Monday, January 21. Trump Shutdown, Day 31. It's a holiday; a lovely, paid holiday, and I don't have any work to do today. Normally, I'd have gone walking/running (lots of walking, with very little running) as soon as I woke up but it's about 50 degrees below absolute zero right now and I'm not stepping foot out that door.
Well, eventually I suppose I'll have to step foot out that door. But not at 7:30 in the morning.
I did eventually leave the house, to run some errands, literally. I went to several stores, running from my car to the store and back. Those mad dashes through the cold will count as my exercise for today. I made banana bread and there's chili cooking in the Instant Pot that I bought just about a year ago, and wrote about during another, much shorter government shutdown. I remembered writing about the Instant Pot, but I had forgotten that the other shutdown was going on at the time. Things change and they stay the same.
*****
Now it's Tuesday, Day 32. We are still funded, so I'm still working. I don't know how much longer that, or this shutdown, will continue, but I can't worry about that right now.
I suspect, though I don't know for sure (because I don't know anything for sure), that some Trump supporters are secretly sick of him but they can't give in now. They don't want to hear the I-told-you-so, the what-were-you-thinking. Of course, lots of Trump voters are still firmly with him. They think he's doing a great job. But I think that more and more of them are on to him by now; they're just not ready to say so just yet.
I have noticed that people who support (or used to support) Trump are hyper-sensitive to the slightest criticism or mockery of the President from any news or entertainment source. They're tired of constant Trump-bashing; so much so that even a slightly negative comment about him sounds to them like bashing.
And maybe they have a point. Maybe the media should shut up about Trump for a while. SNL's Trump sketches haven't been funny since Melissa McCarthy played Sean Spicer; and no one who watches MSNBC needs any more convincing that Trump is a heartless crook and liar. And as I mentioned here, what would be worse from Trump's point of view? More vitriol and satire from liberal journalists and comedians? Or stone-cold nothing--no attention at all. No SNL sketches, no MSNBC monologues or CNN panel discussions, no Washington Post editorials--nothing.
Of course it will never happen, but think how awesome it would be if Trump had no liberal bias to push back against, no convenient media foil, no Twitter fodder. What would he do during all of those hours and hours and hours of executive time? What would Sarah Sanders and Kellyanne Conway have to huff and puff about if no one attacked Trump? How would Fox News hosts fill their time?
It would drive Trump and his most vocal supporters crazy if his critics decided to just ignore him altogether, and that alone is a good-enough reason to try it. But there's an even better reason. Without any "bias" or "fake news" to complain about, the President's media enablers might have to defend him on his own merits. As they say on the Internet, how would that work out for them? How would Fox News and Sarah and Kellyanne and the Freedom Caucus explain why the administration didn't just get funding for the wall when the Republicans were in control of both houses of Congress?
Or how the tax cuts for billionaires will benefit the "white working class" whom they claim to love so much.
Or when we'll see an infrastructure plan.
Or why a President who claims to love the military can't get retired generals to remain in his cabinet.
Or how he plans to solve the opioid crisis.
Or how defunding the FBI, the Coast Guard, and the Transportation Safety Administration is consistent with the administration's alleged commitment to "national security."
I read today that Sarah Sanders stopped giving press briefings at the President's direction; because, as he said, the reporters are all rude to her. I suggest that they stop being rude. I would suggest that if she ever holds another press briefing, everyone in the room should treat her with great courtesy and respect, even deference. Don't ask about Russia--let Mueller worry about that. Don't ask about Cohen and Stormy Daniels. Don't call anyone a big fat lying liar. Just ask simple questions, which would force her to either answer them or not answer them. Either option would be instructive.
*****
The President has had two years to build a wall.
He's had two years to propose a solution to the opioid crisis.
He's had two years to propose a way to defund Planned Parenthood and divert the funding to free clinics that can provide healthcare to poor women.
He's had two years to come up with an infrastructure plan.
He's had two years to work on reforming the Veterans' Administration.
All the press has to do is to report on what the administration has done about any or all of the above. The answer, of course, is nothing. And that's because Trump doesn't care about any or all of the above (including--especially--the stupid wall). He cares about tax cuts for rich people and big corporations; and he cares about appointing judges who will protect the interests of rich people and big corporations. And of course, he cares about Trump. And those are the things that he has managed to take care of. Mission accomplished.
*****
Wednesday, Day 33. Oddly enough, SNL and CNN have not sought my advice, so I don't expect the media to change its Trump approach any time soon. I can't wait to not read the latest speculation about what might or might not be in the Mueller report, or when the House Democrats might or might not start impeachment proceedings. Tomorrow will be Day 34 , and no end in sight.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Friday, January 18, 2019
Rectangles, folded toward the middle
If you don't live under the proverbial social media rock and you have any female friends at all whatsoever, then you are probably aware of the existence of Marie Kondo, a tiny Japanese woman and exemplar of the 21st century phenomenon of organizing as a paid profession.
Professional organizers are nothing new. For about two decades, HGTV and Real Simple magazine and ten million blogs have proclaimed the life-altering power of cleaning and organizing and arranging. And I like to clean and organize and arrange. I am the prototypical suburban woman who can't function amid chaos. I'm a bit more compulsive about neatness than most people, but I'm a bit more compulsive about a lot of things than most people.If you are looking for mental health advice, you have come to the wrong place.
But much as I love a clean and well-organized room or closet or life, I don't like professional organizing advice at all. When it comes to cleaning up, it's my way or the highway. So when I heard and saw all of the buzz surrounding Marie Kondo's Netflix show and her earlier YouTube videos, I ignored it. I don't like to binge-watch, and I was also sure that the show would be exactly like every other before/after home renovation show.
I continued to ignore Marie and her joy-sparking, but she wouldn't go away. My friends on Facebook and Instagram continued to post before and after pictures of chaos turned to order. After I read an online review of the show that included the words "unmitigated kindness," I finally had to see it for myself. Unmitigated kindness is in short supply and if Netflix is handing it out, then I'll get in line. I watched a few episodes during the snowstorm last weekend, and although the show is produced and scripted just like lots of other before/after home improvement shows, it's quite different, even radical.
There's an episode in which a young family of four (the most delightful people you will ever see) is trying to organize and tidy their cramped two-bedroom apartment. During the entire 40 or so minutes that the episode runs, Marie Kondo doesn't speak a single word about eventual homeownership or the need to upgrade to a better and larger space. Nor does she just take a "do the best you can with what little you have, poor people" approach. Instead, she treats the apartment with great respect, showing the the viewer that this tiny apartment is a dignified and private family home, as important and worthy of care and attention as any HGTV after picture.
Speaking of the after picture, this is a big difference, too. In the episodes that I have watched, no new items are purchased or even suggested. Nothing gets painted or recarpeted or refurnished or resurfaced in any way. Marie uses boxes that are already in the house--shoeboxes, in one case--to arrange and compartmentalize belongings. The only difference from before to after is that a cluttered room or closet becomes clean and orderly, without the aid of expensive baskets or shelving systems or other organizing products.
The first step in what Marie Kondo calls the KonMari method is a huge purge of old belongings, by category, not by room. Although her Shinto-inspired Japanese approach is different from the American approach to organizing (she asks people to express their gratitude to each item before letting it go), the idea of purging old items is nothing new at all if you're an American woman who has been exposed to any form of media at all, any time during the past 20 years. What's very different is that Marie Kondo has no interest at all in making room for new things, which is the real reason why women's magazines and home improvement TV shows want us to clear our clutter. The KonMari method is focused only on clearing out belongings that don't bring beauty or happiness to their owners' lives. She calls it "sparking joy." If a thing doesn't "spark joy," you should let it go, and that's all. In the context of a TV show devoted to home organizing, letting go of a thing without any plan to exchange it for a newer or nicer thing seems almost revolutionary.
And it's lovely to watch. "Unmitigated kindness" is exactly the right phrase. Watching Marie Kondo is like watching Mr. Rogers, reincarnated as a smiling, beautiful Japanese woman in a twirly skirt and black ballet shoes.
*****
Just like the author of the review that I linked here, I watched for just a few minutes and was inspired almost immediately to do something, though not everything. There's no way on God's green earth that I'll ever follow the KonMari method exactly as it's prescribed because the sight of every piece of clothing in my house heaped in a pile will induce paper-bag-breathing hyperventilation that cannot be good for a person my age. I have to do it piecemeal or not at all. My way or the highway. I started with my spice cabinet and kitchen towels, and then moved on to a few drawers.
I spent part of my youth in the retail trenches, and I thought I knew how to fold. And it turns out that I do. I tried the KonMari folding method in my t-shirt and underwear drawers. The underwear folding method, I have to admit, is quite brilliant, and I will probably stick with it. But she's dead wrong about the t-shirts. They're much better folded flat. I mean it's nice that I can see which one is which, but I didn't have any trouble finding them before, and I'll probably go back to the old way. My sweaters and long-sleeved knit shirts are folded on shelves in my closet, and I'm going to leave them that way.
I have only watched a few episodes, so I haven't seen the infamous "30-books" episode. I suspect that the uproar about this episode is another manufactured social media controversy cooked up by grievance fetishists with finely tuned passive aggression skills. Anyway, I have a lot more than 30 books, by a pretty big order of magnitude. I might be willing to part with 10 or so. So in addition to t-shirt folding, Marie Kondo and I might also disagree on book collection size.
*****
The world is a little chaotic right now, even more so than usual. I think that it could get worse before it gets better. Maybe taking a few extra minutes to fold a shirt just so will make someone appreciate the shirt a little more. Maybe by appreciating things a little more, we will appreciate people, and life itself, a little more. That would be nice. But right now, I have an organized spice cabinet, and neatly arranged kitchen linens and drawers filled with stacks of compact little rectangles, folded toward the middle. And that's pretty good.
Professional organizers are nothing new. For about two decades, HGTV and Real Simple magazine and ten million blogs have proclaimed the life-altering power of cleaning and organizing and arranging. And I like to clean and organize and arrange. I am the prototypical suburban woman who can't function amid chaos. I'm a bit more compulsive about neatness than most people, but I'm a bit more compulsive about a lot of things than most people.If you are looking for mental health advice, you have come to the wrong place.
But much as I love a clean and well-organized room or closet or life, I don't like professional organizing advice at all. When it comes to cleaning up, it's my way or the highway. So when I heard and saw all of the buzz surrounding Marie Kondo's Netflix show and her earlier YouTube videos, I ignored it. I don't like to binge-watch, and I was also sure that the show would be exactly like every other before/after home renovation show.
I continued to ignore Marie and her joy-sparking, but she wouldn't go away. My friends on Facebook and Instagram continued to post before and after pictures of chaos turned to order. After I read an online review of the show that included the words "unmitigated kindness," I finally had to see it for myself. Unmitigated kindness is in short supply and if Netflix is handing it out, then I'll get in line. I watched a few episodes during the snowstorm last weekend, and although the show is produced and scripted just like lots of other before/after home improvement shows, it's quite different, even radical.
There's an episode in which a young family of four (the most delightful people you will ever see) is trying to organize and tidy their cramped two-bedroom apartment. During the entire 40 or so minutes that the episode runs, Marie Kondo doesn't speak a single word about eventual homeownership or the need to upgrade to a better and larger space. Nor does she just take a "do the best you can with what little you have, poor people" approach. Instead, she treats the apartment with great respect, showing the the viewer that this tiny apartment is a dignified and private family home, as important and worthy of care and attention as any HGTV after picture.
Speaking of the after picture, this is a big difference, too. In the episodes that I have watched, no new items are purchased or even suggested. Nothing gets painted or recarpeted or refurnished or resurfaced in any way. Marie uses boxes that are already in the house--shoeboxes, in one case--to arrange and compartmentalize belongings. The only difference from before to after is that a cluttered room or closet becomes clean and orderly, without the aid of expensive baskets or shelving systems or other organizing products.
The first step in what Marie Kondo calls the KonMari method is a huge purge of old belongings, by category, not by room. Although her Shinto-inspired Japanese approach is different from the American approach to organizing (she asks people to express their gratitude to each item before letting it go), the idea of purging old items is nothing new at all if you're an American woman who has been exposed to any form of media at all, any time during the past 20 years. What's very different is that Marie Kondo has no interest at all in making room for new things, which is the real reason why women's magazines and home improvement TV shows want us to clear our clutter. The KonMari method is focused only on clearing out belongings that don't bring beauty or happiness to their owners' lives. She calls it "sparking joy." If a thing doesn't "spark joy," you should let it go, and that's all. In the context of a TV show devoted to home organizing, letting go of a thing without any plan to exchange it for a newer or nicer thing seems almost revolutionary.
And it's lovely to watch. "Unmitigated kindness" is exactly the right phrase. Watching Marie Kondo is like watching Mr. Rogers, reincarnated as a smiling, beautiful Japanese woman in a twirly skirt and black ballet shoes.
*****
Just like the author of the review that I linked here, I watched for just a few minutes and was inspired almost immediately to do something, though not everything. There's no way on God's green earth that I'll ever follow the KonMari method exactly as it's prescribed because the sight of every piece of clothing in my house heaped in a pile will induce paper-bag-breathing hyperventilation that cannot be good for a person my age. I have to do it piecemeal or not at all. My way or the highway. I started with my spice cabinet and kitchen towels, and then moved on to a few drawers.
I spent part of my youth in the retail trenches, and I thought I knew how to fold. And it turns out that I do. I tried the KonMari folding method in my t-shirt and underwear drawers. The underwear folding method, I have to admit, is quite brilliant, and I will probably stick with it. But she's dead wrong about the t-shirts. They're much better folded flat. I mean it's nice that I can see which one is which, but I didn't have any trouble finding them before, and I'll probably go back to the old way. My sweaters and long-sleeved knit shirts are folded on shelves in my closet, and I'm going to leave them that way.
 |
| Yes, they all spark joy for me. Even the Capitals shirts. Even after the Nashville game. OMG. And no, I'm not going to show you my underwear drawer. Weirdos. |
I have only watched a few episodes, so I haven't seen the infamous "30-books" episode. I suspect that the uproar about this episode is another manufactured social media controversy cooked up by grievance fetishists with finely tuned passive aggression skills. Anyway, I have a lot more than 30 books, by a pretty big order of magnitude. I might be willing to part with 10 or so. So in addition to t-shirt folding, Marie Kondo and I might also disagree on book collection size.
*****
The world is a little chaotic right now, even more so than usual. I think that it could get worse before it gets better. Maybe taking a few extra minutes to fold a shirt just so will make someone appreciate the shirt a little more. Maybe by appreciating things a little more, we will appreciate people, and life itself, a little more. That would be nice. But right now, I have an organized spice cabinet, and neatly arranged kitchen linens and drawers filled with stacks of compact little rectangles, folded toward the middle. And that's pretty good.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
January
It's Saturday afternoon, and my house is full of teenage boys, gathered for what has become an annual playoff-watching chicken wing fest. I don't like football or chicken wings but my sons' friends are lovely and it's quite nice to sit by a fire and watch football players run around in the snow. Better them than me. But it's really really loud in here, and I think I'll retreat to a quieter room.
*****
Well. That's better. I can hear myself think. Better still, I can't hear Cris Collinsworth or the other guy. Al Michaels. I just looked him up. They're fine, I guess, but they're not Joe Beninati and Craig Laughlin. And football is definitely not hockey.
It's Day 22 of the now longest-in-U.S.-history government shutdown. I know that at least 30 percent of my fellow Americans agree with Trump's characterization of the Russia-collusion investigation as a "witch hunt" (or "Witch Hunt," I guess), but I think that investigation, when it concludes, will reveal that the President is is a paid agent of the Russian government. And whatever Putin is paying, it's money well spent.
*****
Enough about him. At least for today, I'm not going to write any more about Trump and his crazy tweets and his wall that he could have built any time in 2017 or 2018, except why would he when it was obviously a better political destabilization strategy to wait until the Democrats won an election to force the longest government shutdown in history? Putin is probably paying a by-the-day bonus.
No, I think I'll write a little more about this particular Saturday in January. I returned to my place of authority on the pool deck this morning, with my clipboard and my whistle and my favorite lanyard. Someone has to be in charge and it might as well be me.
I used to hate January, and I still hate winter, because it's cold and dark. But even though I don't like football, I like the festive mood that surrounds the NFL playoffs. I couldn't care less who wins any of these silly games, but I'm happy to have company and eat snacks and drink beer. On sunny days, I like the light in the afternoon. And we also have a three-day weekend in January, so it's not a month that's altogether without redeeming qualities.
But I still can't wait for summer.
*****
Sunday morning, Day 23. It started to snow yesterday and we have about six inches on the ground now, with more still falling. It's the first real snowfall of the year. I'm not sure if we'll make it to Mass this morning or not. On one hand, I feel that we should at least try to get there; on the other, I don't want to get stuck in the snow, and our street has not been plowed. So we'll see.
I finished Graham Greene's 21 Stories. 10 of the 21 were quite good. The other 11 were the kind of stories that I read all the way through because the writing is beautiful but then I wonder what the heck it was that I just read. And that's not a bad thing at all. I might re-read one or two of them. But probably not. I have a lot of stuff to read, and I'm not getting any younger.
Now I'm reading The Abolition of Woman: How Radical Feminism is Betraying Women, by Fiorella Nash. So good. Of course, me reading this falls under the heading of choir members listening attentively to the proverbial preacher. I already believe that abortion is terribly anti-woman. But in case I needed convincing, Ms. Nash makes the most compelling case I've ever read for the pro-life position as the only reasonable one for feminists.
(By the way, speaking of Day 23? In addition to having two years of Republican control to build his stupid wall, the President also had two years of a so-called pro-life majority, but Planned Parenthood remains fully funded. Weird, right? You'd almost think that they were cynically deceiving and exploiting pro-life voters during election years, and then just forgetting about them once they gain power.)
Among the most clear and logical of the author's arguments concerns the problem of maternal mortality in developing countries, which the abortion-industrial complex would solve by means of "reproductive healthcare," meaning abortion. Their real agenda, of course, is to cull the herd of poor people and non-white people. Nash asserts, correctly, that all of the causes of maternal mortality could be easily addressed as they have been in the West, in countries such as Great Britain where maternal mortality improved dramatically from the mid-19th century to the early 20th century, long before legalized abortion. It's a question of will, not capacity. If women and children were truly valued, we as a society would find a way to save poor women from preventable pregnancy- and childbirth-related deaths.
I would suggest that this argument could be applied to any number of issues that we treat as intractable and unsolvable. We are (for now, at least) the richest country in the world and we could easily make room for migrants and refugees. We have the most advanced technology and science in the world, and could solve the opioid crisis (how is that going, Kellyanne?) if we cared enough about the people who are suffering because of it. Our approach to most issues that affect poor people can be summed up in one sentence: There's just enough of us, but way too many of you.
*****
*****
Well. That's better. I can hear myself think. Better still, I can't hear Cris Collinsworth or the other guy. Al Michaels. I just looked him up. They're fine, I guess, but they're not Joe Beninati and Craig Laughlin. And football is definitely not hockey.
It's Day 22 of the now longest-in-U.S.-history government shutdown. I know that at least 30 percent of my fellow Americans agree with Trump's characterization of the Russia-collusion investigation as a "witch hunt" (or "Witch Hunt," I guess), but I think that investigation, when it concludes, will reveal that the President is is a paid agent of the Russian government. And whatever Putin is paying, it's money well spent.
*****
Enough about him. At least for today, I'm not going to write any more about Trump and his crazy tweets and his wall that he could have built any time in 2017 or 2018, except why would he when it was obviously a better political destabilization strategy to wait until the Democrats won an election to force the longest government shutdown in history? Putin is probably paying a by-the-day bonus.
No, I think I'll write a little more about this particular Saturday in January. I returned to my place of authority on the pool deck this morning, with my clipboard and my whistle and my favorite lanyard. Someone has to be in charge and it might as well be me.
I used to hate January, and I still hate winter, because it's cold and dark. But even though I don't like football, I like the festive mood that surrounds the NFL playoffs. I couldn't care less who wins any of these silly games, but I'm happy to have company and eat snacks and drink beer. On sunny days, I like the light in the afternoon. And we also have a three-day weekend in January, so it's not a month that's altogether without redeeming qualities.
 |
| Afternoon light in January. |
But I still can't wait for summer.
*****
Sunday morning, Day 23. It started to snow yesterday and we have about six inches on the ground now, with more still falling. It's the first real snowfall of the year. I'm not sure if we'll make it to Mass this morning or not. On one hand, I feel that we should at least try to get there; on the other, I don't want to get stuck in the snow, and our street has not been plowed. So we'll see.
I finished Graham Greene's 21 Stories. 10 of the 21 were quite good. The other 11 were the kind of stories that I read all the way through because the writing is beautiful but then I wonder what the heck it was that I just read. And that's not a bad thing at all. I might re-read one or two of them. But probably not. I have a lot of stuff to read, and I'm not getting any younger.
Now I'm reading The Abolition of Woman: How Radical Feminism is Betraying Women, by Fiorella Nash. So good. Of course, me reading this falls under the heading of choir members listening attentively to the proverbial preacher. I already believe that abortion is terribly anti-woman. But in case I needed convincing, Ms. Nash makes the most compelling case I've ever read for the pro-life position as the only reasonable one for feminists.
(By the way, speaking of Day 23? In addition to having two years of Republican control to build his stupid wall, the President also had two years of a so-called pro-life majority, but Planned Parenthood remains fully funded. Weird, right? You'd almost think that they were cynically deceiving and exploiting pro-life voters during election years, and then just forgetting about them once they gain power.)
Among the most clear and logical of the author's arguments concerns the problem of maternal mortality in developing countries, which the abortion-industrial complex would solve by means of "reproductive healthcare," meaning abortion. Their real agenda, of course, is to cull the herd of poor people and non-white people. Nash asserts, correctly, that all of the causes of maternal mortality could be easily addressed as they have been in the West, in countries such as Great Britain where maternal mortality improved dramatically from the mid-19th century to the early 20th century, long before legalized abortion. It's a question of will, not capacity. If women and children were truly valued, we as a society would find a way to save poor women from preventable pregnancy- and childbirth-related deaths.
I would suggest that this argument could be applied to any number of issues that we treat as intractable and unsolvable. We are (for now, at least) the richest country in the world and we could easily make room for migrants and refugees. We have the most advanced technology and science in the world, and could solve the opioid crisis (how is that going, Kellyanne?) if we cared enough about the people who are suffering because of it. Our approach to most issues that affect poor people can be summed up in one sentence: There's just enough of us, but way too many of you.
*****
Tuesday night, Day 25. I'm watching the Capitals take a beating at the hands of the Nashville Predators in what is likely to be their third straight loss. You can't win them all, and I'm not going to worry about it. At least I'm getting a paycheck, unlike a million or more federal employees and contractors almost a month into this ridiculous fight to keep Central Americans on the other side of the Rio Grande. Maybe it's part of a grander Russian-financed strategy to make the U.S. such a terrible country that no immigrants will want to enter. I'll leave with a few words from Fiorella Nash:
"It is the fatally disastrous blind spot in current human rights campaigning, the failure to acknowledge the rights of every member of the human family, but prolife feminism represents a human rights movement which excludes no human life under any circumstances."
The Capitals are losing 6-1 now. Until next week.
"It is the fatally disastrous blind spot in current human rights campaigning, the failure to acknowledge the rights of every member of the human family, but prolife feminism represents a human rights movement which excludes no human life under any circumstances."
The Capitals are losing 6-1 now. Until next week.
Friday, January 11, 2019
Dawn patrol
It's Monday morning, quite early (5:20 AM). I watched almost the entire Golden Globes broadcast last night. It was kind of boring, but I was still on the edge of my seat, hoping that no one would mention Trump. I applauded every Trump-free acceptance speech. It was like talking about a perfect game during a perfect game; I didn't want to jinx it, but I was too excited not to say anything.
Christian Bale had me worried for a minute, but he stopped with Senator McConnell (of whom I share Mr. Bale's opinion). Alfonso Cuaron expressed love for his native Mexico, and someone else (maybe the "Assassination of Gianni Versace" people?) said something about creating connections between people, rather than building walls around them or blah blah blah; and I'm sure that Trump and his little media minions will find a way to interpret those speeches as attacks on Trump. But for the entire time that I watched, I didn't hear a single direct reference to the President or his tweets or his 16-days-and-counting shutdown. I hope he's really disappointed. I hope that a whole bunch of Fox producers are scrambling to fill airtime that would have been filled with complaints about Hollywood bias against conservatives (by the way, Trump is not a conservative). I'm vindictive when I'm sleep-deprived.
Other than the Trump embargo, the show was pretty boring, but there were a few highlights:
Christian Bale had me worried for a minute, but he stopped with Senator McConnell (of whom I share Mr. Bale's opinion). Alfonso Cuaron expressed love for his native Mexico, and someone else (maybe the "Assassination of Gianni Versace" people?) said something about creating connections between people, rather than building walls around them or blah blah blah; and I'm sure that Trump and his little media minions will find a way to interpret those speeches as attacks on Trump. But for the entire time that I watched, I didn't hear a single direct reference to the President or his tweets or his 16-days-and-counting shutdown. I hope he's really disappointed. I hope that a whole bunch of Fox producers are scrambling to fill airtime that would have been filled with complaints about Hollywood bias against conservatives (by the way, Trump is not a conservative). I'm vindictive when I'm sleep-deprived.
Other than the Trump embargo, the show was pretty boring, but there were a few highlights:
- I love Carol Burnett SO MUCH and was so happy to see her receive this well-deserved honor. My children know who she is now, and they know how much people my age love her. I never watched "The Office" when it first aired, but I'm a fan now thanks to my children (it's on Netflix now and extremely popular among teenagers) and Steve Carell was a great choice as presenter. I choked up a little when he said that presenting the award was the greatest honor of his life. And my beloved Bill Murray was first on his feet for the standing ovation. This five minutes made the entire show worthwhile.
- Lady Gaga was the style star of the night. Of course, lots of women looked beautiful, but they're so scared of the fashion police snark-pundits that they don't take any risks at all. Lady Gaga doesn't care, and I love her for it.
- Mahershala Ali was lovely and gracious, and he was great in "The Green Book," which I saw with my sons. I wish that Viggo Mortenson had won, too, but I guess you can't compete with crazy Christian Bale. Satan? Really? Come on, man.
- I haven't seen "Beale Street" yet, but Regina King has been so underrated for so long, and I was delighted to see her get the recognition that she deserves. And her speech was great, too.
I fell asleep toward the end and missed the surprise wins for "Bohemian Rhapsody" (which I haven't seen yet, but will) and Rami Malek. And no recognition for "Can You Ever Forgive Me," which was a huge disappointment. Had it not been for Carol Burnett and Lady Gaga, I'd probably be mad that I missed a hockey game to watch this.
*****
Now it's Tuesday night (Day 18--I think my count was off last week) and I can't wait to not watch the President make his case about the "national emergency" on the southern border. I'm in the car on my way to Chinatown, where the Washington Capitals will face the Philadelphia Flyers at Capital One Center. Alex Ovechkin and Evgeny Kuznetsov are the only Russians I care about right now.
This is the first time I'll actually attend a Capitals game against my hometown team. I liked baseball when I was young, and I followed the Phillies very closely. My grandfather was a huge fan, and I was the only grandchild who was interested enough to sit and watch games with him (or listen, more often--we sat outside and listened on the radio). He taught me how to score games, a skill that I have lost altogether; and he taught me how to watch a baseball broadcast, a skill that I have retained. I still like baseball. I love the sound of it in the summer. I still miss Harry Kalas and Richie Ashburn.
*****
Now it's Tuesday night (Day 18--I think my count was off last week) and I can't wait to not watch the President make his case about the "national emergency" on the southern border. I'm in the car on my way to Chinatown, where the Washington Capitals will face the Philadelphia Flyers at Capital One Center. Alex Ovechkin and Evgeny Kuznetsov are the only Russians I care about right now.
This is the first time I'll actually attend a Capitals game against my hometown team. I liked baseball when I was young, and I followed the Phillies very closely. My grandfather was a huge fan, and I was the only grandchild who was interested enough to sit and watch games with him (or listen, more often--we sat outside and listened on the radio). He taught me how to score games, a skill that I have lost altogether; and he taught me how to watch a baseball broadcast, a skill that I have retained. I still like baseball. I love the sound of it in the summer. I still miss Harry Kalas and Richie Ashburn.
But even though Philadelphia was (still is) a hockey town and even though my grandfather also loved the Flyers, I didn't pay much attention to hockey. I remember the Broad Street Bullies, and I remember all of my neighbors pouring out onto the street to celebrate their 1974 Stanley Cup win (I don't remember 1975 for some reason). But for some reason, the game and the team didn't really speak to me. After the excitement of the Flyers' back-to-back championships, I don't think I gave hockey another thought in my life, until about 2010.
My husband has been a Capitals fan since 1980 or so. So for as long as we have been married (since 2000), I have been hearing and seeing games. But for years, the Capitals faded into the sports background, along with the Maryland Terrapins and the Washington Redskins and the Baltimore Orioles (pre-2006) and Washington Nationals (2006 and after) and all of the other sports teams that my husband follows.
Then in 2010 or so, I sat down with him to watch a Capitals game, and I found myself drawn in. Joe Beninati and Craig Laughlin were a big part of the appeal. They reminded me of Harry and Rich. The broadcast team is a huge part of the culture of hometown sports fandom, and Joe and Craig are a delight to watch and listen to. I started to watch more games here and there, and by 2014, I was watching games even when my husband wasn't home. So even though Philadelphia is and always will be my hometown, the Washington Capitals are my hockey team. And they beat Philadelphia on Tuesday night, after making the game more interesting than it needed to be, as they tend to do.
*****
It's really early in the morning on Thursday (Day 20). My son, who is 17, has high school swim practice on Mondays and Thursdays. For his first three years on the team, my husband drove him to 5 AM practices, and although I would wake up when they turned the lights on, I'd usually go back to sleep. Now, however, he is driving himself to practice, and I can't go back to sleep knowing that my son is out driving in the pre-dawn darkness. I have gotten used to having a child driving, and it's fine when he drives at night, but 4:45 AM is completely different.
So for the past two months, I've been up at 4:30 on Mondays and Thursdays, and I actually like being up this early. I don't like GETTING up this early, but I like BEING up this early. Given the choice, I'd still be asleep, of course, but since I don't have a choice, I can at least use the time to write a bunch of stuff that ten people will read. Time well spent.
*****
Friday morning (Day 21), 6 AM. I have no idea why I'm up so early this morning. No one is out on the mean early-morning streets; they're all asleep. But here I am.
It's not only Day 21 of the shutdown; it's also the first federal payday for about 800,000 feds who won't receive their paychecks. At least that many contractors will also go without pay, and there won't be any congressional appropriation to restore back pay for them. If anyone can explain to me how it's reasonable to shut down the actual government of the United States for any political reason at all, I'd be interested in hearing it.
Meanwhile, one of my retirement accounts lost $2,000 in one quarter. So thanks, Trump! Yes, I know it's not fair to blame him for the stock market downturn because I didn't credit him for the gains of 2017 and 2018, but it's 6 AM and life isn't fair.
I still think that they should just give him his stupid stupid wall. A wall is just a thing. It's not a policy, and it's not an immorality in and of itself. Forcing low-wage TSA officers to work without pay is an immorality. Ruining business for contractors and subcontractors and every food truck that sits outside a shuttered federal building for no reason other than political showmanship is an immorality. I could list 20 things worse than a wall without even thinking hard. Taking a job (President, for example, or Member of Congress) and accepting pay for it and then blithely refusing to do the work that the taxpayers are paying you to do would be one example.
Speaking of jobs, it's time for me to go do mine. Until next week.
*****
Friday morning (Day 21), 6 AM. I have no idea why I'm up so early this morning. No one is out on the mean early-morning streets; they're all asleep. But here I am.
It's not only Day 21 of the shutdown; it's also the first federal payday for about 800,000 feds who won't receive their paychecks. At least that many contractors will also go without pay, and there won't be any congressional appropriation to restore back pay for them. If anyone can explain to me how it's reasonable to shut down the actual government of the United States for any political reason at all, I'd be interested in hearing it.
Meanwhile, one of my retirement accounts lost $2,000 in one quarter. So thanks, Trump! Yes, I know it's not fair to blame him for the stock market downturn because I didn't credit him for the gains of 2017 and 2018, but it's 6 AM and life isn't fair.
I still think that they should just give him his stupid stupid wall. A wall is just a thing. It's not a policy, and it's not an immorality in and of itself. Forcing low-wage TSA officers to work without pay is an immorality. Ruining business for contractors and subcontractors and every food truck that sits outside a shuttered federal building for no reason other than political showmanship is an immorality. I could list 20 things worse than a wall without even thinking hard. Taking a job (President, for example, or Member of Congress) and accepting pay for it and then blithely refusing to do the work that the taxpayers are paying you to do would be one example.
Speaking of jobs, it's time for me to go do mine. Until next week.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
Ready and waiting
It's Friday, and I worked from home, with MSNBC as background noise and the shutdown clock counting up the days and hours and minutes. It's Day 13 now.
I was super-productive today. With far too much work to do and too little time in which to do it, I was forced to prioritize and focus, and I did. More work this weekend, but I have a plan and I'm going to stick to it, because I love when a plan comes together.
*****
Saturday morning; Day 14. It's 8:30 AM and I'm 10 pages into the proposal that I'm editing. The proposal manager emailed me last night to let me know that they're 8 pages over the limit, and they're hoping that I can help them figure out how to get rid of the extra 8 pages. Piece of proverbial cake. I can write ten pages on a subject that could probably be addressed in a single paragraph, but I absolutely excel at cutting the fat out of other people's writing. It's going so well, in fact, that I wish I didn't have to stop, but high school swim meets wait for no one.
*****
It’s almost noon now, and I’m in the spectator loft at the Martin Luther King Swim Center. Rockville vs. Einstein. I don’t have a job today, other than to sit here and maybe take some pictures, and cheer. It’s a nice change of pace. I do miss my whistle, though. But I suppose there’s no reason why I can’t wear a whistle around my neck. Who would dare to question such an iconoclastic fashion choice?
In the transition from parenting babies and toddlers to young children to school-age children to teenagers, many things change but still others remain much the same. You would think that teenage boys, having heard me explain the definition of “ready” so many times in their lives, would actually ensure that they are truly ready to leave when it’s time to leave, just so they wouldn’t have to hear me explain it once again. But it almost never fails. When it’s time to leave for a swim meet or any other need-to-be-there-on-time event, when I ask if everyone is ready, they will invariably say “yes,” all evidence to the contrary. Then, I will be forced to point out that people who claim to be “ready” but who are half-dressed, barefooted, and blissfully unaware of the location of their possessions, are not in fact “ready.”
There’s “ready” and there’s “getting ready to get ready.” They are two different things.
I was super-productive today. With far too much work to do and too little time in which to do it, I was forced to prioritize and focus, and I did. More work this weekend, but I have a plan and I'm going to stick to it, because I love when a plan comes together.
*****
Saturday morning; Day 14. It's 8:30 AM and I'm 10 pages into the proposal that I'm editing. The proposal manager emailed me last night to let me know that they're 8 pages over the limit, and they're hoping that I can help them figure out how to get rid of the extra 8 pages. Piece of proverbial cake. I can write ten pages on a subject that could probably be addressed in a single paragraph, but I absolutely excel at cutting the fat out of other people's writing. It's going so well, in fact, that I wish I didn't have to stop, but high school swim meets wait for no one.
*****
It’s almost noon now, and I’m in the spectator loft at the Martin Luther King Swim Center. Rockville vs. Einstein. I don’t have a job today, other than to sit here and maybe take some pictures, and cheer. It’s a nice change of pace. I do miss my whistle, though. But I suppose there’s no reason why I can’t wear a whistle around my neck. Who would dare to question such an iconoclastic fashion choice?
In the transition from parenting babies and toddlers to young children to school-age children to teenagers, many things change but still others remain much the same. You would think that teenage boys, having heard me explain the definition of “ready” so many times in their lives, would actually ensure that they are truly ready to leave when it’s time to leave, just so they wouldn’t have to hear me explain it once again. But it almost never fails. When it’s time to leave for a swim meet or any other need-to-be-there-on-time event, when I ask if everyone is ready, they will invariably say “yes,” all evidence to the contrary. Then, I will be forced to point out that people who claim to be “ready” but who are half-dressed, barefooted, and blissfully unaware of the location of their possessions, are not in fact “ready.”
There’s “ready” and there’s “getting ready to get ready.” They are two different things.
*****
Sunday morning; Day 15. It's 11 AM. I went to Mass last night and went running this morning, so now it's time to work. I forgot my Fitbit when I went running, which means that thousands of steps won't count. Fitbit steps for me are almost like to-do list items. I can't overemphasize how obsessed I am with the Fitbit. I'll write and tell you all about it, but another rime.
The Golden Globes are on tonight, and I'm not even looking forward to watching. If I had anything to do with the Golden Globes, I'd ask every single presenter, nominee, attendee--everyone--to not even mention Trump, or the shutdown, or the Mueller investigation, or Putin, or the fucking wall. Not a word, not a hint, not even a look to suggest that anyone is thinking about Trump in any way. What would bother him more--the usual biggest-resister competition, or nothing--no attention at all? Plus, wouldn't it be fun to screw up the Fox News producers' production plans for the week? They're all ready to spend the early part of the week complaining about Hollywood's bias against Trump, and they'll have to go back to the drawing board if no one plays along.
It's later now, about 7:30 PM. I'm watching E's "Live from the Red Carpet." Initial impressions:
Sunday morning; Day 15. It's 11 AM. I went to Mass last night and went running this morning, so now it's time to work. I forgot my Fitbit when I went running, which means that thousands of steps won't count. Fitbit steps for me are almost like to-do list items. I can't overemphasize how obsessed I am with the Fitbit. I'll write and tell you all about it, but another rime.
The Golden Globes are on tonight, and I'm not even looking forward to watching. If I had anything to do with the Golden Globes, I'd ask every single presenter, nominee, attendee--everyone--to not even mention Trump, or the shutdown, or the Mueller investigation, or Putin, or the fucking wall. Not a word, not a hint, not even a look to suggest that anyone is thinking about Trump in any way. What would bother him more--the usual biggest-resister competition, or nothing--no attention at all? Plus, wouldn't it be fun to screw up the Fox News producers' production plans for the week? They're all ready to spend the early part of the week complaining about Hollywood's bias against Trump, and they'll have to go back to the drawing board if no one plays along.
It's later now, about 7:30 PM. I'm watching E's "Live from the Red Carpet." Initial impressions:
- Lady Gaga was perfect, as always.
- When I exclaimed "Oh my God, Carol Burnett!" one of my sons asked me who she was, and I realized that I have failed as a parent. Failed.
- I have no idea what Henry Winkler is nominated for, but I can't help but root for him.
- Melissa McCarthy also loves Lee Israel, as of course she must to have played her so brilliantly. How am I supposed to make a sensible whom-to-root-for decision between Lady Gaga and Melissa McCarthy?
- Elisabeth Moss and Taylor Swift video-chatting? Adorable.
- No one is wearing a whistle. Probably just as well. A whistle is a lot of look, and few of us can pull it off. Not everyone can aspire to the fast-lane life and runway style of a high school swim referee. Don't hate me because you ain't me.
OK. I'm totally going to watch the show.
*****
Thursday, January 3, 2019
Bibliography 2018
January 1, 2019, 9:04 PM. Vacation is officially over, though I'm hanging on to the holidays with a nice glass of red wine. I don't mind going back to work. I worked a bit during vacation, so I don't feel completely overwhelmed. And i like my job.
But I'll miss the leisurely mornings. I don't sleep later than 7:30, even on days off, but the rest of my family does like to sleep late, and I love the quiet early morning with the sun streaming in through the windows and the luxury of a second cup of coffee. I'll also miss reading. Well, I read every day, but I'll miss reading for more than 15 minutes at a time.
*****
Speaking of reading, it's time for a new year and a new book list, soon to be handwritten in the back of my 2019 planner. Here's what I read in 2018. I thought that I read more books than this. Maybe I did, and just forgot to write them down. Well, if it's not documented, it didn't happen, so I'll only include the books that I remembered to write down. And they are:
Fire and Fury, Michael Wolff. Ha ha ha ha ha! Who knew that this was the good old days, amirite? In January 2018, Michael Wolff had no idea that shit hadn't even begun to get real. Ha ha ha!
Hillbilly Elegy, J.D. Vance. I wrote about this one here, and have not given it much thought since. That's not a criticism of the book so much as an admission of my tendency to become completely absorbed in something while I'm doing it and then to forget it completely the moment I walk away. I envy gnats their attention spans.
Is It Just Me? Miranda Hart. I wrote about this in the same post, and even found a way to connect Miranda Hart with J.D. Vance. They are both members of very small and exclusive clubs.
Textbook Amy Krouse Rosenthal, Amy Krouse Rosenthal. This was also covered here. I don't think there will ever be another writer like AKR, may she rest in peace.
Slouching Towards Jerusalem, Joan Didion. I am standing by my original post about this one, including my strong objection to "towards" rather than "toward" in the title. It's a small but important distinction.
The White Album, Joan Didion. Briefly reviewed here, almost a year ago.
Miranda's Daily Dose of Such Fun, Miranda Hart. I follow only four celebrities on Instagram: Katie Ledecky, Michael Phelps, Alexander Ovechkin, and Miranda Hart. I'll watch Miranda in just about anything, but I still can't believe that I wasted two hours on this silliness. I mean, it's not terrible or anything; it is just extremely uneven. Some of the daily tips are genuinely funny and original; many of the others read as if the author was facing a looming deadline and had to just get words on the page, no matter the words.
Going into Town, Roz Chast. Really wonderful. Not quite as good as Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant, but that's a high bar, even for Roz Chast. Going into Town is about New York City, past and present. It's both a practical guide to living in the city (where to eat, how to find an apartment, how to get from Point A to Point B), and an illustrated memoir of Chast's life there. Roz Chast grew up in Brooklyn and spent her young adulthood in Manhattan, drawing cartoons for The New Yorker. She moved to the suburbs when her children were young and wrote Going into Town for them. I hate calling any book or movie a "love letter" to a city, but the book's subtitle is "A Love Letter to New York," so I guess it's appropriate in this case. You should read this if you are one of those people who can't understand why people love New York so much. You should really read this if you love New York. I love New York, and I love Roz Chast. This was one of my 2018 favorites.
Bergdorf Blondes, Plum Sykes. So silly, and that's not even why I didn't like it. I like silly as well as (more than!) the next person. And I sneer at critics who dismiss any novel written by a young woman as "chick lit." But this book is ridiculous. I, however, am even more ridiculous; because apparently, I read it twice. I mean really.
A Gentleman in Moscow, Amor Towles. This list is in chronological order (not by date of publication, but by date of reading), which is the only reason that this book doesn't appear at the very top. It was my very favorite book of 2018; and in a year that included Joan Didion and Roz Chast and Graham Greene and Maeve Brennan, that is an accomplishment. I wrote about this one here and here and here. No, you don't have to read all of those posts; I mention them only to demonstrate that this book was special enough that I couldn't stop thinking about it, even when the Capitals were playing in the Stanley Cup final. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl, Mona Awad. I was certain that I mentioned this book at some point last year, but a search of my blog by the terms 13 and thirteen yields nothing. And now I don't remember very much about the book, other than the clever title, a play on title of the Wallace Stevens poem "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." You might think that a person who spends a third of her life reading and writing would be devoted to poetry, but you would be wrong, because I don't really like poetry very much. But I like this poem, and I liked this book.
Imaginary Friends, Alison Lurie. I mentioned this one here and here. And I never did finish it.
Leaving Home: Reading, Writing, and Life on the Page, Lynn Freed. This one was not on my handwritten list, but I remembered it when I was pulling old posts for this list. I wrote this post in Montreal, after driving past dozens of vacation trailers bearing the Je Me Souviens license plate.
Entering Ephesus, Daphne Atlas. I mostly hated this book, but I forgave it on account of a few great passages, including one about linoleum and Soviet Russia. You had to be there.
Lina and Serge, Simon Morrison. More Soviet Russians, some luckier than others. I don't have a strong opinion about the musical works of Serge Prokofiev, but I know for sure that I wouldn't have wanted to be married to him. Lina brought a handbag into the gulag. A woman after my own heart.
The Collected Stories of Louis Auchincloss, Louis Auchincloss. No Bolsheviks in this one, but still worth reading.
To the Barricades, Alix Kates Shulman. A so-so biography of an insufferable subject.
The Clancys of Queens, Tara Clancy. Another memoir, which I liked very much. After I read this, I saw a video featuring Tara Clancy and her mother and many of the friends she wrote about in the book. She asked the group why there are so few stories about working-class women, and her mother said that it was probably because they're too busy working to write about their lives. I also heard part of an interview on NPR, when Tara Clancy explained that she named her first son "Ray" knowing that people would automatically assume that a boy named Ray Clancy would be tough. There should be more boys named Ray.
Evita, First Lady: A Biography of Eva Peron. John Barnes. Another so-so biography of an insufferable subject. This was a coincidence, not a literary theme that I selected in advance. Eva Peron reminds me of someone. Who could it be?
The Long-Winded Lady, Maeve Brennan. Really, really good. I wrote about it here and here, and I don't think I'm done with it yet.
It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis. Well of course it can. Like most of Lewis's novels, this was considered very important and serious. And like most of his novels, it's not very good. Sinclair Lewis might have been an even worse misanthrope than Evelyn Waugh, and he wasn't nearly as good a writer. But the premise--that the United States could descend into totalitarianism after just one election--is entirely valid. This was published in 1935.
My Paris Dream, Kate Betts. My almost-last book of 2018. I was halfway through another book on December 31, but I think I'll count it for 2019.
*****
I wrote half of this after two glasses of wine, and the other half at 4:45 in the morning (I couldn't sleep). Maybe I should have noted this right at the beginning, as a disclaimer. I'll write more semi-literate book reviews for you in 2019. Happy New Year, and don't say you weren't warned.
But I'll miss the leisurely mornings. I don't sleep later than 7:30, even on days off, but the rest of my family does like to sleep late, and I love the quiet early morning with the sun streaming in through the windows and the luxury of a second cup of coffee. I'll also miss reading. Well, I read every day, but I'll miss reading for more than 15 minutes at a time.
*****
Speaking of reading, it's time for a new year and a new book list, soon to be handwritten in the back of my 2019 planner. Here's what I read in 2018. I thought that I read more books than this. Maybe I did, and just forgot to write them down. Well, if it's not documented, it didn't happen, so I'll only include the books that I remembered to write down. And they are:
Fire and Fury, Michael Wolff. Ha ha ha ha ha! Who knew that this was the good old days, amirite? In January 2018, Michael Wolff had no idea that shit hadn't even begun to get real. Ha ha ha!
Hillbilly Elegy, J.D. Vance. I wrote about this one here, and have not given it much thought since. That's not a criticism of the book so much as an admission of my tendency to become completely absorbed in something while I'm doing it and then to forget it completely the moment I walk away. I envy gnats their attention spans.
Is It Just Me? Miranda Hart. I wrote about this in the same post, and even found a way to connect Miranda Hart with J.D. Vance. They are both members of very small and exclusive clubs.
Textbook Amy Krouse Rosenthal, Amy Krouse Rosenthal. This was also covered here. I don't think there will ever be another writer like AKR, may she rest in peace.
Slouching Towards Jerusalem, Joan Didion. I am standing by my original post about this one, including my strong objection to "towards" rather than "toward" in the title. It's a small but important distinction.
The White Album, Joan Didion. Briefly reviewed here, almost a year ago.
Miranda's Daily Dose of Such Fun, Miranda Hart. I follow only four celebrities on Instagram: Katie Ledecky, Michael Phelps, Alexander Ovechkin, and Miranda Hart. I'll watch Miranda in just about anything, but I still can't believe that I wasted two hours on this silliness. I mean, it's not terrible or anything; it is just extremely uneven. Some of the daily tips are genuinely funny and original; many of the others read as if the author was facing a looming deadline and had to just get words on the page, no matter the words.
Going into Town, Roz Chast. Really wonderful. Not quite as good as Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant, but that's a high bar, even for Roz Chast. Going into Town is about New York City, past and present. It's both a practical guide to living in the city (where to eat, how to find an apartment, how to get from Point A to Point B), and an illustrated memoir of Chast's life there. Roz Chast grew up in Brooklyn and spent her young adulthood in Manhattan, drawing cartoons for The New Yorker. She moved to the suburbs when her children were young and wrote Going into Town for them. I hate calling any book or movie a "love letter" to a city, but the book's subtitle is "A Love Letter to New York," so I guess it's appropriate in this case. You should read this if you are one of those people who can't understand why people love New York so much. You should really read this if you love New York. I love New York, and I love Roz Chast. This was one of my 2018 favorites.
Bergdorf Blondes, Plum Sykes. So silly, and that's not even why I didn't like it. I like silly as well as (more than!) the next person. And I sneer at critics who dismiss any novel written by a young woman as "chick lit." But this book is ridiculous. I, however, am even more ridiculous; because apparently, I read it twice. I mean really.
A Gentleman in Moscow, Amor Towles. This list is in chronological order (not by date of publication, but by date of reading), which is the only reason that this book doesn't appear at the very top. It was my very favorite book of 2018; and in a year that included Joan Didion and Roz Chast and Graham Greene and Maeve Brennan, that is an accomplishment. I wrote about this one here and here and here. No, you don't have to read all of those posts; I mention them only to demonstrate that this book was special enough that I couldn't stop thinking about it, even when the Capitals were playing in the Stanley Cup final. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl, Mona Awad. I was certain that I mentioned this book at some point last year, but a search of my blog by the terms 13 and thirteen yields nothing. And now I don't remember very much about the book, other than the clever title, a play on title of the Wallace Stevens poem "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." You might think that a person who spends a third of her life reading and writing would be devoted to poetry, but you would be wrong, because I don't really like poetry very much. But I like this poem, and I liked this book.
Imaginary Friends, Alison Lurie. I mentioned this one here and here. And I never did finish it.
Leaving Home: Reading, Writing, and Life on the Page, Lynn Freed. This one was not on my handwritten list, but I remembered it when I was pulling old posts for this list. I wrote this post in Montreal, after driving past dozens of vacation trailers bearing the Je Me Souviens license plate.
Entering Ephesus, Daphne Atlas. I mostly hated this book, but I forgave it on account of a few great passages, including one about linoleum and Soviet Russia. You had to be there.
Lina and Serge, Simon Morrison. More Soviet Russians, some luckier than others. I don't have a strong opinion about the musical works of Serge Prokofiev, but I know for sure that I wouldn't have wanted to be married to him. Lina brought a handbag into the gulag. A woman after my own heart.
The Collected Stories of Louis Auchincloss, Louis Auchincloss. No Bolsheviks in this one, but still worth reading.
To the Barricades, Alix Kates Shulman. A so-so biography of an insufferable subject.
The Clancys of Queens, Tara Clancy. Another memoir, which I liked very much. After I read this, I saw a video featuring Tara Clancy and her mother and many of the friends she wrote about in the book. She asked the group why there are so few stories about working-class women, and her mother said that it was probably because they're too busy working to write about their lives. I also heard part of an interview on NPR, when Tara Clancy explained that she named her first son "Ray" knowing that people would automatically assume that a boy named Ray Clancy would be tough. There should be more boys named Ray.
Evita, First Lady: A Biography of Eva Peron. John Barnes. Another so-so biography of an insufferable subject. This was a coincidence, not a literary theme that I selected in advance. Eva Peron reminds me of someone. Who could it be?
The Long-Winded Lady, Maeve Brennan. Really, really good. I wrote about it here and here, and I don't think I'm done with it yet.
It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis. Well of course it can. Like most of Lewis's novels, this was considered very important and serious. And like most of his novels, it's not very good. Sinclair Lewis might have been an even worse misanthrope than Evelyn Waugh, and he wasn't nearly as good a writer. But the premise--that the United States could descend into totalitarianism after just one election--is entirely valid. This was published in 1935.
My Paris Dream, Kate Betts. My almost-last book of 2018. I was halfway through another book on December 31, but I think I'll count it for 2019.
*****
I wrote half of this after two glasses of wine, and the other half at 4:45 in the morning (I couldn't sleep). Maybe I should have noted this right at the beginning, as a disclaimer. I'll write more semi-literate book reviews for you in 2019. Happy New Year, and don't say you weren't warned.
Monday, December 31, 2018
The End of the Year
Thursday night: I’m at my sister’s house right now and cannot remember the WiFi password. She’s asleep, so I won’t bother her. Thank goodness for offline Google Docs. I can still write even when I can’t get online. Because wouldn’t it be the greatest of tragedies if you couldn't read this bilge? Too much to contemplate, I know--too great a potential literary loss.
Meanwhile, just about a year to the day after I wrote this, I found myself at the Gateway Pharmacy, once again singing along to Chicago ("Searching So Long") and contemplating the purchase of several different types of fancy soaps. I think I go there just for the music. And the soap, of course. I bought several, and I’m looking forward to a very clean January.
It's hard to believe that the holidays are drawing to a close. Every year, right around December 14, I panic at the rapid and inexorable approach of Christmas, just 10 or 11 days away, with so much of my shopping and baking and decorating yet to be done. And then it’s December 27, and mid-December seems ages ago; nowhere near Christmas. It’s still holidayish, especially here in the Philadelphia suburbs, where holiday nostalgia is a way of life. But the magic is wearing off. The post-Christmas sales already look ragged and picked-over and children are a little frantic, desperately wringing every drop of fun out of their waning Christmas vacation.
*****
Friday: We finally made some decisions on the Ireland trip; most importantly, what place other than Dublin to visit. Our original proposed itinerary had us in five different places in six days, and since I can barely manage to force myself out of the house most days, I suggested that we limit it a bit and try to minimize the driving and checking in and out of hotels and spend more time just being wherever we are. So we have a compromise.
The place other than Dublin is Kerry, and now there’s an additional layer of confusion because it appears that Kerry and Killarney might be the same place but I’m not 100% certain and I don’t want to be the person who asks. Later this weekend, I'll have an in-depth chat with Google and settle the matter. Meanwhile, I’m up to my eyeballs in picturesque Irish names and I’m feeling like I just can’t. I steered us away from a trip to Bunratty Castle because I object to the name Bunratty. That name conjures crowds of Boston and New York and Philadelphia tourists, festooned with claddagh jewelry and sentimental about their Irish roots. Not to mention the two rodents in one name. No thank you. I'm sure we will find another Irish castle. They have a lot of them in Ireland.
Saturday: We're back home now. Our house still feels very festive and Christmas-y, and we still have way too many snacks and treats. Just a few minutes ago, I was looking for another snack. I found a half-empty bag of tortilla chips from last weekend, when we had friends over to watch the sad sad Redskins game. The bag has a clear window in the front, and the words "Great at Parties," with an arrow pointing toward the window.
I thought about that little arrow. Was it meant to prove that there are, in fact, chips in the bag? Or that these particular chips have a special quality that makes them better for parties than other chips? Maybe the consumer is meant to watch these chips in action, on their best party behavior, vying for attention. "Invite me to your party," a chip will exclaim, "and I won't ask to take over the music selection!" A second chip will chime in. "Invite me to your party! I won't say ONE WORD about Trump." Then a third. "Invite me to your party! I won't double dip. I won't even single dip. I'm a chip. I stay away from dip altogether."
I don't make New Year's resolutions, but as I listened to the imaginary chip chatter, I realized that I'd better at least resolve not to eat everything that doesn't move, as I've been doing for the past few days.I put the chips away, and got some carrots instead. Carrots are quiet. They keep to themselves.
Sunday: I suppose I do make resolutions. I resolved to stop eating junk; and then I also resolved to stop spending so much money. Five minutes later, I spent $150 at Ikea's post-Christmas sale. I went there for a lamp.
I just finished a book that I liked much better than I expected to. My Paris Dream, by fashion writer and editor Kate Betts, is kind of a memoir of Paris in the late 80s and early 90s, but it's more the story of Kate Betts' life and career, told through fashion. My Paris Dream is very different from The Long-Winded Lady, another memoir of a city. Kate Betts takes a broad view of Paris. She doesn't describe much, though the passing details that she does share are vivid and memorable. Her Paris is alive with characters and personalities, and her life there was so fast-paced and achievement-driven that she didn't have time for close observation of physical detail.
Though the books are quite different, My Paris Dream reminded me of The Long-Winded Lady. Unlike the Paris that Kate Betts wrote about, Maeve Brennan's New York seems a very lonely place, populated only by strangers whom Brennan observed from a distance. But Brennan was very intimately acquainted with her tiny corner of the city, and makes the reader share her feeling of loss every time a building comes down or a restaurant closes or a quiet residential street is taken over by office buildings. Both My Paris Dream and The Long-Winded Lady were written by women who crossed an ocean to find the city that would shape their lives.
After Paris, I was at loose ends, deciding what to read next. I'm now three stories into Graham Greene's 21 Stories, and I'm completely absorbed. Our Man in Havana is the only other Graham Greene I've ever read, and the stories aren't quite as good as that, but they're very good.
It's the last day of the year, so this will be my last book for 2018, and my last blog post, too. This post isn't really finished yet, but I don't want to start a post in one year and finish it in another. Happy New Year.
Meanwhile, just about a year to the day after I wrote this, I found myself at the Gateway Pharmacy, once again singing along to Chicago ("Searching So Long") and contemplating the purchase of several different types of fancy soaps. I think I go there just for the music. And the soap, of course. I bought several, and I’m looking forward to a very clean January.
It's hard to believe that the holidays are drawing to a close. Every year, right around December 14, I panic at the rapid and inexorable approach of Christmas, just 10 or 11 days away, with so much of my shopping and baking and decorating yet to be done. And then it’s December 27, and mid-December seems ages ago; nowhere near Christmas. It’s still holidayish, especially here in the Philadelphia suburbs, where holiday nostalgia is a way of life. But the magic is wearing off. The post-Christmas sales already look ragged and picked-over and children are a little frantic, desperately wringing every drop of fun out of their waning Christmas vacation.
*****
Friday: We finally made some decisions on the Ireland trip; most importantly, what place other than Dublin to visit. Our original proposed itinerary had us in five different places in six days, and since I can barely manage to force myself out of the house most days, I suggested that we limit it a bit and try to minimize the driving and checking in and out of hotels and spend more time just being wherever we are. So we have a compromise.
The place other than Dublin is Kerry, and now there’s an additional layer of confusion because it appears that Kerry and Killarney might be the same place but I’m not 100% certain and I don’t want to be the person who asks. Later this weekend, I'll have an in-depth chat with Google and settle the matter. Meanwhile, I’m up to my eyeballs in picturesque Irish names and I’m feeling like I just can’t. I steered us away from a trip to Bunratty Castle because I object to the name Bunratty. That name conjures crowds of Boston and New York and Philadelphia tourists, festooned with claddagh jewelry and sentimental about their Irish roots. Not to mention the two rodents in one name. No thank you. I'm sure we will find another Irish castle. They have a lot of them in Ireland.
Saturday: We're back home now. Our house still feels very festive and Christmas-y, and we still have way too many snacks and treats. Just a few minutes ago, I was looking for another snack. I found a half-empty bag of tortilla chips from last weekend, when we had friends over to watch the sad sad Redskins game. The bag has a clear window in the front, and the words "Great at Parties," with an arrow pointing toward the window.
I thought about that little arrow. Was it meant to prove that there are, in fact, chips in the bag? Or that these particular chips have a special quality that makes them better for parties than other chips? Maybe the consumer is meant to watch these chips in action, on their best party behavior, vying for attention. "Invite me to your party," a chip will exclaim, "and I won't ask to take over the music selection!" A second chip will chime in. "Invite me to your party! I won't say ONE WORD about Trump." Then a third. "Invite me to your party! I won't double dip. I won't even single dip. I'm a chip. I stay away from dip altogether."
I don't make New Year's resolutions, but as I listened to the imaginary chip chatter, I realized that I'd better at least resolve not to eat everything that doesn't move, as I've been doing for the past few days.I put the chips away, and got some carrots instead. Carrots are quiet. They keep to themselves.
Sunday: I suppose I do make resolutions. I resolved to stop eating junk; and then I also resolved to stop spending so much money. Five minutes later, I spent $150 at Ikea's post-Christmas sale. I went there for a lamp.
I just finished a book that I liked much better than I expected to. My Paris Dream, by fashion writer and editor Kate Betts, is kind of a memoir of Paris in the late 80s and early 90s, but it's more the story of Kate Betts' life and career, told through fashion. My Paris Dream is very different from The Long-Winded Lady, another memoir of a city. Kate Betts takes a broad view of Paris. She doesn't describe much, though the passing details that she does share are vivid and memorable. Her Paris is alive with characters and personalities, and her life there was so fast-paced and achievement-driven that she didn't have time for close observation of physical detail.
Though the books are quite different, My Paris Dream reminded me of The Long-Winded Lady. Unlike the Paris that Kate Betts wrote about, Maeve Brennan's New York seems a very lonely place, populated only by strangers whom Brennan observed from a distance. But Brennan was very intimately acquainted with her tiny corner of the city, and makes the reader share her feeling of loss every time a building comes down or a restaurant closes or a quiet residential street is taken over by office buildings. Both My Paris Dream and The Long-Winded Lady were written by women who crossed an ocean to find the city that would shape their lives.
After Paris, I was at loose ends, deciding what to read next. I'm now three stories into Graham Greene's 21 Stories, and I'm completely absorbed. Our Man in Havana is the only other Graham Greene I've ever read, and the stories aren't quite as good as that, but they're very good.
It's the last day of the year, so this will be my last book for 2018, and my last blog post, too. This post isn't really finished yet, but I don't want to start a post in one year and finish it in another. Happy New Year.
Thursday, December 27, 2018
Process improvement
Saturday: Process improvement is a big part of the work we do on our government contract. That's actually the case on most government contracts. The Feds love nothing more than to have people tell them what to do, and how to do it, so that's what we do all day. It pays the bills.
Naturally, I have been thinking about how I might apply process improvement principles to other areas of life--cookies, for instance. If I, with limited knowledge, can help to improve IT management processes, then why can't I improve cookie baking, a process about which I know quite a bit? Yes, it's cookie-making day; and if you have been hanging around here for any length of time, then you know how I feel about cookie-making day.
Back to the process improvement. Last night I thought that it might be a good idea to make the dough (the worst part of cookie-making) and refrigerate it, so that I'd then have only the baking part to do today. That was one of the best ideas I have ever had. Then, on the recommendation of my cousin, I bought a melon-baller to scoop out the cookie dough. Genius! I had also already bought additional cooling racks, and two of the largest cookie sheets I've ever seen. They just fit into the oven, and can easily accommodate 36 cookies each, so I can put 6 dozen cookies in the oven at one time. So with pre-made dough, a kitchen full of cooling racks, giant baking sheets, and a melon-baller, baking time was just about two quite painless hours. The last batch is in the oven now. See you next year, cookies. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
*****
Sunday: It's December 23; or Christmas Adam, as we like to call it. I'm on vacation now, kind of. I still have some work to do, but I won't actually return to the office until January 2. I hope that the shutdown will be over by then; but if not, I hope that the President is stuck in Washington for the whole week. Vindictive, aren't I?
I overindulged in cookies yesterday, so I'm sticking with fruit today. Actually, I only ate two cookies yesterday, but I ate the equivalent of at least a dozen more in cookie dough. The CDC says that I should avoid cookie dough like fentanyl or second-hand smoke, but what do they know?
Maybe we SHOULD shut the government down. I mean, really.
So today, I'm substituting clementines for cookies. I love clementines. They're very Christmas-y to those of us who grew up at a time when certain fruits were only available in season.
When I was very young, I lived in a tiny apartment in my hometown of Philadelphia. I worked for a printing company at 9th and Arch, right around the corner from Reading Terminal Market, where we often went for lunch. I used to go there after work, too, to buy fruit and Italian bread and cheese that I would carry home on the subway, feeling very grown-up and independent with my gourmet groceries.
Clementines were new to me. At that time, they were only available in December and January, but we never had them at home. It was the early 80s, and neighborhood supermarkets didn't have much variety in produce. Iceberg lettuce, broccoli and corn, white potatoes, carrots and onions, and fruit--oranges, apples, bananas, and grapes, with strawberries and peaches and cherries in the summer. The Reading Terminal Market clementines in their cute little wooden crates were a novelty. I hated winter then just as much as I do now, and clementines tasted like warmth and sunshine. Plus, I had leftover teenage acne that persisted into my twenties, and I was convinced that clementines had an astringent effect.
*****
It's Christmas Eve, and we have no real plans other than Mass at 6 PM and an 8 PM showing of "Vice." We like going to movies on Christmas Eve, and this was the only one that we could all agree on. Needless to say, the J-Lo sexy middle aged lady romantic comedy was not among the options. Zero stars.
I worked this morning, though I was technically supposed to be on vacation. Now, I'm going to just eat another clementine, and maybe a cookie or two, and watch "The Family Stone," another of my favorite bad movies. Tomorrow, we will open presents and eat ham and sit by the fire and stuff ourselves with cookies and do everything else that 21st century middle-class Americans do to celebrate the birth of the Savior.
*****
Wednesday: It was a lovely Christmas. Now it's December 26, and we're deep into Christmas vacation mode. I worked again this morning, but only for a little while. Then we went to the Renwick Gallery, and walked around President's Park and the Ellipse. We hadn't been to see the National Christmas Tree since 2014 or so, but we used to go every year when our children were little. "This is the most nostalgic thing ever," said my 17-year-old as they posed for the obligatory picture.
It was a beautiful day, sunny and winter-mild; just chilly enough that I needed a coat (because I always need a coat) but not so warm that it was too hot to walk around wearing it. The streets were crowded with other families on Christmas vacation, visiting museums and drinking coffee from holiday-themed Starbucks cups and taking pictures in front of the White House fence. We walked to Chinatown for a late lunch at our favorite pub, and then came home after dark. It's 10:30 PM now, and we just finished some leftovers in front of "Good Will Hunting" on Netflix.
We have been working very hard lately. Even on days off, we're very busy. Even on vacation, we tend to stick to a routine. A few days of actual stay up late, eat whatever (and whenver), go places just for the sake of going, watch bad movies, bona fide vacation is exactly the thing.
Next week, I'll return to waking up early and sticking to the plan and improving the process. Hopefully, the government will come to its senses and reopen the parts that are closed. But that's next week. Right now, I think I'll have another cookie.
Naturally, I have been thinking about how I might apply process improvement principles to other areas of life--cookies, for instance. If I, with limited knowledge, can help to improve IT management processes, then why can't I improve cookie baking, a process about which I know quite a bit? Yes, it's cookie-making day; and if you have been hanging around here for any length of time, then you know how I feel about cookie-making day.
*****
Sunday: It's December 23; or Christmas Adam, as we like to call it. I'm on vacation now, kind of. I still have some work to do, but I won't actually return to the office until January 2. I hope that the shutdown will be over by then; but if not, I hope that the President is stuck in Washington for the whole week. Vindictive, aren't I?
I overindulged in cookies yesterday, so I'm sticking with fruit today. Actually, I only ate two cookies yesterday, but I ate the equivalent of at least a dozen more in cookie dough. The CDC says that I should avoid cookie dough like fentanyl or second-hand smoke, but what do they know?
Maybe we SHOULD shut the government down. I mean, really.
So today, I'm substituting clementines for cookies. I love clementines. They're very Christmas-y to those of us who grew up at a time when certain fruits were only available in season.
When I was very young, I lived in a tiny apartment in my hometown of Philadelphia. I worked for a printing company at 9th and Arch, right around the corner from Reading Terminal Market, where we often went for lunch. I used to go there after work, too, to buy fruit and Italian bread and cheese that I would carry home on the subway, feeling very grown-up and independent with my gourmet groceries.
Clementines were new to me. At that time, they were only available in December and January, but we never had them at home. It was the early 80s, and neighborhood supermarkets didn't have much variety in produce. Iceberg lettuce, broccoli and corn, white potatoes, carrots and onions, and fruit--oranges, apples, bananas, and grapes, with strawberries and peaches and cherries in the summer. The Reading Terminal Market clementines in their cute little wooden crates were a novelty. I hated winter then just as much as I do now, and clementines tasted like warmth and sunshine. Plus, I had leftover teenage acne that persisted into my twenties, and I was convinced that clementines had an astringent effect.
*****
It's Christmas Eve, and we have no real plans other than Mass at 6 PM and an 8 PM showing of "Vice." We like going to movies on Christmas Eve, and this was the only one that we could all agree on. Needless to say, the J-Lo sexy middle aged lady romantic comedy was not among the options. Zero stars.
I worked this morning, though I was technically supposed to be on vacation. Now, I'm going to just eat another clementine, and maybe a cookie or two, and watch "The Family Stone," another of my favorite bad movies. Tomorrow, we will open presents and eat ham and sit by the fire and stuff ourselves with cookies and do everything else that 21st century middle-class Americans do to celebrate the birth of the Savior.
*****
Wednesday: It was a lovely Christmas. Now it's December 26, and we're deep into Christmas vacation mode. I worked again this morning, but only for a little while. Then we went to the Renwick Gallery, and walked around President's Park and the Ellipse. We hadn't been to see the National Christmas Tree since 2014 or so, but we used to go every year when our children were little. "This is the most nostalgic thing ever," said my 17-year-old as they posed for the obligatory picture.
 |
| They're wearing Christmas presents. |
We have been working very hard lately. Even on days off, we're very busy. Even on vacation, we tend to stick to a routine. A few days of actual stay up late, eat whatever (and whenver), go places just for the sake of going, watch bad movies, bona fide vacation is exactly the thing.
Next week, I'll return to waking up early and sticking to the plan and improving the process. Hopefully, the government will come to its senses and reopen the parts that are closed. But that's next week. Right now, I think I'll have another cookie.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Hello, Mexico? Yeah, this is Accounts Receivable...
Monday: As I've mentioned before, I don't write movie reviews. Only sometimes, I do. And here's a review of a movie that I have not seen and plan never to see. Not only am I not going to see this movie; I'm not even going to look at any reviews or plot summaries. I'm judging it entirely on the TV commercial that I saw yesterday. "Second Act" gets zero stars out of whatever number of stars my rating scale would have, if I had one.
My opposition to "Second Act" has nothing to do with the fact that it looks like a bad movie. As I've written before, I have a special place in my heart for lots of bad movies. And I don't object to Jennifer Lopez, either. She's fine. What I do object to is the kill-me-now boring "I am middle-aged-but-still-sexy-woman-hear-me-roar" trope. Tiresome. So so so so tiresome.
The idea of a woman entering her "second act" (what the fuck) just as beautiful and sexy as she was at age 25, but with all the wisdom (whatever) of middle age is supposed to be liberating and "empowering" (OMG, kill me) but it's exactly the opposite. It's not enough for a 50-year-old woman to be accomplished or wise or kind or nurturing or powerful or successful or all of the above She also has to be beautiful; and I don't mean the kind of beauty that older women who know how to live radiate from within. No, I mean Maxim magazine (does that still exist?) MILF hotness.
Gag.
And you know what else? There's no corporate job interview scenario in which a person can fake a Harvard degree. It's 2018, and anyone who is interviewing Harvard graduates, real or fake, has access to the Internet. I mean really.
Zero stars. Zero.
*****
Tuesday: The carpet people are coming tomorrow. One more day of living in a construction zone; one more day until I can return my house to its customary orderly state.
I'm quite happy about the carpet, but quite sad about the untimely death of my favorite Instagram cat. Yes, I know. But this was an especially cute cat, who had a cat stroke at only four years of age. This cat's Instagram feed was one of the funniest things online, and created for the best reason--because the cat's owner thought her cat was amusing, and she wanted to share the fun.
There are lots of reasons to worry about the meanness and emptiness of the social media landscape, but an Instagram community built on shared enjoyment of a mischievous cat and his hilariously captioned silly photos and videos strikes me as a great use of the Internet. I'll miss him.
*****
Wednesday: Question for a person who is reshelving books: Among a pile of books of similar size, which book's authors (other than Muriel Spark, who already has her own shelf) might be worthy to share a shelf with Flannery O'Connor?
A. Evelyn Waugh
B. Nathaniel Hawthorne
C. Penelope Fitzgerald
Trick question. The answer is no one.
Reshelving books is like solving a puzzle, and I'm terrible at puzzles. I should taken a picture before I cleared off the bookcases, but the books are all back on the shelves now, in the bookcases that are back where they belong, because my house is back in order again.
This was actually an extra-good day because I also won my company'e Employee of the Year award. I felt like SpongeBob. That's my face on the wall, twelve times in a row.
*****
Friday, December 21. Four days before Christmas and here we go again.
You know what? I think they should give him his stupid wall. There's nothing inherently wrong about a wall. If a border between countries is reasonable, then why not secure it with a wall? Lots of countries do it.
I think we should be much more generous to refugees and asylum-seekers and really almost everyone else who wants to come to this country. We're the richest country in the world. We can share. So build the wall, and then use it to manage the influx in an orderly fashion.
It would be nice if it was that simple, wouldn't it?
My work friends and I are off the hook for this one. I'm on vacation next week, and even if it continues past New Year's Day, our project is funded, so we can continue working. About 25% of Federal contractors, who don't get back pay after the shutdown ends, are not so lucky.
Maybe they'll figure this out quickly. Or maybe Mexico will open its mail--they might have missed our last bill.
Meanwhile, Merry Christmas.
My opposition to "Second Act" has nothing to do with the fact that it looks like a bad movie. As I've written before, I have a special place in my heart for lots of bad movies. And I don't object to Jennifer Lopez, either. She's fine. What I do object to is the kill-me-now boring "I am middle-aged-but-still-sexy-woman-hear-me-roar" trope. Tiresome. So so so so tiresome.
The idea of a woman entering her "second act" (what the fuck) just as beautiful and sexy as she was at age 25, but with all the wisdom (whatever) of middle age is supposed to be liberating and "empowering" (OMG, kill me) but it's exactly the opposite. It's not enough for a 50-year-old woman to be accomplished or wise or kind or nurturing or powerful or successful or all of the above She also has to be beautiful; and I don't mean the kind of beauty that older women who know how to live radiate from within. No, I mean Maxim magazine (does that still exist?) MILF hotness.
Gag.
And you know what else? There's no corporate job interview scenario in which a person can fake a Harvard degree. It's 2018, and anyone who is interviewing Harvard graduates, real or fake, has access to the Internet. I mean really.
Zero stars. Zero.
*****
Tuesday: The carpet people are coming tomorrow. One more day of living in a construction zone; one more day until I can return my house to its customary orderly state.
I'm quite happy about the carpet, but quite sad about the untimely death of my favorite Instagram cat. Yes, I know. But this was an especially cute cat, who had a cat stroke at only four years of age. This cat's Instagram feed was one of the funniest things online, and created for the best reason--because the cat's owner thought her cat was amusing, and she wanted to share the fun.
There are lots of reasons to worry about the meanness and emptiness of the social media landscape, but an Instagram community built on shared enjoyment of a mischievous cat and his hilariously captioned silly photos and videos strikes me as a great use of the Internet. I'll miss him.
*****
Wednesday: Question for a person who is reshelving books: Among a pile of books of similar size, which book's authors (other than Muriel Spark, who already has her own shelf) might be worthy to share a shelf with Flannery O'Connor?
A. Evelyn Waugh
B. Nathaniel Hawthorne
C. Penelope Fitzgerald
Trick question. The answer is no one.
Reshelving books is like solving a puzzle, and I'm terrible at puzzles. I should taken a picture before I cleared off the bookcases, but the books are all back on the shelves now, in the bookcases that are back where they belong, because my house is back in order again.
This was actually an extra-good day because I also won my company'e Employee of the Year award. I felt like SpongeBob. That's my face on the wall, twelve times in a row.
 |
| Suck it, Squidward. |
*****
Friday, December 21. Four days before Christmas and here we go again.
You know what? I think they should give him his stupid wall. There's nothing inherently wrong about a wall. If a border between countries is reasonable, then why not secure it with a wall? Lots of countries do it.
I think we should be much more generous to refugees and asylum-seekers and really almost everyone else who wants to come to this country. We're the richest country in the world. We can share. So build the wall, and then use it to manage the influx in an orderly fashion.
It would be nice if it was that simple, wouldn't it?
My work friends and I are off the hook for this one. I'm on vacation next week, and even if it continues past New Year's Day, our project is funded, so we can continue working. About 25% of Federal contractors, who don't get back pay after the shutdown ends, are not so lucky.
Maybe they'll figure this out quickly. Or maybe Mexico will open its mail--they might have missed our last bill.
Meanwhile, Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 16, 2018
Where's the Tylenol?
You know what's a bad idea? I could give you a million, at least 100,000 of them born of personal experience; but here's one in particular. Ripping out carpet and installing new carpet two weeks before Christmas is a bad idea. A bad, bad idea.
In and of itself, of course, carpet installation is not a bad idea. Carpet is a one-day job, assuming that all goes according to plan. It's that "assuming" part that's complicated; that, and the "all going according to plan." Because you never know for sure what's under the old carpet until you rip it out.
You see where this is going, don't you? Remember when I wrote that I'd write again when my house was clean? Oh, the naivete. Right now, I have no carpet and no floor other than concrete in half the house, and the furniture is all jammed into the kitchen and two bedrooms. It's cold and dusty and cluttered. We can't even get to our beds.
Long story short(er), there was a problem with the old parquet that was under the carpet, so we had to rip it out. That was an easier job than I expected. But now we have to clean up the dust and glue and broken parquet, which is another day's worth of work. And the carpet installer is telling me that they can't come back until after Christmas, which I am supposed to host. I know that there are bigger problems than this, but this one seems bad enough right now. I don't like dirt and disorder and disruption and I'm neck-deep in all three. It's Christmas Vacation, and Cousin Eddie just pulled up in the RV.
And you know what? The shitter is full. The shitter is all the way full.
*****
It's the next day now, the next day being Wednesday. So yesterday was Tuesday. It's all a blur. We still have concrete floors in half of our house and furniture in places where God never designed it to go, but things are looking up a bit. My husband took today off and cleaned the floors, which were covered with dust and debris from yesterday's parquet removal adventure. We moved some furniture around, just enough that we can get in and out of the bedrooms. And the kitchen and family room are almost normal, so we have a little oasis of near-order and almost-calm. It's not my ideal household state, but it's a marked improvement over yesterday. Meanwhile, I'm working on gently persuading the carpet installers to try to find room for us in their busy busy schedule. I'm pretty persuasive; and what I lack in persuasion power, I make up for in persistence. I don't know when my house will be back to normal again, but I think it will happen before Santa shoves his fat white ass down the chimney.
*****
So it's Thursday now. I still don't have carpet but they might be able to move our installation date to next week. It's not tomorrow but it's not the day after Christmas either. It's an improvement. It's a move in the right direction. Progress.
I'm writing this on my phone as I stand in the main hallway at Rockville High School, waiting for the auditorium to open. It's concert night and the place is abuzz. Clusters of parents are chatting while young people in black concert dress zip back and forth, instruments in hand and sheet music trailing behind them. The snack bar is selling chips and soda and holiday treats and the booster club is selling raffle tickets. Prize: A Christmas wreath. I bought a ticket. I like wreaths. The auditorium opened, so I looked for my son's name in the program while the lights were still on, and then I found a seat.
It's Saturday now, 10 days before Christmas. After weeks of unseasonable and unreasonable cold, it's in the 50s, which would normally be a very good development. And I'm definitely happy not to be cold. But it's also pouring rain for the second day in a row and it's supposed to rain again all day tomorrow. Everything feels damp and the whole world looks gray and dirty and ragged around the edges. Not Christmas-y at all. Blah. Humbug.
Meanwhile, my house is still a flaming hot mess. I never realized before how much energy I get from being at home. Some people get their energy and creativity come from the outside world. But mine comes from family and familiar surroundings. Orderly surroundings. I woke up this morning and didn't know how to organize my day. Everything seemed out of sorts and it made me tired. Thank goodness for high school swim meets--part of the day was already planned for me, and all I had to do was to get up and out to where I needed to be. And the rest would sort itself out.
We have been sleeping in the spare room, which doesn't sound bad and it actually isn't. The dresser in there is piled high with books and the bed is hemmed in by bookcases and dressers and rolled up area rugs. You have to tunnel your way to the bed but once you get there it's quite cozy. I have been sleeping unusually well. The fortress of furniture makes the room darker and more conducive to sleep. But it's also because the unaccustomed disorder has left me more tired than usual. I'm a hothouse flower. A tired one.
It's Sunday now. I had hoped that the rest of yesterday would sort itself out, and it did. An unexpected last-minute babysitting request from my sister-in-law was just the thing. Toddlers are full of Christmas spirit. And we managed to reschedule the carpet installation, for Wednesday. So I only have to live amid chaos for a few more days. We're going to put the place back together and buy a Christmas tree and and have the hap- hap- happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby danced with Danny fucking Kaye.
In and of itself, of course, carpet installation is not a bad idea. Carpet is a one-day job, assuming that all goes according to plan. It's that "assuming" part that's complicated; that, and the "all going according to plan." Because you never know for sure what's under the old carpet until you rip it out.
You see where this is going, don't you? Remember when I wrote that I'd write again when my house was clean? Oh, the naivete. Right now, I have no carpet and no floor other than concrete in half the house, and the furniture is all jammed into the kitchen and two bedrooms. It's cold and dusty and cluttered. We can't even get to our beds.
Long story short(er), there was a problem with the old parquet that was under the carpet, so we had to rip it out. That was an easier job than I expected. But now we have to clean up the dust and glue and broken parquet, which is another day's worth of work. And the carpet installer is telling me that they can't come back until after Christmas, which I am supposed to host. I know that there are bigger problems than this, but this one seems bad enough right now. I don't like dirt and disorder and disruption and I'm neck-deep in all three. It's Christmas Vacation, and Cousin Eddie just pulled up in the RV.
And you know what? The shitter is full. The shitter is all the way full.
*****
It's the next day now, the next day being Wednesday. So yesterday was Tuesday. It's all a blur. We still have concrete floors in half of our house and furniture in places where God never designed it to go, but things are looking up a bit. My husband took today off and cleaned the floors, which were covered with dust and debris from yesterday's parquet removal adventure. We moved some furniture around, just enough that we can get in and out of the bedrooms. And the kitchen and family room are almost normal, so we have a little oasis of near-order and almost-calm. It's not my ideal household state, but it's a marked improvement over yesterday. Meanwhile, I'm working on gently persuading the carpet installers to try to find room for us in their busy busy schedule. I'm pretty persuasive; and what I lack in persuasion power, I make up for in persistence. I don't know when my house will be back to normal again, but I think it will happen before Santa shoves his fat white ass down the chimney.
*****
So it's Thursday now. I still don't have carpet but they might be able to move our installation date to next week. It's not tomorrow but it's not the day after Christmas either. It's an improvement. It's a move in the right direction. Progress.
I'm writing this on my phone as I stand in the main hallway at Rockville High School, waiting for the auditorium to open. It's concert night and the place is abuzz. Clusters of parents are chatting while young people in black concert dress zip back and forth, instruments in hand and sheet music trailing behind them. The snack bar is selling chips and soda and holiday treats and the booster club is selling raffle tickets. Prize: A Christmas wreath. I bought a ticket. I like wreaths. The auditorium opened, so I looked for my son's name in the program while the lights were still on, and then I found a seat.
*****
Meanwhile, my house is still a flaming hot mess. I never realized before how much energy I get from being at home. Some people get their energy and creativity come from the outside world. But mine comes from family and familiar surroundings. Orderly surroundings. I woke up this morning and didn't know how to organize my day. Everything seemed out of sorts and it made me tired. Thank goodness for high school swim meets--part of the day was already planned for me, and all I had to do was to get up and out to where I needed to be. And the rest would sort itself out.
We have been sleeping in the spare room, which doesn't sound bad and it actually isn't. The dresser in there is piled high with books and the bed is hemmed in by bookcases and dressers and rolled up area rugs. You have to tunnel your way to the bed but once you get there it's quite cozy. I have been sleeping unusually well. The fortress of furniture makes the room darker and more conducive to sleep. But it's also because the unaccustomed disorder has left me more tired than usual. I'm a hothouse flower. A tired one.
*****
Monday, December 10, 2018
Domestic affairs
Thursday: I worked from home yesterday. The federal government was closed for the Bush 41 day of mourning. So I worked on my couch, with Bush's funeral as background noise.
It was interesting to watch the first row. Much has already been written about the cold reception that President Trump received from most of the the other members of the club, now down to five members. I guess it's no better than he should have expected, but I'd have liked to see the others take the high road and welcome him with open arms. The magnanimous gesture would have been lost on him, of course, but that's not the point. The Obamas were polite, at least.
Aside from the Trump vs. everyone dynamic, it's always interesting to see former and current Presidents and First Ladies and other high-ranking people at events such as these, stuck in the rare position of having to sit and wait for something that has nothing to do with them. Trump arrived just before the service was to begin, but even he had to sit and wait for ten minutes, without fidgeting, without looking at his phone, without anything to do but to sit and try to look solemn and serious. I actually felt sorry for him. But none of the others looked comfortable either, except for Jimmy Carter, who at 94 has reached the point at which he no longer cares what anyone thinks, and no longer has enough time to waste on grudges or politics. Carter sat reading the program, looking calmly around, and waiting patiently for the service to begin. He seemed quite at ease.
*****
Friday: It's been a very busy week. I had planned, after I finished my work for today, to watch the first episode of the second season of "The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel." And then I found out that "84 Charing Cross Road" was on TV, and I had to stop what I was doing to watch it.
"84 Charing Cross Road" is based on the book of the same title, which I have never read. Helene Hanff was a freelance writer and publisher's reader who also loved books. During the years between 1949 and 1969, she wrote letters to the London bookshop that shipped books to her in New York. During those 20 years, she became close friends with the shop's staff. They exchanged letters and photos; and in the early years of their friendship, Helene sent them care packages of food and nylons and other luxuries that were extremely scarce in post-war England.
I love almost everything about this movie. It was made in 1987, a trash year for movies. Anne Bancroft stars as Helene Hanff, with Anthony Perkins as Frank Doel, the shop's manager. The costumes and sets are mid-century perfection; colors that are muted and bright all at once, and book-lined apartments, and beautiful wool coats and suits; and New York and London and the Queen. I wish people dressed like this still. I wish people acted like this still. I won't spoil the (sad but happy) ending. It would have helped me to know, in 1987, that such a beautiful and true friendship between a man and a woman was possible, and I wish I'd seen this movie then. But I'm glad I know about it now.
*****
Sunday: Yesterday, I refereed a high school swim meet in the morning, and then spent all afternoon Christmas shopping. Then I was just too tired to write anything; hence the skipped day.
I got home just as the light was fading. I love being home at that moment, no matter what time of day it occurs, but especially in the winter. I slept on the couch for a bit--only half an hour or so, but it was the kind of blackout sleep that feels like an entire winter night distilled and condensed into a few minutes. When I woke up, it was dark.
Then we went to a Christmas party. It's a Christmas party that we go to every year, where we see people whom we almost never see at any other time. And it's nice to see them, and after over 10 years, we joke that it's not Christmas until we see each other. It's the kind of party where the coats and handbags are piled on a bed, and the dining room table is spread with the same snacks and treats that the hosts serve every year, and the coolers of beer are on the deck, and people congregate in the kitchen and the partly finished basement where additional snacks and drinks await the guests who are in the know. It was a nice time. I'll see everyone next December.
*****
Monday: Well, the whole operation is a shambles right now. We're getting new carpet tomorrow, and you have to move stuff around to make room for the carpet layers. Because of the carpet installation, we're also a little later than usual with our Christmas tree. It's a mess, and I'll be breathing into a paper bag until this place is back in its customary order.
I have to work from home so that I can direct the proceedings. Fortunately, the room that I work in is not affected. I've never had carpet installed before, so I don't know what to expect other than a bunch of guys and some carpet and some furniture moving hither and yon. They're professionals, so I assume that they know what they're doing.
*****
I'm not going to have time to turn this into something readable, or to tie it together with any unifying theme. Last week, a state funeral was background noise for my workday; tomorrow, it will be carpet-laying sounds, assuming that carpet-laying has any distinctive sounds. I'll write again as soon as I have a clean house.
It was interesting to watch the first row. Much has already been written about the cold reception that President Trump received from most of the the other members of the club, now down to five members. I guess it's no better than he should have expected, but I'd have liked to see the others take the high road and welcome him with open arms. The magnanimous gesture would have been lost on him, of course, but that's not the point. The Obamas were polite, at least.
Aside from the Trump vs. everyone dynamic, it's always interesting to see former and current Presidents and First Ladies and other high-ranking people at events such as these, stuck in the rare position of having to sit and wait for something that has nothing to do with them. Trump arrived just before the service was to begin, but even he had to sit and wait for ten minutes, without fidgeting, without looking at his phone, without anything to do but to sit and try to look solemn and serious. I actually felt sorry for him. But none of the others looked comfortable either, except for Jimmy Carter, who at 94 has reached the point at which he no longer cares what anyone thinks, and no longer has enough time to waste on grudges or politics. Carter sat reading the program, looking calmly around, and waiting patiently for the service to begin. He seemed quite at ease.
*****
Friday: It's been a very busy week. I had planned, after I finished my work for today, to watch the first episode of the second season of "The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel." And then I found out that "84 Charing Cross Road" was on TV, and I had to stop what I was doing to watch it.
"84 Charing Cross Road" is based on the book of the same title, which I have never read. Helene Hanff was a freelance writer and publisher's reader who also loved books. During the years between 1949 and 1969, she wrote letters to the London bookshop that shipped books to her in New York. During those 20 years, she became close friends with the shop's staff. They exchanged letters and photos; and in the early years of their friendship, Helene sent them care packages of food and nylons and other luxuries that were extremely scarce in post-war England.
I love almost everything about this movie. It was made in 1987, a trash year for movies. Anne Bancroft stars as Helene Hanff, with Anthony Perkins as Frank Doel, the shop's manager. The costumes and sets are mid-century perfection; colors that are muted and bright all at once, and book-lined apartments, and beautiful wool coats and suits; and New York and London and the Queen. I wish people dressed like this still. I wish people acted like this still. I won't spoil the (sad but happy) ending. It would have helped me to know, in 1987, that such a beautiful and true friendship between a man and a woman was possible, and I wish I'd seen this movie then. But I'm glad I know about it now.
*****
Sunday: Yesterday, I refereed a high school swim meet in the morning, and then spent all afternoon Christmas shopping. Then I was just too tired to write anything; hence the skipped day.
I got home just as the light was fading. I love being home at that moment, no matter what time of day it occurs, but especially in the winter. I slept on the couch for a bit--only half an hour or so, but it was the kind of blackout sleep that feels like an entire winter night distilled and condensed into a few minutes. When I woke up, it was dark.
Then we went to a Christmas party. It's a Christmas party that we go to every year, where we see people whom we almost never see at any other time. And it's nice to see them, and after over 10 years, we joke that it's not Christmas until we see each other. It's the kind of party where the coats and handbags are piled on a bed, and the dining room table is spread with the same snacks and treats that the hosts serve every year, and the coolers of beer are on the deck, and people congregate in the kitchen and the partly finished basement where additional snacks and drinks await the guests who are in the know. It was a nice time. I'll see everyone next December.
*****
Monday: Well, the whole operation is a shambles right now. We're getting new carpet tomorrow, and you have to move stuff around to make room for the carpet layers. Because of the carpet installation, we're also a little later than usual with our Christmas tree. It's a mess, and I'll be breathing into a paper bag until this place is back in its customary order.
I have to work from home so that I can direct the proceedings. Fortunately, the room that I work in is not affected. I've never had carpet installed before, so I don't know what to expect other than a bunch of guys and some carpet and some furniture moving hither and yon. They're professionals, so I assume that they know what they're doing.
*****
I'm not going to have time to turn this into something readable, or to tie it together with any unifying theme. Last week, a state funeral was background noise for my workday; tomorrow, it will be carpet-laying sounds, assuming that carpet-laying has any distinctive sounds. I'll write again as soon as I have a clean house.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
SIng with me
Friday: Last night, my sons and I were driving home from dinner and I found myself singing along with Aerosmith's "Dream On." This is a song that was already old when I was a teenager, and my snotty 18-year-old self would not have been caught dead singing along with it or any song like it, even if dead people could sing.
In fact, I am so completely not a fan of 70s classic rock that I wasn't even sure if "Dream On" was an Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin song, though I was pretty sure that it was one of the two. So I looked it up, and found that this question is a pretty common one. Go ahead and Google "Dream On Aerosmith." The suggested auto-fill options will include "Dream On Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin."
I sang along with my sons, wondering if the song is actually good, and I just never realized it before; or if I'm just developing a new appreciation for the things of my youth. I'm pretty sure it's the latter.
*****
Saturday: Did you know that Charles Mound, elevation approximately 1,200 feet, is the highest point in Illinois? The mountain range closest to Chicago is the Great Smoky range, over 500 miles distant. Have you ever looked this up? If so, was it because you were watching "Christmas Vacation," and you wondered how far the Chicago-based Griswolds would have had to drive to cut down a tree in the mountains?
No? Just me?
*****
It's December 1, so we're watching "Christmas Vacation." It's not my favorite Christmas movie, but my teenage sons love it so much that it's entered my top ten. I sing along to "Mele Kalikimaka," while my younger son whistles. He is an exceptionally good whistler, and I can carry a tune, so we sound pretty good. It's cozy here, and I have to say that we're the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
*****
Diane Ladd played Chevy Chase's mother in "Christmas Vacation." They are eight years apart in age.
*****
Monday: Diane Ladd had to fake old ladyhood in "Christmas Vacation," but my Nana is the real thing. Nana looks very much like Aunt Bethany; though unlike poor Aunt Bethany, my grandmother is still as sharp as the proverbial tack. She might wrap up a cat and give it as a gift, but she'd do it on purpose. And you can trust me that if someone asked my Nana to say grace, she wouldn't confuse it with the Pledge of Allegiance, or with anything else.
She'd be quick about it, too. Like most Catholics of her generation, my grandmother is devout, but she doesn't waste time on long, flowery prayers. And she doesn't waste a lot of time on the phone, either; partly because she doesn't hear too well anymore, and because she doesn't like long phone calls. This is a sentiment that I share. I just spoke to Nana, to wish her a happy 95th birthday. It was a five-minute call.
*****
When you're 95, you watch as your spouse and siblings and friends and contemporaries die, one by one. My grandmother is lucky; she hasn't outlived her children, and her health is as good as a 95-year-old can expect. She had to give up driving about 10 years ago (and about five years after she should have); and she can't read any but the largest print anymore. And now she's outliving all of the greatest figures of her generation.
George H.W. Bush was born a few months after my grandmother. They lived very different lives, but they shared the experience of having been very young, but very grown-up, during a time of war. Like Barbara Bush, my grandmother married very young (18) and then waited for her husband to return from the war. Unlike the Bushes, my grandparents were ordinary, working-class people. Neither George H.W. Bush nor my cranky, Trump-supporter (yes) Nana led perfect lives, but they did the best they could and that's all anyone can ask. They are among the last of a generation that lived during a time when their country was almost totally united.
I wasn't a Bush supporter. I didn't vote for 41 or 43. But today was still a sad and solemn day. Maybe it's just nostalgia. Maybe President Bush is like an old Aerosmith song, and I like him now because he's a thing of my youth.
No, it's more than that. Politics aside, there's no hypocrisy in recognizing George H.W. Bush's greatness, as a public servant and as a human. Politics aside, there's no way that a reasonable, feeling person could fail to be moved at the sight of 95-year-old Bob Dole assisted from his wheelchair to give a standing salute to his friend. An era has ended. The past is gone.
In fact, I am so completely not a fan of 70s classic rock that I wasn't even sure if "Dream On" was an Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin song, though I was pretty sure that it was one of the two. So I looked it up, and found that this question is a pretty common one. Go ahead and Google "Dream On Aerosmith." The suggested auto-fill options will include "Dream On Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin."
I sang along with my sons, wondering if the song is actually good, and I just never realized it before; or if I'm just developing a new appreciation for the things of my youth. I'm pretty sure it's the latter.
*****
Saturday: Did you know that Charles Mound, elevation approximately 1,200 feet, is the highest point in Illinois? The mountain range closest to Chicago is the Great Smoky range, over 500 miles distant. Have you ever looked this up? If so, was it because you were watching "Christmas Vacation," and you wondered how far the Chicago-based Griswolds would have had to drive to cut down a tree in the mountains?
No? Just me?
*****
It's December 1, so we're watching "Christmas Vacation." It's not my favorite Christmas movie, but my teenage sons love it so much that it's entered my top ten. I sing along to "Mele Kalikimaka," while my younger son whistles. He is an exceptionally good whistler, and I can carry a tune, so we sound pretty good. It's cozy here, and I have to say that we're the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
*****
Diane Ladd played Chevy Chase's mother in "Christmas Vacation." They are eight years apart in age.
*****
Monday: Diane Ladd had to fake old ladyhood in "Christmas Vacation," but my Nana is the real thing. Nana looks very much like Aunt Bethany; though unlike poor Aunt Bethany, my grandmother is still as sharp as the proverbial tack. She might wrap up a cat and give it as a gift, but she'd do it on purpose. And you can trust me that if someone asked my Nana to say grace, she wouldn't confuse it with the Pledge of Allegiance, or with anything else.
She'd be quick about it, too. Like most Catholics of her generation, my grandmother is devout, but she doesn't waste time on long, flowery prayers. And she doesn't waste a lot of time on the phone, either; partly because she doesn't hear too well anymore, and because she doesn't like long phone calls. This is a sentiment that I share. I just spoke to Nana, to wish her a happy 95th birthday. It was a five-minute call.
*****
When you're 95, you watch as your spouse and siblings and friends and contemporaries die, one by one. My grandmother is lucky; she hasn't outlived her children, and her health is as good as a 95-year-old can expect. She had to give up driving about 10 years ago (and about five years after she should have); and she can't read any but the largest print anymore. And now she's outliving all of the greatest figures of her generation.
George H.W. Bush was born a few months after my grandmother. They lived very different lives, but they shared the experience of having been very young, but very grown-up, during a time of war. Like Barbara Bush, my grandmother married very young (18) and then waited for her husband to return from the war. Unlike the Bushes, my grandparents were ordinary, working-class people. Neither George H.W. Bush nor my cranky, Trump-supporter (yes) Nana led perfect lives, but they did the best they could and that's all anyone can ask. They are among the last of a generation that lived during a time when their country was almost totally united.
I wasn't a Bush supporter. I didn't vote for 41 or 43. But today was still a sad and solemn day. Maybe it's just nostalgia. Maybe President Bush is like an old Aerosmith song, and I like him now because he's a thing of my youth.
No, it's more than that. Politics aside, there's no hypocrisy in recognizing George H.W. Bush's greatness, as a public servant and as a human. Politics aside, there's no way that a reasonable, feeling person could fail to be moved at the sight of 95-year-old Bob Dole assisted from his wheelchair to give a standing salute to his friend. An era has ended. The past is gone.
Thursday, November 29, 2018
On an island and under the sea
I'm reading The Long-Winded Lady, a compilation of essays by Maeve Brennan. She was an Irish writer who for many years published short pieces in the New Yorker, under the pen name of The Long-Winded Lady. It's hard to describe her writing. They're not really essays at all, just little bits of observation, almost all about a very small piece of New York City where Brennan lived. She writes about the same handful of restaurants where she ate lunch and dinner almost every day, and about the series of hotel rooms and apartments where she lived (never, it seems, for more than a few months at a time), and about the passing scene on the city blocks where she lived and worked.
There's almost no dialogue in these essays. She writes about people, but from a remote observer's perspective. I'm about halfway through the 500 or so pages, and I don't think she wrote anything about anyone whom she actually knew. Only descriptions of strangers--their clothes (she seemed to love fashion and was knowledgeable about cuts and fabrics), their manners, their restaurant orders.
People say that big cities are the most provincial of places. I don't know who those people are, but I know that someone said that, and it wasn't me. Anyway, Maeve Brennan's New York is not so much provincial as just tiny and self-contained. She writes with great sophistication about sophisticated people and places but she seems not to have strayed beyond an area of 16 or so square blocks, except for occasional theater visits.
Because the essays are so sparsely populated, mostly with people whom Brennan didn't seem to know, they have a very lonely quality. If you have ever been in New York City (or any other big city) on a Sunday in August, you will have an idea of what it feels like to read The Long-Winded Lady. Still, the book is not sad or depressing. She writes so little about herself--even when she tells us where she had dinner, she doesn't tell us what she ate--that the reader senses that there's a lot more to this woman than she's sharing. It's like you're looking into the wrong end of a telescope, seeing a compressed and constricted view of a landscape that would be enormous, if only you could see it through the right side of the telescope.
*****
As good as The Long-Winded Lady is, it's not a completely original and groundbreaking work of art. If you've read Louis Auchincloss or Mary McCarthy or any other upper-class mid-century New York writer, then you already know something about Maeve Brennan's New York.
*****
Here's what was completely original and groundbreaking:
I used to tell friends that I didn't know what I'd do when my children grew up, because then I wouldn't have an excuse to watch SpongeBob anymore. Fortunately, they like him just as much now as they did when they were toddlers, wide awake at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning. Only a visionary artist could have imagined an undersea world populated by cheapskate crabs, megalomaniac plankton, cynical squids, idiot starfish, bottom-dwelling squirrels; and hard-working, relentlessly cheerful, fun-loving sponges. Bikini Bottom is a world unto itself, completely original, populated by characters who are unalterably themselves in every circumstance
SpongeBob SquarePants is hilariously funny, and that would be enough. But it's much more than that. Almost every episode offers wise and compassionate insight into humanity (well, so to speak) in all its beauty and stupidity and strength and weakness and joy and bitterness. Does that seem a little much for a cartoon? Watch "Tentacle Acres" or "Band Geeks" or "The Algae's Always Greener" and you'll see what I mean. Or just watch "Sailor Mouth" or "The Inmates of Summer," and laugh your head off.
SpongeBob will live forever; but Stephen Hillenburg, his creator, died this week. I hope he knew how special SpongeBob is, and how much he means to so many people. I hope he rests in peace.
There's almost no dialogue in these essays. She writes about people, but from a remote observer's perspective. I'm about halfway through the 500 or so pages, and I don't think she wrote anything about anyone whom she actually knew. Only descriptions of strangers--their clothes (she seemed to love fashion and was knowledgeable about cuts and fabrics), their manners, their restaurant orders.
People say that big cities are the most provincial of places. I don't know who those people are, but I know that someone said that, and it wasn't me. Anyway, Maeve Brennan's New York is not so much provincial as just tiny and self-contained. She writes with great sophistication about sophisticated people and places but she seems not to have strayed beyond an area of 16 or so square blocks, except for occasional theater visits.
Because the essays are so sparsely populated, mostly with people whom Brennan didn't seem to know, they have a very lonely quality. If you have ever been in New York City (or any other big city) on a Sunday in August, you will have an idea of what it feels like to read The Long-Winded Lady. Still, the book is not sad or depressing. She writes so little about herself--even when she tells us where she had dinner, she doesn't tell us what she ate--that the reader senses that there's a lot more to this woman than she's sharing. It's like you're looking into the wrong end of a telescope, seeing a compressed and constricted view of a landscape that would be enormous, if only you could see it through the right side of the telescope.
*****
As good as The Long-Winded Lady is, it's not a completely original and groundbreaking work of art. If you've read Louis Auchincloss or Mary McCarthy or any other upper-class mid-century New York writer, then you already know something about Maeve Brennan's New York.
*****
Here's what was completely original and groundbreaking:
 |
| Even Squidward is smiling. Kind of. |
SpongeBob SquarePants is hilariously funny, and that would be enough. But it's much more than that. Almost every episode offers wise and compassionate insight into humanity (well, so to speak) in all its beauty and stupidity and strength and weakness and joy and bitterness. Does that seem a little much for a cartoon? Watch "Tentacle Acres" or "Band Geeks" or "The Algae's Always Greener" and you'll see what I mean. Or just watch "Sailor Mouth" or "The Inmates of Summer," and laugh your head off.
SpongeBob will live forever; but Stephen Hillenburg, his creator, died this week. I hope he knew how special SpongeBob is, and how much he means to so many people. I hope he rests in peace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)