect but my documents are impeccable. 

We're driving through Baltimore now. This is the furthest I've been from home since March. It all looks the same. The Baltimore Sun printing plant and the Port of Baltimore on my right and the Domino Sugar sign and Fort McHenry on my left. I don't know Baltimore as well as I should considering that it's so close to where I live. I like it, though. I could live here. But I'm just passing through today. 

*****

We crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge about an hour ago, and now we're almost there, and it might be a good week after all. No checkpoints and no COVID quarantine warnings. Other than face masks in the Wawa near Elmer, I have seen blessedly few indications that this Saturday in August is different from any other. Less traffic, maybe. It's still cloudy. It might rain, but I don't care. The ocean is good, rain or shine. 

*****

Sunday, August 9. In memory of Mary Jervis. She enjoyed life's small moments. 

That's the inscription on a memorial park bench on the promenade at 82nd Street in Avalon. No dates or other details--Mary Jervis could have been someone's wife or mother or sister or friend--probably all of the above--but we don't know how she died or when or at what age, or who commissioned the memorial bench. We only know that she was known as a person who enjoyed life's small moments. It's a good way to be remembered. 

It's our first full day at the beach, hot and sunny and intensely humid, and that's the way I like it. My niece and nephew are digging in the sand, carefree as only small children can be, even though they are aware of the pandemic. My 4-year-old niece has a beloved stuffed dog named Puppy. This morning, she told me to be careful with Puppy. "He might have da coronavirus." 

*****

Monday, August 10. It's day 3 at the beach and I’m writing on my Chromebook, not my phone. Sadly, it took me 15 minutes to remember how to connect this thing to a new Wi-Fi network. I’m turning into a GEICO commercial. Well, no one is getting any younger, and I’m up and running, so I’m holding off senility for now. For now. 

We're staying in the same little condo complex where we stayed last year, in a different unit. Someone is building a house next door, so the little sliver of bay view that we had from the 2nd floor deck is gone, unless you stand up and lean out a bit. I find that I don’t mind standing up and leaning out. 

It’s 9:30 in the morning. When I woke up, just before 8, a thick fog made everything look milky and indistinctly white. Now the sun is trying to burn the fog away, but the fog is holding on. The sky is uniformly pale blue gray, just a little lighter than the pale blue gray color of most of the houses here.

It’s trash morning. The rumbling garbage trucks and the construction noise are here to remind the tourists that this place doesn’t exist just as a holiday retreat for them. It’s an actual town with roads and infrastructure and a supply chain and a sanitation system. But we’ll be on the beach in a few hours, and we’ll forget all about that. 

*****

Tuesday, August 11. There's an Italian restaurant called Borghi's on 82nd Street in Stone Harbor, NJ. It's been there for a long time. We usually stay right around the corner from Borghi's, and I ride my bike past it every morning. Sometimes I stop and look at the menu, thinking that it looks like a nice place, and maybe we'll eat there some night this week. But the week always passes by very quickly. Before I know it, it's Friday night and we're leaving the next morning and we never did get around to eating at Borghi's. Maybe next summer, I'll think to myself as we drive past it on our way out of town.

It occurred to me this morning that there are a lot of things to do in a week, a lot of places to go, a lot of charming little corner restaurants with old-fashioned awnings and Chianti bottle candlesticks and I might not get to all of them, not this week and maybe not ever. Vacation is a good reminder that life is short and you might not have time to do everything you want to do. Or is that just me? That might be just me. 

*****

Wednesday, August 12. Wednesday of beach week is always a turning point. On Sunday, it feels like the week will last forever. All the time in the world, I will think to myself as I try to decide where we'll have dinner and where to ride our bikes and what books to read. On Monday, it feels like the week might even be a little bit too long. It's exhausting dragging all of the beach stuff, along with two little children (my nephew and niece) to and from the beach; and the back and forth about after beach plans and washing the towels vs. letting them hang out to dry seems more like work than work. But then by Tuesday, beach schlepping has become a manageable daily routine. Wednesday is when the near-term nostalgia begins. It was just three days ago when we packed up for the first day on the beach, I will think. Oh, and remember Monday, when we rode down to 96th Street after the beach and then ate pizza for dinner? All of a sudden, it's Thursday and it feels like time is running out, because time actually is running out. 

*****

Thursday, August 13. This morning, I rode my bike around the island, fantasy house shopping while still reassuring myself of my superior moral virtue. I don't need an extravagant sprawling Avalon mansion with dormer windows and multiple decks and awnings and pergolas and exquisite little flower beds bordering neat pebble walkways, I think. Just a nice little million dollar beach cottage would be more than enough. My face, I imagine, radiates with smug, slap-me self-satisfaction as I congratulate myself for not being greedy like the rest of these bitches. 

But I am greedy, as much as and even more than the rest of these bitches. This morning, my nephew asked me if we can come again next summer and stay for two years. That seems about right. I want more bike rides and more browsing visits to twee little beach boutiques and more swimming and wave jumping and more coffee on the deck and more reading and definitely more pizza. Two years might be enough. 

It's foggy on the beach today. The sun still feels warm overhead, though it's barely visible. If not for the beach umbrellas and cabanas and people in colorful swimwear, the whole place, sea and sun and sky, would blend into one canvas of milky pale blue gray framed with pale green dune grass, and lit by the barest glow of pale yellow sun. The lifeguards probably hate days like this. It's hard to see the people in the water. But I love days like this. 

It's Thursday. I don't have two more years. I will have to settle for just barely two more days. 

*****

Friday, August 14. If Wednesday is the turning point and Thursday is the point of no return, then Friday is the last stand. My son and I went bike riding this morning and island traffic was like Manhattan on Christmas Eve. People buzzed about in a frenzy, determined to cram everything into their last day of vacation. One more morning bike ride, one more walk to the bay, one more coffee and muffin, one more poke around the shops, one more day of nothing in particular, but near the ocean. The whole scene had a desperate, time-running-out quality that was simultaneously funny and sad. 

I've been coming here for a long time, and I find something new every time. There's always a new view that I've never seen before, or a section of beach that I haven't visited or some nice flat quiet length of road where I haven't ridden my bike. I bring home new memories with the old ones and they all become part of summer. 

*****

We shopped a bit this morning, because what's a vacation without an ill-advised fashion purchase. I limited myself to a souvenir t-shirt and a simple top and one or two other random items. In one little boutique, I saw a t-shirt printed with the words "A little bit classy, a little bit hood." Why not just wear a shirt that says "Hi, my name is Lauren. I have three kids. Ask me about their travel sports and SAT scores." Snotty, I know. But I also know that if you wear a t-shirt proclaiming yourself as a little bit classy and a little bit hood, then you are neither. 

*****

Saturday, August 15. Saturday morning, and we're in the car, heading home. We wake up at 7 on the  last morning at the beach, which gives us just enough time to pack, clean up trash and recycling, have one last cup of coffee on the deck, take one last ride to the beach and then back to the bay, and vacate by 10. One final drive around the island and the week is over as quickly as it began. 

I think we crammed everything we could into this vacation. Ocean swimming every day, bike riding, ice cream eating, people watching, bay sunsets, souvenir shopping, book reading, walking, shell collecting, and just sitting around. The weather and the water were perfect, and the fear and dread lifted for a few days. Other than face masks (for people and Puppy) and hand sanitizer and social distance, I barely thought about the damn 'rona. It was a good week. 

We never did get a chance to eat at Borghi's, though. Maybe next year. There's always next year.