For the record: I don’t watch T.V. For the flip side: I DVR movies that pile up at an alarming rate, getting ignored in favor of books almost every single night. Oh yes, and every so often I discover some brilliant TV show that used to make me think, “Oh no. Now every [fill in the night], I have to make sure I’m home and remember to turn on the TV at [fill in the time].” But not anymore, because I have the DVR (which is much, much easier than remembering to have a blank tape available and programming the VCR). Unfortunately, I can’t say, “but not anymore” to the other fact related to almost every one of these shows, which is that, if I’m lucky, it will last an entire season. Remember My So-Called Life?” If you do, it’s probably only because Claire Danes went on to do other stuff, and you’ve read about it. I bet you don’t remember Sports News or was it Sport News? (Even I can’t remember, but it was a damn good show during the three months or so it lasted.) Does anyone else even know that last fall a brilliant, thrilling show called Kidnapped was on the air? I do have to be fair here and note that a few shows, like WKRP in Cincinnati (but that’s only because, like The West Wing, I didn’t really start watching it until it was in reruns), Thirty Something, Once and Again, and News Radio did manage to last a few more than one season, but not many more. And every once in a while, for some unfathomable reason, something that’s pure brilliance like Frasier will defy all odds related to the American television viewing public’s preferences and will have a real TV life. But really, if there’s a show on TV you love to watch, you need to call me and tell me not to watch it, because if I’m watching it and enjoying it, it’s doomed.
These days, I happen to be mourning the loss of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. How could this show not have made it? I’ve just realized that’s a really dumb question. This is America. This is the land in which people want to watch America’s Temptation Island of Stranded Twenty-or-Forty-Something?-Desperate-Back-Stabbing-Bachelorettes. Nobody wants to watch something that’s brilliant and hilarious, that provides them with insight into what goes on behind-the-scenes in a television studio and that makes them think as well. No one wants to watch state-of-the-art acting on television, a place they’ve come to count on for the soap-opera-deadpan-“I-sees” they’ve been addicted to all their lives. Imagine a television show that’s so extraordinarily well done it could be a contender at Cannes. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it just should have been a movie instead. Maybe for a TV show to stand up to the critics (and all the critics loved this one) is a kiss of death in a way that it isn’t for movies (sure, they might not be blockbuster hits, but no one pulls these hits from theaters before anyone gets the chance to see them). Maybe Aaron Sorkin needs to hook up with Martin Scorcese or something.
The next one that’s going to go, I’m sure, is 30 Rock. This one is right up there with News Radio, as far as I’m concerned. Even if I didn’t want to be Tina Fey, I’m sure I’d feel this way. But I don’t get it. Why has this one survived while Studio 60 hasn’t? They’re both behind-the-scenes looks at producing television shows. And one would think that for couch potatoes who never leave their homes, the prime-time-every-other-week-on-the-cover-of-People face of Matthew Perry would be a more familiar one than that of Alec Baldwin, whose last movie was…? Yet, everyone is eating up Alec Baldwin (and I’m not about to say he isn’t absolutely wonderful in the role, because he is), while they couldn't seem to care less that Matthew Perry is becoming addicted to uppers while he and his girlfriend split and the network is threatening to cancel his show. Meanwhile, I’m discovering he has far more depth and range as an actor than I ever knew. And, instead of getting to see how this all pans out, we’re just going to have some pat 2 minutes in which he announces he’s no longer taking the pills, and we're all expected to believe that (despite the fact we all know that in real life, he’s struggled off and on with substance abuse and knows perfectly well this isn’t how one gets “cured”).
Thus, I’ve decided, no matter what, I’m not going to be lured into watching anything that’s being publicized and praised come this fall’s new season. And I am going to ignore the Seinfeld syndrome, because thinking about it makes me feel I need to watch every show from its inception. I suffered from this little-known syndrome for nearly a year, its major symptom being the feeling you will never catch up. You see, I’d read and heard about Seinfeld before I actually began to watch it, and then I had a million unanswered questions I was afraid to ask anyone. This symptom was epitomized by the fans who’d been watching the show since its pilot days and would breezily explain to me, “Seinfeld and Elaine once dated.” What did they mean by that? Were the two going out together during the first season? What had I missed? But then I’ll remind myself that the only reason Seinfeld, a show I came to love, was a success was that I was completely uninterested in it during its first two years. As a matter of fact, the same was true of Frasier. I mean, how often are spin-offs successful? And Frasier had never been one of my favorite characters from Cheers. I wish I could say the same about Studio 60. After all, I would much rather have tuned in to it in 2009 and be asking, “You mean Danny is just Jordan’s baby’s adopted father? How did that happen?” than to see this oh-so-promising beginning crash and burn right out of the starting gate.
Then again, I’ve just come up with yet another argument for reading books. People don’t pull books from your shelves and toss them away when you’re not done with them. And it doesn’t matter at all whether the rest of the American public is reading a book you like or not. You will still get the chance to finish it. And the Seinfeld syndrome? All you hypochondriacs out there are safe from that one as long as you stick to books.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
I Am Not Alone II
Litlove and Courtney both tackled the writing things meme with the sort of grace we’ve come to expect from them. I was thinking of adding my own clumsy steps to the dance, but then I realized I’ve got this piece already half developed that sort of does the same thing. Thus, I thought I’d finish the other half and share it instead.
I think I’ve mentioned in the past that Bob and I subscribe to a local theater here in Connecticut. I’m being a little disingenuous when I say that, so I’ve decided to come clean and say that this “local theater” is The Long Wharf in New Haven, CT., one of the best regional theaters in the country. Its close proximity to New York means access to so much talent. In April, we were treated to the world premier of a collaboration between the playwrights David Cale and Dael Orlandersmith. The interesting thing about these two is that they’re used to working solo: writing and performing their own material. This extraordinary effort gave absolutely no indication of that, as if they’d been partners on paper and on the stage for years. It worked beautifully and seamlessly, the two of them creating completely believable characters, regardless of age, sex, race, and sexual preferences (although the dramaturge tells us it wasn’t so seamless in production).
But I’m not going to write anymore about the play itself. I’m perfectly aware of the fact that it’s a. extremely annoying to those who love live theater to read about how terrific something was that they’ll never get the chance to see and b. how extremely annoying it is for those who couldn’t care less about live theater to read anything about it at all. What I want to focus on is the little “Offstage” handout the dramaturge puts together for each performance. This handout typically provides thoroughly well-researched background material for the play as well as, when possible (i.e. when he/she is still alive and around), an interview with the playwright. Both playwrights were interviewed for this piece.
David Cale said this in his interview:
“Writing for me is like going for a walk. You think you’re going to head down to the river, and before you know it, you’ve made a detour, and you’re standing in a grocery store in midtown with a cookie in your hand.”
Dael Olandersmith had this to say about writing,
“Sometimes I’ll write while I cook. I’ll put something on the stove, then come back and write, then go back to cooking. They’re both creative acts. Particularly if you look at what is called ‘peasant cooking.’ I don’t like that expression, but it’s just that creativity coming from poverty: how do you take something that’s given to you and use your imagination to make it delectable?”
Next time I’m feeling oh-so-sorry for myself, and find myself thinking I’m just so very different from every other human being on the planet, and no one’s ever gonna understand me, I’m going to whip out this brochure and re-read it. I’ve never read two quotes that so beautifully characterize my relationship with writing. No wonder these two managed to work so well together.
I think I’ve mentioned in the past that Bob and I subscribe to a local theater here in Connecticut. I’m being a little disingenuous when I say that, so I’ve decided to come clean and say that this “local theater” is The Long Wharf in New Haven, CT., one of the best regional theaters in the country. Its close proximity to New York means access to so much talent. In April, we were treated to the world premier of a collaboration between the playwrights David Cale and Dael Orlandersmith. The interesting thing about these two is that they’re used to working solo: writing and performing their own material. This extraordinary effort gave absolutely no indication of that, as if they’d been partners on paper and on the stage for years. It worked beautifully and seamlessly, the two of them creating completely believable characters, regardless of age, sex, race, and sexual preferences (although the dramaturge tells us it wasn’t so seamless in production).
But I’m not going to write anymore about the play itself. I’m perfectly aware of the fact that it’s a. extremely annoying to those who love live theater to read about how terrific something was that they’ll never get the chance to see and b. how extremely annoying it is for those who couldn’t care less about live theater to read anything about it at all. What I want to focus on is the little “Offstage” handout the dramaturge puts together for each performance. This handout typically provides thoroughly well-researched background material for the play as well as, when possible (i.e. when he/she is still alive and around), an interview with the playwright. Both playwrights were interviewed for this piece.
David Cale said this in his interview:
“Writing for me is like going for a walk. You think you’re going to head down to the river, and before you know it, you’ve made a detour, and you’re standing in a grocery store in midtown with a cookie in your hand.”
Dael Olandersmith had this to say about writing,
“Sometimes I’ll write while I cook. I’ll put something on the stove, then come back and write, then go back to cooking. They’re both creative acts. Particularly if you look at what is called ‘peasant cooking.’ I don’t like that expression, but it’s just that creativity coming from poverty: how do you take something that’s given to you and use your imagination to make it delectable?”
Next time I’m feeling oh-so-sorry for myself, and find myself thinking I’m just so very different from every other human being on the planet, and no one’s ever gonna understand me, I’m going to whip out this brochure and re-read it. I’ve never read two quotes that so beautifully characterize my relationship with writing. No wonder these two managed to work so well together.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
How Am I Doing?
Let’s take a look (shall we?) at how I’m doing midway through the year as far as accomplishing my 2007 blogging goals is concerned.
Finally embrace my inner litblogger, instead of pretending she doesn’t exist, and maybe even dedicate entire posts to books I’ve just read, like others do.
(Patting myself on the back.) I’d say I’ve done a great job of this, wouldn’t you? Two posts devoted entirely to books I’ve read and “in a nutshell” reactions to each book I’ve read for my classics challenges, plus discussions of books in general.
See if I can find a local chapter of M.A. (Meme’s Anonymous) and start attending support groups.
(Patting has stopped.) It’s all Charlotte's fault. She’s a horrible enabler. And now Courtney's busy posting tantalizing memes every day. I'm a goner. If, at some point, you don't hear from me for six weeks, it's because I'm in rehab.
Quit coming up with ideas for new blogs and stick with making the two I’ve got going the best they can be (well, and keep the third one going at Halloween when it’s time to write another ghost story).
Everyone should be happy they don’t have to witness what a strain it’s been not to start a couple of other blogs (most specifically a real litblog). And I am so playing around with “Notes from the Pastor’s Wife” come this fall (except then I’ll have to worry that members of the congregation might stumble upon it). Still, I’ve stuck to my guns thus far.
Speaking of challenges: don’t be so afraid of them, and maybe come up with a few fun ones of my own.
I’m slowly but surely reading through my thirteen classics challenge, as well as my thirteen children’s classics and I’m keeping up with the nonfiction five as well. I think that’s enough for one year (unless Court does that drama one she threatened to do a while back. That one would be very tempting).
Provide more links to great blogs in my posts, so people read them, and they don’t die.
This post is a prime example of how I’ve been doing that. We’ll just ignore the fact that most of them are links I’ve repeated many, many times.
Stop worrying who might be reading my blog and that I might offend people.
I’ve definitely succeeded with this one, mainly because I don’t tend to think anyone is reading this blog anymore except those of you I know and love, or those who accidentally stumble across it one-time only because they’re searching for the other Emily Barton or have done a Google search for “dye and die homonym Romeo and Juliet page” (how on earth the searcher got to me with that one is still a mystery).
Become even more convinced that I can write and that people actually want to read what I write. Blogging has come a long way in helping me to accept this, but I still have that little inner voice that loves to make occasional appearances by whispering, “Who do you think you’re fooling?”
All right, I now know I’ve got everyone completely fooled, because you all keep reading me.
Learn more about the technical aspects of blogging. I think it’s about time I got past patting myself on the back, because I. Know. How. To. Italicize.
Well, Mandarine has helped me come along in this area (although, right now, I don't seem to be able to link to him, so maybe I haven't come so far after all). I’ve done things like learned a little HTML code (I even know what HTML stands for) and produced a pencast, of which I’m still extremely proud (once again, good thing no one was here to listen to me while I was trying to produce it).
Contribute more posts, and encourage others to contribute to What We Said . Creating that blog was such a great idea on Bloglily’s part, and I’d hate to see it fizzle out. As a matter of fact, I think it could be grown into something much bigger than it actually is.
I’m pathetic, having posted over there once so far this year. However, I am hereby declaring that if you’re reading this, it’s time for you to post at What We Said. Only Litlove, the latest contributor, is exempt.
No blogging after 8:00 p.m.
I’ve done very well with this one. Every (very) so often, I break this rule, but usually, my computer is off from 8:00 p.m. – 7:30 a.m. It’s also off all day every Sunday, which means much more time for curling up with print books. Due to this, I’ve been posting less often this year, but then, that gives all of you more time to read my posts and to keep caught up, no?
Finally embrace my inner litblogger, instead of pretending she doesn’t exist, and maybe even dedicate entire posts to books I’ve just read, like others do.
(Patting myself on the back.) I’d say I’ve done a great job of this, wouldn’t you? Two posts devoted entirely to books I’ve read and “in a nutshell” reactions to each book I’ve read for my classics challenges, plus discussions of books in general.
See if I can find a local chapter of M.A. (Meme’s Anonymous) and start attending support groups.
(Patting has stopped.) It’s all Charlotte's fault. She’s a horrible enabler. And now Courtney's busy posting tantalizing memes every day. I'm a goner. If, at some point, you don't hear from me for six weeks, it's because I'm in rehab.
Quit coming up with ideas for new blogs and stick with making the two I’ve got going the best they can be (well, and keep the third one going at Halloween when it’s time to write another ghost story).
Everyone should be happy they don’t have to witness what a strain it’s been not to start a couple of other blogs (most specifically a real litblog). And I am so playing around with “Notes from the Pastor’s Wife” come this fall (except then I’ll have to worry that members of the congregation might stumble upon it). Still, I’ve stuck to my guns thus far.
Speaking of challenges: don’t be so afraid of them, and maybe come up with a few fun ones of my own.
I’m slowly but surely reading through my thirteen classics challenge, as well as my thirteen children’s classics and I’m keeping up with the nonfiction five as well. I think that’s enough for one year (unless Court does that drama one she threatened to do a while back. That one would be very tempting).
Provide more links to great blogs in my posts, so people read them, and they don’t die.
This post is a prime example of how I’ve been doing that. We’ll just ignore the fact that most of them are links I’ve repeated many, many times.
Stop worrying who might be reading my blog and that I might offend people.
I’ve definitely succeeded with this one, mainly because I don’t tend to think anyone is reading this blog anymore except those of you I know and love, or those who accidentally stumble across it one-time only because they’re searching for the other Emily Barton or have done a Google search for “dye and die homonym Romeo and Juliet page” (how on earth the searcher got to me with that one is still a mystery).
Become even more convinced that I can write and that people actually want to read what I write. Blogging has come a long way in helping me to accept this, but I still have that little inner voice that loves to make occasional appearances by whispering, “Who do you think you’re fooling?”
All right, I now know I’ve got everyone completely fooled, because you all keep reading me.
Learn more about the technical aspects of blogging. I think it’s about time I got past patting myself on the back, because I. Know. How. To. Italicize.
Well, Mandarine has helped me come along in this area (although, right now, I don't seem to be able to link to him, so maybe I haven't come so far after all). I’ve done things like learned a little HTML code (I even know what HTML stands for) and produced a pencast, of which I’m still extremely proud (once again, good thing no one was here to listen to me while I was trying to produce it).
Contribute more posts, and encourage others to contribute to What We Said . Creating that blog was such a great idea on Bloglily’s part, and I’d hate to see it fizzle out. As a matter of fact, I think it could be grown into something much bigger than it actually is.
I’m pathetic, having posted over there once so far this year. However, I am hereby declaring that if you’re reading this, it’s time for you to post at What We Said. Only Litlove, the latest contributor, is exempt.
No blogging after 8:00 p.m.
I’ve done very well with this one. Every (very) so often, I break this rule, but usually, my computer is off from 8:00 p.m. – 7:30 a.m. It’s also off all day every Sunday, which means much more time for curling up with print books. Due to this, I’ve been posting less often this year, but then, that gives all of you more time to read my posts and to keep caught up, no?
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
An Eye for an Eye
I was with a friend the other day who, not unlike many of us, made the mistake of pouring his heart and soul into the company for which he worked for fifteen years. They dicked him over in the end. That was quite some time ago, and he’s achieved great success at other companies, so no real harm done to his career, only to his heart and soul.
He was telling me he recently got an email out of the blue from his former boss at said company inviting him to a “reunion.” Appalled, he did exactly what many of us would have done: deleted the email without responding. But then, he tells me, he received an even more appalling phone call from a friend who’d also worked there asking if he planned to go to the reunion. When he expressed his feelings, she apparently said, “Oh come on. It’ll be fun.” He looked at me as he told me this, eyes wide, and asked, “Doesn’t anyone know how to hold a grudge anymore?”
Indeed. I certainly hope people do, because I’ve depended on good grudge-holders all my life. They’re the ones who show me how it’s done during all the times when to let a grudge merely flutter away whichever way the wind blew it would have been disastrous (you know, like when ex-boyfriend who cheated on me called me up a year later sounding all angelic and cute and apologetic and wondering what I was up to. If I hadn’t had some terrific examples of how to hold a grudge, I might never have known to say, “Hoping I didn’t get AIDS from you” and to hang up the phone with no further conversation). You see, I’ve always been absolutely pathetic at holding grudges. I’m the one who holds her breath until someone apologizes and then lets it out with a relieved whoosh saying, “Oh yes, well, you know, it really doesn’t matter so much that you stabbed my mother in the kidney. I’m sure you couldn’t help it, and after all, she’s got two. So, shall we have dinner together soon?”
When I was young, I was awed by friends who lived in the sorts of families in which members would be furious with each other and walk around in stony silence for days. I come from the sort of family in which you might hear an “I hate you” shouted in a fit of passion and then be astonished to find everyone happily laughing and playing together half an hour later. I’m sure my grudge-bearing friends were just as amazed by our odd behavior as I was by theirs. One grade-school friend would occasionally pull this “I’m-not-talking-to-you” behavior on me (usually for some mysterious unidentified transgression). I was at an absolute loss as to how to deal with this, and I’m not sure which feelings were stronger: those that were upset she wasn’t talking to me or those that were amazed she could do it. Relieved as I was when she’d finally talk to me again, I also felt a twinge of disappointment. Only four days? She couldn’t make it longer than that?
If I could hold a grudge like that, maybe one day, after a particularly annoying argument in which Bob has told me he wishes I’d just be quiet, I could stick to my guns when I swear if that’s what he wants, I’m never going to speak to him again. He’s going to learn what it’s like to have a wife who never says a word, one who doesn’t remind him to take his sunglasses for the long drive on an extremely bright day, one who doesn’t ask if he needs anything from the drugstore before she leaves (despite the fact she know he’s almost out of deodorant). We’ll see how well he does. Unfortunately, within fifteen minutes of making this decision, I’m usually talking with him again. Bob’s never going to learn a thing about the misery of living with a mute wife. I need a good grudge-holder to show me how it’s done.
I once had a roommate who was extraordinarily good at holding grudges. If she could remember a time when she’d ever felt a particular friend had used her and then felt that friend was using her a second time, that was it. The friendship was over as far as she was concerned, even if they’d been friends for ten years. She’d say to me, “Well, you know, there was that time she made me pick her up from the airport and never even thanked me,” leaving me thinking two things: a. “Yes, but what about all those fabulous dinners she cooked for you?” and b. “Uh-oh, did I remember to say ‘thank you’ after that lift from the train last week?”
I also had a colleague for a brief period who took grudge-holding to the highest levels. Really. In her hands it was true art. Her manic done-me-wrong abstracts exhausted me, though. I couldn’t imagine having to spend so much time remembering who hadn’t invited me to what parties, which co-workers had lost the right to receive help from me, who had and hadn’t snubbed me at the company picnic. I needed a cot to lie on after every visit to her cubicle.
But if all the good grudge-bearers are becoming extinct, I wish I’d taken more tips from my former roommate. I wish I hadn’t said things to her like, “I’m sure she didn’t mean it. Why don’t you go talk to her?” and instead had asked, “So tell me again exactly how you tore apart that favorite tape of hers you found in your car?” I wish I’d spent time taking notes in my colleague’s cubicle instead of fantasizing about a company-wide naptime. After all, one day I might receive an email from the woman with whom my ex-boyfriend cheated twenty years ago. She may be inviting me to a “reunion” of the “gang” that used to all go bar-hopping together. I’m going to need some good grudge-holding friend or two to keep me from calling another friend and saying, “Are you going? Let’s go. It’ll be fun.”
He was telling me he recently got an email out of the blue from his former boss at said company inviting him to a “reunion.” Appalled, he did exactly what many of us would have done: deleted the email without responding. But then, he tells me, he received an even more appalling phone call from a friend who’d also worked there asking if he planned to go to the reunion. When he expressed his feelings, she apparently said, “Oh come on. It’ll be fun.” He looked at me as he told me this, eyes wide, and asked, “Doesn’t anyone know how to hold a grudge anymore?”
Indeed. I certainly hope people do, because I’ve depended on good grudge-holders all my life. They’re the ones who show me how it’s done during all the times when to let a grudge merely flutter away whichever way the wind blew it would have been disastrous (you know, like when ex-boyfriend who cheated on me called me up a year later sounding all angelic and cute and apologetic and wondering what I was up to. If I hadn’t had some terrific examples of how to hold a grudge, I might never have known to say, “Hoping I didn’t get AIDS from you” and to hang up the phone with no further conversation). You see, I’ve always been absolutely pathetic at holding grudges. I’m the one who holds her breath until someone apologizes and then lets it out with a relieved whoosh saying, “Oh yes, well, you know, it really doesn’t matter so much that you stabbed my mother in the kidney. I’m sure you couldn’t help it, and after all, she’s got two. So, shall we have dinner together soon?”
When I was young, I was awed by friends who lived in the sorts of families in which members would be furious with each other and walk around in stony silence for days. I come from the sort of family in which you might hear an “I hate you” shouted in a fit of passion and then be astonished to find everyone happily laughing and playing together half an hour later. I’m sure my grudge-bearing friends were just as amazed by our odd behavior as I was by theirs. One grade-school friend would occasionally pull this “I’m-not-talking-to-you” behavior on me (usually for some mysterious unidentified transgression). I was at an absolute loss as to how to deal with this, and I’m not sure which feelings were stronger: those that were upset she wasn’t talking to me or those that were amazed she could do it. Relieved as I was when she’d finally talk to me again, I also felt a twinge of disappointment. Only four days? She couldn’t make it longer than that?
If I could hold a grudge like that, maybe one day, after a particularly annoying argument in which Bob has told me he wishes I’d just be quiet, I could stick to my guns when I swear if that’s what he wants, I’m never going to speak to him again. He’s going to learn what it’s like to have a wife who never says a word, one who doesn’t remind him to take his sunglasses for the long drive on an extremely bright day, one who doesn’t ask if he needs anything from the drugstore before she leaves (despite the fact she know he’s almost out of deodorant). We’ll see how well he does. Unfortunately, within fifteen minutes of making this decision, I’m usually talking with him again. Bob’s never going to learn a thing about the misery of living with a mute wife. I need a good grudge-holder to show me how it’s done.
I once had a roommate who was extraordinarily good at holding grudges. If she could remember a time when she’d ever felt a particular friend had used her and then felt that friend was using her a second time, that was it. The friendship was over as far as she was concerned, even if they’d been friends for ten years. She’d say to me, “Well, you know, there was that time she made me pick her up from the airport and never even thanked me,” leaving me thinking two things: a. “Yes, but what about all those fabulous dinners she cooked for you?” and b. “Uh-oh, did I remember to say ‘thank you’ after that lift from the train last week?”
I also had a colleague for a brief period who took grudge-holding to the highest levels. Really. In her hands it was true art. Her manic done-me-wrong abstracts exhausted me, though. I couldn’t imagine having to spend so much time remembering who hadn’t invited me to what parties, which co-workers had lost the right to receive help from me, who had and hadn’t snubbed me at the company picnic. I needed a cot to lie on after every visit to her cubicle.
But if all the good grudge-bearers are becoming extinct, I wish I’d taken more tips from my former roommate. I wish I hadn’t said things to her like, “I’m sure she didn’t mean it. Why don’t you go talk to her?” and instead had asked, “So tell me again exactly how you tore apart that favorite tape of hers you found in your car?” I wish I’d spent time taking notes in my colleague’s cubicle instead of fantasizing about a company-wide naptime. After all, one day I might receive an email from the woman with whom my ex-boyfriend cheated twenty years ago. She may be inviting me to a “reunion” of the “gang” that used to all go bar-hopping together. I’m going to need some good grudge-holding friend or two to keep me from calling another friend and saying, “Are you going? Let’s go. It’ll be fun.”
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Oh What the Hell
How about one more meme before I move on to other things? As I noted over at Courtney’s , which is where I saw this meme most recently, what Emily really needs is a new name. It seems, judging from most of the hits, thousands of Emilys have already done this one (and how depressing to discover how many others with my name are blogging). Anyway, here are some of the things I managed to tease out that weren’t associated with this meme. For those of you who don’t know the rules, it’s simple. Just go to Google and search for “[your name] needs…”
Emily needs to give Tim food in Social Studies today
Hmmm…is Tim related to my former boss who was always asking me what food I’d brought him?
Emily needs to get her Tortillas
Well, absolutely. And they’d better come with a margarita. In fact, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really need the tortillas after all. Let’s skip them and get right to the margarita.
Emily needs a new computer
That’s a lie. She just got a new one from the office that’s taken forever to whip into shape. She certainly doesn’t want to have to go through that again.
Emily needs a home
Another lie. What she needs is someone to rent her home before it’s time to move into the new one.
Emily needs your prayers
Yawn. So what’s new?
Emily needs help deciding how to cut her hair
Long, unmanageable, and limp or short, unmanageable, and limp?
Emily needs aesthetics to shield herself
I think she’s losing her English language skills as this makes absolutely no sense to her.
Emily needs to be told, “No, there are certain things that just are not allowed.”
Oh yeah, like what?
Emily needs four infusions now
Hurry up. I’m bleeding all over the place.
Emily’s vet bill is huge, and she may need additional surgeries on her eyes and jaws
I can’t believe it! Who’s blown my cover out there and let everyone know I’m actually a crocodile?
Emily needs to know the truth, and you need help in dealing with this.
All right, everyone, come clean. I’m waiting. You can stop by and spill the beans on your way to the therapist.
I'm tagging you, Hobgoblin, because I'm dying to know what comes up when you type in "Hobgoblin needs." And I'm not going to cheat and look beforehand.
Emily needs to give Tim food in Social Studies today
Hmmm…is Tim related to my former boss who was always asking me what food I’d brought him?
Emily needs to get her Tortillas
Well, absolutely. And they’d better come with a margarita. In fact, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really need the tortillas after all. Let’s skip them and get right to the margarita.
Emily needs a new computer
That’s a lie. She just got a new one from the office that’s taken forever to whip into shape. She certainly doesn’t want to have to go through that again.
Emily needs a home
Another lie. What she needs is someone to rent her home before it’s time to move into the new one.
Emily needs your prayers
Yawn. So what’s new?
Emily needs help deciding how to cut her hair
Long, unmanageable, and limp or short, unmanageable, and limp?
Emily needs aesthetics to shield herself
I think she’s losing her English language skills as this makes absolutely no sense to her.
Emily needs to be told, “No, there are certain things that just are not allowed.”
Oh yeah, like what?
Emily needs four infusions now
Hurry up. I’m bleeding all over the place.
Emily’s vet bill is huge, and she may need additional surgeries on her eyes and jaws
I can’t believe it! Who’s blown my cover out there and let everyone know I’m actually a crocodile?
Emily needs to know the truth, and you need help in dealing with this.
All right, everyone, come clean. I’m waiting. You can stop by and spill the beans on your way to the therapist.
I'm tagging you, Hobgoblin, because I'm dying to know what comes up when you type in "Hobgoblin needs." And I'm not going to cheat and look beforehand.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Yet Another One About Books
I feel a little guilty writing this post, as I know others have struggled a bit this year with their reading, but I’m feeling the need to express the fact that I seem to be having a particularly good reading year this year. I may have been struggling some in other areas, but books have been bowling me over (and keeping me sane through some of the struggles). I realize that by writing those two sentences, I’ve probably just doomed myself to six months of having everything I pick up to read, instead of filling me with delightful glee, leaving me with a bad taste in my mouth. Oh well, at least I can post about it if that happens.
But really, looking over the books I’ve read since January, I’ve only read one that I decided not to finish, which was My Life So Far by Jane Fonda. We read this book for one of my book discussion groups, and it’s not that I didn’t like it. It just got a little long, and she focused so much on her movies and movie-making when I really wanted to know more about things like her struggles with bulimia, her relationship with her father, and all the really cool philanthropic work she’s doing today.
Only two titles are ones about which I can say “I didn’t really like that much.” One was Little Children and the other was Prep. It isn’t that I didn’t like them at all. Each had its moments, and I did stick with both of them, wanting to know how they ended, but the ultimate experience with both was such that I wouldn’t recommend them to others (and I should pay more attention to Becky who told me she didn’t like Prep, and I still went ahead with it). In fairness, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I was led to believe these books were going to be funny, and I found neither one to be so. Not even one of those great sorts of books like a John Irving or a Pat Conroy which have laugh-out-loud moments amongst extraordinary pain and sadness.
The Kills by Linda Fairstein was a bit disappointing, but only because the other two mysteries of hers I’ve read did more to immerse me in specific parts of New York than this one did, and I liked that about the others and missed it with this one. I most loved Entombed when I read it a few years ago, because of all its details about and allusions to Edgar Alan Poe. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s one of those rare mystery writers who instead of just hacking them out now and resting on her laurels (and buckets of money) is actually honing her skills and improving her craft, since The Kills was written before Entombed.
That’s it, though, as far as my disappointments go. Every other title I see as I skim through my book journal just elicits mostly sighs of contentment. Of course, one thing that helps is that this has been the year of Rose Macaulay. I’ve read three thus far (Crewe Train, They Were Defeated, and Pleasure of Ruins). They Were Defeated was apparently her only historical novel. I don’t know about you, but I could probably be dragged into a novel by even the worst writer when it’s all about goings-on at Cambridge, just as England is on the verge of civil war, and keeps its eyes focused on such things as sexism and religious beliefs, while providing a doomed romance, oh yes, and the likes of John Milton roaming around its pages. But in the hands of a masterful writer, such a thing becomes almost impossible to describe without sounding like a raving lunatic. Crewe Train is completely different, but is a wonderfully scathing look at “societal norms” with a truly remarkable female protagonist.
Linda Fairstein’s not the only one who’s taken me into New York this year. I was in a very disturbing New York with Anzia Yezierska and her Bread Givers. David Rakoff, although he was taking hilarious tours all over the world a good deal of the time, also couldn’t help but bring me back to the city he’s made his home in Fraud. And then I got to see a very poignant New York through the eyes of a mouse in E.B. White’s Stuart Little, not to mention a very topsy-turvy New York through those of a thirteen-year-old girl in her mother’s body in Mary Rodger’s Freaky Friday. All of these books mesmerized me as much as the city does.
I’ve also taken what looks like my annual trip to China (some of you may recall I went last year with June Chang) with Lisa See’s Snowflower and the Magic Fan, a fascinating study in friendship and what it means against the backdrop of the horrors of being a woman in 19th-century China. This book surprised me by being a very interesting companion to Diddie, Dumps, and Tot, which is a fascinating study in friendship and what it means against the backdrop of the horrors of slavery in 19th-century America (although the author of the former intended it as such and the author of the latter didn’t).
I’ve read quite a few other great things, and right now, I’m in the midst of reading six others (as I always seem to be). They’re all so good, it’s becoming increasingly difficult, no matter what my mood (which is usually a key factor), to decide which to pick up when I sit down to read. The Lady and the Panda (you’ll hear more about this one when I finish it, since it’s one of my nonfiction-five challenge books) by Vicki Constantine Croke, is a near-perfect nonfiction read all about Ruth Harkness, the woman who brought the first baby panda from China to America. The Innocent, with its twists and turns and ability to distract you from taking the path with all the answers, by Harlen Coben is the sort of book every book claiming to be a “thriller” should be (Bob and I discovered Coben this spring with his Tell No One, another great thriller). The Gastronomical Me by M.F.K. Fisher is food writing at its best: memories, places, and food all completely inseparable from each other. Gone with the Wind, this year’s long epic, which I expect to be reading for months (and already have been), is everything it’s cracked up to be and more. I’m so surprised by Scarlett and her depth of character, so unapparent in the movie version. Same with Rhett. Then there’s Aeschylus. If you haven’t read him since college, I’d highly recommend you do so. He’s making me want to go back and re-read all the great Greek dramatists. Just be prepared to be depressed over how little we humans have learned since 460 BCE. Finally, I’m reading Old School by Tobias Woolff and am completely hooked. To tell you the truth, I don’t want any of these books to end. But end they must if I’m going to move onto others (and not be reading twenty books at once. Even for me, that might be a bit much).
So, sigh! Sigh! Sigh! And let’s hope these fabulous adventures in reading continue for the rest of the year. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy them while I have them, because we all know how fleeting they can be.
But really, looking over the books I’ve read since January, I’ve only read one that I decided not to finish, which was My Life So Far by Jane Fonda. We read this book for one of my book discussion groups, and it’s not that I didn’t like it. It just got a little long, and she focused so much on her movies and movie-making when I really wanted to know more about things like her struggles with bulimia, her relationship with her father, and all the really cool philanthropic work she’s doing today.
Only two titles are ones about which I can say “I didn’t really like that much.” One was Little Children and the other was Prep. It isn’t that I didn’t like them at all. Each had its moments, and I did stick with both of them, wanting to know how they ended, but the ultimate experience with both was such that I wouldn’t recommend them to others (and I should pay more attention to Becky who told me she didn’t like Prep, and I still went ahead with it). In fairness, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I was led to believe these books were going to be funny, and I found neither one to be so. Not even one of those great sorts of books like a John Irving or a Pat Conroy which have laugh-out-loud moments amongst extraordinary pain and sadness.
The Kills by Linda Fairstein was a bit disappointing, but only because the other two mysteries of hers I’ve read did more to immerse me in specific parts of New York than this one did, and I liked that about the others and missed it with this one. I most loved Entombed when I read it a few years ago, because of all its details about and allusions to Edgar Alan Poe. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s one of those rare mystery writers who instead of just hacking them out now and resting on her laurels (and buckets of money) is actually honing her skills and improving her craft, since The Kills was written before Entombed.
That’s it, though, as far as my disappointments go. Every other title I see as I skim through my book journal just elicits mostly sighs of contentment. Of course, one thing that helps is that this has been the year of Rose Macaulay. I’ve read three thus far (Crewe Train, They Were Defeated, and Pleasure of Ruins). They Were Defeated was apparently her only historical novel. I don’t know about you, but I could probably be dragged into a novel by even the worst writer when it’s all about goings-on at Cambridge, just as England is on the verge of civil war, and keeps its eyes focused on such things as sexism and religious beliefs, while providing a doomed romance, oh yes, and the likes of John Milton roaming around its pages. But in the hands of a masterful writer, such a thing becomes almost impossible to describe without sounding like a raving lunatic. Crewe Train is completely different, but is a wonderfully scathing look at “societal norms” with a truly remarkable female protagonist.
Linda Fairstein’s not the only one who’s taken me into New York this year. I was in a very disturbing New York with Anzia Yezierska and her Bread Givers. David Rakoff, although he was taking hilarious tours all over the world a good deal of the time, also couldn’t help but bring me back to the city he’s made his home in Fraud. And then I got to see a very poignant New York through the eyes of a mouse in E.B. White’s Stuart Little, not to mention a very topsy-turvy New York through those of a thirteen-year-old girl in her mother’s body in Mary Rodger’s Freaky Friday. All of these books mesmerized me as much as the city does.
I’ve also taken what looks like my annual trip to China (some of you may recall I went last year with June Chang) with Lisa See’s Snowflower and the Magic Fan, a fascinating study in friendship and what it means against the backdrop of the horrors of being a woman in 19th-century China. This book surprised me by being a very interesting companion to Diddie, Dumps, and Tot, which is a fascinating study in friendship and what it means against the backdrop of the horrors of slavery in 19th-century America (although the author of the former intended it as such and the author of the latter didn’t).
I’ve read quite a few other great things, and right now, I’m in the midst of reading six others (as I always seem to be). They’re all so good, it’s becoming increasingly difficult, no matter what my mood (which is usually a key factor), to decide which to pick up when I sit down to read. The Lady and the Panda (you’ll hear more about this one when I finish it, since it’s one of my nonfiction-five challenge books) by Vicki Constantine Croke, is a near-perfect nonfiction read all about Ruth Harkness, the woman who brought the first baby panda from China to America. The Innocent, with its twists and turns and ability to distract you from taking the path with all the answers, by Harlen Coben is the sort of book every book claiming to be a “thriller” should be (Bob and I discovered Coben this spring with his Tell No One, another great thriller). The Gastronomical Me by M.F.K. Fisher is food writing at its best: memories, places, and food all completely inseparable from each other. Gone with the Wind, this year’s long epic, which I expect to be reading for months (and already have been), is everything it’s cracked up to be and more. I’m so surprised by Scarlett and her depth of character, so unapparent in the movie version. Same with Rhett. Then there’s Aeschylus. If you haven’t read him since college, I’d highly recommend you do so. He’s making me want to go back and re-read all the great Greek dramatists. Just be prepared to be depressed over how little we humans have learned since 460 BCE. Finally, I’m reading Old School by Tobias Woolff and am completely hooked. To tell you the truth, I don’t want any of these books to end. But end they must if I’m going to move onto others (and not be reading twenty books at once. Even for me, that might be a bit much).
So, sigh! Sigh! Sigh! And let’s hope these fabulous adventures in reading continue for the rest of the year. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy them while I have them, because we all know how fleeting they can be.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Blended Titles and Favorite Foods
Your resident meme queen just couldn’t resist these two.
Blended Titles Meme
I got the Blended book title meme from Stefanie. The rules are to blend two titles together using the last word of one title and the first word of another. Also, you can blend the authors’ names. I decided just to browse the shelves in our living room, and I was actually having much more fun with the authors’ names than the book titles, so I came up with these four that abide by the rules:
The Pursuit of Love in the Time of Cholera by Nancy Garcia-Marquez (her mother was from Kent, and her father was from Buenos Aires, and their marriage, which was anything but boring, ruined her for life. But it made her a fabulous writer.)
Canterbuy Tales of the Unexpected by Roald Chaucer (he had a childhood obsession with cathedrals and castles, and as a teenager and very young man, he used them as backdrops to stage elaborate photographs with his friends that are incorporated into his chillingly eerie stories)
Crooked Little Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson Lamott (everyone’s assumed for years she’s a woman, but he’s really a man)
Rule of the Bone People by Russell Hulme (he escaped his hideously abusive childhood in America and found himself completely adrift among strangers on an unfamiliar continent)
Then I came up with four more, because the authors were so intriguing. These blend titles, but don’t stick to the first word/last word rules:
Beloved Tortilla Flat by Toni Steinbeck (she came from a large, very dysfunctional extended family living in just as dysfunctional a town and married a man who came from same. They never communicated and never understood each other, but the sex was great)
Sophie’s Choice, Sophie’s World by Jostein Styron (her parents escaped from Europe to South Carolina just prior to WWII, before she was born. She changed her first name from Sophie to Jostein when she moved to Norway at the age of 22, ostensibly to become a great writer -- which she did -- but really because she was following a man who subsequently broke her heart)
The Lay of the Once and Future King (a rather bawdy novel) by T. H. Ford (everyone’s assumed for years he’s a man, but she’s really a woman)
The Wizard of War and Peace by Ursula Tolstoy (Russia’s answer to J.K. Rowling)
8 Food Things Meme
(Once again, we have that number 8. Does anyone know why there's this meme obsession with the number 8?)
And this one I got from Charlotte (who else?).
What are your favourite foods?
This is an extremely difficult question for me to answer and always has been. I love spicy, creamy, sweet, sour, salty, subtle, powerful, soft, chewy, crunchy…see what I mean? And it depends on my mood. I will say, though, that there are a few very, very basic things I absolutely adore, things that, these days, are all considered “no-nos”: whole milk, cheese, real butter, eggs, potatoes, and fresh-baked bread. I’m not convinced any of these things, when you eat organic versions in moderation, are at all bad for you (most especially the eggs with their high levels of Omega Fatty-3s). The problem is that “in moderation” part.
What foods do you hate?
Sun-dried tomatoes. Why are they all the rage? Why do restaurant chefs insist on adding them to dishes that would be perfectly scrumptious without them? Unlike such things as grapes, apricots, and cherries, which are deliciously candy-like when dried, tomatoes, when dried, seem to hang on to some unpleasantly bitter flavor not noticeable when eaten in their un-dried, juicy, firm but succulent state.
Foods you like but are embarrassed to admit:
Cheese Doodles. Don’t put a huge bag in front of me, please.
Strangest food you’ve eaten and enjoyed?
Goat. It’s a bit oily, but – and I hate to admit this, because who wants to eat a cute little goat? -- I still liked it quite a lot (or maybe that’s just because it was cooked with so many intriguing Caribbean spices, it was hard not to like).
Cooking failures that still rankle?
I made a pea soup once when I was just beginning to learn my way around the kitchen, and I thought the recipe called for un-shelled peas, which seemed very odd. But this was from a health food cookbook, so I decided to try it. Bob and I still refer to it as the “dental floss” soup. The flavor was delicious, and it probably would have been fabulous if I’d shelled the peas as I thought I should, but it was so disastrous, I was never brave enough to try again. A very good lesson, though, wouldn’t you say, to prove to a budding cook that both flavor AND texture are very important?
Ingredients you don’t want to consider living without?
Butter, cream, hot peppers, cheese, garlic, sugar, cilantro, basil, lemon, lime, chocolate (but not altogether, of course).
Cuisine you’d like to know more about?
Ethiopian. I’ve been to some wonderful restaurants.
Foods you’ve hated but have grown to love?
Broccoli. Have no idea why I found this wonderful vegetable so distasteful as a child. These days, I actually find myself craving it if I go too long without it.
Yogurt. I always liked fruit-flavored yogurt, but I hated plain. Now I love it plain or plain drizzled with a little honey or molasses or maple syrup.
“Smelly” cheeses. Now, the “smellier” the better.
Current kitchen conundrum?
Knowing I should give away things that take up space that I never use (like the juicer) but being unable to part with them, either for sentimental reasons (my mother and I bought that juicer on a shopping spree before I was even married, and the first summer Bob and I had a garden, we used it all the time to make vegetable juice. The novelty has warn off, though, and I’d much rather just pick up a bottle of V-8) or because I’m convinced I suddenly might start making great use of them (right. I have tons of time to start spending hours making my own pasta with that pasta machine I’ve used twice since I got it as a wedding gift, especially when I’ve got a perfectly good rolling pin for the few times a year I decide to make my own ravioli – the only kind of pasta I ever make from scratch).
And then there’s pie crust. I really, really want to make my own. I’ve made it about four times, once with fantastic results and the other times with disastrous results. I know it takes practice, but I never make the time to practice and keep buying it already made. I’ve learned it’s very easy to make a good graham cracker crust, though, so I make odd things like pumpkin pie with graham cracker crust, which is actually quite yummy. But, you know, even a grand taste-bud adventurer like me has to admit that quiche with a graham cracker crust probably isn’t going to cut it.
Blended Titles Meme
I got the Blended book title meme from Stefanie. The rules are to blend two titles together using the last word of one title and the first word of another. Also, you can blend the authors’ names. I decided just to browse the shelves in our living room, and I was actually having much more fun with the authors’ names than the book titles, so I came up with these four that abide by the rules:
The Pursuit of Love in the Time of Cholera by Nancy Garcia-Marquez (her mother was from Kent, and her father was from Buenos Aires, and their marriage, which was anything but boring, ruined her for life. But it made her a fabulous writer.)
Canterbuy Tales of the Unexpected by Roald Chaucer (he had a childhood obsession with cathedrals and castles, and as a teenager and very young man, he used them as backdrops to stage elaborate photographs with his friends that are incorporated into his chillingly eerie stories)
Crooked Little Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson Lamott (everyone’s assumed for years she’s a woman, but he’s really a man)
Rule of the Bone People by Russell Hulme (he escaped his hideously abusive childhood in America and found himself completely adrift among strangers on an unfamiliar continent)
Then I came up with four more, because the authors were so intriguing. These blend titles, but don’t stick to the first word/last word rules:
Beloved Tortilla Flat by Toni Steinbeck (she came from a large, very dysfunctional extended family living in just as dysfunctional a town and married a man who came from same. They never communicated and never understood each other, but the sex was great)
Sophie’s Choice, Sophie’s World by Jostein Styron (her parents escaped from Europe to South Carolina just prior to WWII, before she was born. She changed her first name from Sophie to Jostein when she moved to Norway at the age of 22, ostensibly to become a great writer -- which she did -- but really because she was following a man who subsequently broke her heart)
The Lay of the Once and Future King (a rather bawdy novel) by T. H. Ford (everyone’s assumed for years he’s a man, but she’s really a woman)
The Wizard of War and Peace by Ursula Tolstoy (Russia’s answer to J.K. Rowling)
8 Food Things Meme
(Once again, we have that number 8. Does anyone know why there's this meme obsession with the number 8?)
And this one I got from Charlotte (who else?).
What are your favourite foods?
This is an extremely difficult question for me to answer and always has been. I love spicy, creamy, sweet, sour, salty, subtle, powerful, soft, chewy, crunchy…see what I mean? And it depends on my mood. I will say, though, that there are a few very, very basic things I absolutely adore, things that, these days, are all considered “no-nos”: whole milk, cheese, real butter, eggs, potatoes, and fresh-baked bread. I’m not convinced any of these things, when you eat organic versions in moderation, are at all bad for you (most especially the eggs with their high levels of Omega Fatty-3s). The problem is that “in moderation” part.
What foods do you hate?
Sun-dried tomatoes. Why are they all the rage? Why do restaurant chefs insist on adding them to dishes that would be perfectly scrumptious without them? Unlike such things as grapes, apricots, and cherries, which are deliciously candy-like when dried, tomatoes, when dried, seem to hang on to some unpleasantly bitter flavor not noticeable when eaten in their un-dried, juicy, firm but succulent state.
Foods you like but are embarrassed to admit:
Cheese Doodles. Don’t put a huge bag in front of me, please.
Strangest food you’ve eaten and enjoyed?
Goat. It’s a bit oily, but – and I hate to admit this, because who wants to eat a cute little goat? -- I still liked it quite a lot (or maybe that’s just because it was cooked with so many intriguing Caribbean spices, it was hard not to like).
Cooking failures that still rankle?
I made a pea soup once when I was just beginning to learn my way around the kitchen, and I thought the recipe called for un-shelled peas, which seemed very odd. But this was from a health food cookbook, so I decided to try it. Bob and I still refer to it as the “dental floss” soup. The flavor was delicious, and it probably would have been fabulous if I’d shelled the peas as I thought I should, but it was so disastrous, I was never brave enough to try again. A very good lesson, though, wouldn’t you say, to prove to a budding cook that both flavor AND texture are very important?
Ingredients you don’t want to consider living without?
Butter, cream, hot peppers, cheese, garlic, sugar, cilantro, basil, lemon, lime, chocolate (but not altogether, of course).
Cuisine you’d like to know more about?
Ethiopian. I’ve been to some wonderful restaurants.
Foods you’ve hated but have grown to love?
Broccoli. Have no idea why I found this wonderful vegetable so distasteful as a child. These days, I actually find myself craving it if I go too long without it.
Yogurt. I always liked fruit-flavored yogurt, but I hated plain. Now I love it plain or plain drizzled with a little honey or molasses or maple syrup.
“Smelly” cheeses. Now, the “smellier” the better.
Current kitchen conundrum?
Knowing I should give away things that take up space that I never use (like the juicer) but being unable to part with them, either for sentimental reasons (my mother and I bought that juicer on a shopping spree before I was even married, and the first summer Bob and I had a garden, we used it all the time to make vegetable juice. The novelty has warn off, though, and I’d much rather just pick up a bottle of V-8) or because I’m convinced I suddenly might start making great use of them (right. I have tons of time to start spending hours making my own pasta with that pasta machine I’ve used twice since I got it as a wedding gift, especially when I’ve got a perfectly good rolling pin for the few times a year I decide to make my own ravioli – the only kind of pasta I ever make from scratch).
And then there’s pie crust. I really, really want to make my own. I’ve made it about four times, once with fantastic results and the other times with disastrous results. I know it takes practice, but I never make the time to practice and keep buying it already made. I’ve learned it’s very easy to make a good graham cracker crust, though, so I make odd things like pumpkin pie with graham cracker crust, which is actually quite yummy. But, you know, even a grand taste-bud adventurer like me has to admit that quiche with a graham cracker crust probably isn’t going to cut it.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Ten Things I'm Not Going to Miss About Connecticut (Or The Protesting-Too-Much Lady)
1. It’s late May/early June, and it’s 95 degrees out, and the humidity level is hovering somewhere around 99%. You finally decide summer has arrived, and you risk heat stroke getting out all your summer clothes and dragging suitcases of winter clothes up to the sauna attic. Three days later, it’s dropped 40 degrees, and you have to risk frost bite going up into the freezer attic to retrieve a wool sweater.
2. The local NPR station runs out of a small college. If you drive five miles outside the town where that small college is located, you begin to lose reception. If you live 20 miles away, you have to balance the radio on your head and keep your right arm out to the side while never venturing from a particular tile in your kitchen floor in order to listen to it.
3. You can’t buy alcohol on Sundays or after 9:00 p.m. anywhere except a bar or restaurant, drastically reducing (of course) the chances that anyone on the road during these hours is driving under the influence.
4. Although you can buy beer in the grocery store, you can’t buy wine (because, you know, people are much less likely to get drunk if they drink a six pack of beer than if they drink a bottle of wine), and all the best and most-reasonably-priced places to buy wine are nowhere near any of the grocery stores anyone frequents. This means you can’t go to the grocery store, discover basil is on sale this week, decide pesto would be a great thing to have for dinner tonight, and pick up a nice bottle of wine to go with it. Or at least you can’t without having to spend so much on gas to get the wine, the money you’re saving on the basil isn’t worth it. Or you must keep a well-stocked wine cellar under the sorts of weather conditions mentioned in Thing #1.
5. If you’re female, blonde, and from the South, everyone assumes you’re
a. A complete ditz/moron
b. Inbred
c. a member of the KKK
and/or
d. all of the above
6. You’re looked at sideways if you refer to Connecticut’s “Thames River” (pronounced exactly as it’s spelled) as “The Thames” (pronounced the way it’s pronounced in every other civilized part of the world).
7. You can’t walk into a room full of people, say, “Raise your hand if you’ve ever had Lyme Disease” and expect no one will raise his or her hand. If you say, “Raise your hand if you’ve ever been put on antibiotics as a preventative measure against Lyme Disease,” probably all hands will go up.
8. If the speed limit sign says 65, you’d better be prepared to drive 80, and don't be surprised if you look in your rearview mirror to find someone practically attached to your bumper, even at this speed.
9. You’d better know what street you are on at all times, because when you come to an intersection, although, if you’re lucky, there just may be a sign to tell you what the crossroad is, there will be no street sign to tell you the name of the road you’ve been traveling on for the last five miles.
10. These are the seasons you will enjoy if you happen to live here: winter (November 1 - March 30th), a little-warmer winter (April 1st - May 31st), road construction (June 1 – Aug. 31st), and road construction with very beautiful leaves (September 1 – October 31st).
A Bend in the River in a nutshell: what a wonderfully subtle, but for some reason, very gripping and powerful work about all the social and political changes in an African town at the bend in the river during the late 20th century.
Diddie, Dumps, and Tot in a nutshell: sometimes extremely difficult to read for someone with 21st-century sensibilities, but fascinating from a historical point of view and for its versions of African-American folktales. (I thought it would be banned everywhere and impossible to get, but not so.)
2. The local NPR station runs out of a small college. If you drive five miles outside the town where that small college is located, you begin to lose reception. If you live 20 miles away, you have to balance the radio on your head and keep your right arm out to the side while never venturing from a particular tile in your kitchen floor in order to listen to it.
3. You can’t buy alcohol on Sundays or after 9:00 p.m. anywhere except a bar or restaurant, drastically reducing (of course) the chances that anyone on the road during these hours is driving under the influence.
4. Although you can buy beer in the grocery store, you can’t buy wine (because, you know, people are much less likely to get drunk if they drink a six pack of beer than if they drink a bottle of wine), and all the best and most-reasonably-priced places to buy wine are nowhere near any of the grocery stores anyone frequents. This means you can’t go to the grocery store, discover basil is on sale this week, decide pesto would be a great thing to have for dinner tonight, and pick up a nice bottle of wine to go with it. Or at least you can’t without having to spend so much on gas to get the wine, the money you’re saving on the basil isn’t worth it. Or you must keep a well-stocked wine cellar under the sorts of weather conditions mentioned in Thing #1.
5. If you’re female, blonde, and from the South, everyone assumes you’re
a. A complete ditz/moron
b. Inbred
c. a member of the KKK
and/or
d. all of the above
6. You’re looked at sideways if you refer to Connecticut’s “Thames River” (pronounced exactly as it’s spelled) as “The Thames” (pronounced the way it’s pronounced in every other civilized part of the world).
7. You can’t walk into a room full of people, say, “Raise your hand if you’ve ever had Lyme Disease” and expect no one will raise his or her hand. If you say, “Raise your hand if you’ve ever been put on antibiotics as a preventative measure against Lyme Disease,” probably all hands will go up.
8. If the speed limit sign says 65, you’d better be prepared to drive 80, and don't be surprised if you look in your rearview mirror to find someone practically attached to your bumper, even at this speed.
9. You’d better know what street you are on at all times, because when you come to an intersection, although, if you’re lucky, there just may be a sign to tell you what the crossroad is, there will be no street sign to tell you the name of the road you’ve been traveling on for the last five miles.
10. These are the seasons you will enjoy if you happen to live here: winter (November 1 - March 30th), a little-warmer winter (April 1st - May 31st), road construction (June 1 – Aug. 31st), and road construction with very beautiful leaves (September 1 – October 31st).
A Bend in the River in a nutshell: what a wonderfully subtle, but for some reason, very gripping and powerful work about all the social and political changes in an African town at the bend in the river during the late 20th century.
Diddie, Dumps, and Tot in a nutshell: sometimes extremely difficult to read for someone with 21st-century sensibilities, but fascinating from a historical point of view and for its versions of African-American folktales. (I thought it would be banned everywhere and impossible to get, but not so.)
Monday, June 04, 2007
Leaving New York (Never Easy)
(My apologies to REM for stealing their lyrics.)
The other day, I had to drive down to “The Gold Coast.” For those of you unfamiliar with Connecticut, this is the southwestern coastal area of the state, which borders on the Long Island Sound. It stretches from Greenwich up to Fairfield (pretending Bridgeport, which borders on Fairfield, a pretty rough city hit hard in the late eighties and early nineties, doesn’t exist). People have their 2nd (or maybe even 3rd) multi-million dollar homes along The Gold Coast, the first being a penthouse view of Central Park. This in no way guarantees they have an ounce of taste. If you’re having trouble picturing such a place, just think “Stepford Wives,” whose fictional town was based on Westport, CT.
Westport is one of the worst. Imagine “normal-sized” four-or-five-bedroom homes on lots that are probably about a quarter of an acre in size. Imagine these somewhat-modest-sized houses set back from the road on pretty, tree-lined streets. Now imagine people buying these homes, tearing them down, and building Buckingham Palaces on them, leaving all of a 2-sq.-in. piece of lawn on which their children can play, and you’ll get the idea. (Is anyone else out there like me? Do you see these McPalaces and think, “Ohmigod! All that house to take care of!” And “Merry Maids” visiting once a week does not an Upstairs, Downstairs make.)
Anyway, this little excursion made me think, “I’m not gonna miss Connecticut so much after all. Seeing all the “Mr.-and-Ms. Importants,” power suits on and briefcases in hands, flipping open their cell phones to impart the life-and-death news of “I just got off the train,” as they raced from the commuter train to their parked cars, reinforced this realization. But then I remembered: they were all coming from New York. When Bob was in school, and we had the apartment in New York, I sometimes used to do that, too (“reverse commute” it’s called when you go from New York to Connecticut to work). And then, despite the fact I knew so many of these obnoxious people have their other multi-million dollar home in New York, my thought was, “I’m SO going to miss New York!” (Of course, a couple of days later, when I was driving in Midtown Manhattan -- something I enjoy doing about as much as most people enjoy un-anaesthetized leg amputations -- I wasn’t thinking this quite as enthusiastically, but I was still thinking it.)
Because, in New York, you don’t have to hang out with these obnoxious people. In fact, a few weeks back, I was coming up from the Subway station at 125th St. and Broadway, and there was a young couple on the escalator behind me – obviously tourists – and the woman said to the man, “You know, everyone always says New York is such an unfriendly city, but I don’t think it’s unfriendly at all. Everyone’s been so nice.” Because I’m too shy, I didn’t, but I was sorely tempted to turn around and say, “That’s because all the unfriendly people moved out to Connecticut during the Reagan years and left all the nice people behind.” I actually remember saying the exact same thing about New York the first time I visited in 1985, and my feelings have only been confirmed for me during the twenty years I’ve become more and more familiar with the grand city. I'm glad to hear other visitors still draw the same conclusion.
You can do all kinds of things in New York and not once run into anyone wearing a power suit. You and a group of friends can decide you’re going to spend a Saturday evening walking across The Brooklyn Bridge and get ice cream on the other side before walking back. You can take a book up to The Cloisters and Fort Tryon Park and spend a lazy Sunday afternoon among all those fabulous imported ruins and artifacts, with a million interesting tourists, whom you can choose to either engage or ignore, depending on your preference. On a warm summer day, you can visit the dog run at Riverside Park, petting everything from Miniature Dobermans to Wolf Hounds, then go across the path to buy a burger and a beer and watch the “volleyballers” and sunbathers at “Hudson Beach,” the sandy block on the banks of the Hudson River.
You can see just about any play your heart desires right now (if you have the money). Ditto movies on the big screen. If you’re in the mood for art, you’ve got the Met. Modern art? You’ve got the MOMA. Science? Try the Museum of Natural History. Want to ride a roller coaster? Go down to Coney Island (although, unfortunately, not for long. Coney Island is soon to be no more, and I’m sure that area will become a haven for power suits. The roller coaster will still be there, though, and the suits will be barely noticeable from its great heights).
The libraries are probably some of the best in the country. And despite the rise and fall of the super bookstores, you can still find some wonderful little independent ones tucked away on side streets, near cafes (or, if you’re really lucky, The Hungarian Pastry Shop, which is conveniently located right near Labyrinth Books), where you can buy your books and then go get some tea or coffee (or fabulous pastries). And, of course, there’s The Strand, rivaled only by Portland, OR’s Powells (actually, Powells is probably better, but The Strand is a very close second).
And don’t let everyone fool you. Yes, NYC can be very, very expensive. But you can do some absolutely wonderful things for next-to-nothing. Hang out in Washington Square Park for a day, for instance, and buy your lunch from vendors. Walk up and down 5th Avenue at Christmas (leaving all your cash and credit cards at home), just enjoying the shop windows, and don’t forget to stop to admire the tree and the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center. Go down to Ground Zero and be touched in a way you never imagined. Seek out the places where all the famous people lived: The Dakota, Edgar Alan Poe’s, Theodore Roosevelt’s, etc. No one will question you if you lurk outside these places trying to envision what they were like when these people were alive – what they saw, how this contributed to what they did. Stroll anywhere along the Hudson, any time of year (but I’d most highly recommend late winter when the ice flows form as the ice cracks and breaks) and lose yourself in this most magnificent river. I have no idea why this particular body of water is so, so hypnotic, but I promise you, it is.
Why do I feel like I’m losing a friend? We won’t really be that far from New York. We can easily be in midtown Manhattan by train within two and a half hours. That’s nothing. It’s not like we’re moving to Seattle. But why do I have this gnawing feeling that we’re always going to be too busy, that we’ll never make it back?
The other day, I had to drive down to “The Gold Coast.” For those of you unfamiliar with Connecticut, this is the southwestern coastal area of the state, which borders on the Long Island Sound. It stretches from Greenwich up to Fairfield (pretending Bridgeport, which borders on Fairfield, a pretty rough city hit hard in the late eighties and early nineties, doesn’t exist). People have their 2nd (or maybe even 3rd) multi-million dollar homes along The Gold Coast, the first being a penthouse view of Central Park. This in no way guarantees they have an ounce of taste. If you’re having trouble picturing such a place, just think “Stepford Wives,” whose fictional town was based on Westport, CT.
Westport is one of the worst. Imagine “normal-sized” four-or-five-bedroom homes on lots that are probably about a quarter of an acre in size. Imagine these somewhat-modest-sized houses set back from the road on pretty, tree-lined streets. Now imagine people buying these homes, tearing them down, and building Buckingham Palaces on them, leaving all of a 2-sq.-in. piece of lawn on which their children can play, and you’ll get the idea. (Is anyone else out there like me? Do you see these McPalaces and think, “Ohmigod! All that house to take care of!” And “Merry Maids” visiting once a week does not an Upstairs, Downstairs make.)
Anyway, this little excursion made me think, “I’m not gonna miss Connecticut so much after all. Seeing all the “Mr.-and-Ms. Importants,” power suits on and briefcases in hands, flipping open their cell phones to impart the life-and-death news of “I just got off the train,” as they raced from the commuter train to their parked cars, reinforced this realization. But then I remembered: they were all coming from New York. When Bob was in school, and we had the apartment in New York, I sometimes used to do that, too (“reverse commute” it’s called when you go from New York to Connecticut to work). And then, despite the fact I knew so many of these obnoxious people have their other multi-million dollar home in New York, my thought was, “I’m SO going to miss New York!” (Of course, a couple of days later, when I was driving in Midtown Manhattan -- something I enjoy doing about as much as most people enjoy un-anaesthetized leg amputations -- I wasn’t thinking this quite as enthusiastically, but I was still thinking it.)
Because, in New York, you don’t have to hang out with these obnoxious people. In fact, a few weeks back, I was coming up from the Subway station at 125th St. and Broadway, and there was a young couple on the escalator behind me – obviously tourists – and the woman said to the man, “You know, everyone always says New York is such an unfriendly city, but I don’t think it’s unfriendly at all. Everyone’s been so nice.” Because I’m too shy, I didn’t, but I was sorely tempted to turn around and say, “That’s because all the unfriendly people moved out to Connecticut during the Reagan years and left all the nice people behind.” I actually remember saying the exact same thing about New York the first time I visited in 1985, and my feelings have only been confirmed for me during the twenty years I’ve become more and more familiar with the grand city. I'm glad to hear other visitors still draw the same conclusion.
You can do all kinds of things in New York and not once run into anyone wearing a power suit. You and a group of friends can decide you’re going to spend a Saturday evening walking across The Brooklyn Bridge and get ice cream on the other side before walking back. You can take a book up to The Cloisters and Fort Tryon Park and spend a lazy Sunday afternoon among all those fabulous imported ruins and artifacts, with a million interesting tourists, whom you can choose to either engage or ignore, depending on your preference. On a warm summer day, you can visit the dog run at Riverside Park, petting everything from Miniature Dobermans to Wolf Hounds, then go across the path to buy a burger and a beer and watch the “volleyballers” and sunbathers at “Hudson Beach,” the sandy block on the banks of the Hudson River.
You can see just about any play your heart desires right now (if you have the money). Ditto movies on the big screen. If you’re in the mood for art, you’ve got the Met. Modern art? You’ve got the MOMA. Science? Try the Museum of Natural History. Want to ride a roller coaster? Go down to Coney Island (although, unfortunately, not for long. Coney Island is soon to be no more, and I’m sure that area will become a haven for power suits. The roller coaster will still be there, though, and the suits will be barely noticeable from its great heights).
The libraries are probably some of the best in the country. And despite the rise and fall of the super bookstores, you can still find some wonderful little independent ones tucked away on side streets, near cafes (or, if you’re really lucky, The Hungarian Pastry Shop, which is conveniently located right near Labyrinth Books), where you can buy your books and then go get some tea or coffee (or fabulous pastries). And, of course, there’s The Strand, rivaled only by Portland, OR’s Powells (actually, Powells is probably better, but The Strand is a very close second).
And don’t let everyone fool you. Yes, NYC can be very, very expensive. But you can do some absolutely wonderful things for next-to-nothing. Hang out in Washington Square Park for a day, for instance, and buy your lunch from vendors. Walk up and down 5th Avenue at Christmas (leaving all your cash and credit cards at home), just enjoying the shop windows, and don’t forget to stop to admire the tree and the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center. Go down to Ground Zero and be touched in a way you never imagined. Seek out the places where all the famous people lived: The Dakota, Edgar Alan Poe’s, Theodore Roosevelt’s, etc. No one will question you if you lurk outside these places trying to envision what they were like when these people were alive – what they saw, how this contributed to what they did. Stroll anywhere along the Hudson, any time of year (but I’d most highly recommend late winter when the ice flows form as the ice cracks and breaks) and lose yourself in this most magnificent river. I have no idea why this particular body of water is so, so hypnotic, but I promise you, it is.
Why do I feel like I’m losing a friend? We won’t really be that far from New York. We can easily be in midtown Manhattan by train within two and a half hours. That’s nothing. It’s not like we’re moving to Seattle. But why do I have this gnawing feeling that we’re always going to be too busy, that we’ll never make it back?
Friday, June 01, 2007
Their Long and Winding Road
The first thing I always do when The New Yorker arrives in the mail is search the table of contents for either David Sedaris or Paul Rudnick. This week? Bingo! Sedaris is featured. It’s one of his really good ones, especially if you think Me Talk Pretty One Day is his best book. (Sorry, I’d give you the online link, but I guess The New Yorker keeps its best stuff off-line, and this article isn’t available.) Next thing I look for is some wonderful, unapologetic, scathing critique of our current administration. Bingo, again! Jeffrey Goldberg gives us “Party Unfaithful,” which could also have been called “The Decline and Fall of Rove, Gingrich, et al.” These two articles and a very funny “Shouts and Murmurs” would have been enough to satisfy me, but then I encountered “When I’m Sixty-Four,” John Colapinto’s all-absorbing piece on Paul McCartney (another article with no link).
Think and say what you will about The Beatles, but it’s nearly impossible to deny the influence they had on pop and rock music, not to mention pop culture in general. As anyone in my family can tell you, Bob and I love to haverowdy debates conversations that begin thus, “Which authors of the past fifty years will people still be reading 100 years from now?” or “Which musicians of the past fifty years will people still be listening to 100 years from now?” I had a friend in high school whose father used to say to us, “That crap you listen to, no one’s going to know who The Beatles were 200 years from now. They won’t last the way Mozart has.” (We were actually listening to David Bowie and Talking Heads. The Beatles were somewhat cool and retro, but not quite yet, or at least not yet enough for us to bring them out and play them at teenaged gatherings in parents’ “rec rooms.” But that’s beside the point.) Bob and I would beg to differ with my friend’s father.
I can honestly say I’ve had a “love-hate” relationship with the Beatles all my life. After all, they arrived in The States in the same month and year I was born. Naturally, for the first five or so years of my life, I hated them, because my parents did (they were the sorts of parents who were “shocked” by The Beatles’ “ugliness”). Then I discovered those great Muppets’ hits I’d seen a few times on Sesame Street, “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine” and “An Octupus’s Garden,” weren't by the Muppets at all, but were actually by The Beatles. I broke rank with my parents (one of my first little acts of rebellion, I guess). Besides, by then, my sisters were beginning to acquire Beatles albums (as well as albums by even “uglier” groups). Despite the fact the band had broken up, they still seemed to be coming out with new albums every year.
Looking back on it, I’m so aware of how influenced our culture was by these four young men. I doubt there were many popular cartoons and sit-coms of the era that didn’t have at least one episode that somehow alluded to The Beatles. Even Gilligan’s Island, those castaways who should have been completely unaffected by pop culture, must have had a couple of Beatles albums stowed on the S.S. Minnow (the boat hauling three life-times of goods on its “three-hour tour”). I’m amazed anyone who lived through that era could have claimed this group wouldn’t go down in history. I mean, did half the world race out and buy Mozart-style wigs when he was alive?
The summer when I was eleven or so, our friends who would eventually move to South Africa, Ian, and I listened to Abbey Road every single day. We played Pay Day, listened to Abbey Road, and drew pictures of the octopus’s garden. I know we did other things that summer (the grand finale was a performance for all the parents of a dance choreographed by my sister Lindsay to The Four Seasons’ “December, 1963” – a band certainly influenced by The Beatles), but that’s mostly what I remember about that summer.
Revolver was the first album (not 45 but album. Those of you who are old enough, remember how important the transition from 45 to album was) I ever owned. My sisters gave it to me for my birthday when I was in junior high. To find out what to get me, they pretended they were doing a survey for their school newspaper in which they were asking people, “If you could only own one album, what would it be?” I fell hook, line, and sinker, and (I think) surprised them a bit with my answer. They got it for me, though. It was followed not-too-long afterwards by Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
The problem is, I listened to The Beatles to death. I’m that sort of obsessive music-listener. For instance, I absolutely love the fact that our shameful car (i.e. the one that isn’t a Prius, but take note that it’s still a car, not an S.U.V.) has CD controls on the steering wheel. I can hit the replay button over, and over, and over again. I would have loved to have had such a feature on my record player when I was a teenager. Instead, I’d lift the needle over and over again to repeat my favorite songs. By the time I was in college, having been listening to them over and over in this way all my life, really, I was pretty sick of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. I went years without listening to them much (except occasionally, for memory’s sake, I might pull out Abbey Road).
Then I met Bob. Bob, being a number of years older than I, was actually cognizant when The Beatles arrived on the scene. Apparently, his mother loved to relate the story of her little boy’s birthday party in which all the children were dancing to The Beatles (obviously, she’d been a little more hip than my parents). With Bob’s infectious enthusiasm (those of you who know Bob know what I mean about his “infectious enthusiasm.” He can get a person excited about a telephone pole, if he’s excited about it, relating all kinds of unknown facts about the pole and telling stories of its life), it was impossible not to start listening to them again, with a new and older ear that brought a deeper appreciation.
McCartney says it himself in the article. What a miracle it was that these four boys managed to find each other, even more of a miracle that they were in the right place at the right time for the right people to take notice. The Lennon-McCartney collaboration, while it lasted, was a perfect combination of competitive genius. It’s really fun to watch those early clips of them embarking on a journey that would have such an impact. That is, it’s fun to watch them de-boarding that plane as they arrive in America or crooning away on Ed Sullivan’s stage until we remember the tragedies in store for them, the fact that the group wouldn’t last, the fact that so many of the characters in their story would die well before that oh-so-old age of 64.
Time to go dig out Abbey Road again. Of course, it’s on CD now (but, yes, Bob does still have the album). Oh, and apologies to all our family members, but people will most definitely remember The Beatles 100 years from now. After all, it’s already been over 40.
Think and say what you will about The Beatles, but it’s nearly impossible to deny the influence they had on pop and rock music, not to mention pop culture in general. As anyone in my family can tell you, Bob and I love to have
I can honestly say I’ve had a “love-hate” relationship with the Beatles all my life. After all, they arrived in The States in the same month and year I was born. Naturally, for the first five or so years of my life, I hated them, because my parents did (they were the sorts of parents who were “shocked” by The Beatles’ “ugliness”). Then I discovered those great Muppets’ hits I’d seen a few times on Sesame Street, “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine” and “An Octupus’s Garden,” weren't by the Muppets at all, but were actually by The Beatles. I broke rank with my parents (one of my first little acts of rebellion, I guess). Besides, by then, my sisters were beginning to acquire Beatles albums (as well as albums by even “uglier” groups). Despite the fact the band had broken up, they still seemed to be coming out with new albums every year.
Looking back on it, I’m so aware of how influenced our culture was by these four young men. I doubt there were many popular cartoons and sit-coms of the era that didn’t have at least one episode that somehow alluded to The Beatles. Even Gilligan’s Island, those castaways who should have been completely unaffected by pop culture, must have had a couple of Beatles albums stowed on the S.S. Minnow (the boat hauling three life-times of goods on its “three-hour tour”). I’m amazed anyone who lived through that era could have claimed this group wouldn’t go down in history. I mean, did half the world race out and buy Mozart-style wigs when he was alive?
The summer when I was eleven or so, our friends who would eventually move to South Africa, Ian, and I listened to Abbey Road every single day. We played Pay Day, listened to Abbey Road, and drew pictures of the octopus’s garden. I know we did other things that summer (the grand finale was a performance for all the parents of a dance choreographed by my sister Lindsay to The Four Seasons’ “December, 1963” – a band certainly influenced by The Beatles), but that’s mostly what I remember about that summer.
Revolver was the first album (not 45 but album. Those of you who are old enough, remember how important the transition from 45 to album was) I ever owned. My sisters gave it to me for my birthday when I was in junior high. To find out what to get me, they pretended they were doing a survey for their school newspaper in which they were asking people, “If you could only own one album, what would it be?” I fell hook, line, and sinker, and (I think) surprised them a bit with my answer. They got it for me, though. It was followed not-too-long afterwards by Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
The problem is, I listened to The Beatles to death. I’m that sort of obsessive music-listener. For instance, I absolutely love the fact that our shameful car (i.e. the one that isn’t a Prius, but take note that it’s still a car, not an S.U.V.) has CD controls on the steering wheel. I can hit the replay button over, and over, and over again. I would have loved to have had such a feature on my record player when I was a teenager. Instead, I’d lift the needle over and over again to repeat my favorite songs. By the time I was in college, having been listening to them over and over in this way all my life, really, I was pretty sick of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. I went years without listening to them much (except occasionally, for memory’s sake, I might pull out Abbey Road).
Then I met Bob. Bob, being a number of years older than I, was actually cognizant when The Beatles arrived on the scene. Apparently, his mother loved to relate the story of her little boy’s birthday party in which all the children were dancing to The Beatles (obviously, she’d been a little more hip than my parents). With Bob’s infectious enthusiasm (those of you who know Bob know what I mean about his “infectious enthusiasm.” He can get a person excited about a telephone pole, if he’s excited about it, relating all kinds of unknown facts about the pole and telling stories of its life), it was impossible not to start listening to them again, with a new and older ear that brought a deeper appreciation.
McCartney says it himself in the article. What a miracle it was that these four boys managed to find each other, even more of a miracle that they were in the right place at the right time for the right people to take notice. The Lennon-McCartney collaboration, while it lasted, was a perfect combination of competitive genius. It’s really fun to watch those early clips of them embarking on a journey that would have such an impact. That is, it’s fun to watch them de-boarding that plane as they arrive in America or crooning away on Ed Sullivan’s stage until we remember the tragedies in store for them, the fact that the group wouldn’t last, the fact that so many of the characters in their story would die well before that oh-so-old age of 64.
Time to go dig out Abbey Road again. Of course, it’s on CD now (but, yes, Bob does still have the album). Oh, and apologies to all our family members, but people will most definitely remember The Beatles 100 years from now. After all, it’s already been over 40.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The Post That Should Have Been Written on May 15th (My One Year Blogging Anniversary)
The QC Report was noting in her most recent post how annoying it can be when your blog and real lives interact (or don’t, as the case may be). I could certainly sympathize when she observed the frustration she feels as she relates an anecdote to a friend only to be met with a barely stifled yawn and, “I know. I read your blog.” Then, because someone (someone, mind you, I had no idea even knew my blog existed) has rolled her eyes and said that to me, I’ll encounter another friend and preface my story with “Let me know if you already read this on my blog,” only to be told, dismissively “I don’t get blogging. So, don’t worry. I haven’t read your blog” (this being the friend who works in the IT department and is the master of text messaging one-handed on a cell phone that’s in his pocket. Why Tech Whiz doesn’t “get blogging” is beyond me). Anyway, I was glad to read that at least one other blogger has such friends.
This may sound like I have obnoxious real-life friends. I don’t. It’s just that, after a year of doing this, I’m still not sure how to blend my blog into the rest of my life. I mean, it does seem pretty obnoxious to assume people are logging on and visiting my blog first thing every morning. By the same token, it seems that one of the nice things about having a blog is being able to say to friends I rarely get to see, “If you want to keep up with what’s going on with me, just read my blog.” But then Ms. Accuracy who resides with all those other characters in my brain (the ones some of you have been reading about for a year now) will worry, because my blog doesn’t exactly relate my day-to-day activities. This means I usually end up saying something more along the lines of “I have a blog, and if you sort of want to keep up with what’s going on in my life, you can read it.” Then, of course, I immediately forget I’ve said anything about it. One day I get an email from someone of a certain age who used to go to church with me, and when she mentions my blog, I realize she has access to such things as what I think is the sexiest part of a man’s body (okay, that hasn’t actually happened yet, but I’m always fearing it’s going to).
For a long time, I just assumed none of my real-life friends (well, with the exception of you, Danny, at whom I practically threw my URL) were reading my blog. I found out the hard way that this was a stupid assumption on my part. Let’s just say, don’t tell one friend about your blog without telling all other friends and acquaintances you share in common, or one might just get a little pissed. I’d still wager a large sum of money that most of my real-life friends don’t read my blog, but I’ve come to realize some do, and a few of those have even come to rely on it.
That adds pressure of the, “Ohmigod, if I don’t hurry up and blog about the fact Bob and I are moving, nobody’s going to know” sort. Believe me, blogging creates enough pressure for someone who teeters on the brink of an OCD diagnosis without adding more, but then there’s this one, “If I blog about this before calling everyone in the family, are they going to be upset, because they had to find out about it through my blog?” My family members, whom I initially thought would be the only ones who read my blog, haven’t let me down and, I’m pretty sure, are still my most faithful readers, which introduces a new pressure. Are my siblings and I being too cliquish, as I’ve been told by real-life friends we’re wont to do, making others who visit the blog uncomfortable?
Then, of course, I’ve complicated matters further by turning blogging friends like Dorr and Hobs into real-life friends. Actually, I highly recommend these sorts of friends. They comment on your blog; you comment on theirs. No one ever has any doubt about what the others do or don’t know. One of the first things we say to each other, if it’s the case, is, “I didn’t get to read your blog post yet today (or this week or whatever).” It’s those sneaky friends who read your blog and never comment you have to watch out for. And what’s with these people who visit my site on computers that don’t register location on my site meter, so they remain complete mysteries. Sitemeter even denotes them as ?Unknown, like I’ve got some CIA agent on my trail or something.
Oh yes, and then there’s the other thing I do. I’m like an overzealous reformed smoker or drinker who’s had her corpus callosum cut or something. One part of my brain doesn’t know what the other part is doing, and instead of telling everyone to quit, I’m telling everyone to start. I beg my friends to start blogs (as if I need more blogs to read). I’ll tell complete strangers on the street that they ought to start a blog. I tell everyone I know that the best thing I ever did was start blogging, how good it’s been for my writing, what great people I’ve met. I’m beginning to judge people, people about whom I know absolutely nothing, based on their answer to the question “Do you have a blog?” I’m completely obnoxious, I know, but I just can’t help myself.
If you’ve been blogging for a while now, and you recognize yourself in any of this, I’m hoping I’ve provided the same service for you that Ms. QC provided for me: you are not alone. You are in the company of at least one other crazy fool who is still trying to figure out how this blog life fits in and around the rest of her life. If you don’t recognize yourself in any of this, could you please let me know where you went to get help?
This may sound like I have obnoxious real-life friends. I don’t. It’s just that, after a year of doing this, I’m still not sure how to blend my blog into the rest of my life. I mean, it does seem pretty obnoxious to assume people are logging on and visiting my blog first thing every morning. By the same token, it seems that one of the nice things about having a blog is being able to say to friends I rarely get to see, “If you want to keep up with what’s going on with me, just read my blog.” But then Ms. Accuracy who resides with all those other characters in my brain (the ones some of you have been reading about for a year now) will worry, because my blog doesn’t exactly relate my day-to-day activities. This means I usually end up saying something more along the lines of “I have a blog, and if you sort of want to keep up with what’s going on in my life, you can read it.” Then, of course, I immediately forget I’ve said anything about it. One day I get an email from someone of a certain age who used to go to church with me, and when she mentions my blog, I realize she has access to such things as what I think is the sexiest part of a man’s body (okay, that hasn’t actually happened yet, but I’m always fearing it’s going to).
For a long time, I just assumed none of my real-life friends (well, with the exception of you, Danny, at whom I practically threw my URL) were reading my blog. I found out the hard way that this was a stupid assumption on my part. Let’s just say, don’t tell one friend about your blog without telling all other friends and acquaintances you share in common, or one might just get a little pissed. I’d still wager a large sum of money that most of my real-life friends don’t read my blog, but I’ve come to realize some do, and a few of those have even come to rely on it.
That adds pressure of the, “Ohmigod, if I don’t hurry up and blog about the fact Bob and I are moving, nobody’s going to know” sort. Believe me, blogging creates enough pressure for someone who teeters on the brink of an OCD diagnosis without adding more, but then there’s this one, “If I blog about this before calling everyone in the family, are they going to be upset, because they had to find out about it through my blog?” My family members, whom I initially thought would be the only ones who read my blog, haven’t let me down and, I’m pretty sure, are still my most faithful readers, which introduces a new pressure. Are my siblings and I being too cliquish, as I’ve been told by real-life friends we’re wont to do, making others who visit the blog uncomfortable?
Then, of course, I’ve complicated matters further by turning blogging friends like Dorr and Hobs into real-life friends. Actually, I highly recommend these sorts of friends. They comment on your blog; you comment on theirs. No one ever has any doubt about what the others do or don’t know. One of the first things we say to each other, if it’s the case, is, “I didn’t get to read your blog post yet today (or this week or whatever).” It’s those sneaky friends who read your blog and never comment you have to watch out for. And what’s with these people who visit my site on computers that don’t register location on my site meter, so they remain complete mysteries. Sitemeter even denotes them as ?Unknown, like I’ve got some CIA agent on my trail or something.
Oh yes, and then there’s the other thing I do. I’m like an overzealous reformed smoker or drinker who’s had her corpus callosum cut or something. One part of my brain doesn’t know what the other part is doing, and instead of telling everyone to quit, I’m telling everyone to start. I beg my friends to start blogs (as if I need more blogs to read). I’ll tell complete strangers on the street that they ought to start a blog. I tell everyone I know that the best thing I ever did was start blogging, how good it’s been for my writing, what great people I’ve met. I’m beginning to judge people, people about whom I know absolutely nothing, based on their answer to the question “Do you have a blog?” I’m completely obnoxious, I know, but I just can’t help myself.
If you’ve been blogging for a while now, and you recognize yourself in any of this, I’m hoping I’ve provided the same service for you that Ms. QC provided for me: you are not alone. You are in the company of at least one other crazy fool who is still trying to figure out how this blog life fits in and around the rest of her life. If you don’t recognize yourself in any of this, could you please let me know where you went to get help?
Monday, May 28, 2007
F-F-F-Fears and Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes
I’ve made some rather startling discoveries about myself during this whole process of discerning Bob’s call to the ministry. Isn’t it always interesting when you think you know so much about yourself, and then you discover, given certain circumstances, that nope, you are just as clueless about the real you as that stranger sitting across from you on the subway? As a matter of fact, he may even know you better, if he assumes certain traits of all human beings, those that six months ago you would have hotly contested were not traits of yours.
I don’t mind too much when my discoveries turn out to be good ones, when, for instance, I find I was wrong to think I’m not the sort of person who will say, “What do you mean? That’s not a square. It’s a triangle,” when everyone else in the group is calling a three-sided, closed figure a square. I like discovering I’m not a sheep who just follows the crowd the way I generally assume I am. I like knowing I’d probably be the neighbor who would call the police if I heard Kitty Genovese screaming.
But the discoveries I’ve made during this process haven’t been such noble ones. For instance, I’ve discovered I’m terrified of leaving my comfort zone. Me. The cheerleader who’s favorite line for all her friends is, “Rah! Rah! Change is good!” (I guess that means I’m also discovering I’m one of those awful people, full of advice for others she never follows herself.) I’m the one who’s always looking at others with that oh-so-critical eye, thinking, “How can she possibly still be living there/with that loser/sticking it out at that dead-end job? Isn’t she bored/frustrated to tears? She should move/kick him out/find something that allows her to use all her great talents.”
I’m the one who never understood how my parents could have lived in the same house for 24 years, leaving it occasionally for stints in other places but always coming back. I was especially amazed by my mother, the diplomat’s daughter, who’d lived in all kinds of exciting cities all over the world before she was married. Not that I would have relished moving around as a child. Switching schools every so often was hard enough without also being uprooted. My little judgmental mind was very good at ignoring this fact, though, when it was sitting back, deciding what boring lives my parents lived and vowing never to fall into such a trap.
My parents have since made up for their years of stagnation, having moved three times since I graduated from college. Meanwhile, I, the one who was going to move every five years or so, the one who wanted as many different living experiences in this short life as she could get, have been living in Connecticut for nearly twenty years. Granted, I lived in many different apartments with many different roommates during the first seven of those years, but this July 1st will mark twelve years of living in this one house. My fourteen-year-old self is looking at me with utter disdain. Not only have I let this happen, but I don’t seem overly eager to rectify the situation.
I’m not looking at the opportunity to move as a great new beginning, my next big adventure in life. Instead, I’m clinging to things I never thought were all that important. I like the fact I know where everything is here. I like my work-day routine, in which I spend half the day upstairs and half the day down. I like the way we’ve let nature take over and let our yard grow mostly wild, despite curious looks from neighbors (looks I used to find embarrassing, constantly feeling the need to explain we’re environmentalists). And then there are the things I know are important: I adore all my friends in Connecticut and nearby New York. I love living on a quiet, dead-end street. I love, love, love New England with its picturesque towns, gentle mountains and fabulous shorelines, as well as its winters. If we’re going to move, it’s supposed to be somewhere else in New England, preferably Maine.
There we have it: the queen of change is afraid of change, so afraid she was willing to let her husband turn down a job that was practically custom-made for him, so she could stay, if not in the same house, at least on familiar turf. That’s not going to happen, though. Bob is scared, too, but we both realize fears are never a good reason to pass up a wonderful opportunity. We’ve made a decision. We’re moving to Pennsylvania.
Guess what. I’ll eventually know where everything is there, too (and I’ll have the fun of making those discoveries). I’ll settle into a new work routine. I’ll make new friends, and all my wonderful friends from Connecticut and New York can easily come visit, as it’s not that far away. We’ll have plenty of room for guests. My fourteen-year-old self has already packed up her room into the moving van and tells me she’ll be waiting to show me the ropes when we follow her in the fall.
Meanwhile, bear with me, please, as I deal with all my anxieties and fears over the next few months. Like, for example: “Ohmigod! What are we going to do with twelve years’ worth of accumulated junk?!”
I don’t mind too much when my discoveries turn out to be good ones, when, for instance, I find I was wrong to think I’m not the sort of person who will say, “What do you mean? That’s not a square. It’s a triangle,” when everyone else in the group is calling a three-sided, closed figure a square. I like discovering I’m not a sheep who just follows the crowd the way I generally assume I am. I like knowing I’d probably be the neighbor who would call the police if I heard Kitty Genovese screaming.
But the discoveries I’ve made during this process haven’t been such noble ones. For instance, I’ve discovered I’m terrified of leaving my comfort zone. Me. The cheerleader who’s favorite line for all her friends is, “Rah! Rah! Change is good!” (I guess that means I’m also discovering I’m one of those awful people, full of advice for others she never follows herself.) I’m the one who’s always looking at others with that oh-so-critical eye, thinking, “How can she possibly still be living there/with that loser/sticking it out at that dead-end job? Isn’t she bored/frustrated to tears? She should move/kick him out/find something that allows her to use all her great talents.”
I’m the one who never understood how my parents could have lived in the same house for 24 years, leaving it occasionally for stints in other places but always coming back. I was especially amazed by my mother, the diplomat’s daughter, who’d lived in all kinds of exciting cities all over the world before she was married. Not that I would have relished moving around as a child. Switching schools every so often was hard enough without also being uprooted. My little judgmental mind was very good at ignoring this fact, though, when it was sitting back, deciding what boring lives my parents lived and vowing never to fall into such a trap.
My parents have since made up for their years of stagnation, having moved three times since I graduated from college. Meanwhile, I, the one who was going to move every five years or so, the one who wanted as many different living experiences in this short life as she could get, have been living in Connecticut for nearly twenty years. Granted, I lived in many different apartments with many different roommates during the first seven of those years, but this July 1st will mark twelve years of living in this one house. My fourteen-year-old self is looking at me with utter disdain. Not only have I let this happen, but I don’t seem overly eager to rectify the situation.
I’m not looking at the opportunity to move as a great new beginning, my next big adventure in life. Instead, I’m clinging to things I never thought were all that important. I like the fact I know where everything is here. I like my work-day routine, in which I spend half the day upstairs and half the day down. I like the way we’ve let nature take over and let our yard grow mostly wild, despite curious looks from neighbors (looks I used to find embarrassing, constantly feeling the need to explain we’re environmentalists). And then there are the things I know are important: I adore all my friends in Connecticut and nearby New York. I love living on a quiet, dead-end street. I love, love, love New England with its picturesque towns, gentle mountains and fabulous shorelines, as well as its winters. If we’re going to move, it’s supposed to be somewhere else in New England, preferably Maine.
There we have it: the queen of change is afraid of change, so afraid she was willing to let her husband turn down a job that was practically custom-made for him, so she could stay, if not in the same house, at least on familiar turf. That’s not going to happen, though. Bob is scared, too, but we both realize fears are never a good reason to pass up a wonderful opportunity. We’ve made a decision. We’re moving to Pennsylvania.
Guess what. I’ll eventually know where everything is there, too (and I’ll have the fun of making those discoveries). I’ll settle into a new work routine. I’ll make new friends, and all my wonderful friends from Connecticut and New York can easily come visit, as it’s not that far away. We’ll have plenty of room for guests. My fourteen-year-old self has already packed up her room into the moving van and tells me she’ll be waiting to show me the ropes when we follow her in the fall.
Meanwhile, bear with me, please, as I deal with all my anxieties and fears over the next few months. Like, for example: “Ohmigod! What are we going to do with twelve years’ worth of accumulated junk?!”
Saturday, May 26, 2007
I Didn't Know I Was THAT Much of a Dork!
Your Score: Pure Nerd
73 % Nerd, 13% Geek, 43% Dork
For The Record:
A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in Nerd, earning you the title of: Pure Nerd.
The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular, which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendences associated with the "dork." No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older: eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful.
Congratulations!
Also, you might want to check out some of my other tests if you're interested in any of the following:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Professional Wrestling
Love & Sexuality
America/Politics
Thanks Again! -- THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST
| Link: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test written by donathos on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test |
Friday, May 25, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
8 Things Meme
8 Random Things about Me
I found the rules for this one over at So Many Books. Here they are:
1. Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
3. At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names.
4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
And here are my 8 things:
1. (Thing about my curiosity) I’m wondering why the number 8 was chosen for this little exercise.
2. (Thing about my hobbies) I love frogs. I’ve been collecting them (not real ones, of course. They belong outside, where I can hear them performing their nightly operas this time of year) since I was about five or so, and I still have the first one I got (although its head broke off and had to be glued back on).
3. (Thing about my esthetic tastes) My favorite color is green, and I just found out that the human eye can detect different shades of green better than any other color. Bob said he thinks this is because, as we evolved, we had to figure out what all those different greens in the jungle were. That’s probably true, but I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that a lot of the foods we eat tend to turn green when they go bad.
4. (Thing about my gluttony) I can live without lots of things, but if someone were to tell me I could never have butter, cheese, or cream again, I think I’d have to slit my wrists.
5. (Thing about my early reading adventures) The first “chapter book” I ever read alone was Ramona the Pest by Beverly Cleary. My aunt gave it to me for Christmas when I was in second grade, and my mother and I read it together the first go-round, but then I liked it so much, I decided to read it on my own.
6. (Thing about how I don’t fit too well into the human race) I know summer is supposed to be the best season, and everyone looks forward to it, but I’m not a big fan of summer.
7. (Thing that’s a little racy) I think the sexiest part of a man’s body is the forearm, and that forearms look best in long-sleeved shirts with the sleeves pushed up rather than in short-sleeved shirts. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how this odd fetish of mine developed, but I’m sure there’s something buried deep in my subconscious.
8. (Thing about my laziness) I’m glad I don’t have to think up anymore of these.
I can’t possibly come up with eight people to tag who haven’t already done this one, so I’ll be a copycat and say what everyone else is saying: if you haven’t done this one yet, consider yourself tagged.
I found the rules for this one over at So Many Books. Here they are:
1. Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
3. At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names.
4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
And here are my 8 things:
1. (Thing about my curiosity) I’m wondering why the number 8 was chosen for this little exercise.
2. (Thing about my hobbies) I love frogs. I’ve been collecting them (not real ones, of course. They belong outside, where I can hear them performing their nightly operas this time of year) since I was about five or so, and I still have the first one I got (although its head broke off and had to be glued back on).
3. (Thing about my esthetic tastes) My favorite color is green, and I just found out that the human eye can detect different shades of green better than any other color. Bob said he thinks this is because, as we evolved, we had to figure out what all those different greens in the jungle were. That’s probably true, but I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that a lot of the foods we eat tend to turn green when they go bad.
4. (Thing about my gluttony) I can live without lots of things, but if someone were to tell me I could never have butter, cheese, or cream again, I think I’d have to slit my wrists.
5. (Thing about my early reading adventures) The first “chapter book” I ever read alone was Ramona the Pest by Beverly Cleary. My aunt gave it to me for Christmas when I was in second grade, and my mother and I read it together the first go-round, but then I liked it so much, I decided to read it on my own.
6. (Thing about how I don’t fit too well into the human race) I know summer is supposed to be the best season, and everyone looks forward to it, but I’m not a big fan of summer.
7. (Thing that’s a little racy) I think the sexiest part of a man’s body is the forearm, and that forearms look best in long-sleeved shirts with the sleeves pushed up rather than in short-sleeved shirts. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how this odd fetish of mine developed, but I’m sure there’s something buried deep in my subconscious.
8. (Thing about my laziness) I’m glad I don’t have to think up anymore of these.
I can’t possibly come up with eight people to tag who haven’t already done this one, so I’ll be a copycat and say what everyone else is saying: if you haven’t done this one yet, consider yourself tagged.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
The Immeasurable Pleasure of Reading About Ruins (Or Litblogger Imitation #2)
Thoughts on:
Macauly, Rose. The Pleasure of Ruins. New York: Barnes and Nobles Books, 1953. This was my second book for the 2007 nonfiction reading challenge.
When I was a child, my parents dragged us to every historic site that piqued their interests throughout the British Isles, France, and Germany. During these trips, the only thing that really piqued my interest (well, besides food, candy, and books that were not accessible in my home state of North Carolina in those days. These would be real fish ‘n’ chips, Opal Fruits, and Tin Tin respectively) were castle ruins. It seems to me I asked every morning if we were going to a castle. I soon learned to say “castle ruin,” as I had been disappointed a number of times by “castles” that seemed no different from those boring old estates exhibiting plump, extremely-comfy-looking chairs and sofas we weren’t allowed to sit on; dark paintings of prominent figures that teased me with the idea of being followed by their eyes, the way they do in scary movies, but never did; and velvet drapes that just begged to be hidden behind if only, again, I were allowed. These were fake castles. A real castle had crumbling towers, archways, and secret passages, the perfect backdrop for playing knight in shining armor (surprise, surprise: I was a knight, never a princess). Most exciting was a castle with a moat that still had water and might be hiding the remains of an ancient dragon (or at least had a cool drawbridge). In my teens, I became fascinated with Stone Henge, the mystery of it as intriguing as the actual remnants; Battle Abbey, sure I might see some ghosts wandering around in the battle fields; and Hadrian’s Wall (perhaps a little too influenced by the fact I’d graduated from Tin Tin to Asterisk the Gaul by then and had become fascinated with the Roman occupation).
My love of such spots hasn’t waned over the years. Bob and I discovered Avebury. Ahh! Avebury, where the village weaves in and out and around the ancient stones, and the sheep lie down against them. (Oh, and while you’re there, you can get great scones with clotted cream and jam). Our visit to Tintern Abbey revealed it to be a place likely to make those who guffaw at the notion of inanimate objects casting spells think twice. Meanwhile it causes people like me to roll over, expose their bellies, paws in air, begging, “more spells. Please. More.” Tikal was a place that made me desperately wish, not for the first time, I had a time machine. But you don’t even have to take me to foreign lands. You can tell me you’d like to show me a ghost town in New Mexico or some rich man’s old estate on an island off the coast of Maine that was left to rot during The Great Depression, and I’m there. Needless to say: I love ruins. Nothing quite grabs hold of the reins of my runaway imagination and says “Gee!” quite the way a good ruin does.
Those of you who have followed this blog and my comments on others’ blogs know I also happen to be infatuated with Rose Macaulay. Thus, when a friend of mine lent me Pleasure of Ruins, my first thought was, “How can I go wrong with Rose Macaulay’s take on ruins from around the globe?” After all, two infatuations have got to be better than one. Happily, and for a change, I didn’t ask “How can I go wrong?” and end up in some prison in Mexico or something.
Let’s just say that, like reading Slightly Foxed, my natural tendencies to horde went off on their own little adventures (maybe to some Mexican ruins) by the time I’d reached page 15. I sat down with this book and immediately wished I didn’t have anything to do at all (eat, drink, sleep, be married…) for the next 15 hours or so until I could finish it.
In typical understated British fashion, what should have been called Pure Unadulterated Delight and Ecstasy of Ruins has been called merely Pleasure of Ruins. This fascinating hybrid of history (most especially odd historical tidbits); guide to archeology, art and architecture; travelogue; and collection of quotes from other travelers’ diaries (and I’m talking here about such travelers as Dickens and Stendhal) is pretty hard to classify. Her signature wry and witty observations (so familiar from her novels) add to the enjoyment. Imagine traveling around the world, spying on travelers from past centuries, with a less-depressed, less self-absorbed, and more-knowledgable Dorothy Parker.
I’m pretty sure the following quote from the first section was the culprit that had me thinking, “Well, maybe I’ll do those yoga stretches at 11:30 tonight instead of 10:30 and then head on up to bed.”
But maybe it was a couple of paragraphs down when I read this:
By the time I’d reached the end of the first section, though, my thoughts were more along the lines of, “Hell, who needs yoga stretches and sleep?” Unfortunately, sleep which always eludes me when I have the attitude, “I must get to sleep,” overcame me before I’d gotten much past page 50. Good thing, really. This is not a book to be gobbled. This is a book to step inside and lounge around in with a picnic, sipping your wine slowly, while admiring the surrounding beauty. Breathing is a bit of a hazard, though, as stopping to do so might cause one to miss some particularly spectacular morsel wrapped up in the prose.
Whether Macaulay is introducing us to what could be the earliest examples of historical re-enactors (Emperor Caracalla imitating Achilles in Troy) or disparaging the early popes for their ruination of artifacts from Ancient Rome, she’s the picnic’s fruit salad appetizer: the juiciest and sweetest of berries, melons, and peaches with some capers and red onions thrown in to add a little bite. You eat and eat, but you’re never full. Her appetizer marvelously fulfills its role, leaving the reader hungering for a tad more.
She made the reader in me want to go read more travel diaries of the well-known. She made the scuba diver in me want to dive down to see the ruins of Sida. She pissed off the archeologist in me, who’s still sulking in a corner somewhere, because I never pursued that career path. Anyone teaching ancient history, art, or architecture ought to have their students read this book first before delving into those huge texts full of facts. What a way to grab students’ imaginations.
I’ll just leave you with a few more perfect spoonfuls of her fruit salad:
Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to board a plane, whetted appetite in search of a little meat, hearty grains, and vegetables. I’ve heard the best food is found in Turkey. Might as well start there. Oh, wait a minute, I have a job. I don’t have ten years of vacation. Better head to the library and its ancient history section instead. Meanwhile, I think my next trip around the world, offering a completely different experience, is going to have to be taken with Elizabeth Gilbert, since so many of you have been recommending her.
(Hmmm…Methinks I’m beginning to realize how much fun this litblogging stuff is. Maybe I’ll have to stop being a timid voyeur among all those running around Tilting at Windmills and finally add a post of my own.)
Macauly, Rose. The Pleasure of Ruins. New York: Barnes and Nobles Books, 1953. This was my second book for the 2007 nonfiction reading challenge.
When I was a child, my parents dragged us to every historic site that piqued their interests throughout the British Isles, France, and Germany. During these trips, the only thing that really piqued my interest (well, besides food, candy, and books that were not accessible in my home state of North Carolina in those days. These would be real fish ‘n’ chips, Opal Fruits, and Tin Tin respectively) were castle ruins. It seems to me I asked every morning if we were going to a castle. I soon learned to say “castle ruin,” as I had been disappointed a number of times by “castles” that seemed no different from those boring old estates exhibiting plump, extremely-comfy-looking chairs and sofas we weren’t allowed to sit on; dark paintings of prominent figures that teased me with the idea of being followed by their eyes, the way they do in scary movies, but never did; and velvet drapes that just begged to be hidden behind if only, again, I were allowed. These were fake castles. A real castle had crumbling towers, archways, and secret passages, the perfect backdrop for playing knight in shining armor (surprise, surprise: I was a knight, never a princess). Most exciting was a castle with a moat that still had water and might be hiding the remains of an ancient dragon (or at least had a cool drawbridge). In my teens, I became fascinated with Stone Henge, the mystery of it as intriguing as the actual remnants; Battle Abbey, sure I might see some ghosts wandering around in the battle fields; and Hadrian’s Wall (perhaps a little too influenced by the fact I’d graduated from Tin Tin to Asterisk the Gaul by then and had become fascinated with the Roman occupation).
My love of such spots hasn’t waned over the years. Bob and I discovered Avebury. Ahh! Avebury, where the village weaves in and out and around the ancient stones, and the sheep lie down against them. (Oh, and while you’re there, you can get great scones with clotted cream and jam). Our visit to Tintern Abbey revealed it to be a place likely to make those who guffaw at the notion of inanimate objects casting spells think twice. Meanwhile it causes people like me to roll over, expose their bellies, paws in air, begging, “more spells. Please. More.” Tikal was a place that made me desperately wish, not for the first time, I had a time machine. But you don’t even have to take me to foreign lands. You can tell me you’d like to show me a ghost town in New Mexico or some rich man’s old estate on an island off the coast of Maine that was left to rot during The Great Depression, and I’m there. Needless to say: I love ruins. Nothing quite grabs hold of the reins of my runaway imagination and says “Gee!” quite the way a good ruin does.
Those of you who have followed this blog and my comments on others’ blogs know I also happen to be infatuated with Rose Macaulay. Thus, when a friend of mine lent me Pleasure of Ruins, my first thought was, “How can I go wrong with Rose Macaulay’s take on ruins from around the globe?” After all, two infatuations have got to be better than one. Happily, and for a change, I didn’t ask “How can I go wrong?” and end up in some prison in Mexico or something.
Let’s just say that, like reading Slightly Foxed, my natural tendencies to horde went off on their own little adventures (maybe to some Mexican ruins) by the time I’d reached page 15. I sat down with this book and immediately wished I didn’t have anything to do at all (eat, drink, sleep, be married…) for the next 15 hours or so until I could finish it.
In typical understated British fashion, what should have been called Pure Unadulterated Delight and Ecstasy of Ruins has been called merely Pleasure of Ruins. This fascinating hybrid of history (most especially odd historical tidbits); guide to archeology, art and architecture; travelogue; and collection of quotes from other travelers’ diaries (and I’m talking here about such travelers as Dickens and Stendhal) is pretty hard to classify. Her signature wry and witty observations (so familiar from her novels) add to the enjoyment. Imagine traveling around the world, spying on travelers from past centuries, with a less-depressed, less self-absorbed, and more-knowledgable Dorothy Parker.
I’m pretty sure the following quote from the first section was the culprit that had me thinking, “Well, maybe I’ll do those yoga stretches at 11:30 tonight instead of 10:30 and then head on up to bed.”
[She’s talking here about ruins in early eighteenth-century art and literature.]
So the mood swelled and grew: ruin, horror, gloom, adders, toads, bats,
screech-owls, ivy, wasted towers, Gothic romance, multiplied cheerfully, in
poetry, prose, and paint…(p. 23)
But maybe it was a couple of paragraphs down when I read this:
..and early in the eighteenth century one charming new symptom emerged. The wind of fashion blew (who can predict when or why it blows?), and it was natural that the active and outdoor British should be blown by it from their contemplation of
ruin in pictures and literature and ancient abbeys into their gardens and parks,
where they could grow up new ruins of their own. (pp. 23-24)
By the time I’d reached the end of the first section, though, my thoughts were more along the lines of, “Hell, who needs yoga stretches and sleep?” Unfortunately, sleep which always eludes me when I have the attitude, “I must get to sleep,” overcame me before I’d gotten much past page 50. Good thing, really. This is not a book to be gobbled. This is a book to step inside and lounge around in with a picnic, sipping your wine slowly, while admiring the surrounding beauty. Breathing is a bit of a hazard, though, as stopping to do so might cause one to miss some particularly spectacular morsel wrapped up in the prose.
Whether Macaulay is introducing us to what could be the earliest examples of historical re-enactors (Emperor Caracalla imitating Achilles in Troy) or disparaging the early popes for their ruination of artifacts from Ancient Rome, she’s the picnic’s fruit salad appetizer: the juiciest and sweetest of berries, melons, and peaches with some capers and red onions thrown in to add a little bite. You eat and eat, but you’re never full. Her appetizer marvelously fulfills its role, leaving the reader hungering for a tad more.
She made the reader in me want to go read more travel diaries of the well-known. She made the scuba diver in me want to dive down to see the ruins of Sida. She pissed off the archeologist in me, who’s still sulking in a corner somewhere, because I never pursued that career path. Anyone teaching ancient history, art, or architecture ought to have their students read this book first before delving into those huge texts full of facts. What a way to grab students’ imaginations.
I’ll just leave you with a few more perfect spoonfuls of her fruit salad:
Few cities have been more often and more catastrophically ruined than Antioch,
during the last two and twenty decades. Frequent and horrible earthquakes, still
more frequent and only a little less horrible Seleucid Kings in a passion
(usually well-justified), Persian generals in victorious orgies of destruction,
Saracens and Ottoman Turks in anti-Christian hate, crusaders in anti-Saracen
rage, Bibars the Egyptian and the Mamelouks, who sacked and smashed the city
almost to pieces in 1268 – all these ruin-makers have done their part; and
finally the Turks, after their custom, let it moulder to decay while their new
town Antakia rose, full of mosques, from Antioch’s quarried ruins…Antioch itself
is a ghost, not to be seen but felt. (p. 57)
Those early travelers in Crete…went around probing ruins, copying inscriptions,
digging up and stealing statues, condemning the superficial accounts and errors
of previous observers…With tenacity and through many pages they argued about
sites. “The position of Apterd being once settled, we shall soon determine that
of Berecyntos.” All this determining of positions must have been a charming
employment. But to have them already determined saves time, and sets the
traveler free to enjoy what he sees. (p. 114)
The famous deserted Roman towns of Italy – Pompeii, Herculaneum, Ostia and
others – unlike those crumbling tropical capitals which contend against the
encroachments of forest and modern building, present to the world an aspect less
brittle, more established and secure. They have achieved ruin; they have been
disinterred, set in order, we know where we are with them. (p. 286)
Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to board a plane, whetted appetite in search of a little meat, hearty grains, and vegetables. I’ve heard the best food is found in Turkey. Might as well start there. Oh, wait a minute, I have a job. I don’t have ten years of vacation. Better head to the library and its ancient history section instead. Meanwhile, I think my next trip around the world, offering a completely different experience, is going to have to be taken with Elizabeth Gilbert, since so many of you have been recommending her.
(Hmmm…Methinks I’m beginning to realize how much fun this litblogging stuff is. Maybe I’ll have to stop being a timid voyeur among all those running around Tilting at Windmills and finally add a post of my own.)
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
When Luddites Blog
I've just composed my first pencast a la Mandarine. I'm so proud. Wait. What's that you say? You don't see anything? Well, that's kind of odd, isn't it? Let me help you out a bit. Picture this: I sit down to write as legibly as I can a nice post all about why you won't be hearing a podcast from me anytime soon. It's a good post. I'm happy with it. I even tell a little story. Then, I take my post upstairs to the scanner.
I've only used the scanner once. I have this slight problem, which is that if I do something computer-related very infrequently, I don't remember how to do it. Thus, I had to take out the instruction book and remind myself how to use the scanner. All was going along swimmingly. My pages scanned beautifully. I saved them all onto my hard drive.
Now picture this: I try to get them onto blogger. Picture me calmly saying, "Hmmm...I guess that didn't work. Maybe I should try something else." Picture me trying a couple of other things. Picture none of them working. Picture me trying the same 3 things about twenty times, even though I know damn well they didn't work the first time. Picture me saying something a little harsher than "Hmmm...I guess that didn't work." In fact, picture me saying some things a pastor's wife shouldn't even know, let alone actually let spew forth from her mouth. Picture me wanting to throw the computer down the stairs.
By now, you've got a beautiful portrait that paints a thousand words. One of these days, I'll type up that blog post and post it anyway, and you can picture it as a hand-written document composed with my Mark Twain signature fountain pen.
I've only used the scanner once. I have this slight problem, which is that if I do something computer-related very infrequently, I don't remember how to do it. Thus, I had to take out the instruction book and remind myself how to use the scanner. All was going along swimmingly. My pages scanned beautifully. I saved them all onto my hard drive.
Now picture this: I try to get them onto blogger. Picture me calmly saying, "Hmmm...I guess that didn't work. Maybe I should try something else." Picture me trying a couple of other things. Picture none of them working. Picture me trying the same 3 things about twenty times, even though I know damn well they didn't work the first time. Picture me saying something a little harsher than "Hmmm...I guess that didn't work." In fact, picture me saying some things a pastor's wife shouldn't even know, let alone actually let spew forth from her mouth. Picture me wanting to throw the computer down the stairs.
By now, you've got a beautiful portrait that paints a thousand words. One of these days, I'll type up that blog post and post it anyway, and you can picture it as a hand-written document composed with my Mark Twain signature fountain pen.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Excuse Me While I Panic
I’ve been noticing that quite a number of my favorite bloggers seem to be suffering from some sort of blogging malaise. They’re noting that they’ve been losing interest in blogging. Some of them are taking breaks. Some of them are shutting down their blogs. This state of affairs has left me in a bit of a panic for two reasons.
The first reason is that it seems to me people are getting blogger burnout around the 1 ½ - 2-year mark. As I sit here writing this, less than a week from my one-year blogging anniversary, I can’t possibly imagine ever getting bored with my blog. I so love it and the navel-gazing opportunities it provides. That being said, however, I happen to know very well that I’m the same (never-learn-from-past-experience) person who has started every single job with an enthusiastic feeling that I will never be bored. Lo and behold, give me some time in any job, and I will become bored. The only exciting factor is trying to figure out how long it will be before boredom sets in (receptionist for legal newspaper = three months, acquisitions editor for reference publisher = three years, executive editor of math and science for education publisher = who knows? I’m hoping three decades). I don’t want it to happen to me. I don’t want to get bored with blogging.
Let’s face it, though. I got bored blogging about telecommuting after what? Two weeks? Something like that. I had to open myself up to other topics in order to keep going. And I know perfectly well, boredom is a feeling not limited to work environments. Bob loves to joke about how I’m constantly taking up new interests with overzealous glee (“I’m going to learn to knit!” “I’ve got a bread machine, and we’re never buying bread again!” “I’m going to learn to speak Spanish!”), and six months later, he’ll notice I’ve moved on to something else (knitting needles, bread machine, Spanish CDs banished to the backs of closets). Incidentally, this is yet another reason (let’s call it reason #1,000,007) I’m not a great candidate for motherhood. Can you see me six months into it deciding I’m bored and stuffing the baby in the back of a closet?
Of course, I’m also well aware of the fact that feeding my ego trumps boredom. Comments approving of what I write will keep me going for months; I’m sure, even if I do start getting bored. As a matter of fact, that complimentary post of Mandarine’s a while back will probably be enough to keep me going for at least five years. So maybe I shouldn’t worry about this until I stop getting comments.
My second fear is that everyone I’ve come to know and love is going to disappear. Childhood and adolescent abandonment issues are pushing themselves to the forefront of my brain. All the cool, popular people are going to leave me behind, and I’m going to be stuck hanging out with nothing but the political bloggers or the “I’m-visiting-my-friends-the-Smurfs” bloggers. Because my abandonment issues are so good at convincing me I should just be a chameleon, if I don’t want to be alone, I’ll find myself composing such articulate comments as “Oh yeah? Well, go suck an egg,” to someone blogging about what a hero Sam Brownback is and how he so deserves to be out next president. Or worse yet, I’ll start blogging about the cocktail party with the trolls I attended that was certainly more fun than anything the Smurfy-One was doing.
Wrapped up in this fear, I decided I’d better go see if I could find some new friends before it’s too late. My real-life friend Victoria informed me that The QC Report was well worth befriending. I thought I’d make my way out to L.A. and pay her a little visit. Half an hour later, my sides aching from the laughter, I was lighting incense to the gods in hopes they’ll keep this new friend of mine from ever coming down with blogger burnout. An added bonus to discovering her is that she'll be a great impetus for me to continue my weak attempts at being funny, which will surely help me avoid my own boredom. You know how in kindergarten you were so thrilled with your bright, colorful finger painting of your family (including all the pets), and then you looked across the table to see the budding Picasso, with his multiple brushes lined up, stepping back to consider his “Variations on Someone’s Family,” and then stepping back in to touch up the purple, rectangular cat with a few well-placed strokes? Then you know how I felt reading this blog. I’m going home to beg my mom for some paint brushes.
Next, I headed into New York to knock on The Alternate Side Parking Reader’s door. If you’ve ever been stupid enough to decide to live in New York with a car and no parking garage space, as some of us have been (actually, judging from the numbers of people taking up all the prime spots on the alternate side between 11:00 – 12:30 in Morningside Heights, I have to change that “some” to “many”), you will immediately be able to relate to this new friend of mine. It also helps to be obsessed with All Things New York. Neither of these traits is required, though, to enjoy this highly readable and funny blog. You may have a little trouble understanding the thrill of discovering alternate-side-of-the-street parking has been suspended due to a 7-inch rainfall, or why someone would keep dialing 311 to make absolutely certain it was really true. Just pretend you’re a kid listening to the school cancellations three times on a snow day to make sure, and you’ll be about halfway to understanding the feeling. This blog isn’t even a year old yet, so I’m betting it will be some time before blog boredom sets in. Then again, how can anyone living in and blogging about New York ever be bored? Frustrated, lonely, exhausted, anxiety-ridden, yes. But bored?
So, I’ve pushed the panic button and realized I don’t really have much to worry about. Yet. But, please, don’t any more of you tell me you’re thinking about abandoning your blog. In return, I’ll try not to be boring and not to get bored.
The first reason is that it seems to me people are getting blogger burnout around the 1 ½ - 2-year mark. As I sit here writing this, less than a week from my one-year blogging anniversary, I can’t possibly imagine ever getting bored with my blog. I so love it and the navel-gazing opportunities it provides. That being said, however, I happen to know very well that I’m the same (never-learn-from-past-experience) person who has started every single job with an enthusiastic feeling that I will never be bored. Lo and behold, give me some time in any job, and I will become bored. The only exciting factor is trying to figure out how long it will be before boredom sets in (receptionist for legal newspaper = three months, acquisitions editor for reference publisher = three years, executive editor of math and science for education publisher = who knows? I’m hoping three decades). I don’t want it to happen to me. I don’t want to get bored with blogging.
Let’s face it, though. I got bored blogging about telecommuting after what? Two weeks? Something like that. I had to open myself up to other topics in order to keep going. And I know perfectly well, boredom is a feeling not limited to work environments. Bob loves to joke about how I’m constantly taking up new interests with overzealous glee (“I’m going to learn to knit!” “I’ve got a bread machine, and we’re never buying bread again!” “I’m going to learn to speak Spanish!”), and six months later, he’ll notice I’ve moved on to something else (knitting needles, bread machine, Spanish CDs banished to the backs of closets). Incidentally, this is yet another reason (let’s call it reason #1,000,007) I’m not a great candidate for motherhood. Can you see me six months into it deciding I’m bored and stuffing the baby in the back of a closet?
Of course, I’m also well aware of the fact that feeding my ego trumps boredom. Comments approving of what I write will keep me going for months; I’m sure, even if I do start getting bored. As a matter of fact, that complimentary post of Mandarine’s a while back will probably be enough to keep me going for at least five years. So maybe I shouldn’t worry about this until I stop getting comments.
My second fear is that everyone I’ve come to know and love is going to disappear. Childhood and adolescent abandonment issues are pushing themselves to the forefront of my brain. All the cool, popular people are going to leave me behind, and I’m going to be stuck hanging out with nothing but the political bloggers or the “I’m-visiting-my-friends-the-Smurfs” bloggers. Because my abandonment issues are so good at convincing me I should just be a chameleon, if I don’t want to be alone, I’ll find myself composing such articulate comments as “Oh yeah? Well, go suck an egg,” to someone blogging about what a hero Sam Brownback is and how he so deserves to be out next president. Or worse yet, I’ll start blogging about the cocktail party with the trolls I attended that was certainly more fun than anything the Smurfy-One was doing.
Wrapped up in this fear, I decided I’d better go see if I could find some new friends before it’s too late. My real-life friend Victoria informed me that The QC Report was well worth befriending. I thought I’d make my way out to L.A. and pay her a little visit. Half an hour later, my sides aching from the laughter, I was lighting incense to the gods in hopes they’ll keep this new friend of mine from ever coming down with blogger burnout. An added bonus to discovering her is that she'll be a great impetus for me to continue my weak attempts at being funny, which will surely help me avoid my own boredom. You know how in kindergarten you were so thrilled with your bright, colorful finger painting of your family (including all the pets), and then you looked across the table to see the budding Picasso, with his multiple brushes lined up, stepping back to consider his “Variations on Someone’s Family,” and then stepping back in to touch up the purple, rectangular cat with a few well-placed strokes? Then you know how I felt reading this blog. I’m going home to beg my mom for some paint brushes.
Next, I headed into New York to knock on The Alternate Side Parking Reader’s door. If you’ve ever been stupid enough to decide to live in New York with a car and no parking garage space, as some of us have been (actually, judging from the numbers of people taking up all the prime spots on the alternate side between 11:00 – 12:30 in Morningside Heights, I have to change that “some” to “many”), you will immediately be able to relate to this new friend of mine. It also helps to be obsessed with All Things New York. Neither of these traits is required, though, to enjoy this highly readable and funny blog. You may have a little trouble understanding the thrill of discovering alternate-side-of-the-street parking has been suspended due to a 7-inch rainfall, or why someone would keep dialing 311 to make absolutely certain it was really true. Just pretend you’re a kid listening to the school cancellations three times on a snow day to make sure, and you’ll be about halfway to understanding the feeling. This blog isn’t even a year old yet, so I’m betting it will be some time before blog boredom sets in. Then again, how can anyone living in and blogging about New York ever be bored? Frustrated, lonely, exhausted, anxiety-ridden, yes. But bored?
So, I’ve pushed the panic button and realized I don’t really have much to worry about. Yet. But, please, don’t any more of you tell me you’re thinking about abandoning your blog. In return, I’ll try not to be boring and not to get bored.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
A Night with the ADHD Insomniac
(The Attention-Deficit-Hyperactivity-Disordered Insmoniac -- from here on out referred to as ADHD-I --went to bed at 10:30 and fell fast asleep. She’s not sure exactly what it was that woke her up, heart pounding at 12:30, because all she remembers dreaming about is a dog with a red bandanna playing with a soccer ball, but she’s been awake, fretting about work and other life issues ever since. Ages ago, she slipped away into the guest bedroom, so her husband wouldn't be bothered by her restlessness.)
What time is it? 2:00 a.m.? Already? S**t! I’ve got to get some sleep. Come on, sleep…Okay, not a good idea to think about sleep. Don’t think about sleep. Visualize. Take a deep breath. Count sheep. There’s a big fat sheep happily jumping over a fence. Looks like something that could outsmart Wile E. Coyote. One. One big fat sheep. Two. Two big fat sheep. Three…four…five…six. Did I remember to turn the laundry room light off before coming to bed? What about the deck light? Yeah, I think I did. Stop it. Focus on the sheep. Here comes another one. What is that six? Seven? Seven, I guess. Eight. Nine… Oh f**k! Who am I kidding? The only way I’m going to conjure up a sheep right now is if one comes through the ceiling and lands on top of me. I’d like to strangle the idiot who came up with the notion that counting sheep is a way to get to sleep.
(ADHD-I throws off the covers, because it’s too hot. She tosses and turns for a few minutes. She flips upside down with her head at the foot of the bed – that used to work when she was a kid and couldn’t sleep. She lies there for who knows how long. Feels like sleep is just on the horizon. Her back starts itching. Her legs start itching. No amount of scratching seems to help. It’s a deep-down, way-below-the-surface-of-the-skin sort of itch).
Damn! What’s the matter with me? Why am I so itchy? What’s that a symptom of? AIDS? The Ebola virus? I can’t remember. Ought to get up and look it up online. No. I am not going online. I’m going to sleep. I have to sleep.
(ADHD-I now starts to get cold. She flips back around and gets back under the covers. She lies there for what seems like a very long time, but is only five minutes.) That’s better. I can just feel my eyelids getting droopy. Look into them. Look into the darkness of them. Pretend you’re in a dark tunnel. Don’t think about anything. Remember that time in first grade when you got in trouble for talking, and Ralph was the one who was talking? That was so unfair. And don’t forget that time in junior high when nobody would let you sit with them on the school bus. And then there was the time you tripped on the stairs in high school…God.
What time is it now? 3:00!? Okay, if I get to sleep within the next ten minutes, I can skip breakfast, get up at 6:30, and that will still be a little over three hours, plus the two I got earlier, which means I'll be getting really close to six hours of sleep. Six hours of sleep isn't bad. Lots of people only get six hours of sleep a night. Hell, lots of people seem to thrive on only four hours of sleep a night. They brag about it. Wish I were one of them. If I were, I wouldn't brag. Oh, s**t, I forgot to give Lisa her book back last time I was in the office. Uh-oh, did I leave that book at the office? What did I do with it? I hope I didn’t lose it. Dammit, I’m hungry. I’m going to ignore that growling stomach. If I were asleep, it wouldn’t be bothering me. (Stomach growls a few more times.) Wait a minute. I think I read that hunger keeps you awake. Cheese and milk have that stuff in them that makes you sleepy. Better go get some cheese and milk.
(ADHD-I makes her way downstairs to the kitchen to get some cheese and milk, making sure not to look out any windows on the way, lest she sees some scary-looking face looking back in at her. She cuts herself a chunk of cheese and pours a glass of milk, spots a Cooking Light magazine on the kitchen table and takes it back up to bed with her anything-but-light, wee-hours-of-the-morning snack. She props herself up in bed, eats, drinks, and reads recipes until she’s sure she can’t keep her eyes open any longer. The magazine is slipping from her hand. She turns off the light and curls up under the covers. She’s beginning to dream. Suddenly, there’s an unidentified thump from downstairs.)
What was that?! (Heart pounding again, she sits up in bed and listens.) Is it someone in the house? If someone’s in the house, do I have time to slip into the closet and hide? No, wait a minute. The closet was a terrible hiding place in Halloween. I wonder if I’d hurt myself if I jumped off the second-floor deck? Is that someone coming up the stairs? (Listens intently, but all she hears is the sound of the morning newspaper being delivered.)
S**t! The paper’s already being delivered. I’m never going to sleep now. I’ve got an hour at best. Should I just get up? Nah. Might as well just lie here and make the best of it. Lying still is almost as good as sleeping according to that one article...
(Twenty minutes before the alarm goes off, she slips into a near-comatose state.)
What time is it? 2:00 a.m.? Already? S**t! I’ve got to get some sleep. Come on, sleep…Okay, not a good idea to think about sleep. Don’t think about sleep. Visualize. Take a deep breath. Count sheep. There’s a big fat sheep happily jumping over a fence. Looks like something that could outsmart Wile E. Coyote. One. One big fat sheep. Two. Two big fat sheep. Three…four…five…six. Did I remember to turn the laundry room light off before coming to bed? What about the deck light? Yeah, I think I did. Stop it. Focus on the sheep. Here comes another one. What is that six? Seven? Seven, I guess. Eight. Nine… Oh f**k! Who am I kidding? The only way I’m going to conjure up a sheep right now is if one comes through the ceiling and lands on top of me. I’d like to strangle the idiot who came up with the notion that counting sheep is a way to get to sleep.
(ADHD-I throws off the covers, because it’s too hot. She tosses and turns for a few minutes. She flips upside down with her head at the foot of the bed – that used to work when she was a kid and couldn’t sleep. She lies there for who knows how long. Feels like sleep is just on the horizon. Her back starts itching. Her legs start itching. No amount of scratching seems to help. It’s a deep-down, way-below-the-surface-of-the-skin sort of itch).
Damn! What’s the matter with me? Why am I so itchy? What’s that a symptom of? AIDS? The Ebola virus? I can’t remember. Ought to get up and look it up online. No. I am not going online. I’m going to sleep. I have to sleep.
(ADHD-I now starts to get cold. She flips back around and gets back under the covers. She lies there for what seems like a very long time, but is only five minutes.) That’s better. I can just feel my eyelids getting droopy. Look into them. Look into the darkness of them. Pretend you’re in a dark tunnel. Don’t think about anything. Remember that time in first grade when you got in trouble for talking, and Ralph was the one who was talking? That was so unfair. And don’t forget that time in junior high when nobody would let you sit with them on the school bus. And then there was the time you tripped on the stairs in high school…God.
What time is it now? 3:00!? Okay, if I get to sleep within the next ten minutes, I can skip breakfast, get up at 6:30, and that will still be a little over three hours, plus the two I got earlier, which means I'll be getting really close to six hours of sleep. Six hours of sleep isn't bad. Lots of people only get six hours of sleep a night. Hell, lots of people seem to thrive on only four hours of sleep a night. They brag about it. Wish I were one of them. If I were, I wouldn't brag. Oh, s**t, I forgot to give Lisa her book back last time I was in the office. Uh-oh, did I leave that book at the office? What did I do with it? I hope I didn’t lose it. Dammit, I’m hungry. I’m going to ignore that growling stomach. If I were asleep, it wouldn’t be bothering me. (Stomach growls a few more times.) Wait a minute. I think I read that hunger keeps you awake. Cheese and milk have that stuff in them that makes you sleepy. Better go get some cheese and milk.
(ADHD-I makes her way downstairs to the kitchen to get some cheese and milk, making sure not to look out any windows on the way, lest she sees some scary-looking face looking back in at her. She cuts herself a chunk of cheese and pours a glass of milk, spots a Cooking Light magazine on the kitchen table and takes it back up to bed with her anything-but-light, wee-hours-of-the-morning snack. She props herself up in bed, eats, drinks, and reads recipes until she’s sure she can’t keep her eyes open any longer. The magazine is slipping from her hand. She turns off the light and curls up under the covers. She’s beginning to dream. Suddenly, there’s an unidentified thump from downstairs.)
What was that?! (Heart pounding again, she sits up in bed and listens.) Is it someone in the house? If someone’s in the house, do I have time to slip into the closet and hide? No, wait a minute. The closet was a terrible hiding place in Halloween. I wonder if I’d hurt myself if I jumped off the second-floor deck? Is that someone coming up the stairs? (Listens intently, but all she hears is the sound of the morning newspaper being delivered.)
S**t! The paper’s already being delivered. I’m never going to sleep now. I’ve got an hour at best. Should I just get up? Nah. Might as well just lie here and make the best of it. Lying still is almost as good as sleeping according to that one article...
(Twenty minutes before the alarm goes off, she slips into a near-comatose state.)
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Ch-ch-ch-changes?
Right now, it seems, Bob and I probably have three choices. We can move to a little town in Lancaster County, PA (if you’re like me, you knew nothing about this area of the country until Harrison Ford oh-so-attractively brought attention to it in the movie Witness, and still basically know nothing about the area, but would love to run into him walking down the street); we can move back to the much bigger town in Connecticut where we met; or we can move down to an even littler town in Augusta County, VA., where my forebears staked out their turf before migrating to Albemarle County, VA. Augusta County and Lancaster County are breath-takingly beautiful spots, places where many Americans vacation every year. The town in Connecticut is basically a utilitarian suburb of New York City (I know, because I used to live there. To announce you were going to vacation there would be like announcing you were going to vacation in Trenton, NJ). However, it’s a mere 40-minute train ride from Grand Central Station. And if someone were to invent truth serum and inject me with it, of all the places I say I’d love to live in the world (Edinburgh, London, Maine, San Francisco, Santa Fe, Bonaire…), under this serum’s influence, I’m sure I’d blurt out, “Are you nuts? There’s no better place in the world to live than New York City!” Screw warmer climates. When I retire, I want to be on the Upper West Side with a view of the Hudson.
So, why am I even considering living anywhere else? Well, first of all, I’m well aware of the fact that blah suburban towns are not Manhattan, and that they can suck you in to such an extent that you rarely hop on that train to the city. Secondly, we haven’t yet received an official call in Connecticut. I won’t bore you with the details of the tedious process of “receiving and accepting a call” (church speak for being offered and accepting a job) in the Presbyterian Church USA. Suffice it to say I don’t want to put you to sleep, nor do I want to have to produce what we in the publishing world would refer to as a 120,000-word manuscript. Pennsylvania has “called Bob” (and we have two weeks to accept). Virginia has informed him he’s their first choice; they’d like him to come back and preach in a neutral pulpit (required formality), which basically means that if he doesn’t stand up in front of a congregation and pick his nose, they’re going to call him.
Imagine, if you will, then, a 200-year-old church in farm country where the Amish and Mennonites (quaint and fascinating to you at this point, from an outsider’s point of view) trot by in their buggies pulled by horses. Farm markets pop up out of the landscape the way Wal-Marts do in other areas of the country. Focus for a moment on that four-bedroom, 100-year-old manse next door to the church. While I write this, it’s being renovated. A brand new kitchen, brand new bathrooms, and new appliances, as well as sanded and polished hard-wood floors await the new residents. Said residents don’t have to pay for anything in the way of upkeep of this house, except the telephone. Someone else will worry about such things as cutting the grass, adding water softeners, salting the driveway when it snows, and plumbing concerns. Imagine me (if you’re familiar with my more macabre side) living in a place with a back yard that’s basically a cemetery. Those of you who are more familiar with my animal-loving side can picture me on my morning and evening “commutes” (the walks I take twice daily), encountering cows, horses, goats, chickens, and even mallard ducks waddling across the street, purposefully quacking which each step, as well as an occasional bunny chowing down on someone’s bush in a front yard (I know. I took this walk last Sunday). Wouldn’t that be hard to resist?
Now, imagine another church. The cows are still very much in the picture in the fields that surround the church. Some of them are lying down, but I’m sure you’re familiar with the way they all stop and turn and stare at you as you come along. This is a stone church built in 1740, and those cows, apparently, sometimes like to come join the service when it’s summertime and the congregation is sitting out on wooden pews in front of a makeshift wooden pulpit in the oak grove on the property. Across the street from this beautiful and historic church is an old clapboard farmhouse, built on the original logs of the original manse with stunning views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. You can live there if you want, or if you don’t (say you’ve gone online and have discovered a beautiful log cabin for sale), you can get a housing allowance to pay for your mortgage.
I’ll ask you to imagine one more thing. You’ve sat down and have even shared meals with the members of the pastor nominating committees for these churches. They were all so ingenuous. They all wanted so badly for you to like their churches. They all raved about your husband and his ability to write and to communicate. Many of them indicated that they just wanted to hug him. How can you possibly say to them, “Sorry, but we don’t want to come to your church?”
Meanwhile, what do you do when, after a week of traveling in Pennsylvania and Virginia, the minute you cross back over the Connecticut (a place where you moved 20 years ago just until you could figure out a way to work and live either in NYC or Boston) line, you find yourself realizing you love this state? You find yourself wondering how you can ever leave. You enter the doors of the house with which you’ve had a twelve-year-long love-hate relationship and regret ever having said one nasty thing about its magnificent being. What do you do when you suddenly discover that 23-year-old you who always relished the idea of moving every few years, never staying in one place, and discovering new places has been squashed by a 43-year-old you who thinks 23-year-old should have been locked away years ago?
I don’t have any answers. I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and by the way, we’ve just discovered the church in the San Francisco Bay area that we thought had lost interest hasn’t…
So, why am I even considering living anywhere else? Well, first of all, I’m well aware of the fact that blah suburban towns are not Manhattan, and that they can suck you in to such an extent that you rarely hop on that train to the city. Secondly, we haven’t yet received an official call in Connecticut. I won’t bore you with the details of the tedious process of “receiving and accepting a call” (church speak for being offered and accepting a job) in the Presbyterian Church USA. Suffice it to say I don’t want to put you to sleep, nor do I want to have to produce what we in the publishing world would refer to as a 120,000-word manuscript. Pennsylvania has “called Bob” (and we have two weeks to accept). Virginia has informed him he’s their first choice; they’d like him to come back and preach in a neutral pulpit (required formality), which basically means that if he doesn’t stand up in front of a congregation and pick his nose, they’re going to call him.
Imagine, if you will, then, a 200-year-old church in farm country where the Amish and Mennonites (quaint and fascinating to you at this point, from an outsider’s point of view) trot by in their buggies pulled by horses. Farm markets pop up out of the landscape the way Wal-Marts do in other areas of the country. Focus for a moment on that four-bedroom, 100-year-old manse next door to the church. While I write this, it’s being renovated. A brand new kitchen, brand new bathrooms, and new appliances, as well as sanded and polished hard-wood floors await the new residents. Said residents don’t have to pay for anything in the way of upkeep of this house, except the telephone. Someone else will worry about such things as cutting the grass, adding water softeners, salting the driveway when it snows, and plumbing concerns. Imagine me (if you’re familiar with my more macabre side) living in a place with a back yard that’s basically a cemetery. Those of you who are more familiar with my animal-loving side can picture me on my morning and evening “commutes” (the walks I take twice daily), encountering cows, horses, goats, chickens, and even mallard ducks waddling across the street, purposefully quacking which each step, as well as an occasional bunny chowing down on someone’s bush in a front yard (I know. I took this walk last Sunday). Wouldn’t that be hard to resist?
Now, imagine another church. The cows are still very much in the picture in the fields that surround the church. Some of them are lying down, but I’m sure you’re familiar with the way they all stop and turn and stare at you as you come along. This is a stone church built in 1740, and those cows, apparently, sometimes like to come join the service when it’s summertime and the congregation is sitting out on wooden pews in front of a makeshift wooden pulpit in the oak grove on the property. Across the street from this beautiful and historic church is an old clapboard farmhouse, built on the original logs of the original manse with stunning views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. You can live there if you want, or if you don’t (say you’ve gone online and have discovered a beautiful log cabin for sale), you can get a housing allowance to pay for your mortgage.
I’ll ask you to imagine one more thing. You’ve sat down and have even shared meals with the members of the pastor nominating committees for these churches. They were all so ingenuous. They all wanted so badly for you to like their churches. They all raved about your husband and his ability to write and to communicate. Many of them indicated that they just wanted to hug him. How can you possibly say to them, “Sorry, but we don’t want to come to your church?”
Meanwhile, what do you do when, after a week of traveling in Pennsylvania and Virginia, the minute you cross back over the Connecticut (a place where you moved 20 years ago just until you could figure out a way to work and live either in NYC or Boston) line, you find yourself realizing you love this state? You find yourself wondering how you can ever leave. You enter the doors of the house with which you’ve had a twelve-year-long love-hate relationship and regret ever having said one nasty thing about its magnificent being. What do you do when you suddenly discover that 23-year-old you who always relished the idea of moving every few years, never staying in one place, and discovering new places has been squashed by a 43-year-old you who thinks 23-year-old should have been locked away years ago?
I don’t have any answers. I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and by the way, we’ve just discovered the church in the San Francisco Bay area that we thought had lost interest hasn’t…
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