It's 10 PM Friday, and I'm watching "The Hunger Games" with my son. We have one more summer swim meet tomorrow morning, and then the season is officially over. I'm guess I'm relieved, but I'll miss it.
I was so busy at work today that I didn't even hear about Priebus until I was driving home. We have a President now who has made Sean Spicer, Jeff Sessions, and Reince Priebus all look like sympathetic characters. For a while, I actually felt sorry for Spicer. And now, all of a sudden, Republican lawmakers are having Profiles in Courage moments, warning Trump (via Twitter, of course) not to try to fire Sessions.
It all begs just one question: What did you bitches expect? Did you all think that Trump was going to treat you better than he treated Jeb Bush and Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz and everyone else he bullied and humiliated throughout the campaign? Did you think he was going to be nice to you, just because you're on his side? I give Scaramucci three months. I got your communications, right here.
*****
I'm still reading A Kim Jong-Il Production. Sang Shin-Ok spent several years in a North Korean prison as punishment for his second escape attempt, and it was just as brutal as you'd expect a North Korean prison to be. Because I'm the most fun person in the world, I sometimes imagine my favorite places--the pool, for example; or Avalon, New Jersey, turned into giant battlefields or prison camps. Not, obviously, because that's what I want to happen, but because I'm afraid that it could. Because it has.
We saw "Dunkirk" last night. Brilliant, but not what I expected. Maybe I've been married to a Korean for too long, because all of the young, handsome Englishmen looked the same to me. I liked the three interwoven stories, and Mark Rylance is great as the captain of the tiny Moonstone. But I keep returning to the opening scene, of a soldier running through the almost-too-picturesque streets of Dunkirk. He runs past the seaside hotel and onto the sun-drenched beach, where he finds queues of stranded soldiers, thousands of them, trapped with no food or water and awaiting uncertain rescue amid bombs and machine gun fire raining down from German fighter planes.
All of these places, all of the killing fields and mass graves and secret prisons and re-education camps, all started as something else. They all started as just places, where people lived or vacationed or just drove past every day without much thought, only to see them turn into hell on earth. Good prevailed over evil at Dunkirk, as it will in the end. But evil never stops trying.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Sunday, July 23, 2017
A week minus a day
Monday
So this week will be a test of my determination to post something here at least once a week. I say that every week (well, I think it every week, anyway), but this time, I'm serious.
When I'm overextended, I tend to look for shortcuts, and to rush through things and places and people as fast as I can, so that I can get to the next task. Not the most harmonious approach to life, I know. Sometimes, things go smoothly, and I dodge and weave my way through the grocery store, for example, finding the shortest line, and sailing out of there with no delays.
Other times, I hit roadblocks and obstacles, seething as I wait for slow people to meander their way through wherever I happen to be. Like the grocery store again, where I try not to let my irritation show as the overly friendly, overly solicitous cashier stops to chat with EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the already too-long line, and asks EVERYONE if they found everything they needed, or if they need stamps, or if they want paper or plastic. But by the time I reach the front of the line, all I can think is I'LL BEAT YOU WITH THAT PAPER BAG! I'LL BURN THIS PLACE DOWN WITH THOSE POSTAGE STAMPS, WHICH WILL BE IGNITED BY THE FIRE OF MY RIGHTEOUS FURY!
And then I say "Oh yes, thank you. No, no stamps, thank you. No, I have my own bags. Thank you. Yes, you too! Thanks again!"
Tuesday
In The Screwtape Letters, there's a part where Screwtape writes to Wormwood that his goal should be to make sure that his mortal victims realize, far too late, that they spent most of their time doing neither what they should have done nor what they wanted to do.
This made a deep impression on me. I don't ever set out to waste time, of course, but I give way to panic and indecision, and minutes (or hours) later realize that I just wasted an irretrievable part of my day because I couldn't decide what to do.
But not today. Today was one of those days when I stayed focused from morning to night. Productive at work and productive at home. I finished making dinner at about 8:15. Too late to go swimming, I thought, because the pool closes at 8:45. On the other hand, the pool is right around the corner. But on yet another hand, I'm still in my work clothes. But if I get changed quickly, I can be in the water by 8:25, which means that I can swim for 20 minutes.
There are plenty of days (most days) when the back and forth about this very minor decision would have sent me into a tailspin of panic-fueled indecision, until it was too late to do whatever I was trying to decide to do or not to do. But again, not today. I covered the food with aluminum foil, ran and put on a suit, grabbed a towel, drove to the pool, and was in the water by 8:25. And that short time in the water was like a 20-minute vacation that made the kitchen clean-up that still awaited entirely worth it.
Wednesday
My grandmother, who is in her 90s, used to be a writer of strongly worded letters. Any time she was outraged or offended about something (almost daily), she'd write to newspaper editorial pages, local officials, members of Congress, or anyone else who incurred her displeasure or who should, in her opinion, address whatever issue she was concerned about. She had very nice Catholic school Palmer Method handwriting, and she wrote her letters in longhand, on lined letter paper (the kind you used to be able to buy in tablets at drugstores) at the end of her kitchen table. She had the names and office addresses of the mayor of Philadelphia, the governor of Pennsylvania, her Senators and Representative, and every member of the Philadelphia City Council (they were frequent letter targets) in her leather address book. I don't recall that she ever wrote to the President, but perhaps she did. Or perhaps she just copied him on her letters to her Senators. Her letter-writing efforts were not restricted to politicians and newspaper editors. If a product or a service or an establishment didn't live up to her expectations, those responsible would hear, in letter form, from my grandmother.
I used to do the same thing, only via email. But l just don't have time anymore. As much as I'd like to fight City Hall about, oh, I don't know, speed camera tickets in general, or my 14th speed camera ticket in particular, there are only so many hours in the day.
When I pay the tickets (and I always threaten to go to court, but then I just shut up and pay the $40), I usually take a screen shot of the payment screen, and save it, just in case. I used to just name the file speedcamerapayment and the date. Now, let's just say, I'm a little more expressive. fuckmylifemofospeedcamerabitches_072017.dox is a sample file name. But there's always a silver lining. After all, I've been meaning to get rid of that extra $40 for weeks.
Thursday
I was writing something about something that happened today, and I couldn't sustain enough interest in the story to even finish the first sentence, so I won't inflict it on my reading public. You're welcome.
Friday
Ain't nobody got time to blog today.
Sunday
I worked part-time and/or at home from 2009 to 2016. Of course, the Internet and mobile technology were around in 2009, but I don't remember feeling required to be available for work at all times, just because it was possible to work at all times. Things have changed, though.
I love my job. But it occurred to me yesterday that perhaps I shouldn't feel guilty about joining my son and his friends and their mothers for a post swim meet lunch and buddy gift shopping trip, rather than going immediately home to work. Because yesterday was Saturday. Of course, I paid for it by working until 10 last night.
*****
Hey, that's kind of a lot. I didn't think I'd get more than a sentence or two out of myself this week. None of it makes sense or is relevant to anything, but I don't promise all the news that's fit to print.
So this week will be a test of my determination to post something here at least once a week. I say that every week (well, I think it every week, anyway), but this time, I'm serious.
When I'm overextended, I tend to look for shortcuts, and to rush through things and places and people as fast as I can, so that I can get to the next task. Not the most harmonious approach to life, I know. Sometimes, things go smoothly, and I dodge and weave my way through the grocery store, for example, finding the shortest line, and sailing out of there with no delays.
Other times, I hit roadblocks and obstacles, seething as I wait for slow people to meander their way through wherever I happen to be. Like the grocery store again, where I try not to let my irritation show as the overly friendly, overly solicitous cashier stops to chat with EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the already too-long line, and asks EVERYONE if they found everything they needed, or if they need stamps, or if they want paper or plastic. But by the time I reach the front of the line, all I can think is I'LL BEAT YOU WITH THAT PAPER BAG! I'LL BURN THIS PLACE DOWN WITH THOSE POSTAGE STAMPS, WHICH WILL BE IGNITED BY THE FIRE OF MY RIGHTEOUS FURY!
And then I say "Oh yes, thank you. No, no stamps, thank you. No, I have my own bags. Thank you. Yes, you too! Thanks again!"
Tuesday
In The Screwtape Letters, there's a part where Screwtape writes to Wormwood that his goal should be to make sure that his mortal victims realize, far too late, that they spent most of their time doing neither what they should have done nor what they wanted to do.
This made a deep impression on me. I don't ever set out to waste time, of course, but I give way to panic and indecision, and minutes (or hours) later realize that I just wasted an irretrievable part of my day because I couldn't decide what to do.
But not today. Today was one of those days when I stayed focused from morning to night. Productive at work and productive at home. I finished making dinner at about 8:15. Too late to go swimming, I thought, because the pool closes at 8:45. On the other hand, the pool is right around the corner. But on yet another hand, I'm still in my work clothes. But if I get changed quickly, I can be in the water by 8:25, which means that I can swim for 20 minutes.
There are plenty of days (most days) when the back and forth about this very minor decision would have sent me into a tailspin of panic-fueled indecision, until it was too late to do whatever I was trying to decide to do or not to do. But again, not today. I covered the food with aluminum foil, ran and put on a suit, grabbed a towel, drove to the pool, and was in the water by 8:25. And that short time in the water was like a 20-minute vacation that made the kitchen clean-up that still awaited entirely worth it.
Wednesday
My grandmother, who is in her 90s, used to be a writer of strongly worded letters. Any time she was outraged or offended about something (almost daily), she'd write to newspaper editorial pages, local officials, members of Congress, or anyone else who incurred her displeasure or who should, in her opinion, address whatever issue she was concerned about. She had very nice Catholic school Palmer Method handwriting, and she wrote her letters in longhand, on lined letter paper (the kind you used to be able to buy in tablets at drugstores) at the end of her kitchen table. She had the names and office addresses of the mayor of Philadelphia, the governor of Pennsylvania, her Senators and Representative, and every member of the Philadelphia City Council (they were frequent letter targets) in her leather address book. I don't recall that she ever wrote to the President, but perhaps she did. Or perhaps she just copied him on her letters to her Senators. Her letter-writing efforts were not restricted to politicians and newspaper editors. If a product or a service or an establishment didn't live up to her expectations, those responsible would hear, in letter form, from my grandmother.
I was writing something about something that happened today, and I couldn't sustain enough interest in the story to even finish the first sentence, so I won't inflict it on my reading public. You're welcome.
Friday
Ain't nobody got time to blog today.
Sunday
I worked part-time and/or at home from 2009 to 2016. Of course, the Internet and mobile technology were around in 2009, but I don't remember feeling required to be available for work at all times, just because it was possible to work at all times. Things have changed, though.
I love my job. But it occurred to me yesterday that perhaps I shouldn't feel guilty about joining my son and his friends and their mothers for a post swim meet lunch and buddy gift shopping trip, rather than going immediately home to work. Because yesterday was Saturday. Of course, I paid for it by working until 10 last night.
*****
Hey, that's kind of a lot. I didn't think I'd get more than a sentence or two out of myself this week. None of it makes sense or is relevant to anything, but I don't promise all the news that's fit to print.
Saturday, July 15, 2017
In my day
We have an intern at work (well, we have more interns than you can shake a stick at, if you're a stick shaking person, but that's a story for another day) who just bought a Polaroid camera--an actual Polaroid camera, that spits out ready-to-develop paper photographs. He told us that he carries it everywhere. It's almost the size of a shoebox, and looks like it weighs about five pounds.
*****
I'm familiar with young people's love for old technology. It seems silly to carry around a giant Polaroid camera when you can take far better pictures with even the cheapest 8-ounce smartphone, but Polaroid photography seems like a harmless-enough hobby, so who am I to judge? It keeps them off the street, as they say.
*****
Last year when I was in Boston, I bought a little velcro wallet made from an old museum banner at the MFA gift shop. I loved that wallet. LOVED it. It's starting to come apart, though, and so I have to replace it. It was one of a kind, which means that I have to replace it with something else altogether, since I can't get another just like it.
I found a wallet on Amazon, which for some reason appealed to me even though it's not at all the kind of thing that I normally like, so I ordered it. And I was horrified when it arrived. In the photograph, it looked like a small, brightly patterned cordura nylon wallet with a velcro closure and cute red trim. IRL, it was a huge, bulky, Guatemalan ikat fabric monstrosity with an enormous label and unraveling thread. It looked like something you'd carry your Phish tickets in.
I read an article yesterday, criticizing Amazon for its low prices and easy, so-called free returns, and although I can see the author's point, I do love Amazon. I have no time to shop, and it's quite lovely to have things delivered to me, so that I can either keep or send them back. And now, you can return things (or pick them up) from something called the Amazon Locker, in a neighborhood location.
When I was growing up, my mom used to shop from the Montgomery-Ward catalog, which was the size of a phone book, assuming anyone even knows what a phone book is or was. M-W delivered its giant catalogs twice a year, and they came equipped with order forms that you could remove, complete in pen, and stuff into an envelope with your check or money order. A week or so later, your items would arrive at your door.
Or, you could go to your neighborhood Montgomery-Ward catalog store and pick up your box in person. The catalog store wasn't really a store, because you couldn't actually shop there. It had a counter in front, like a dry cleaner; and in the back, boxes were stored on rows of shelves, organized by last name. You could also return your purchases at the catalog store. So once again, what's old is new.
*****
I thought that I was reasonably well-informed on current events, but I suppose I still have some catching up to do. Because I thought that Donald Jr. was the blond one.
*****
My work commute is only six miles or so, all through neighborhood streets and secondary roads. It's a nice change from my old Beltway commute. There's a little neighborhood in Rockville that I drive through every day, that reminds me of my neighborhood. It's a 1960s-built Life Magazine version of an American suburban neighborhood, with alternating ranch, colonial, and Cape Cod-style houses with neat lawns and mature shade trees.
I like Rockville and Silver Spring, especially the mid-century neighborhoods that aren't quite upscale, but also not quite affluent. These are among the few truly egalitarian communities left in the Washington suburbs, where lawyers and doctors live next door to police officers and nurses, who live next door to hair stylists and electricians. OK, so not exactly the full spectrum of society, but not as polarized as the rest of this city sometimes seems to be.
And that was my social commentary for the week. Now, I'm exhausted.
*****
I have a long-standing aversion to ridiculous street and town names. In fact, if I were to ever inherit my dream house, but it was located in a stupid-name town, or on a ridiculously named street, I'd sell immediately.
I live in Maryland, where there are actually lots of places with beautiful and/or dignified names. Silver Spring, of course is the most beautiful town name, and that happens to be where I live. We also have Camp Springs, Bethesda, Fort Washington, Baltimore, Prince Frederick, Prince George's County, Aberdeen, Rising Sun--anyone would be happy to return address their letters from any of these places.
On the other hand, we also have more than a few towns and streets that have ridiculous or absurdly ugly names. Boonsboro, Scaggsville, Dundalk, Waldorf (it's the "dorf" sound that makes it ridiculous), Accident, Boring, and (no kidding) Crappo are all towns that must be deserted, like Centralia; only not because of raging underground fires, but because the names of those places are so awful that no one would ever want to have such an address printed on their driver's license.
Wait, what was I talking about?
Oh right! Rockville! (Another very serviceable name.) Although I normally have a distinct bias against silly street names, I make an exception for one street name in Rockville, in the little neighborhood that I drive through every day. The street names there are made-up portmanteau words, most of which I can't remember right now, but one that amuses me to no end every time I drive past it: Miltfred Way.
Isn't that the best name? I have no idea who Milt or Fred were (or are--maybe they're still alive), but it does seem quite certain that the street is named after two men named Milt and Fred (or Milton and Frederick, I suppose).
I'm not sure who named the street after them. Maybe they were the developers of the neighborhood, and one day, after a few too many drinks, they decided to name a street after themselves. I picture two middle-aged men in Mad Men-era glasses, wearing golf clothing, and laughing uproariously at the people who would eventually have to tell other people that they just bought a house on Miltfred Way. Or maybe Milt and Fred were the fathers or grandfathers of the people who built the neighborhood, and the street was named as a tribute to them. I have no idea; and I also have no idea why I'm so fond of this name, when I'm normally so particular about street names. Nostalgia maybe--a reminder of a simpler time, when Polaroid cameras were cutting-edge technology, and Montgomery-Ward was still a thing. And no one knew one Trump from another, and we liked it that way.
*****
I'm familiar with young people's love for old technology. It seems silly to carry around a giant Polaroid camera when you can take far better pictures with even the cheapest 8-ounce smartphone, but Polaroid photography seems like a harmless-enough hobby, so who am I to judge? It keeps them off the street, as they say.
*****
Last year when I was in Boston, I bought a little velcro wallet made from an old museum banner at the MFA gift shop. I loved that wallet. LOVED it. It's starting to come apart, though, and so I have to replace it. It was one of a kind, which means that I have to replace it with something else altogether, since I can't get another just like it.
I found a wallet on Amazon, which for some reason appealed to me even though it's not at all the kind of thing that I normally like, so I ordered it. And I was horrified when it arrived. In the photograph, it looked like a small, brightly patterned cordura nylon wallet with a velcro closure and cute red trim. IRL, it was a huge, bulky, Guatemalan ikat fabric monstrosity with an enormous label and unraveling thread. It looked like something you'd carry your Phish tickets in.
I read an article yesterday, criticizing Amazon for its low prices and easy, so-called free returns, and although I can see the author's point, I do love Amazon. I have no time to shop, and it's quite lovely to have things delivered to me, so that I can either keep or send them back. And now, you can return things (or pick them up) from something called the Amazon Locker, in a neighborhood location.
When I was growing up, my mom used to shop from the Montgomery-Ward catalog, which was the size of a phone book, assuming anyone even knows what a phone book is or was. M-W delivered its giant catalogs twice a year, and they came equipped with order forms that you could remove, complete in pen, and stuff into an envelope with your check or money order. A week or so later, your items would arrive at your door.
Or, you could go to your neighborhood Montgomery-Ward catalog store and pick up your box in person. The catalog store wasn't really a store, because you couldn't actually shop there. It had a counter in front, like a dry cleaner; and in the back, boxes were stored on rows of shelves, organized by last name. You could also return your purchases at the catalog store. So once again, what's old is new.
*****
I thought that I was reasonably well-informed on current events, but I suppose I still have some catching up to do. Because I thought that Donald Jr. was the blond one.
*****
My work commute is only six miles or so, all through neighborhood streets and secondary roads. It's a nice change from my old Beltway commute. There's a little neighborhood in Rockville that I drive through every day, that reminds me of my neighborhood. It's a 1960s-built Life Magazine version of an American suburban neighborhood, with alternating ranch, colonial, and Cape Cod-style houses with neat lawns and mature shade trees.
I like Rockville and Silver Spring, especially the mid-century neighborhoods that aren't quite upscale, but also not quite affluent. These are among the few truly egalitarian communities left in the Washington suburbs, where lawyers and doctors live next door to police officers and nurses, who live next door to hair stylists and electricians. OK, so not exactly the full spectrum of society, but not as polarized as the rest of this city sometimes seems to be.
And that was my social commentary for the week. Now, I'm exhausted.
*****
I have a long-standing aversion to ridiculous street and town names. In fact, if I were to ever inherit my dream house, but it was located in a stupid-name town, or on a ridiculously named street, I'd sell immediately.
I live in Maryland, where there are actually lots of places with beautiful and/or dignified names. Silver Spring, of course is the most beautiful town name, and that happens to be where I live. We also have Camp Springs, Bethesda, Fort Washington, Baltimore, Prince Frederick, Prince George's County, Aberdeen, Rising Sun--anyone would be happy to return address their letters from any of these places.
On the other hand, we also have more than a few towns and streets that have ridiculous or absurdly ugly names. Boonsboro, Scaggsville, Dundalk, Waldorf (it's the "dorf" sound that makes it ridiculous), Accident, Boring, and (no kidding) Crappo are all towns that must be deserted, like Centralia; only not because of raging underground fires, but because the names of those places are so awful that no one would ever want to have such an address printed on their driver's license.
Wait, what was I talking about?
Oh right! Rockville! (Another very serviceable name.) Although I normally have a distinct bias against silly street names, I make an exception for one street name in Rockville, in the little neighborhood that I drive through every day. The street names there are made-up portmanteau words, most of which I can't remember right now, but one that amuses me to no end every time I drive past it: Miltfred Way.
Isn't that the best name? I have no idea who Milt or Fred were (or are--maybe they're still alive), but it does seem quite certain that the street is named after two men named Milt and Fred (or Milton and Frederick, I suppose).
I'm not sure who named the street after them. Maybe they were the developers of the neighborhood, and one day, after a few too many drinks, they decided to name a street after themselves. I picture two middle-aged men in Mad Men-era glasses, wearing golf clothing, and laughing uproariously at the people who would eventually have to tell other people that they just bought a house on Miltfred Way. Or maybe Milt and Fred were the fathers or grandfathers of the people who built the neighborhood, and the street was named as a tribute to them. I have no idea; and I also have no idea why I'm so fond of this name, when I'm normally so particular about street names. Nostalgia maybe--a reminder of a simpler time, when Polaroid cameras were cutting-edge technology, and Montgomery-Ward was still a thing. And no one knew one Trump from another, and we liked it that way.
Monday, July 10, 2017
On high, for 30 seconds
Monday: On Friday night, I tried to use the microwave, which is no more than six months old, and nothing happened. No little beep, no lights, no whirring sound as the plate revolves around to ensure even irradiation of your food.
Hmm, I thought. This microwave is no more than six months old. Why isn't it working? Is it a power failure? Obviously not, what with the lights blazing and the air conditioner humming happily along. Maybe a circuit breaker was tripped? No, they were all fine. ("Do you know what you're doing?" my 12-year-old son asked skeptically as I scanned the breaker box.)
I suppose I started with zebras and then proceeded to horses, because the last thing I checked was the plug, which was inserted firmly into the outlet. So there was no reason why it didn't work, but it didn't work. Until, of course, my husband came home, and I told him that it didn't work. He scoffed. "What are you talking about?" he said. "That microwave is no more than six months old. Of course it works." And he pushed a button, and it worked.
I can't tell you how much I hate when that happens. So imagine my glee when I came home from work today, and found the microwave in the box that it came in, on the kitchen floor. I called my husband. He didn't answer, because he's not an idiot. So I texted.
What happened to the microwave?
He texted back:
It's broken. No idea what's wrong with it.
I replied:
Hmmm. That's weird. Did you check to see if it was plugged in?
There's no point to this story whatsoever, except that it's 100% worth whatever it costs to replace that microwave. VINDICATION.
*****
Wednesday: My older son, when he was six or so, really loved everything Star Wars (at 16, he's still a fan). He used to talk about "Star Wars: The Complete Songa." I still like to pronounce "saga" as "songa." I have no idea why I'm thinking about that.
I'm reading Paul Fischer's A Kim Jong-Il Production. It's the true story of how Kim Jong-Il kidnapped South Korea's most famous movie director and his actress wife, and forced them to make movies in North Korea. The book was recommended by a friend; and of course, the irresistible combination of movies and totalitarian Communism makes it that much more compelling. It's gripping, so far.
This morning, I was listening to NPR, and heard a story about efforts to subvert state censors in North Korea. Watching Western movies is punishable by death in North Korea, but people do it anyway, using tiny removable drives that can be swallowed or flushed when the secret police come knocking (why do they even knock, I've always wondered). The point of the story was that North Korea is not quite the hermetically sealed information black hole that we think it is, and that enterprising North Koreans are finding ways to undermine their totalitarian government, even at risk of death.
So it seems that Orwell was only half right. The same technology that makes it possible for the state to monitor every aspect of our lives, 1984-style also allows people to subvert the state, with social-media-convened flash mobs, and revolutionary hashtags.
Maybe that's the end game. Maybe the Internet has ended the possibility of real, permanent, 100% totalitarianism, and it's only a matter of time before North Korea collapses under the weight of thousands of miniature flash drives.
Or maybe the Internet ends instead, when governments good and bad agree that they can't govern their people as long as those people have unfettered access to information, and the means by which to share it. In the "good" countries, the end will come as the result of a massive security breach that empties millions of bank accounts; or maybe when the Russian hackers finally figure out a way to take down the whole power grid. Then the government will cut off access to the Internet for our own good. In the "bad" countries, of course, they'll just shut the whole thing down, because they can.
Without the Internet, they'll have to spy on us the old-fashioned way, with hidden cameras and microphones, recording our every move and conversation. Maybe they'll hide them in microwave ovens.
Hmm, I thought. This microwave is no more than six months old. Why isn't it working? Is it a power failure? Obviously not, what with the lights blazing and the air conditioner humming happily along. Maybe a circuit breaker was tripped? No, they were all fine. ("Do you know what you're doing?" my 12-year-old son asked skeptically as I scanned the breaker box.)
I suppose I started with zebras and then proceeded to horses, because the last thing I checked was the plug, which was inserted firmly into the outlet. So there was no reason why it didn't work, but it didn't work. Until, of course, my husband came home, and I told him that it didn't work. He scoffed. "What are you talking about?" he said. "That microwave is no more than six months old. Of course it works." And he pushed a button, and it worked.
I can't tell you how much I hate when that happens. So imagine my glee when I came home from work today, and found the microwave in the box that it came in, on the kitchen floor. I called my husband. He didn't answer, because he's not an idiot. So I texted.
What happened to the microwave?
He texted back:
It's broken. No idea what's wrong with it.
I replied:
Hmmm. That's weird. Did you check to see if it was plugged in?
There's no point to this story whatsoever, except that it's 100% worth whatever it costs to replace that microwave. VINDICATION.
*****
Wednesday: My older son, when he was six or so, really loved everything Star Wars (at 16, he's still a fan). He used to talk about "Star Wars: The Complete Songa." I still like to pronounce "saga" as "songa." I have no idea why I'm thinking about that.
I'm reading Paul Fischer's A Kim Jong-Il Production. It's the true story of how Kim Jong-Il kidnapped South Korea's most famous movie director and his actress wife, and forced them to make movies in North Korea. The book was recommended by a friend; and of course, the irresistible combination of movies and totalitarian Communism makes it that much more compelling. It's gripping, so far.
This morning, I was listening to NPR, and heard a story about efforts to subvert state censors in North Korea. Watching Western movies is punishable by death in North Korea, but people do it anyway, using tiny removable drives that can be swallowed or flushed when the secret police come knocking (why do they even knock, I've always wondered). The point of the story was that North Korea is not quite the hermetically sealed information black hole that we think it is, and that enterprising North Koreans are finding ways to undermine their totalitarian government, even at risk of death.
So it seems that Orwell was only half right. The same technology that makes it possible for the state to monitor every aspect of our lives, 1984-style also allows people to subvert the state, with social-media-convened flash mobs, and revolutionary hashtags.
Maybe that's the end game. Maybe the Internet has ended the possibility of real, permanent, 100% totalitarianism, and it's only a matter of time before North Korea collapses under the weight of thousands of miniature flash drives.
Or maybe the Internet ends instead, when governments good and bad agree that they can't govern their people as long as those people have unfettered access to information, and the means by which to share it. In the "good" countries, the end will come as the result of a massive security breach that empties millions of bank accounts; or maybe when the Russian hackers finally figure out a way to take down the whole power grid. Then the government will cut off access to the Internet for our own good. In the "bad" countries, of course, they'll just shut the whole thing down, because they can.
Without the Internet, they'll have to spy on us the old-fashioned way, with hidden cameras and microphones, recording our every move and conversation. Maybe they'll hide them in microwave ovens.
Sunday, July 2, 2017
Plagues and pestilence
When my sons were very young, they always got sick in June. Every year, from about age 2 to age 9 or 10, they'd be felled by dreadful stomach viruses, or bacterial infections--usually strep. Then, we enjoyed a few sickness-free summers. But the plague has returned. Both boys have raging strep infections, and the house feels like a MASH unit. There are blankets and pillows and half-empty (and not half-full) glasses of water everywhere, and no one other than me has enough energy to move off the couch. Thank goodness for antibiotics. They'll be back to normal in no time.
*****
This is an unusually demanding and un-summer-like summer, and every week, I think that I won't bother with posting anything, because what do I have to say? But I feel strangely compelled to write about nothing in particular, with occasional veiled (well, maybe not that veiled--I think the filter is gone) references to crippling anxiety and panic attacks. There are no antibiotics for this, but it comes and goes. I'll also be back to normal in no time.
*****
It's Friday now. At 6:45 this morning, I was sitting on my couch watching "Morning Joe." I watch "MJ" almost every morning, but by "watch," I mean that it's on in the background while I get ready for work. Today, though, I actually sat and watched to see how Joe and Mika would respond to Trump's Twitter attack on Mika.
I thought that I had finally reached a point at which I just couldn't take Donald Trump seriously enough anymore to maintain an appropriate level of outrage. But as it turns out, I have outrage to spare about the fact that this vile and contemptible little man who is entirely lacking in dignity, decency, and self control; and who is unfit to hold any public office at any level, is the President of the United States.
But maybe I'm wrong about self-control. It's 9:30 PM now, and I'm watching Rachel Maddow (OMG, what am I doing with my life?) and she makes the very convincing and compelling argument that the Trump tweets and comments that seem most undisciplined because of their shocking lack of courtesy are the most carefully and thoughtfully written and delivered, because the Twitter storms are all part of a vast bread and circus plan to keep people distracted--maybe entertained or maybe outraged, but distracted from what really matters, which is this administration's determination to dismantle the so-called "administrative state," and establish a Putin-style plutocracy.
Wait, how did I even get started on that?
I don't really like to write about politics, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. I don't really have the time or inclination to do the research and study necessary to really do it well; and besides, what can I say that hasn't been said a million times already. I'm much better just writing inconsequential nonsense about daily ephemera.
The problem is that I can't stop worrying that all of the daily, routine, ordinary things that interest me most will all disappear soon. But I might be overreacting. I tend to do that. How much damage can one man do in just 3 1/2 more years? Things will be back to normal in next to no time.
*****
This is an unusually demanding and un-summer-like summer, and every week, I think that I won't bother with posting anything, because what do I have to say? But I feel strangely compelled to write about nothing in particular, with occasional veiled (well, maybe not that veiled--I think the filter is gone) references to crippling anxiety and panic attacks. There are no antibiotics for this, but it comes and goes. I'll also be back to normal in no time.
*****
It's Friday now. At 6:45 this morning, I was sitting on my couch watching "Morning Joe." I watch "MJ" almost every morning, but by "watch," I mean that it's on in the background while I get ready for work. Today, though, I actually sat and watched to see how Joe and Mika would respond to Trump's Twitter attack on Mika.
I thought that I had finally reached a point at which I just couldn't take Donald Trump seriously enough anymore to maintain an appropriate level of outrage. But as it turns out, I have outrage to spare about the fact that this vile and contemptible little man who is entirely lacking in dignity, decency, and self control; and who is unfit to hold any public office at any level, is the President of the United States.
But maybe I'm wrong about self-control. It's 9:30 PM now, and I'm watching Rachel Maddow (OMG, what am I doing with my life?) and she makes the very convincing and compelling argument that the Trump tweets and comments that seem most undisciplined because of their shocking lack of courtesy are the most carefully and thoughtfully written and delivered, because the Twitter storms are all part of a vast bread and circus plan to keep people distracted--maybe entertained or maybe outraged, but distracted from what really matters, which is this administration's determination to dismantle the so-called "administrative state," and establish a Putin-style plutocracy.
Wait, how did I even get started on that?
I don't really like to write about politics, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. I don't really have the time or inclination to do the research and study necessary to really do it well; and besides, what can I say that hasn't been said a million times already. I'm much better just writing inconsequential nonsense about daily ephemera.
The problem is that I can't stop worrying that all of the daily, routine, ordinary things that interest me most will all disappear soon. But I might be overreacting. I tend to do that. How much damage can one man do in just 3 1/2 more years? Things will be back to normal in next to no time.
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Nouvelle cuisine
I wasn't going to write anything this week, because I don't have time (I should have a macro that will type that phrase), but here I am.
*****
I love when I have a plan for dinner. Even if I have to cook, I don't mind, as long as I know what I'm going to cook. If I had someone to tell me what to make every day, and to write down exactly the ingredients that I need, then I'd be perfectly happy to cook. And if they delivered the ingredients, too, that would be even better. And then after they delivered the ingredients, if they also did the washing, peeling, chopping, and general prep work, that would be even better. And then, after I cooked the perfectly seasoned, neatly prepped dinner, they also cleaned up...well, never mind.
I love when I have a plan for dinner. Even if I have to cook, I don't mind, as long as I know what I'm going to cook. If I had someone to tell me what to make every day, and to write down exactly the ingredients that I need, then I'd be perfectly happy to cook. And if they delivered the ingredients, too, that would be even better. And then after they delivered the ingredients, if they also did the washing, peeling, chopping, and general prep work, that would be even better. And then, after I cooked the perfectly seasoned, neatly prepped dinner, they also cleaned up...well, never mind.
But anyway, I love when I have a plan; for anything, really, but especially dinner. And I love when the plan, as it were, comes together. On the other hand, I hate when I take the chicken, which is part of the plan, out of the oven, and turn it over to season it, and dump cinnamon rather than garlic powder all over it, and then have to wash it (wash it!) before returning it to the oven. Cinnamon and chicken-washing: NOT part of any plan, ever.
*****
And so that's what's happening right now. Things that are not part of any plan, like leaving my phone at the store and then having to go back to get it, and near misses on the road, and losing things and forgetting things, and cinnamon-seasoned chicken--and massive panic attacks, of course--keep happening, and throwing the plans into a tailspin.
So what am I doing about this? Nothing, of course, except writing barely coherent nonsense on this blog. I'm thinking that I'll ignore it, and it will all fix itself. This approach always works so well that I'll just stay with it. What could go wrong?
*****
I really did wash the chicken; and then re-seasoned it with olive oil, kosher salt, pepper, garlic powder, basil, and oregano. Ten minutes later, we sat down to eat. "This chicken is really good," my son said, looking thoughtful. "It has kind of a sweet taste. I can't tell what it is." I feigned ignorance. The chicken was delicious.
I really did wash the chicken; and then re-seasoned it with olive oil, kosher salt, pepper, garlic powder, basil, and oregano. Ten minutes later, we sat down to eat. "This chicken is really good," my son said, looking thoughtful. "It has kind of a sweet taste. I can't tell what it is." I feigned ignorance. The chicken was delicious.
Sunday, June 18, 2017
I used to live in Africa, with all the little birdies and the monkeys
Monday: Last November, the Washington Capitals had a fun promotion for Election Day. Fans in attendance at the November 8 game against San Jose could vote for their favorite bobblehead candidate: The choices were Braden Holtby, Justin Williams, and Tom Wilson. Holtby, of course, won in a landslide. And then the Capitals lost to San Jose, and we listened to the election returns in the car on the way home, knowing that we'd be waking up on Wednesday morning to the grim reality of President-Elect Trump.
And now, for the second year in a row, I wake up on a beautiful June morning to the grim reality of the Pittsburgh Penguins as Stanley Cup Champions. I know that one of these scenarios is far worse than the other; it's just hard to decide which one.
*****
Tuesday: After weeks of ridiculous cold, it's finally hot, and I got to swim after work.
There's nothing better than swimming outdoors, on a beautiful warm evening, when the water is not cold, but not yet warm. There's a moment of shock when your body hits the slightly-too-cool water, and then you're just free and happy for 15 minutes, or however long you're in the water. I swim in the winter, too, which is nice in its own way, but I love to swim outside, and see the water sparkling in the sun.
*****
Thursday: I'm finished with everything that I need to do today, at only 8:30 PM. So unusual. I think I'll watch Rachel at 9. I'm almost finished with the Zelmanyaners, and it's time to figure out what to read next.
I have lots of friends who are stay-at-home mothers, or teachers, or who work odd, part-time hours. I think they feel sorry for me because I work so much. But I don't feel sorry for me. Summer is so brief and hard to pin down, but a few minutes of summer perfection every day can be almost as good as hours of languor. It's more precious for being rare. Or something like that. I'm no good at poetry.
*****
I have kind of a regimented approach to daily life, and I used to feel bad about that; like maybe I should try to relax a bit, and just allow things to happen without trying to control everything. That sounds like advice to me, from someone who has never met me. I'm no more capable of going with the proverbial flow than ceasing to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide. (Wait, that's what we do, right? We breathe in the oxygen, and then breathe out the CO2? Science is another thing that I'm not very good at.)
For example, I get up much earlier in the morning than I really need to, because I cannot function in a messy or dirty house, and so I clean in the morning, because I never know if I'll have time at night. I make rules and lists for myself, and I stick to them, sometimes to a ridiculous extreme. Control helps me to manage the panic and anxiety a little bit. This morning, for example, I woke up at 4:05, in all-out panic mode. And then I remembered that my list was under control, and that I hadn't forgotten to do anything, and I fell back asleep for more than an hour.
I don't even know what the point of all that was. But I don't pretend to be coherent 100% of the time.
*****
Sunday: I try to be kind to people, but sometimes I am not a very nice person. That's all I have to say about that. Except that I spent lots of time and mental energy today trying to justify and excuse and minimize something that I said yesterday, and even though lots of people wouldn't think that what I said was so terrible in the first place, I know better.
And now, I'm an even worse person, because apparently, I'm morally superior to other people because I know that I said something mean, and yet I said it anyway, so really, who are these "lots of people?" They're me, and I'm the worst of them.
Again, not coherent, but I don't have time to copy edit myself today. Next week, I'm going to write "shut up" on my to-do list. If it's on the list, then I have to do it, as you know, and so maybe a to-do list entry will remind me that not all of my jokes are funny, and not all of my stories are pithy and hilarious, and not every thought that pops into my head is worthy of verbal expression. I'm an idiot. But I guess we all are, and this is strangely reassuring.
*****
Tuesday: After weeks of ridiculous cold, it's finally hot, and I got to swim after work.
There's nothing better than swimming outdoors, on a beautiful warm evening, when the water is not cold, but not yet warm. There's a moment of shock when your body hits the slightly-too-cool water, and then you're just free and happy for 15 minutes, or however long you're in the water. I swim in the winter, too, which is nice in its own way, but I love to swim outside, and see the water sparkling in the sun.
*****
Thursday: I'm finished with everything that I need to do today, at only 8:30 PM. So unusual. I think I'll watch Rachel at 9. I'm almost finished with the Zelmanyaners, and it's time to figure out what to read next.
I have lots of friends who are stay-at-home mothers, or teachers, or who work odd, part-time hours. I think they feel sorry for me because I work so much. But I don't feel sorry for me. Summer is so brief and hard to pin down, but a few minutes of summer perfection every day can be almost as good as hours of languor. It's more precious for being rare. Or something like that. I'm no good at poetry.
*****
I have kind of a regimented approach to daily life, and I used to feel bad about that; like maybe I should try to relax a bit, and just allow things to happen without trying to control everything. That sounds like advice to me, from someone who has never met me. I'm no more capable of going with the proverbial flow than ceasing to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide. (Wait, that's what we do, right? We breathe in the oxygen, and then breathe out the CO2? Science is another thing that I'm not very good at.)
For example, I get up much earlier in the morning than I really need to, because I cannot function in a messy or dirty house, and so I clean in the morning, because I never know if I'll have time at night. I make rules and lists for myself, and I stick to them, sometimes to a ridiculous extreme. Control helps me to manage the panic and anxiety a little bit. This morning, for example, I woke up at 4:05, in all-out panic mode. And then I remembered that my list was under control, and that I hadn't forgotten to do anything, and I fell back asleep for more than an hour.
I don't even know what the point of all that was. But I don't pretend to be coherent 100% of the time.
*****
Sunday: I try to be kind to people, but sometimes I am not a very nice person. That's all I have to say about that. Except that I spent lots of time and mental energy today trying to justify and excuse and minimize something that I said yesterday, and even though lots of people wouldn't think that what I said was so terrible in the first place, I know better.
And now, I'm an even worse person, because apparently, I'm morally superior to other people because I know that I said something mean, and yet I said it anyway, so really, who are these "lots of people?" They're me, and I'm the worst of them.
Again, not coherent, but I don't have time to copy edit myself today. Next week, I'm going to write "shut up" on my to-do list. If it's on the list, then I have to do it, as you know, and so maybe a to-do list entry will remind me that not all of my jokes are funny, and not all of my stories are pithy and hilarious, and not every thought that pops into my head is worthy of verbal expression. I'm an idiot. But I guess we all are, and this is strangely reassuring.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Six days
Monday: I just met the last of a series of deadlines (including a deadline for a newsletter article for my neighborhood newsletter, which if I'm being honest, doesn't really count because I sent my article in several days late, but I think that the newsletter editor has a special deadline just for me, because in 10 years, I've never once been on time) and it's nice to have a figurative minute to breathe. I left work at 5:30 tonight. It won't last, and honestly, that's OK with me. I like to be busy, and I work better under pressure. Or rather, I produce better work--I'm not sure if that's the same as working better.
My son, who is almost 16 now, got his hair cut today. It's very short on the sides and in the back, and kind of poufy on the top. He has the kind of hair that grows up and out, not down. I'd rather a less extreme cut, but it does look cool, and he's happy with it. So that's fine. What's not fine is that his brother, who is not yet 13, now wants the same haircut. My younger son still looks like a little boy, and I would like for him to continue looking like a little boy. He, of course, would like to stop looking like a little boy, and as quickly as possible. It's his hair, I guess.
*****
Tuesday: Disregard the first paragraph of Monday's entry.
Meanwhile, since we are (or were) on the subject of hair, you should know that I am one of those women who has no idea what to do with her hair. You've seen us, I'm sure. There's always a headband, or a ponytail holder, or a clip somewhere, and our hair grows out for months, while we postpone hair appointments, or avoid making them altogether, because refer to the first sentence of this paragraph--we have no idea what do do with our hair.
I'm dispensing with the royal "we" now. It's not we, but rather me, or rather I. I have no idea what to do with my hair. It has already become a problem, and it'll soon be an altogether unmanageable problem. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Or rather, I will.
*****
Wednesday: What is worse than making a deadline, and then waking up the next morning to find that major revisions are requested, and that your new deadline is tomorrow? Plenty of things, of course, when you consider life and the world as a whole; but within the more narrow realm of technical writing for a Federal government contractor, this would have to rank among the worst things ever. Super fun day.
*****
Thursday: I suppose this isn't true 100% of the time; but generally, if someone asks you if you can "see your way clear" to doing or not doing something, you can probably assume that the act or omission is illegal or immoral or unethical or all three.
*****
Saturday: There's a silver lining for almost everything. Panic-induced insomnia, for example, though no fun at all, does tend to keep a person on her toes. Just today, I officiated at a swim meet, started and finished a particularly odious work task, started (but didn't quite finish) a weekly team newsletter, grocery shopped, did laundry, cooked dinner, and went swimming. I'm very productive.
*****
Sunday: My husband asked me to pick up his prescription, and I'm sad to say that I'm now the person who sees an old lady shuffling toward the pharmacy desk at Rite-Aid, and practically breaks into a run to beat her there. Because there are three places where you don't want to be behind the old lady in line:
1. The deli counter at Giant (OMG)
2. Any pharmacy, anywhere in the world
3. The confession line at St. Patrick's RC Church, on any Saturday afternoon
I speak from bitter experience. Sorrynotsorry as they say on the Internet.
Meanwhile, the productivity streak continues, and I even finished the swim team newsletter. I'm an unstoppable force. If I figure out what to do with my hair, I'll probably run for Congress.
My son, who is almost 16 now, got his hair cut today. It's very short on the sides and in the back, and kind of poufy on the top. He has the kind of hair that grows up and out, not down. I'd rather a less extreme cut, but it does look cool, and he's happy with it. So that's fine. What's not fine is that his brother, who is not yet 13, now wants the same haircut. My younger son still looks like a little boy, and I would like for him to continue looking like a little boy. He, of course, would like to stop looking like a little boy, and as quickly as possible. It's his hair, I guess.
*****
Tuesday: Disregard the first paragraph of Monday's entry.
Meanwhile, since we are (or were) on the subject of hair, you should know that I am one of those women who has no idea what to do with her hair. You've seen us, I'm sure. There's always a headband, or a ponytail holder, or a clip somewhere, and our hair grows out for months, while we postpone hair appointments, or avoid making them altogether, because refer to the first sentence of this paragraph--we have no idea what do do with our hair.
I'm dispensing with the royal "we" now. It's not we, but rather me, or rather I. I have no idea what to do with my hair. It has already become a problem, and it'll soon be an altogether unmanageable problem. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Or rather, I will.
*****
Wednesday: What is worse than making a deadline, and then waking up the next morning to find that major revisions are requested, and that your new deadline is tomorrow? Plenty of things, of course, when you consider life and the world as a whole; but within the more narrow realm of technical writing for a Federal government contractor, this would have to rank among the worst things ever. Super fun day.
*****
Thursday: I suppose this isn't true 100% of the time; but generally, if someone asks you if you can "see your way clear" to doing or not doing something, you can probably assume that the act or omission is illegal or immoral or unethical or all three.
*****
Saturday: There's a silver lining for almost everything. Panic-induced insomnia, for example, though no fun at all, does tend to keep a person on her toes. Just today, I officiated at a swim meet, started and finished a particularly odious work task, started (but didn't quite finish) a weekly team newsletter, grocery shopped, did laundry, cooked dinner, and went swimming. I'm very productive.
*****
Sunday: My husband asked me to pick up his prescription, and I'm sad to say that I'm now the person who sees an old lady shuffling toward the pharmacy desk at Rite-Aid, and practically breaks into a run to beat her there. Because there are three places where you don't want to be behind the old lady in line:
1. The deli counter at Giant (OMG)
2. Any pharmacy, anywhere in the world
3. The confession line at St. Patrick's RC Church, on any Saturday afternoon
I speak from bitter experience. Sorrynotsorry as they say on the Internet.
Meanwhile, the productivity streak continues, and I even finished the swim team newsletter. I'm an unstoppable force. If I figure out what to do with my hair, I'll probably run for Congress.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
The Ryan Lochte rule
I had something that I wanted to say about The Zelmenyaners, but I can't remember what it was. I can confirm, however, that it's the funniest Yiddish novel about Soviet central planning that I have ever read. I'm reading it in English, of course, so maybe it's even funnier in the original. Anyway, I'm halfway through it. I used to read books at a much faster rate, but a person can only read so many pages in 10 to 15 minutes a day.
The Zelmenyaners is nothing like The Cazalet Chronicles, and of course, I didn't expect it to be. I don't feel like I know the Zelmenyaners like I knew the Cazalets. Elizabeth Jane Howard was writing about her own family, so there's an intimate, knowing quality that makes the reader feel very well acquainted with the characters. After a few days with the Zelmenyaners, I still don't know one Zelmenyaner from the other. But The Zelmenyaners has a poetic and whimsical quality that's rather lovely, even in translation. There's a character who is described as refusing to come out of the house, having been insulted as a child (this is a paraphrase, because Kindle won't let me search the passage). I find this charming, and very truthful. Most days, of course, I'm not inclined to refuse to leave the house because of remembered childhood insults. But I do remember.
I probably won't re-read The Zelmenyaners. But I'm glad that I read it once.
*****
It's 7:30 PM on Saturday. I went to the pool today, and chatted with friends, and read for a bit, and then I tried to swim. I really love to swim, and I don't mind chilly water. I do, however, object to iceberg-plowing-into-the-Titanic freezing cold, and I didn't get any farther in than my ankles. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not.
*****
Summer swim season just started. This is our 11th year of summer swim team, so we are seasoned swim team parents. I just renewed my refereeing certification. Apparently, there's a relatively new thing called the Ryan Lochte Rule, which I learned about on Thursday night.
And now begins weeks of Friday night pasta parties, and Saturday morning meets, and writing weekly email updates, and standing on the deck with a clipboard and then being amazed at the end of July when it's all over again. I love summer.
*****
That was going to be all, because I just didn't know what else to write about, even though I've been writing in my head all day. I'm extremely prolific, in my imagination. It's about 10:45 now. I picked up my son from work at 8 and heard about the London attack on the radio, and I've been avoiding the TV until now.
I'm so tired of these cowardly barbarians, trying to drag the rest of us back into the stone age by brute force. Social media will probably be awash in the Union Jack by tomorrow, and my Trump supporter friends and family will say "See? Now do you understand?" as if my failure to vote for a corrupt and ignorant vulgarian is somehow to blame for this most recent of many outrages. And Trump was super-tough on terrorism when he visited Saudi Arabia, right? King Salman is probably still trying to wash the lip prints off his rear end.
And when it happens here again, which it will, we won't really know if it's real or staged. And it won't matter, for our purposes, because either way, the boom will be lowered. Martial law will be declared, and habeas corpus will be suspended, and the press will be restricted or silenced altogether, and lots of people will thank the administration for keeping us all safe.
OK, that took a turn. It's probably time to turn off MSNBC.
*****
It's Sunday morning now. It's beautiful and sunny and warm, and this little boy and his baby sister are coming over to go swimming later. The barbarians might be at the gate, but they're not coming in, at least not today. I have a swim team newsletter to write.
*****
I did finally go swimming today. It was freezing when I got in, but then I got used to it, and it was still unbearable.
The Zelmenyaners is nothing like The Cazalet Chronicles, and of course, I didn't expect it to be. I don't feel like I know the Zelmenyaners like I knew the Cazalets. Elizabeth Jane Howard was writing about her own family, so there's an intimate, knowing quality that makes the reader feel very well acquainted with the characters. After a few days with the Zelmenyaners, I still don't know one Zelmenyaner from the other. But The Zelmenyaners has a poetic and whimsical quality that's rather lovely, even in translation. There's a character who is described as refusing to come out of the house, having been insulted as a child (this is a paraphrase, because Kindle won't let me search the passage). I find this charming, and very truthful. Most days, of course, I'm not inclined to refuse to leave the house because of remembered childhood insults. But I do remember.
I probably won't re-read The Zelmenyaners. But I'm glad that I read it once.
*****
It's 7:30 PM on Saturday. I went to the pool today, and chatted with friends, and read for a bit, and then I tried to swim. I really love to swim, and I don't mind chilly water. I do, however, object to iceberg-plowing-into-the-Titanic freezing cold, and I didn't get any farther in than my ankles. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not.
*****
Summer swim season just started. This is our 11th year of summer swim team, so we are seasoned swim team parents. I just renewed my refereeing certification. Apparently, there's a relatively new thing called the Ryan Lochte Rule, which I learned about on Thursday night.
And now begins weeks of Friday night pasta parties, and Saturday morning meets, and writing weekly email updates, and standing on the deck with a clipboard and then being amazed at the end of July when it's all over again. I love summer.
*****
That was going to be all, because I just didn't know what else to write about, even though I've been writing in my head all day. I'm extremely prolific, in my imagination. It's about 10:45 now. I picked up my son from work at 8 and heard about the London attack on the radio, and I've been avoiding the TV until now.
I'm so tired of these cowardly barbarians, trying to drag the rest of us back into the stone age by brute force. Social media will probably be awash in the Union Jack by tomorrow, and my Trump supporter friends and family will say "See? Now do you understand?" as if my failure to vote for a corrupt and ignorant vulgarian is somehow to blame for this most recent of many outrages. And Trump was super-tough on terrorism when he visited Saudi Arabia, right? King Salman is probably still trying to wash the lip prints off his rear end.
And when it happens here again, which it will, we won't really know if it's real or staged. And it won't matter, for our purposes, because either way, the boom will be lowered. Martial law will be declared, and habeas corpus will be suspended, and the press will be restricted or silenced altogether, and lots of people will thank the administration for keeping us all safe.
OK, that took a turn. It's probably time to turn off MSNBC.
*****
It's Sunday morning now. It's beautiful and sunny and warm, and this little boy and his baby sister are coming over to go swimming later. The barbarians might be at the gate, but they're not coming in, at least not today. I have a swim team newsletter to write.
*****
I did finally go swimming today. It was freezing when I got in, but then I got used to it, and it was still unbearable.
Thursday, May 25, 2017
A plague on your house
Monday: Once I start reading a book, I usually make myself finish reading it. Well, that used to be true. I'm now abandoning a book less than halfway through, for the third time this year. I was reading Shana Alexander's Happy Days, and had every intention of finishing it, until I found myself pages and pages into an exhaustive exegesis of the history of Tin Pan Alley, from George M. Cohan to Irving Berlin to the Gershwins, complete with song lyrics, contract terms, and a side foray into the founding of ASCAP. (Well, that part was interesting.) I mean, am I writing a thesis? Why do I need to know the price of sheet music in 1924?
And so now, apparently, I'm a bibliographic Shark Tank. Authors have no more than 100 pages (maybe 50, if you're trying my patience with royalty schemes for hundred-year-old popular songs) to convince me to keep reading until the end. I've never actually seen the show, so I don't know what the hosts actually say to candidates who don't make the cut, but whatever it is, consider it said to Shana Alexander.
So with Shana Alexander fired or banished or whatever the Shark Tank equivalent is, I just started reading The Zelmenyaners, which according to Rokhl Kafrissen's Jewish Book Council review, is "the funniest Yiddish novel about Soviet central planning you'll read this year."
I know, right? I read novels about Soviet central planning all the time, and they're not usually that funny.
I think I'm still missing the Cazalets, so I guess I needed another saga about a family with an unusual last name that includes a Z. The Cazalets and the Zelmenyaners both live in turbulent times, but of course I'd rather be in London during the Blitz than Minsk (or anywhere else in the Soviet Union) in the late 1920s and early 1930s. I'm only a few pages in, but I'm going to guess that the humor is of the gallows variety. I'll report back later.
*****
Tuesday: It used to be, in the good old days, that baseball games were cancelled in the event of rain. That is, except during seasons when there are more rainouts than games, and the league is desperate to cram in as many games as possible before the season ends and the playoffs begin. And that's why I just spent two hours standing in the cold rain, cheering on a bunch of dispirited, mud-stained, bedraggled 12-year-old boys who weren't any happier to be there than I was. And it's going to rain again tomorrow. Maryland three days before Memorial Day weekend, and it's like monsoon season in the Ganges Delta. What in the actual hell, as they say in high school.
*****
Wednesday: Today, I looked up the word "website," because I needed to reassure myself that the one-word spelling still prevails in most accepted style guides. I was right, and it does. Then, I had to look up the title of a journal article on drug policy, because I suspected that it had been listed incorrectly in a resume that I was readying for a proposal. I was right about that, too--a word was missing. But that, as they say, is not the weird part. The weird part came when I clicked on Google search again, and was offered "websites to buy drugs" as a search option, before I even started to type. This was at work, naturally, so our IT department probably thinks that I'm trying to score illegal painkillers on the Internet.
"Hitman," for your information, is one word. So no need to Google it. Because you don't want Google to go and helpfully search "How to recruit an assassin," or "Murder for hire, cheap" the next time you want to look up movie times.
I mean, really
*****
Thursday: This weather is cordially invited to suck it.
*****
Friday: I have so much to do this weekend that I can't keep it all straight in my brain, which isn't too sharp under the best of circumstances. Exhibit A, for example: I have too much to do, and yet here I am, blogging about nothing. Is that what a smart person does? Maybe not. Maybe not.
But it's still Memorial Day Weekend, which means that it's summer, which means that all is well. I have no problems that summer can't solve.
*****
Saturday: I inadvertently published this mess last night, and a bunch of people appear to have read it. So I apologize. I feel like a chef who just fed his customers a plate full of undercooked chicken.
*****
When I was 9 or 10, I saw a movie--I can't remember its title, nor most of its plot, but I do remember that it was about a pioneer family who endured epic, cinematic hardships as they sought to establish a homestead in the wilds of the 19th century American west. Although I don't remember much about this movie, one particularly horrifying scene is burned into my consciousness, probably forever at this point. The heroine, dressed in what a 1970s movie producer thought that a pioneer woman would have worn (gingham, pinafore, bonnet, lace-up boots), heard a strange buzzing, humming sound, which grew louder and louder until, overcome with curiosity, she stepped outside the log cabin onto the barren sun-baked dusty prairie, where (OMG, it's too much to think about) she was suddenly swarmed by cicadas, which swirled around her, landing on her by the hundreds, as she clung to her bonnet, shrieking.
I'm going to go have a drink.
OK, I'm fine now. I didn't really have a drink, because it's 8 in the morning, but I can't overemphasize the effect that this scene had on my growing and impressionable 10-year-old mind. So my windows are open now, despite the light rain (and the rain! How is it possible that there's any rain even left?) and the cicadas are louder than Metallica, and what with 40 days and 40 nights of near-nonstop rain and an actual, legitimate plague of fucking locusts, I feel like I live in the Old Testament.
But it's still OK. Because it's SUMMER!
*****
Actual Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend conversations.
12YO: OK. I think I'm ready. I have my hat, my towel, my suit, extra shirt, goggles, and wallet.
Me: Put that towel back in the bathroom, and get a beach towel.
12YO: OK. I just like this one because I can roll it up really really small. By the way, I have $28 in my wallet. Is that enough for the snack bar, do you think?
Me: ---
15YO: I have to work at 3. Is it going to be sunny? Do I need my sunglasses?
Me: I don't know, but just bring them anyway. It can't hurt to have them.
15YO: OK. Do you have a whistle? I can't find my whistle.
(I actually have two whistles, for swim meet refereeing purposes.)
Me: Yes. Here you go.
15YO: What size is the cork in this?
Me: What? I have no idea.
15YO: See, the ones that have the bigger corks have a better sound, and you don't have to blow as hard. I'm going to go outside and test this.
Me: ---
Apparently, the whistle passed the test. I'm not sure, meanwhile, how a person is supposed to determine the size of the cork in a whistle. I'm not going to find out, either.
*****
Sunday: I suppose I wouldn't normally mind spending a large chunk of the weekend fighting with a giant, unwieldy Word document with multiple authors. Except when the Word document appears to be very close to winning.
Meanwhile, this mess is about as cooked as it's going to be and no one should be in any immediate danger of salmonella, so now I'm going to hit publish for real. Happy Memorial Day, and bon appetit.
So with Shana Alexander fired or banished or whatever the Shark Tank equivalent is, I just started reading The Zelmenyaners, which according to Rokhl Kafrissen's Jewish Book Council review, is "the funniest Yiddish novel about Soviet central planning you'll read this year."
I know, right? I read novels about Soviet central planning all the time, and they're not usually that funny.
I think I'm still missing the Cazalets, so I guess I needed another saga about a family with an unusual last name that includes a Z. The Cazalets and the Zelmenyaners both live in turbulent times, but of course I'd rather be in London during the Blitz than Minsk (or anywhere else in the Soviet Union) in the late 1920s and early 1930s. I'm only a few pages in, but I'm going to guess that the humor is of the gallows variety. I'll report back later.
*****
Tuesday: It used to be, in the good old days, that baseball games were cancelled in the event of rain. That is, except during seasons when there are more rainouts than games, and the league is desperate to cram in as many games as possible before the season ends and the playoffs begin. And that's why I just spent two hours standing in the cold rain, cheering on a bunch of dispirited, mud-stained, bedraggled 12-year-old boys who weren't any happier to be there than I was. And it's going to rain again tomorrow. Maryland three days before Memorial Day weekend, and it's like monsoon season in the Ganges Delta. What in the actual hell, as they say in high school.
*****
Wednesday: Today, I looked up the word "website," because I needed to reassure myself that the one-word spelling still prevails in most accepted style guides. I was right, and it does. Then, I had to look up the title of a journal article on drug policy, because I suspected that it had been listed incorrectly in a resume that I was readying for a proposal. I was right about that, too--a word was missing. But that, as they say, is not the weird part. The weird part came when I clicked on Google search again, and was offered "websites to buy drugs" as a search option, before I even started to type. This was at work, naturally, so our IT department probably thinks that I'm trying to score illegal painkillers on the Internet.
"Hitman," for your information, is one word. So no need to Google it. Because you don't want Google to go and helpfully search "How to recruit an assassin," or "Murder for hire, cheap" the next time you want to look up movie times.
I mean, really
*****
Thursday: This weather is cordially invited to suck it.
*****
Friday: I have so much to do this weekend that I can't keep it all straight in my brain, which isn't too sharp under the best of circumstances. Exhibit A, for example: I have too much to do, and yet here I am, blogging about nothing. Is that what a smart person does? Maybe not. Maybe not.
But it's still Memorial Day Weekend, which means that it's summer, which means that all is well. I have no problems that summer can't solve.
*****
Saturday: I inadvertently published this mess last night, and a bunch of people appear to have read it. So I apologize. I feel like a chef who just fed his customers a plate full of undercooked chicken.
*****
When I was 9 or 10, I saw a movie--I can't remember its title, nor most of its plot, but I do remember that it was about a pioneer family who endured epic, cinematic hardships as they sought to establish a homestead in the wilds of the 19th century American west. Although I don't remember much about this movie, one particularly horrifying scene is burned into my consciousness, probably forever at this point. The heroine, dressed in what a 1970s movie producer thought that a pioneer woman would have worn (gingham, pinafore, bonnet, lace-up boots), heard a strange buzzing, humming sound, which grew louder and louder until, overcome with curiosity, she stepped outside the log cabin onto the barren sun-baked dusty prairie, where (OMG, it's too much to think about) she was suddenly swarmed by cicadas, which swirled around her, landing on her by the hundreds, as she clung to her bonnet, shrieking.
I'm going to go have a drink.
OK, I'm fine now. I didn't really have a drink, because it's 8 in the morning, but I can't overemphasize the effect that this scene had on my growing and impressionable 10-year-old mind. So my windows are open now, despite the light rain (and the rain! How is it possible that there's any rain even left?) and the cicadas are louder than Metallica, and what with 40 days and 40 nights of near-nonstop rain and an actual, legitimate plague of fucking locusts, I feel like I live in the Old Testament.
But it's still OK. Because it's SUMMER!
*****
 |
| Annual countdown to opening day: T minus 1. |
Actual Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend conversations.
12YO: OK. I think I'm ready. I have my hat, my towel, my suit, extra shirt, goggles, and wallet.
Me: Put that towel back in the bathroom, and get a beach towel.
12YO: OK. I just like this one because I can roll it up really really small. By the way, I have $28 in my wallet. Is that enough for the snack bar, do you think?
Me: ---
15YO: I have to work at 3. Is it going to be sunny? Do I need my sunglasses?
Me: I don't know, but just bring them anyway. It can't hurt to have them.
15YO: OK. Do you have a whistle? I can't find my whistle.
(I actually have two whistles, for swim meet refereeing purposes.)
Me: Yes. Here you go.
15YO: What size is the cork in this?
Me: What? I have no idea.
15YO: See, the ones that have the bigger corks have a better sound, and you don't have to blow as hard. I'm going to go outside and test this.
Me: ---
Apparently, the whistle passed the test. I'm not sure, meanwhile, how a person is supposed to determine the size of the cork in a whistle. I'm not going to find out, either.
*****
Sunday: I suppose I wouldn't normally mind spending a large chunk of the weekend fighting with a giant, unwieldy Word document with multiple authors. Except when the Word document appears to be very close to winning.
Meanwhile, this mess is about as cooked as it's going to be and no one should be in any immediate danger of salmonella, so now I'm going to hit publish for real. Happy Memorial Day, and bon appetit.
Saturday, May 20, 2017
It doesn't seem a year ago to this very day
I love movies, as anyone who has read this blog probably knows. I don't go to movie theaters that often, though; and when I do, it's usually weeks after the movie opens. In fact, I often don't even hear about movies until their theatrical runs are almost over. Who knows what movie lovers did before TV and Netflix.
Because I don't usually see movies when they're new in theaters, I also don't usually notice trailers. Occasionally, though, I see a trailer that makes me really really want to see the movie. In 2015, my kids made me stop what I was doing to watch each of the "Force Awakens" trailers as they were released. I didn't mind, because I love Star Wars. And for a long-time Star Wars fan, there was nothing better than seeing Harrison Ford smile and say, "Chewy. We're home." We saw "The Force Awakens" a week after it was released.
Now, I'm almost Star Wars-level excited about a new movie. I can't believe that it has taken this long, but someone has finally made a movie about the epic 1973 tennis match between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs. The movie is, of course, titled "Battle of the Sexes," and the trailer soundtrack is Elton John's "Love Lies Bleeding," which is 1973 itself, set to music.
*****
 |
| This is, believe it or not, the swimming pool at Kendrick Recreation Center. You can't see the tennis courts, but they're behind the pool and to the left. My kids and their swim team friends don't believe my stories about swimming in shifts because the pool was so crowded during hot Philadelphia summers. |
I was eight years old in 1973, and I really loved tennis. I wasn't good at it--I didn’t have the necessary speed or coordination. It didn’t matter, though, because I still loved to play. I loved hitting a ball against the brick wall down the street from my house. I loved playing on the summer team at the Kendrick Recreation Center and in the juniors tournaments in Fairmount Park (during which I was usually eliminated in the first round). I loved my Wilson Chris Evert racket (wood!) that I’d gotten as a Christmas present. And I LOVED the women’s tennis tour.
I was kind of a girly girl. Not a cheerleader or a pageant aspirant type, but not what anyone would, at that time, have called a “tomboy.” (I hate that word.) I liked clothes, I worried about my hair, and I wanted my ears pierced, which my mother would not allow until I was in high school. I admired stylish, beautiful Chris Evert, with her shining blond ponytail and diamond bracelets sparkling on tanned arms. But Billie Jean King was my favorite. She was different from the other women on the tennis tour. She wasn’t elegant or fashionable or regal. But she was radiant and fierce, and I thought (and still think) that she was beautiful.
I grew up in a rowhouse in a blue-collar Philadelphia neighborhood, and attended a parish school with all of the other children of secretaries and sheet metal workers. I’m not sure that I or any of my friends would even have noticed tennis had it not been for Billie Jean and Arthur Ashe, who tried to bring tennis out of the country club and into the public parks. But as much as Billie Jean did to democratize tennis, she did even more for women's equality. She pioneered the then-radical notion that female athletes should make the same money as male athletes. How obvious does it seem today that the men’s and women’s champions at Wimbledon or the US Open should earn the same prize money? It wasn’t even remotely obvious in 1973. It was near-revolutionary.
The Battle of the Sexes was silly and show-businessy, but it was still a landmark event for women’s sports, and Billie Jean was a heroine. At that time (even more than now), women who spoke out for simple fairness and equality for women were often mocked and derided as "women's libbers" or worse. Lots of women were afraid of that kind of mockery--in fact, lots of women still are. They'd rather endure sexual harassment and inequality than have men dismiss them shrill or unattractive. But Billie Jean was fearless. Because she stood up for women's rights, she faced relentless scorn, and not just from Riggs. Like most eight-year-olds, I believed that life should be fair, and I was perpetually outraged by sexism in general, and by the over-the-top chauvinism of Riggs in particular. My parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and siblings were all heartily sick of me and Billie Jean and Bobby Riggs by the time the whole thing ended in a decisive victory for Billie Jean.
1973 was a pretty big news year. I paid attention to current events more than most eight-year-olds did, so I knew about the oil embargo, and Vietnam, which was still raging; and the growing Watergate scandal. War and scandal and economic crises meant nothing, though, compared to Billie Jean King shutting Bobby Riggs up, even for five minutes. It felt like a victory not just for women, but for little inner-city working class school girls, too. Billie Jean, who also came from a working-class family, showed girls like me that things were possible, even likely, no matter where you lived, or who your parents were, or whether or not you had the right hair or clothes. My friends and I couldn’t really aspire to Chris Evert’s cool elegance and beauty, but we could all aspire to be like Billie Jean. She looked like our older sisters and cousins, and if we worked hard, we could be like her. We could be fearless, and strong, and really good at something. We could kick ass and take names and still look cute in a tennis dress.
*****
As an eight-year-old girl who liked a good old-fashioned to-the-death blood feud between good and evil, I would have been appalled to know that Billie Jean King actually liked Riggs, who was pure evil as far as I was concerned. Now, of course, I love Billie Jean even more for her friendship with crazy, loud-mouthed, flamboyant Bobby Riggs, who probably wasn't as much of a chauvinist as he pretended to be for the cameras. Even today, I can think of lots of worse sexists than Bobby Riggs. Not mentioning any names, of course.
*****
The summer of 2017 will probably feel a lot like the summer of 1973. My kids are much older than I was in 1973, but they're still young enough to believe that life should always be fair and that the good guys should always win. Twenty-five, or maybe 35 years from now, movies will be made about the cultural and political earthquakes of their youth, and they'll tell their children what they remember, and what it all meant to them. And they'll see a trailer, and hear a song, and they'll say "OH MY GOD! THEY FINALLY MADE A MOVIE!" I hope so, at least.
*****
The summer of 2017 will probably feel a lot like the summer of 1973. My kids are much older than I was in 1973, but they're still young enough to believe that life should always be fair and that the good guys should always win. Twenty-five, or maybe 35 years from now, movies will be made about the cultural and political earthquakes of their youth, and they'll tell their children what they remember, and what it all meant to them. And they'll see a trailer, and hear a song, and they'll say "OH MY GOD! THEY FINALLY MADE A MOVIE!" I hope so, at least.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Like a mother
Monday: I might have dodged the bullet, red-light-camera-wise. And then I nearly ran another red light on my way home today, but "nearly" isn't close enough for Montgomery County to nail me for 75 big ones.
Apparently, I live in a 1940s gangster movie, and this is how we talk, see?
Why do I keep running red lights, and dropping things, and forgetting things, and waking up in a panic (and pretty much remaining there, all day every day?) This is the question that I've been asking myself, and I wonder if I maybe need to change something, or do something, or not do something, so that I can remember what it's like to have a normal breathing rate and a normal resting pulse.
It occurred to me just a little while ago, for example, as I ran the vacuum cleaner over the nearly spotless floor, that cleaning could actually be simply a response to the presence of dirt, rather than a compulsion-driven daily routine. Maybe the house only needs cleaning when it's not already clean, right?
Oh, sure. And maybe I could stop converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, too.
*****
Tuesday: Last night of class. Weeknight drinking is very rare for me, but spend a year teaching eighth graders about the Holy Spirit, and see if you don't need a drink. I have few problems that margaritas and guacamole and chips can't solve.
*****
Wednesday: Why, Washington Capitals? WHY? Why do you break my heart every year? Pittsburgh. Crosby. Phil Kessel. Evgeni Fucking Malkin. Damn it.
*****
Thursday: Apparently, I'm the type of person who goes to wine and cheese school fundraisers, meaning weeknight drinking twice, in the same week. That's a walk on the wild side for me, suburban PTA lady venue notwithstanding. I probably say "fuck" more often than most suburban mothers (well, I also say it more often than a lot of sailors and coal miners), but other than that, I'm probably about as conventional and middle-class as they come.
*****
Friday: Three nights in one week! This is borderline rehab territory for me. Meanwhile, let's say that a large national florist delivers your mother's expensive potted gardenia plant in a broken container. Would you say that their offer to replace it with a slightly less expensive item, for delivery on May 31 (weeks after Mother's Day) is
A). Excellent customer service OR
B). Total bullshit
I'm going to assume that the dozens of people reading this agree unanimously that the answer is B. And I managed to persuade the florist that their offer was entirely inadequate and unacceptable, too. Righteous indignation combined with relentless persistence combined with two glasses of wine make me an unstoppable force. A few more glasses of wine and a few more outraged phone calls, and I'll have Trump impeached by Labor Day. You're welcome.
*****
Saturday: My first post-Cazalet book is Shana Alexander's Happy Days: My Mother, My Father, My Sister & Me. It reads a little bit like Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone: Brilliant journalist recalls an unusual New York childhood with a self-absorbed mother and equally self-absorbed though much more kindly remembered father.
While the books are actually quite different, both authors (like all women, myself included) impose a long statute of limitations for maternal crimes. But my mom, just like most of the rest of us, did the best she could. So Happy Mother's Day.
Apparently, I live in a 1940s gangster movie, and this is how we talk, see?
Why do I keep running red lights, and dropping things, and forgetting things, and waking up in a panic (and pretty much remaining there, all day every day?) This is the question that I've been asking myself, and I wonder if I maybe need to change something, or do something, or not do something, so that I can remember what it's like to have a normal breathing rate and a normal resting pulse.
It occurred to me just a little while ago, for example, as I ran the vacuum cleaner over the nearly spotless floor, that cleaning could actually be simply a response to the presence of dirt, rather than a compulsion-driven daily routine. Maybe the house only needs cleaning when it's not already clean, right?
Oh, sure. And maybe I could stop converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, too.
*****
Tuesday: Last night of class. Weeknight drinking is very rare for me, but spend a year teaching eighth graders about the Holy Spirit, and see if you don't need a drink. I have few problems that margaritas and guacamole and chips can't solve.
*****
Wednesday: Why, Washington Capitals? WHY? Why do you break my heart every year? Pittsburgh. Crosby. Phil Kessel. Evgeni Fucking Malkin. Damn it.
*****
Thursday: Apparently, I'm the type of person who goes to wine and cheese school fundraisers, meaning weeknight drinking twice, in the same week. That's a walk on the wild side for me, suburban PTA lady venue notwithstanding. I probably say "fuck" more often than most suburban mothers (well, I also say it more often than a lot of sailors and coal miners), but other than that, I'm probably about as conventional and middle-class as they come.
*****
Friday: Three nights in one week! This is borderline rehab territory for me. Meanwhile, let's say that a large national florist delivers your mother's expensive potted gardenia plant in a broken container. Would you say that their offer to replace it with a slightly less expensive item, for delivery on May 31 (weeks after Mother's Day) is
A). Excellent customer service OR
B). Total bullshit
I'm going to assume that the dozens of people reading this agree unanimously that the answer is B. And I managed to persuade the florist that their offer was entirely inadequate and unacceptable, too. Righteous indignation combined with relentless persistence combined with two glasses of wine make me an unstoppable force. A few more glasses of wine and a few more outraged phone calls, and I'll have Trump impeached by Labor Day. You're welcome.
*****
Saturday: My first post-Cazalet book is Shana Alexander's Happy Days: My Mother, My Father, My Sister & Me. It reads a little bit like Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone: Brilliant journalist recalls an unusual New York childhood with a self-absorbed mother and equally self-absorbed though much more kindly remembered father.
While the books are actually quite different, both authors (like all women, myself included) impose a long statute of limitations for maternal crimes. But my mom, just like most of the rest of us, did the best she could. So Happy Mother's Day.
Sunday, May 7, 2017
A few notepads and a Scrabble dictionary, and we're in business
I'm down to the last few pages of The Cazalet Chronicles, and I have to stop, because I'm not ready to let go of the Cazalet family. I've never taken this long to read a book, but it's actually five books in one, and over 2,200 pages, so that's how long it takes, I suppose. Elizabeth Jane Howard seems to have understood people, and life, better than most writers. Female writers who write about family life and relationships--you know, humanity--tend to be dismissed as non-serious, and non-literary. Maybe that's why I had never heard of this great novelist until I started reading the Cazalet books. I'll miss them.
*****
Sunday: The sun came out! It's 8:45 AM and I just came in from a walk. I wore gloves, in May. But the sun is out. Yesterday's gloom was so heavy that I thought it would push me right under with it. I even took a nap, which I almost never do. Everything seemed gray and ugly, and so I slept through it. Today, it's still too cold (again--gloves, in May). But drenched in sunshine, everything looks clean and cheerful again. I'm wide awake.
And the Capitals won last night. Like most other Washington Capitals fans, I'm a little cynical during the playoffs. And we're nowhere near out of the woods yet. But we avoided round 2 elimination, for now.
*****
Summer is fast approaching. Another summer of swim meets and weekly swim team emails and hanging around at the pool. Oh, and work, of course. I do have a job. Last summer was the first summer in nine years when I wasn't either working from home or working part-time. And surprisingly, it was still a lovely summer, full of swimming and barbecues and even a road trip. I returned to work full-time because I needed to, financially. But I've found that although I miss hanging around with my kids, I also really like working. I like being busy. I like being needed. I like that my job is interesting enough that I think about it when I'm not actually at my desk, and I get ideas, and I keep a notebook with running lists of things to do and things to write about.
*****
If the making and management of lists was a profession, then I'd sit alone atop its pinnacle. I'd probably have my own company. Or I'd be one of those NBC News special correspondents, called upon to comment when a big list-making story breaks.
List-making and spelling. These are two areas of endeavor in which I excel; sadly, however, demand for these rather rarefied skills is pretty scarce. There's not a spelling draft, because if there was, I'd have gone pretty near the top of the first round. There's not a list-making event in the Olympics, because if there was, I'd have been featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated, weighed down under pounds of gold. Or maybe I'd have a media empire, built on my extraordinary spelling accomplishments. People would get sick of me. They'd sigh every time I showed up on TV. "There's that spelling bitch again," they'd sneer. But I wouldn't care. I'd cash the checks and let the haters hate. Eventually, the underpaid Harvard graduate who managed my social media would write an anonymous "Devil Wears Prada"-style tell-all, and the whole thing would come crashing down.
*****
That, right there, was adult ADD in action. I folded laundry, unloaded a dishwasher, and looked for my next book to read, right in the middle of that paragraph. Just a few more pages to go, so I can no longer delay my parting with the Cazalets.
*****
Sunday: The sun came out! It's 8:45 AM and I just came in from a walk. I wore gloves, in May. But the sun is out. Yesterday's gloom was so heavy that I thought it would push me right under with it. I even took a nap, which I almost never do. Everything seemed gray and ugly, and so I slept through it. Today, it's still too cold (again--gloves, in May). But drenched in sunshine, everything looks clean and cheerful again. I'm wide awake.
And the Capitals won last night. Like most other Washington Capitals fans, I'm a little cynical during the playoffs. And we're nowhere near out of the woods yet. But we avoided round 2 elimination, for now.
*****
Summer is fast approaching. Another summer of swim meets and weekly swim team emails and hanging around at the pool. Oh, and work, of course. I do have a job. Last summer was the first summer in nine years when I wasn't either working from home or working part-time. And surprisingly, it was still a lovely summer, full of swimming and barbecues and even a road trip. I returned to work full-time because I needed to, financially. But I've found that although I miss hanging around with my kids, I also really like working. I like being busy. I like being needed. I like that my job is interesting enough that I think about it when I'm not actually at my desk, and I get ideas, and I keep a notebook with running lists of things to do and things to write about.
*****
If the making and management of lists was a profession, then I'd sit alone atop its pinnacle. I'd probably have my own company. Or I'd be one of those NBC News special correspondents, called upon to comment when a big list-making story breaks.
List-making and spelling. These are two areas of endeavor in which I excel; sadly, however, demand for these rather rarefied skills is pretty scarce. There's not a spelling draft, because if there was, I'd have gone pretty near the top of the first round. There's not a list-making event in the Olympics, because if there was, I'd have been featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated, weighed down under pounds of gold. Or maybe I'd have a media empire, built on my extraordinary spelling accomplishments. People would get sick of me. They'd sigh every time I showed up on TV. "There's that spelling bitch again," they'd sneer. But I wouldn't care. I'd cash the checks and let the haters hate. Eventually, the underpaid Harvard graduate who managed my social media would write an anonymous "Devil Wears Prada"-style tell-all, and the whole thing would come crashing down.
 |
| By all means, rely solely on spell-check. You know how that thrills me. |
*****
That, right there, was adult ADD in action. I folded laundry, unloaded a dishwasher, and looked for my next book to read, right in the middle of that paragraph. Just a few more pages to go, so I can no longer delay my parting with the Cazalets.
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