When my daughter was born, naming her was easy. Antoinette was my mother's name, pretty and unusual, the feminine for Anthony, unlike the guttural Agnes that I was saddled with. Named after my father's mother, not only was Agnes an ugly name, but the things that rhyme with the abbreviated "Aggie" just scream out traumatic childhood. Little did it matter that in Italian it has a beautiful sound and pretty damn lofty meaning. While I was always Agnes, my mother was never called by her beautiful name; she was known as "Dora." Who knows why. My poor mom as a little girl, aeons before the days of Dora the Explorer, I'm sure had been hammered with clever and alliterative epithets like "dumb Dora."
So my sweet firstborn was Antoinette. My father, who was eternally mourning my mother, whom he had tormented with complaints and criticism all her life, tried to call my baby "Dora" once when we were visiting, and when she was only a few months old. In a rare display of unity, my two sisters and I shouted, "NO!" and informed my father that she was NOT going to be Dora.
Relatives on the other side began to call her Toni, which never stuck, I guess because she wasn't a Toni. Not on my watch. So Antoinette it was.
Of course, when she began to speak, her name was quite a mouthful. So "Antoinette" became "Ettyouette" which of course we thought was adorable, and somehow it became shortened it to "Etty." I have a scarf I knitted for my little girl, with "Etty" embroidered on it.
And then, when she went to school, we all gave up Etty. Since then, Antoinette has occasionally been "Ant," most often by herself in her own writing, but not to her face by anyone else. So, Antoinette it remains.
When my son came along, the agreement had been that since the first child had been my choice, from my side of the family, the second would be from my husband's side. Had the second been a girl it most likely would have been Sophia, somehow after his sister Elaine? Go figure. More likely, it was the feminine of his own name, Stephan, which I think I was told was the Americanized version of Sophianos. Which doesn't make any more sense than Dora from Antoinette, as the Greek name is Stefanos. But I do have fond memories of Stephan's Aunt Faye tunefully calling out, "Oh, Sofionoulyi!" Also interesting is that "Stephan," pronounced "Stefan" was further misspelled by his mother on the birth certificate, which reads, "Stephen."
But our second wasn't a girl, and Stephan has a family full of Johns and Williams, and we weren't interested in having a junior. So we were thinking of Greek-sounding male alternatives and ended up with Alexander and Nicholas. And somehow decided that Nicholas was the more unusual.
So my second child was named Nicholas. And, although I only know this through our home videos, we began to call the boy "Nicky."
And then, one day in my son's infancy, we were shopping at the mall, and from many different directions, throughout the course of the afternoon, we heard the echo of my son's nickname. Nicky/Nikki had apparently become the name of choice for pretty much most of the kids in our suburban neighborhood.
We were crestfallen. We (honestly, it was probably me that was behind all this) had truly thought that we had come up with a rare and noble name for our unique second child. I recall that we talked long and seriously about this quandary. And eventually we came up with a solution: Our son's nickname became "Nikko." And it worked. It is a name as rare and wonderful as "Antoinette." He has tried to be called Nicholas at times, but I think in the end he just gave a philosophical shrug and accepted that he was, indeed, "Nikko."
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Absence of Dad
I'm reading a hysterically funny book by Jim Gaffigan called Dad Is Fat. As he described his dad and his determination not to be at all like him, I commiserated. My father was not an alcoholic, he was miserable without the aid of an intoxicant.
He was born and raised in Italy, in Sardinia, he would have you know, which is better than Italy. I believe he was hard of hearing, speaking very loud very broken English all his life. Because he was loud, he also appeared to be constantly angry, even when he was joking. And by the way, he had no sense of humor. Joking amounted to making fun of someone. He loved All In the Family, and began to fondly call my mother a dingbat after Edith Bunker. Ha ha.
Because he slipped into the US illegally, when he was found out he had to go back to Italy. Thanks to intervention by Senator John O. Pastore, forever after known as a saint, and because he was married with two children, he was allowed to go do whatever he had to do to make Italy and the US happy, and then come back.
I was three. He had decided he wanted to take me with him, even got me a passport,
at which time my mother flipped out, assuming he would take me and never come back. This was either due to my mother's pervasive fearfulness, understandable under the circumstances, or my father's inability to instill confidence in him, probably both. Anyway, I lost my big chance to go to Italy.
When he left my mother, she had me, my infant sister, and my wheelchair-bound grandmother, no driver's license, and a farmhouse in the boonies. She had a nervous breakdown, which back in the day meant she was anxious and depressed. Back in the day she was prescribed sleeping pills, which added to the troubles. Assorted uncles would drive her to get groceries and aunts would try to tell her everything was going to be all right.
He was gone for I believe three years. That's a long time for a woman with I'm assuming no income, no means of transportation, an invalid mother and toddler, and a baby.
I have absolutely no recollection of those years. My memories start back up again when I started first grade. And because my mother had a huge dysfunctional family, and the dysfunction continued with my immediate family, and mostly involved poor communication, you now know as much as I know about those years.
I can only imagine the effects of the separation on each of us. I was already chubby and too serious so I can't blame the separation on that. But I do recall one Halloween night when my father was taking us around to visit a couple of aunts and uncles. I believe I was somewhere around eight. Shortly after we got to Aunt Vivian and Uncle Jim's my dad and my uncle left. I doubt that he was gone long, but when he came back I was in tears, inconsolable, because I thought he'd been abducted. Not that he took off, but was taken away. In fact, he had gone to help my uncle change a tire.
I wonder if the separation when I was small and my sister newborn led to him feeling alienated from us. Was he angrier when he got back than when he left? No idea.
But the inhumanity of forcing a parent to leave a family to satisfy legal requirements of citizenship for god's sake. You just need to put yourself in the shoes of the immigrant, who just wanted to come here to have a better life.
At least he got all those t's crossed and dotted those i's.
He was born and raised in Italy, in Sardinia, he would have you know, which is better than Italy. I believe he was hard of hearing, speaking very loud very broken English all his life. Because he was loud, he also appeared to be constantly angry, even when he was joking. And by the way, he had no sense of humor. Joking amounted to making fun of someone. He loved All In the Family, and began to fondly call my mother a dingbat after Edith Bunker. Ha ha.
Because he slipped into the US illegally, when he was found out he had to go back to Italy. Thanks to intervention by Senator John O. Pastore, forever after known as a saint, and because he was married with two children, he was allowed to go do whatever he had to do to make Italy and the US happy, and then come back.
I was three. He had decided he wanted to take me with him, even got me a passport,
at which time my mother flipped out, assuming he would take me and never come back. This was either due to my mother's pervasive fearfulness, understandable under the circumstances, or my father's inability to instill confidence in him, probably both. Anyway, I lost my big chance to go to Italy.
When he left my mother, she had me, my infant sister, and my wheelchair-bound grandmother, no driver's license, and a farmhouse in the boonies. She had a nervous breakdown, which back in the day meant she was anxious and depressed. Back in the day she was prescribed sleeping pills, which added to the troubles. Assorted uncles would drive her to get groceries and aunts would try to tell her everything was going to be all right.
He was gone for I believe three years. That's a long time for a woman with I'm assuming no income, no means of transportation, an invalid mother and toddler, and a baby.
I have absolutely no recollection of those years. My memories start back up again when I started first grade. And because my mother had a huge dysfunctional family, and the dysfunction continued with my immediate family, and mostly involved poor communication, you now know as much as I know about those years.
I can only imagine the effects of the separation on each of us. I was already chubby and too serious so I can't blame the separation on that. But I do recall one Halloween night when my father was taking us around to visit a couple of aunts and uncles. I believe I was somewhere around eight. Shortly after we got to Aunt Vivian and Uncle Jim's my dad and my uncle left. I doubt that he was gone long, but when he came back I was in tears, inconsolable, because I thought he'd been abducted. Not that he took off, but was taken away. In fact, he had gone to help my uncle change a tire.
I wonder if the separation when I was small and my sister newborn led to him feeling alienated from us. Was he angrier when he got back than when he left? No idea.
But the inhumanity of forcing a parent to leave a family to satisfy legal requirements of citizenship for god's sake. You just need to put yourself in the shoes of the immigrant, who just wanted to come here to have a better life.
At least he got all those t's crossed and dotted those i's.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Ninja Cat on Cockroach Patrol
Learning to live with Palmetto bugs was quite the adjustment. Was once a time if I spotted one when I was vacationing in the South, I would have to wake someone up to dispatch the critter. Once, in Mexico, I upturned a wastebasket over one before I alerted my companion, just so it wouldn't scurry into hiding, only to come out again once I was asleep.
My son's cat, Blueberry, who I inherited when he left, was what they call a feral cat, which meant you wanted to be really careful when you picked him up. We developed a ritual, after dinner, where I sat on the porch, and he hunted cockroaches, for dessert. Apparently, he enjoyed the crunch.
My cat Molly is a cat of a whole different nature. For one thing, she has no idea that there is an outdoors. When I go outside, she assumes I have just vanished, and waits patiently until I reappear. Happily, she has no clue that anything exists above the height of a chair, and has never attempted to explore the heights of the kitchen table.
She also is clueless about bugs. Out here in the boonies, they frequently find their way inside, and she is astute in finding them. But what to do with them once they are found, well, she has yet to figure that out. If they are airborne, she will keep her eye on them, and will even chase them across a room most likely losing them in the process. If it is scurrying on the floor, she is quick enough to catch it, but when she gets there, she just half-heartedly swats at it, till it foolishly tries to run away, and then she repeats the routine until either she or the bug lose their zest.
Molly lives in a jacuzzi-sized bathtub in the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom. Last night, as I was sitting there, I heard a large animal moving quickly, and of course saw that it was a Palmetto bug. As Groucho might wonder, how it got in my bathtub I'll never know. But fact is, in its panicked attempt to run up the side, it stupidly flipped itself over. My cat, ever on the ready, jumped up on the side of the tub and watched it for a minute or so. Then she leaped in and meandered over to it, saw what needed to be done, swatted at it a couple of times, and flipped it back over on its "feet." And when it started to move, Molly took off.
Followed was me leaning into the tub, trying to get it to come out of hiding behind the litter. Then I chose one of the number of books that I had sitting on the side of the tub, and unceremoniously dropped it on the roach. The book I chose was one about battling cancer, which pretty much describes my feelings about the topic.
Molly, of course, was nowhere to be found.
My son's cat, Blueberry, who I inherited when he left, was what they call a feral cat, which meant you wanted to be really careful when you picked him up. We developed a ritual, after dinner, where I sat on the porch, and he hunted cockroaches, for dessert. Apparently, he enjoyed the crunch.
My cat Molly is a cat of a whole different nature. For one thing, she has no idea that there is an outdoors. When I go outside, she assumes I have just vanished, and waits patiently until I reappear. Happily, she has no clue that anything exists above the height of a chair, and has never attempted to explore the heights of the kitchen table.
She also is clueless about bugs. Out here in the boonies, they frequently find their way inside, and she is astute in finding them. But what to do with them once they are found, well, she has yet to figure that out. If they are airborne, she will keep her eye on them, and will even chase them across a room most likely losing them in the process. If it is scurrying on the floor, she is quick enough to catch it, but when she gets there, she just half-heartedly swats at it, till it foolishly tries to run away, and then she repeats the routine until either she or the bug lose their zest.
Molly lives in a jacuzzi-sized bathtub in the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom. Last night, as I was sitting there, I heard a large animal moving quickly, and of course saw that it was a Palmetto bug. As Groucho might wonder, how it got in my bathtub I'll never know. But fact is, in its panicked attempt to run up the side, it stupidly flipped itself over. My cat, ever on the ready, jumped up on the side of the tub and watched it for a minute or so. Then she leaped in and meandered over to it, saw what needed to be done, swatted at it a couple of times, and flipped it back over on its "feet." And when it started to move, Molly took off.
Followed was me leaning into the tub, trying to get it to come out of hiding behind the litter. Then I chose one of the number of books that I had sitting on the side of the tub, and unceremoniously dropped it on the roach. The book I chose was one about battling cancer, which pretty much describes my feelings about the topic.
Molly, of course, was nowhere to be found.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
On Death and Living
I've always been afraid of death, since I was a kid. As I have gotten older, and then "old," I have recently tried to adapt in the least painful way possible to the fact that, hey, we all gotta go. Albert Ellis, who had to go as well, would have been proud that I am thinking rationally about the fact that people die, and life goes on, and it's okay. I especially like the way Richard Dawkins copes -- you weren't here before you were born and it was fine not to exist; when you die and no longer exist it will be the same thing. And here is Dr. Dawkins, saying it far better himself:
“We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here.We privileged few, who won the lottery of birth against all odds, how dare we whine at our inevitable return to that prior state from which the vast majority have never stirred?”
― Richard Dawkins, Unweaving the Rainbow: Science, Delusion and the Appetite for Wonder
Since my husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April, there has been a new urgency to my need to accept the fact of dying. In the wonderful movie Cloudburst, Olympia Dukakis' character says, "I'm 80, nothing lasts forever." And according to Walter Isaacson, in Albert Einstein's last days at age 76, he consoled others, at one point saying, "I have to pass on sometime, and it doesn't really matter when." He wrote formulas and bemoaned his lack of adequate mathematics to his last day.
I tackled with some dread Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, and have basically come away from it thinking, "Well, all right then." A bit impatient with her that she was so blind to the fact that her husband would die, where I have lived knowing loved ones would die and leave me, and that I would die and leave others, who would inevitably get along fine without me. And yet, who am I who have not had to deal with the death of a loved one since my mother's death just thirty years ago to offer a critique her experience?
So where does this leave me? It is a process, and one we go through like it or not. As I write that I am aware of its triteness, and yet the fact that it is 100 percent true.
For right now, each of these has helped place me in the context of the world in which we all die. I am trying to allow myself to feel sadness at the inevitable ending, and also to appreciate each day that I and my loved ones are here.
“We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here.We privileged few, who won the lottery of birth against all odds, how dare we whine at our inevitable return to that prior state from which the vast majority have never stirred?”
― Richard Dawkins, Unweaving the Rainbow: Science, Delusion and the Appetite for Wonder
Since my husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April, there has been a new urgency to my need to accept the fact of dying. In the wonderful movie Cloudburst, Olympia Dukakis' character says, "I'm 80, nothing lasts forever." And according to Walter Isaacson, in Albert Einstein's last days at age 76, he consoled others, at one point saying, "I have to pass on sometime, and it doesn't really matter when." He wrote formulas and bemoaned his lack of adequate mathematics to his last day.
I tackled with some dread Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, and have basically come away from it thinking, "Well, all right then." A bit impatient with her that she was so blind to the fact that her husband would die, where I have lived knowing loved ones would die and leave me, and that I would die and leave others, who would inevitably get along fine without me. And yet, who am I who have not had to deal with the death of a loved one since my mother's death just thirty years ago to offer a critique her experience?
So where does this leave me? It is a process, and one we go through like it or not. As I write that I am aware of its triteness, and yet the fact that it is 100 percent true.
For right now, each of these has helped place me in the context of the world in which we all die. I am trying to allow myself to feel sadness at the inevitable ending, and also to appreciate each day that I and my loved ones are here.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Do Not Call -- Really
I am retired, live by myself, home all day, with a landline.
No, I don't feel victimized by burglars. The con artists and crooks that concern me are the telemarketers.
Lately, like for the past couple of years, the fearmongerers have been vying with the banking industry for the coveted prize of "Most Annoying Telemarketing Group."
For example, I just now got a call. Expecting an actual call from a family member, me and my bad knees got up from the chair and made it to the phone when after four rings it stopped ringing.
Four, you see, is the magic number. That's not only the number of rings it takes before my sister starts to worry that she is bothering you and hangs up; it is the number of rings robocalls are set to disconnect at so that they don't encounter your annoying answering machine, which would take up way too much of their valuable time.
Yesterday, I answered the phone to a robocall that began, "The FBI...." It was, obviously, a security service. These are the folks that if you call them will then dial 911 for you.
This morning the call I got was for a company doing a "Bathtub Safety Survey" -- honest.
In my ever futile attempts to stop the calls, and my frustration at having to wait through the robo message, I started punching buttons. "0" just restarted the message. "1" however got me an actual human, who thanked me for taking their survey.
I understand that, while I would rather live in my car and eat out of dumpsters than be a telemarketer, some people are just trying to make an honest living. So over the years I have aimed for an assertive, not rude, message. I stated that I am on the Do Not Call Registry, and to please take my number off their list, and then I hung up.
By the time I got back to where I had been when I was interrupted, the phone rang again. This time, the caller left a message. The message was that if I wanted to be taken off their call list I could have just hit "2", which she was trying to explain to me when I rudely hung up on her.
So let me recap: in spite of the Federal Do Not Call Registry, I get a telemarketing call, to which I am supposed to listen in order to find out how to be removed from the call list. And because I hung up on the telemarketer, I have been accused of being rude.
Well, just so I've got that straight.
No, I don't feel victimized by burglars. The con artists and crooks that concern me are the telemarketers.
Lately, like for the past couple of years, the fearmongerers have been vying with the banking industry for the coveted prize of "Most Annoying Telemarketing Group."
For example, I just now got a call. Expecting an actual call from a family member, me and my bad knees got up from the chair and made it to the phone when after four rings it stopped ringing.
Four, you see, is the magic number. That's not only the number of rings it takes before my sister starts to worry that she is bothering you and hangs up; it is the number of rings robocalls are set to disconnect at so that they don't encounter your annoying answering machine, which would take up way too much of their valuable time.
Yesterday, I answered the phone to a robocall that began, "The FBI...." It was, obviously, a security service. These are the folks that if you call them will then dial 911 for you.
This morning the call I got was for a company doing a "Bathtub Safety Survey" -- honest.
In my ever futile attempts to stop the calls, and my frustration at having to wait through the robo message, I started punching buttons. "0" just restarted the message. "1" however got me an actual human, who thanked me for taking their survey.
I understand that, while I would rather live in my car and eat out of dumpsters than be a telemarketer, some people are just trying to make an honest living. So over the years I have aimed for an assertive, not rude, message. I stated that I am on the Do Not Call Registry, and to please take my number off their list, and then I hung up.
By the time I got back to where I had been when I was interrupted, the phone rang again. This time, the caller left a message. The message was that if I wanted to be taken off their call list I could have just hit "2", which she was trying to explain to me when I rudely hung up on her.
So let me recap: in spite of the Federal Do Not Call Registry, I get a telemarketing call, to which I am supposed to listen in order to find out how to be removed from the call list. And because I hung up on the telemarketer, I have been accused of being rude.
Well, just so I've got that straight.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Deserving a Dog
I am not a dog person. My father, when I was about sixteen, was given a German shepherd pup. He named her Ginger(probably my baby sister's doing), tied her up in the basement until she grew large, then tied her up to a tree across our wooded dead end road.
These were my teenage years, wherein teenagers don't tend to heartily roll out of bed in the morning. And I was depressed. And beginning around five a.m., when the few neighbors we had began to pass to go to work, and then walk past to get to the bus stop for school, Ginger barked. And barked. And barked.
My father, obviously also not a dog person (not much of a human person either) had taken to knocking on the window when he was around and poor Ginger started to bark. She would stop, for a couple of seconds, and then begin again. With those two seconds of silence, she trained my father to bang on the window when she began to bark.
And in my morose, sleep-filled rage, I too took to banging on the window.
And then I left home, and it wasn't until years later when I had a home of my own, that another idiot, who lived across a small field from me, got herself a dog, which she stuck in a pen, which drove the poor dog wild, and whose high-pitched bark drove me wild all day, every day.
When I moved to South Carolina, as I was house hunting, I was looking in rural areas, where neighbors (I thought) would be spaced a civil distance. And if there was a dog barking when I went through a house, I discarded it.
But after I moved, as these things go, dogs moved in or were acquired. I have neighbors whose dogs are adorable and really well-behaved. And I have neighbors who have dogs that when they get going sound like they are ripping babies to shreds. And I have a neighbor who, gods know why, got a dog a year or more ago, and stuck it outside, and has left it yowling pathetically ever since.
Dogs are work. I tried owning a dog once; she was a dear. But I was unable to commit to taking care of her the way she needed -- and deserved -- to be cared for, so (and I am not proud of this) when she was picked up and taken to the pound, I left her there in the hope that a family that loved her would adopt her.
People abuse and neglect dogs just by treating them as though they don't need constant care and affection, much like a small child. And like a small child, a dog gives back, and too many times, gives when it is receiving little in return.
I think I was so furious at barking Ginger because she broke my heart. And so it is with the neglected neighborhood dogs.
If you leave your dog outside all day every day, if you leave your dogs for weeks while you are on vacation and it's only human contact is the guy who comes to feed them, you don't deserve those dogs. And they truly deserve better than you.
These were my teenage years, wherein teenagers don't tend to heartily roll out of bed in the morning. And I was depressed. And beginning around five a.m., when the few neighbors we had began to pass to go to work, and then walk past to get to the bus stop for school, Ginger barked. And barked. And barked.
My father, obviously also not a dog person (not much of a human person either) had taken to knocking on the window when he was around and poor Ginger started to bark. She would stop, for a couple of seconds, and then begin again. With those two seconds of silence, she trained my father to bang on the window when she began to bark.
And in my morose, sleep-filled rage, I too took to banging on the window.
And then I left home, and it wasn't until years later when I had a home of my own, that another idiot, who lived across a small field from me, got herself a dog, which she stuck in a pen, which drove the poor dog wild, and whose high-pitched bark drove me wild all day, every day.
When I moved to South Carolina, as I was house hunting, I was looking in rural areas, where neighbors (I thought) would be spaced a civil distance. And if there was a dog barking when I went through a house, I discarded it.
But after I moved, as these things go, dogs moved in or were acquired. I have neighbors whose dogs are adorable and really well-behaved. And I have neighbors who have dogs that when they get going sound like they are ripping babies to shreds. And I have a neighbor who, gods know why, got a dog a year or more ago, and stuck it outside, and has left it yowling pathetically ever since.
Dogs are work. I tried owning a dog once; she was a dear. But I was unable to commit to taking care of her the way she needed -- and deserved -- to be cared for, so (and I am not proud of this) when she was picked up and taken to the pound, I left her there in the hope that a family that loved her would adopt her.
People abuse and neglect dogs just by treating them as though they don't need constant care and affection, much like a small child. And like a small child, a dog gives back, and too many times, gives when it is receiving little in return.
I think I was so furious at barking Ginger because she broke my heart. And so it is with the neglected neighborhood dogs.
If you leave your dog outside all day every day, if you leave your dogs for weeks while you are on vacation and it's only human contact is the guy who comes to feed them, you don't deserve those dogs. And they truly deserve better than you.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Retired Librarian: Crime Stopper
It is hard to believe that people steal from their library. But it is true. We who have worked at a library, like you, ask ourselves, But why?
I have been reading the New York Times Book Review compulsively since around 1980, when I first moved to Long Island and, like real New Yorkers, took up reading the Sunday Times as though it were a religious rite.
When the shoestring on which I had been living got stretched further a few years ago, I agonized about ending my mail subscription to the Book Review. I mean, I agonized for a year or more. Then, since I actually worked at a library that received the Sunday Times, I took the leap. Then, a year or more later, I quit the library.
So, in an amazing feat of flexibility, I began to visit my local branch and read the Book Review on Monday, and learned not to freak out if a copy was missing.
And then, a few months ago, I realized that more and more frequently, the recent copies were missing. And then I realized that they had gone mostly missing since last November. If I didn't read the current issue when it was current, it was gone.
So I reported it to someone at my branch. But apart from keeping the issue at the desk and forcing the culprit to ask for it, which the branch manager was unlikely to do due to his dislike of "clutter" at the desk, there was no way to resolve this problem.
Except on Tuesday, I headed a little late to the library. As I walked into the periodical area, I quickly noted a guy snatch (honestly) the current book review, walk over to the shelf and grab the latest back issue, then walk around the room and pretend to browse the periodicals, take one, and proceed to sit and "browse."
First of all, I'm the only person I know who grabs the current and last week's issue of the New York Times Book Review. And I'm the only person there who has been right on top of the thefts. Also, this guy was sitting there flipping pages of this magazine as though he were at a doctor's office afraid to get his test results.
After a minute went by, I took a book out and also pretended to read. I'm retired, I've got nowhere to go, and I'm going to outwait this dude. Sure enough, after only a few minutes, he stood up and carefully replaced the magazine, and then proceeded to walk out the door.
Before I could think what to do, I was running after him.
"Sir, excuse me...Sir?" Unable to ignore me, he stopped and turned. "I believe you have the Book Review.... You know, that doesn't circulate."
Which was hysterical, because he was obviously walking out the door without checking it out. But in such instances, making sense seemed to be a secondary concern.
And this rather large, six-foot-something middle-aged man, accosted by a rotund five foot "tall" white haired older woman, really had no other alternative but to go along. So while denying that he had any such Book Review, he walked back into the reading area. He fumbled with some clutter that was sitting at the table he'd been at while I watched, adding helpfully, "I'm looking for the current issue. Maybe you didn't realize you took it." And that big lug must have truly been feeling cornered, because he reluctantly set down his two books, and then moved them aside to show the two Book Reviews which he had been attempting to hide under them.
And then, totally flummoxed, he sat down to collect his thoughts. Which gave me time to go alert the branch manager, who followed me back to have a look. Then we stood there like idiots for a few seconds, until I motioned to him to follow me out of the reading area, so that I could explain how I nabbed the guy.
At which time the poor fool attempted his escape. Of course he had ditched the rest of the goods, which we found at the table where he'd been sitting. Along with the Travel Section of the Sunday Times, which perhaps he had been taking in order to plan his escape.
My final words to the branch manager:
"Try to take my Book Review???"
I have been reading the New York Times Book Review compulsively since around 1980, when I first moved to Long Island and, like real New Yorkers, took up reading the Sunday Times as though it were a religious rite.
When the shoestring on which I had been living got stretched further a few years ago, I agonized about ending my mail subscription to the Book Review. I mean, I agonized for a year or more. Then, since I actually worked at a library that received the Sunday Times, I took the leap. Then, a year or more later, I quit the library.
So, in an amazing feat of flexibility, I began to visit my local branch and read the Book Review on Monday, and learned not to freak out if a copy was missing.
And then, a few months ago, I realized that more and more frequently, the recent copies were missing. And then I realized that they had gone mostly missing since last November. If I didn't read the current issue when it was current, it was gone.
So I reported it to someone at my branch. But apart from keeping the issue at the desk and forcing the culprit to ask for it, which the branch manager was unlikely to do due to his dislike of "clutter" at the desk, there was no way to resolve this problem.
Except on Tuesday, I headed a little late to the library. As I walked into the periodical area, I quickly noted a guy snatch (honestly) the current book review, walk over to the shelf and grab the latest back issue, then walk around the room and pretend to browse the periodicals, take one, and proceed to sit and "browse."
First of all, I'm the only person I know who grabs the current and last week's issue of the New York Times Book Review. And I'm the only person there who has been right on top of the thefts. Also, this guy was sitting there flipping pages of this magazine as though he were at a doctor's office afraid to get his test results.
After a minute went by, I took a book out and also pretended to read. I'm retired, I've got nowhere to go, and I'm going to outwait this dude. Sure enough, after only a few minutes, he stood up and carefully replaced the magazine, and then proceeded to walk out the door.
Before I could think what to do, I was running after him.
"Sir, excuse me...Sir?" Unable to ignore me, he stopped and turned. "I believe you have the Book Review.... You know, that doesn't circulate."
Which was hysterical, because he was obviously walking out the door without checking it out. But in such instances, making sense seemed to be a secondary concern.
And this rather large, six-foot-something middle-aged man, accosted by a rotund five foot "tall" white haired older woman, really had no other alternative but to go along. So while denying that he had any such Book Review, he walked back into the reading area. He fumbled with some clutter that was sitting at the table he'd been at while I watched, adding helpfully, "I'm looking for the current issue. Maybe you didn't realize you took it." And that big lug must have truly been feeling cornered, because he reluctantly set down his two books, and then moved them aside to show the two Book Reviews which he had been attempting to hide under them.
And then, totally flummoxed, he sat down to collect his thoughts. Which gave me time to go alert the branch manager, who followed me back to have a look. Then we stood there like idiots for a few seconds, until I motioned to him to follow me out of the reading area, so that I could explain how I nabbed the guy.
At which time the poor fool attempted his escape. Of course he had ditched the rest of the goods, which we found at the table where he'd been sitting. Along with the Travel Section of the Sunday Times, which perhaps he had been taking in order to plan his escape.
My final words to the branch manager:
"Try to take my Book Review???"
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Medicinal Pizza
I am delighted with my daughter's marriage. Really. But you have to admit that it's a traumatic experience.
I think I had been pretty cool about it, in other words, totally denying that it was at all traumatic. But one has to admit that even if one is delighted with one's daughter's choice of spouse and feels totally included in the celebration, there are meanings that go beyond any of the wonderful things that a wedding may symbolize.
For one thing, when your first born weds, it means you are older. It also means you are now the extended family. There is what you might call a seismic shift (pardon my drama) in the makeup of the world.
I was really not that much in touch with the dramatic change for two reasons. First, and let me just say this one more time, I was really totally happy with it. Secondly, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it if I wasn't.
Oh, and the most obvious I guess is that my daughter had been living away from me as one half of a happy couple for some seven plus years now. I figured I should definitely be over it by now.
But as I woke up that morning, and before I gained consciousness, I groaned, "Oh my god," scaring my sister nearly half to death. "What's wrong?!" she asked as she leaped out of bed. "My daughter's getting married today."
But then the day flew by as we all knew it would, and the wedding was awesome and the reception was definitely one of the best parties I had ever attended. It was about 11:30, and for some time I had been aware that the two aunts and I were the only ones of our generation who were holding down that fort. Much as I was enjoying the antics of the ever more drunken younger bunch, it was time to leave. That, or tag along on the bar crawl at midnight.
Still doing fine, I left my newly inebriated son in the hands of the not-entirely-trustworthy new bride, and we three headed back to our hotel.
Once there, the elephant in the room (which had actually been a dinosaur at the Orpheum Children's Museum reception) could no longer be denied.
There was a hole in my heart that could only be filled by a pepperoni pizza. "I need a pizza," I whined. After I had said it a few more times, my sisters understood that not only did I need a pizza, I was incapable of actually accomplishing that goal myself. So, as family does in times of crisis, they did the telephone book research, and took it in stride when I griped about plebian options like Papa Johns and Dominos, finally finding a nice local option that appeared to be open late. And as loved ones will do when your heart is breaking, they even made the call.
And that pizza turned out to be exactly what I needed for my broken heart.
I think I had been pretty cool about it, in other words, totally denying that it was at all traumatic. But one has to admit that even if one is delighted with one's daughter's choice of spouse and feels totally included in the celebration, there are meanings that go beyond any of the wonderful things that a wedding may symbolize.
For one thing, when your first born weds, it means you are older. It also means you are now the extended family. There is what you might call a seismic shift (pardon my drama) in the makeup of the world.
I was really not that much in touch with the dramatic change for two reasons. First, and let me just say this one more time, I was really totally happy with it. Secondly, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it if I wasn't.
Oh, and the most obvious I guess is that my daughter had been living away from me as one half of a happy couple for some seven plus years now. I figured I should definitely be over it by now.
But as I woke up that morning, and before I gained consciousness, I groaned, "Oh my god," scaring my sister nearly half to death. "What's wrong?!" she asked as she leaped out of bed. "My daughter's getting married today."
But then the day flew by as we all knew it would, and the wedding was awesome and the reception was definitely one of the best parties I had ever attended. It was about 11:30, and for some time I had been aware that the two aunts and I were the only ones of our generation who were holding down that fort. Much as I was enjoying the antics of the ever more drunken younger bunch, it was time to leave. That, or tag along on the bar crawl at midnight.
Still doing fine, I left my newly inebriated son in the hands of the not-entirely-trustworthy new bride, and we three headed back to our hotel.
Once there, the elephant in the room (which had actually been a dinosaur at the Orpheum Children's Museum reception) could no longer be denied.
There was a hole in my heart that could only be filled by a pepperoni pizza. "I need a pizza," I whined. After I had said it a few more times, my sisters understood that not only did I need a pizza, I was incapable of actually accomplishing that goal myself. So, as family does in times of crisis, they did the telephone book research, and took it in stride when I griped about plebian options like Papa Johns and Dominos, finally finding a nice local option that appeared to be open late. And as loved ones will do when your heart is breaking, they even made the call.
And that pizza turned out to be exactly what I needed for my broken heart.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
How to Use a Clutch
My brilliant and talented daughter was married last weekend. Whereas I had been the type of needle-worker that would attempt to precisely copy a pattern and still end up with arms of two different lengths, my daughter made her wedding dress.
And flowers for the Bridal Party.
Also, in what I have determined to be a lifelong obsession with getting me to use a smaller pocketbook, she made me what I have learned is called a clutch. As in you can't let go of it or it will fall to the floor.
You can carry a laptop around in it, or if you choose not to, it will hold nearly everything else you might think you need. I have been challenging people for years to ask me for something they need and see if I am not carrying it. After agonizing over its not looking classy enough to carry for my son's Harvard Commencement, and thinking about all the things I would have to carry along with a smaller purse, I just decided I would have to risk being mocked by the elite and was glad for it.
But the clutch was beautiful. And Antoinette looked so excited when I opened the gift. And she set me up by saying, "I thought I should give this to you before the wedding so you could wear it."
What was I to do? I considered what would fit into it, folded up the pages on which I had printed my reading, carefully worked it in and then took it out because it was too big. Then I neatly stacked a dozen neatly folded tissues which I could pull out individually during the ceremony. And, well, that was it. I thought I'd leave my other bag in the trunk of the car.
My daughter had bought a nice enough clutch online. It was larger and less delicate than mine, and she stuffed as much as she could into it, had one of her bridesmaids help her close it, and we headed to the elevator, en route to what I understand they call "first look," the photo session wherein the groom gets to glimpse the bride before the ceremony in order to take pictures, but they have to do it in stages and when they are photographed together pretend it hasn't actually happened.
In the elevator, running late, the bride realized she hadn't left her room key with the bridesmaids, and then that she couldn't call them to tell them because she had left her phone in the room. While she was in the midst of this process of discovery, items began to fall out of the clutch, even before she accidentally turned it upside down.
After that was settled, and in the car on the way to the photo session, she realized that her phone wouldn't fit in the clutch, and got a bit snappy with me when I attempted to suggest things that she could remove that she absolutely had to have. Finally, with great dramatic insight, she said something to the effect of, "Oh, fuck this, I can't use this thing," and removed the items that had been stuffed into the clutch and threw them into the full sized pocketbook that had been sitting empty in the back seat.
I believe there must be a god whose sole purpose is to prevent weddings from happening. This is why things go wrong in the days leading up to the event at a rate that cannot be explained by logic or statistics, and the things that go wrong increase in size and number as the moment draws near. This is also why, if you make it to the actual ceremony, everything from then on is perfect.
So when we got to the Arboretum, which in Illinois in June had actual flowers recently planted and in bloom, and which flowers had not been ripped out by the recent wind and torrential rains, it stood to reason that the rain that had been predicted for two hours after the ceremony instead was imminent and at that moment being heralded by thunder.
Frantic calls, to proceed to Plan B and then to let others know. A drive to drop off the bride at the amazing Orpheum Children's Theater, where the reception was to be held, now also to be the setting for the ceremony itself. And a crazed run to the hotel to change and pick up father-of-the-bride.
Which is how I ended up with an exquisite clutch with neatly folded tissues and a few pages in hand for my reading, and, under my seat, my trusted carry-all, which held camera, envelopes with tips for staff, and ended up carrying gift envelopes.
I did "carry" the clutch, but mostly it sat at the table under my camera case, because you can't hold it and carry drinks and hors d'heuvres, or carry it and take pictures, or even carry it and dance.
I thought that I might, for the next very special occasion, take a big safety pin out of my all-purpose bag, fasten it to my dress and wear it as a brooch.
I know, it is beautiful. But this is what I have carried around for the last decade or so:
But the clutch was beautiful. And Antoinette looked so excited when I opened the gift. And she set me up by saying, "I thought I should give this to you before the wedding so you could wear it."
What was I to do? I considered what would fit into it, folded up the pages on which I had printed my reading, carefully worked it in and then took it out because it was too big. Then I neatly stacked a dozen neatly folded tissues which I could pull out individually during the ceremony. And, well, that was it. I thought I'd leave my other bag in the trunk of the car.
My daughter had bought a nice enough clutch online. It was larger and less delicate than mine, and she stuffed as much as she could into it, had one of her bridesmaids help her close it, and we headed to the elevator, en route to what I understand they call "first look," the photo session wherein the groom gets to glimpse the bride before the ceremony in order to take pictures, but they have to do it in stages and when they are photographed together pretend it hasn't actually happened.
In the elevator, running late, the bride realized she hadn't left her room key with the bridesmaids, and then that she couldn't call them to tell them because she had left her phone in the room. While she was in the midst of this process of discovery, items began to fall out of the clutch, even before she accidentally turned it upside down.
After that was settled, and in the car on the way to the photo session, she realized that her phone wouldn't fit in the clutch, and got a bit snappy with me when I attempted to suggest things that she could remove that she absolutely had to have. Finally, with great dramatic insight, she said something to the effect of, "Oh, fuck this, I can't use this thing," and removed the items that had been stuffed into the clutch and threw them into the full sized pocketbook that had been sitting empty in the back seat.
I believe there must be a god whose sole purpose is to prevent weddings from happening. This is why things go wrong in the days leading up to the event at a rate that cannot be explained by logic or statistics, and the things that go wrong increase in size and number as the moment draws near. This is also why, if you make it to the actual ceremony, everything from then on is perfect.
So when we got to the Arboretum, which in Illinois in June had actual flowers recently planted and in bloom, and which flowers had not been ripped out by the recent wind and torrential rains, it stood to reason that the rain that had been predicted for two hours after the ceremony instead was imminent and at that moment being heralded by thunder.
Frantic calls, to proceed to Plan B and then to let others know. A drive to drop off the bride at the amazing Orpheum Children's Theater, where the reception was to be held, now also to be the setting for the ceremony itself. And a crazed run to the hotel to change and pick up father-of-the-bride.
Which is how I ended up with an exquisite clutch with neatly folded tissues and a few pages in hand for my reading, and, under my seat, my trusted carry-all, which held camera, envelopes with tips for staff, and ended up carrying gift envelopes.
I did "carry" the clutch, but mostly it sat at the table under my camera case, because you can't hold it and carry drinks and hors d'heuvres, or carry it and take pictures, or even carry it and dance.
I thought that I might, for the next very special occasion, take a big safety pin out of my all-purpose bag, fasten it to my dress and wear it as a brooch.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Les Miserables, Or Aren't We All?
I broke down and watched Les Miserables on DVD.
I had mixed reviews of the play when I saw it on Broadway in 1998. I was with my daughter, who was 11. We were planning on moving from Long Island to South Carolina the following year, and it was our Farewell to Broadway trip to the city.
What I remember most was that the play was too long. I have as good an attention span as the next fairly cultured person, but I was impatient with the stupid morality of Victor Hugo's time.
But the movie was different. I got caught up in it. The music was phenomenal. The acting was grand. The children were breathtaking.
Sasha Baron Cohen, of course, stole every scene he was in.
What surprised me most was Russell Crowe's portrayal of Javert. And the fact that he has such a sweet, pure voice. Which he used to convey his tortured mind, the pure evil that comes from pure thoughts, unfiltered by charity.
The play wasn't as interminable as I recalled. And yet, to the minute, I reached the point where I had had it. There they were, the dead had been mourned, Cosette and Marius about to live happily ever after. This was a state totally unacceptable for Jean Valjean. At that point, he decides he can have no part of a happy life with his beloved daughter.
Damn that loaf of bread.
So he runs off, Marius bound not to tell. And then it appears they watch Valjean ride off, both apparently too overcome with the emotion of the scene to run after him and ask what the hell he is doing.
And this is where I lose it. As Jean Valjean is taking far too long to die, I would like to help him along.
When I was a child, my mother, along with everyone else's mother, watched the daytime soaps (Back then, there were only daytime soaps.). She cleaned house fearlessly, played games with my sister and myself, visited neighbors, but between noon and one o'clock, my mother watched her soaps.
I tried to watch soaps for awhile, but I found that I kept wanting to yell at the actors for doing such stupid things. "You know he loves you, for God's sake, just tell him you're pregnant!"
But no, soap operas represented the same need for interminable torture and misery as Hugo painted for us in his aptly named tale, but which he did with better music. Is it a human need, to suffer and sacrifice, and while you're at it bring everyone down with you? I think not a need, although we certainly do it. And we do crave watching others suffer through their own moral twistings.
So Jean Valjean, now on Blu-ray, will continue to drive people insane with the masochistic need to make others suffer through his absence. An agonized man who even needed to be persuaded to heaven.
At least Javert jumped.
I had mixed reviews of the play when I saw it on Broadway in 1998. I was with my daughter, who was 11. We were planning on moving from Long Island to South Carolina the following year, and it was our Farewell to Broadway trip to the city.
What I remember most was that the play was too long. I have as good an attention span as the next fairly cultured person, but I was impatient with the stupid morality of Victor Hugo's time.
But the movie was different. I got caught up in it. The music was phenomenal. The acting was grand. The children were breathtaking.
Sasha Baron Cohen, of course, stole every scene he was in.
What surprised me most was Russell Crowe's portrayal of Javert. And the fact that he has such a sweet, pure voice. Which he used to convey his tortured mind, the pure evil that comes from pure thoughts, unfiltered by charity.
The play wasn't as interminable as I recalled. And yet, to the minute, I reached the point where I had had it. There they were, the dead had been mourned, Cosette and Marius about to live happily ever after. This was a state totally unacceptable for Jean Valjean. At that point, he decides he can have no part of a happy life with his beloved daughter.
Damn that loaf of bread.
So he runs off, Marius bound not to tell. And then it appears they watch Valjean ride off, both apparently too overcome with the emotion of the scene to run after him and ask what the hell he is doing.
And this is where I lose it. As Jean Valjean is taking far too long to die, I would like to help him along.
When I was a child, my mother, along with everyone else's mother, watched the daytime soaps (Back then, there were only daytime soaps.). She cleaned house fearlessly, played games with my sister and myself, visited neighbors, but between noon and one o'clock, my mother watched her soaps.
I tried to watch soaps for awhile, but I found that I kept wanting to yell at the actors for doing such stupid things. "You know he loves you, for God's sake, just tell him you're pregnant!"
But no, soap operas represented the same need for interminable torture and misery as Hugo painted for us in his aptly named tale, but which he did with better music. Is it a human need, to suffer and sacrifice, and while you're at it bring everyone down with you? I think not a need, although we certainly do it. And we do crave watching others suffer through their own moral twistings.
So Jean Valjean, now on Blu-ray, will continue to drive people insane with the masochistic need to make others suffer through his absence. An agonized man who even needed to be persuaded to heaven.
At least Javert jumped.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
The Stupid Stuff
Three months before I turned 62, on April 19, I was applying for Social Security benefits when I learned that my husband, who lives with his older daughter in Virginia, had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
Since then he had the surgery, and I spent last weekend at Johns Hopkins Hospital with him as he recuperated. We are waiting anxiously for the pathology report ("What's it called again, that report?" we all kept asking each other last weekend, and once this week he called it a postmortem, which slip I like to think means "death of the damned tumor.") Until the pathology report, well, life is kind of on hold, isn't it?
But meanwhile, my son is graduating from Harvard at the end of the month, and not to be overshadowed by her younger brother, my daughter is getting married two weeks later, in Illinois.
So, without the cancer, we were already looking at an action packed summer.
To add a little spin to an already wildly spinning meaning of life, I nearly overturned my car on the idyllic sounding but truly evil Baltimore Washington Parkway on the way home. I swerved the car back and forth four times before I was able to get it back under control.
Needless to say, life has taken on a different perspective.
And yet, and yet, life continues to be chock full of stupid stuff. Pay the bills, of course, is number one. And mow the lawn, not entirely so it will look pretty, but in an effort to beat back the weeds wherein grow snakes and seedlings of water oaks, which creep into your yard when you are not looking. They also grow -- fast -- next to any tree or shrub that you actually enjoy looking at, so another hated chore is cutting back the damned water oaks.
Then there is politics. After last weekend, I really don't give a damn about Mark Sanford and all the fools that continue to be sucked in by the paranoia and manipulations of the radicals that are currently running this country. Cut my social security, and while you're at it, take my medicare. You've already assured that that scary future in which there is more poverty and illness and ignorance is here to stay. I don't have time to dwell on it because I sure can't change it.
And humming through our existence is money. Not having enough of course, but the fact that everyone wants a piece of whatever you have. This week I wrote a snarky comment on what was supposed to be a "50-State Survey" from the usually wonderful and heroic ACLU that of course became a fund-raising letter. I even yelled at someone from some children's cancer fund who refused to believe that I just couldn't afford to contribute.
MSNBC sells liberal defenses of the incessant attacks on Obama, and then spends about a third of the time selling products. If you're going to get sick these days, you'd damn well better be able to afford it. And if you can't afford to give your kids a nutritional lunch don't bother the likes of Paul Ryan. Because damn it, it's his money. And make sure you ask your doctor for that little blue pill, so you can have hours of sex. Or still that restless leg, so you don't have to god-forbid walk anywhere.
And the FBI wants you to know that they have their eyes on you, just in case you were thinking of copying that DVD you like so much.
It's indeed all about the money. And the stupid stuff.
Water the plants. Dust the furniture where it can't be ignored anymore, even by me. Get ready for the next leg of my three-legged travels.
For days after I got back from Baltimore, my life was filled with all the stupid stuff I had to keep doing. And the humming of capitalism controlling the whole thing.
When it is really my three-legged travels that are important: the drawing together of family, the sickness and the health, the ceremony of commencing, with hope, into the future, the being together with love.
Since then he had the surgery, and I spent last weekend at Johns Hopkins Hospital with him as he recuperated. We are waiting anxiously for the pathology report ("What's it called again, that report?" we all kept asking each other last weekend, and once this week he called it a postmortem, which slip I like to think means "death of the damned tumor.") Until the pathology report, well, life is kind of on hold, isn't it?
But meanwhile, my son is graduating from Harvard at the end of the month, and not to be overshadowed by her younger brother, my daughter is getting married two weeks later, in Illinois.
So, without the cancer, we were already looking at an action packed summer.
To add a little spin to an already wildly spinning meaning of life, I nearly overturned my car on the idyllic sounding but truly evil Baltimore Washington Parkway on the way home. I swerved the car back and forth four times before I was able to get it back under control.
Needless to say, life has taken on a different perspective.
And yet, and yet, life continues to be chock full of stupid stuff. Pay the bills, of course, is number one. And mow the lawn, not entirely so it will look pretty, but in an effort to beat back the weeds wherein grow snakes and seedlings of water oaks, which creep into your yard when you are not looking. They also grow -- fast -- next to any tree or shrub that you actually enjoy looking at, so another hated chore is cutting back the damned water oaks.
Then there is politics. After last weekend, I really don't give a damn about Mark Sanford and all the fools that continue to be sucked in by the paranoia and manipulations of the radicals that are currently running this country. Cut my social security, and while you're at it, take my medicare. You've already assured that that scary future in which there is more poverty and illness and ignorance is here to stay. I don't have time to dwell on it because I sure can't change it.
And humming through our existence is money. Not having enough of course, but the fact that everyone wants a piece of whatever you have. This week I wrote a snarky comment on what was supposed to be a "50-State Survey" from the usually wonderful and heroic ACLU that of course became a fund-raising letter. I even yelled at someone from some children's cancer fund who refused to believe that I just couldn't afford to contribute.
MSNBC sells liberal defenses of the incessant attacks on Obama, and then spends about a third of the time selling products. If you're going to get sick these days, you'd damn well better be able to afford it. And if you can't afford to give your kids a nutritional lunch don't bother the likes of Paul Ryan. Because damn it, it's his money. And make sure you ask your doctor for that little blue pill, so you can have hours of sex. Or still that restless leg, so you don't have to god-forbid walk anywhere.
And the FBI wants you to know that they have their eyes on you, just in case you were thinking of copying that DVD you like so much.
It's indeed all about the money. And the stupid stuff.
Water the plants. Dust the furniture where it can't be ignored anymore, even by me. Get ready for the next leg of my three-legged travels.
For days after I got back from Baltimore, my life was filled with all the stupid stuff I had to keep doing. And the humming of capitalism controlling the whole thing.
When it is really my three-legged travels that are important: the drawing together of family, the sickness and the health, the ceremony of commencing, with hope, into the future, the being together with love.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
When Anti-Intellectualism Rears Its Ugly Head
The other day I got the movie Lincoln out of the library. I had grave misgivings about this movie, that stem from the fact that too damn many historians were exclaiming about how wonderful it was. Accurate. It really portrayed Lincoln.
I have had misgivings about movies and been wrong before. And it would have been a shame to miss out on something that was that good, and after all, free.
It was indeed impressively... accurate. The man looked like Abe and was just as understated as I would have expected. After about one-half hour, whenever Lincoln opened his mouth to tell another anecdote, I thought, "Oh, jeez, there he goes again." Maybe his friends thought he was a wit, but I imagine if you had to work with him, or were for god's sake married to him, you would have been resorting to a lot of eye-rolling.
After 50 minutes I found myself walking around the house doing things I'd forgotten to do earlier, without pausing the movie. This is something I never do. So at 60 minutes I figured my life would be able to go on without a serious lack of quality if I never finished the movie.
This need for movies to be just like real life has got to run its course at some point. But even movies that are not about historically important things have just too many scenes that are just like real life.
It took me a while to figure out why I was so bored with so many movies lately. At first I thought it was because they were about "young people" and they were all full of angst and obsessing about stupid things. But that wasn't it. I am definitely not above enjoying a movie about stupid things.
The new trend in movies is to have scenes replicate real life word for word. Last night I sat through Shame which I had had on hold at the library for quite some time. I'm really noncommittal about the sex scenes. I think I don't care enough one way or the other to have an opinion. They are usually long enough.
But the longest scene in that movie was the dinner scene. It was practically the whole dinner conversation. And it was really boring. And this is the kind of thing that is going on just too much in contemporary movies.
I imagine that there is just too much studying of the writing of screenplays. I can imagine the screenplay professor instructing his students to, "This week, listen to conversations. Then write them down." It has become important that people in movies talk just the way real people talk. And for the same length of time. Which makes a lot of potentially interesting characters really boring.
I couldn't believe it when the woman at the restaurant agreed to go out with the guy again. "Oh, come on," I said, "What are you going to talk about next time?" Turns out they ran out of things to do in bed before they ever had to go out to eat together again.
I have been accused of being anti-intellectual. So be it. I don't mind a movie that has some thought to it, but not if every thought a character has has to be verbalized. And I kind of think that Abe was a lot more clever than he appeared on screen, because nobody was being obsessive about "portraying" him.
I hope when things swing back in the movie business from this ultra-realism, it doesn't go the other way of having movies where nobody is even sure what is happening. I think reality is just fine, as long as there is some imagination that goes with it.
And some movement, for gods' sake. Let's please not have people sitting around at dinner in real time, because it just isn't as much fun when you don't get to choose who you're sitting there with.
I have had misgivings about movies and been wrong before. And it would have been a shame to miss out on something that was that good, and after all, free.
It was indeed impressively... accurate. The man looked like Abe and was just as understated as I would have expected. After about one-half hour, whenever Lincoln opened his mouth to tell another anecdote, I thought, "Oh, jeez, there he goes again." Maybe his friends thought he was a wit, but I imagine if you had to work with him, or were for god's sake married to him, you would have been resorting to a lot of eye-rolling.
After 50 minutes I found myself walking around the house doing things I'd forgotten to do earlier, without pausing the movie. This is something I never do. So at 60 minutes I figured my life would be able to go on without a serious lack of quality if I never finished the movie.
This need for movies to be just like real life has got to run its course at some point. But even movies that are not about historically important things have just too many scenes that are just like real life.
It took me a while to figure out why I was so bored with so many movies lately. At first I thought it was because they were about "young people" and they were all full of angst and obsessing about stupid things. But that wasn't it. I am definitely not above enjoying a movie about stupid things.
The new trend in movies is to have scenes replicate real life word for word. Last night I sat through Shame which I had had on hold at the library for quite some time. I'm really noncommittal about the sex scenes. I think I don't care enough one way or the other to have an opinion. They are usually long enough.
But the longest scene in that movie was the dinner scene. It was practically the whole dinner conversation. And it was really boring. And this is the kind of thing that is going on just too much in contemporary movies.
I imagine that there is just too much studying of the writing of screenplays. I can imagine the screenplay professor instructing his students to, "This week, listen to conversations. Then write them down." It has become important that people in movies talk just the way real people talk. And for the same length of time. Which makes a lot of potentially interesting characters really boring.
I couldn't believe it when the woman at the restaurant agreed to go out with the guy again. "Oh, come on," I said, "What are you going to talk about next time?" Turns out they ran out of things to do in bed before they ever had to go out to eat together again.
I have been accused of being anti-intellectual. So be it. I don't mind a movie that has some thought to it, but not if every thought a character has has to be verbalized. And I kind of think that Abe was a lot more clever than he appeared on screen, because nobody was being obsessive about "portraying" him.
I hope when things swing back in the movie business from this ultra-realism, it doesn't go the other way of having movies where nobody is even sure what is happening. I think reality is just fine, as long as there is some imagination that goes with it.
And some movement, for gods' sake. Let's please not have people sitting around at dinner in real time, because it just isn't as much fun when you don't get to choose who you're sitting there with.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Don't Ask
Last night I took a telephone survey. This is a big deal for me because I have learned to (politely) cut people off mid-sentence with a "No, thank you" and hang up without even knowing what the survey is about.
I have a pretty jaded view of survey research, going back to my training in psychology. Most of the time they aren't accurate, they are crazy-prone to self-report bias, and are poorly constructed, to be fair, because it's pretty much impossible to construct an accurate self-report inventory.
And most of the time when someone calls with a telephone survey, it's a business or politician and the survey part is a ruse or misrepresented.
Also, I hate telephone surveys for the same reason I hate people knocking on my door. It's my home, so leave me alone. You want my attention, write me a letter, and if I'm interested I'll know where to find you.
Which they did. I received the letter a week or so ago, and threw it away. And when the nice woman on the phone told me who I could contact if I had any questions I neglected to write down the phone number. I think it's a DHEC survey but I might be wrong. Obviously, I really didn't care all that much.
But it was legitimate, so I figured I would turn over a new leaf and cooperate when and if they called.
And I was honest. Mostly. I had no problem giving my age or my weight. I know I'm obese, and I know I'm hovering over the cliff of old age, so it doesn't matter to me who knows.
I told two lies. The first was about how much I drink, and the second was how often I wear a seat belt. And I would like to tell you about both of those lies.
These days, whenever I see my doctor her assistant takes a ridiculous survey about the usual, how much I smoke (I don't) and how much I drink. The answer to both of those questions is a resounding "none of your business" but I don't say that, because I'm assuming this data is being recorded for posterity and research and most important, for insurance company records, and they WILL use it against anyone who refuses to answer or answers honestly. So I lie. And so should you. If you drink with any regularity, the alcohol nazis will use it against you someday. Just as with smoking you will have to pay higher premiums, if you are allowed to get insurance at all.
The seat belt question was a surprise, but I recouped and, of the options given, I answered "most of the time." Now this is ridiculous and I think pretty much an admission that I am lying. One either wears a seat belt or doesn't, so if the folks who designed this questionnaire were really clever they would assume anything other than a yes or no is a lie.
I resent the fact that people can still carry on intense conversations on cell phones while driving -- which affects my own safety -- but there are laws that come into my own vehicle and require that I wear a seat belt. And given my admitted obesity, the times I have tried to wear seat belts I have found them to be, shall we say, not made for my short and fat body.
So those were my two lies.
But there was one question in this really, really detailed survey that was missing and should not have been. In a survey that asked about number of phones in the house and whether I knew my emergency evacuation route, this is the question that was left out:
HOW MANY GUNS ARE IN YOUR HOME?
You can ask about my weight, my alcohol, how often I eat leafy greens, and whether I have a cell phone as well as a land line, but don't dare ask whether I own a gun.
I guess it's safe to say that this survey leaves my cynicism about surveys intact.
I have a pretty jaded view of survey research, going back to my training in psychology. Most of the time they aren't accurate, they are crazy-prone to self-report bias, and are poorly constructed, to be fair, because it's pretty much impossible to construct an accurate self-report inventory.
And most of the time when someone calls with a telephone survey, it's a business or politician and the survey part is a ruse or misrepresented.
Also, I hate telephone surveys for the same reason I hate people knocking on my door. It's my home, so leave me alone. You want my attention, write me a letter, and if I'm interested I'll know where to find you.
Which they did. I received the letter a week or so ago, and threw it away. And when the nice woman on the phone told me who I could contact if I had any questions I neglected to write down the phone number. I think it's a DHEC survey but I might be wrong. Obviously, I really didn't care all that much.
But it was legitimate, so I figured I would turn over a new leaf and cooperate when and if they called.
And I was honest. Mostly. I had no problem giving my age or my weight. I know I'm obese, and I know I'm hovering over the cliff of old age, so it doesn't matter to me who knows.
I told two lies. The first was about how much I drink, and the second was how often I wear a seat belt. And I would like to tell you about both of those lies.
These days, whenever I see my doctor her assistant takes a ridiculous survey about the usual, how much I smoke (I don't) and how much I drink. The answer to both of those questions is a resounding "none of your business" but I don't say that, because I'm assuming this data is being recorded for posterity and research and most important, for insurance company records, and they WILL use it against anyone who refuses to answer or answers honestly. So I lie. And so should you. If you drink with any regularity, the alcohol nazis will use it against you someday. Just as with smoking you will have to pay higher premiums, if you are allowed to get insurance at all.
The seat belt question was a surprise, but I recouped and, of the options given, I answered "most of the time." Now this is ridiculous and I think pretty much an admission that I am lying. One either wears a seat belt or doesn't, so if the folks who designed this questionnaire were really clever they would assume anything other than a yes or no is a lie.
I resent the fact that people can still carry on intense conversations on cell phones while driving -- which affects my own safety -- but there are laws that come into my own vehicle and require that I wear a seat belt. And given my admitted obesity, the times I have tried to wear seat belts I have found them to be, shall we say, not made for my short and fat body.
So those were my two lies.
But there was one question in this really, really detailed survey that was missing and should not have been. In a survey that asked about number of phones in the house and whether I knew my emergency evacuation route, this is the question that was left out:
HOW MANY GUNS ARE IN YOUR HOME?
You can ask about my weight, my alcohol, how often I eat leafy greens, and whether I have a cell phone as well as a land line, but don't dare ask whether I own a gun.
I guess it's safe to say that this survey leaves my cynicism about surveys intact.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Hilton Head Farewell
Friday -- Day Last
It must be nearly time to leave. The weather is definitely spring-like and I saw my first local gnats today. Bad germs are still hovering, taking one more bad night's sleep.
But it's been a good week. Some beach walking and some good food. Good books, lots to think about.
Vacations alone are fine for me. The advantages are plenty: I don't have to worry about what other people want to do, or feel responsible for whether we're all having a good time. I get to choose movies, foods, activities (or none) that I enjoy.
But also it's a time to visit past vacations. First, I see things I've enjoyed that I'll probably not do again -- bicycling, for sure, and possibly, sadly, tennis.
When I am on vacation, my family is there with me, my first years with Stephan, my babies, altogether, and then just us three. There was our first time, the two of us, in the Caribbean, Paradise Island, where we did the new tourist bit of turning lobster red, but I also read aloud on the beach, could have been Mark Twain.
There was our first Disney vacation with our two little ones, when I began writing the first of the three Antoinette and Nikko stories. I'd write a chapter a day, and read it to the family later. I worked harder on those stories than I've ever spent on my writing. I haven't looked at them in the many years since the rejection letters, but I still remember them being pretty good, and featuring two wildly fun kids that just happened to be my own.
Then there was our first solo Florida vacation, at Sanibel Island. Nikko not yet seven helping to lug our assorted stuff up a couple of daunting flights of stairs. After that we three had a couple more Disney vacations, until Antoinette informed me that next year she would be in high school and couldn't take a week off to go to Florida anymore.
So many bits and pieces of memories of great times.
I'm hoping that there will be more vacations together in our future, and do I dare to hope for family vacations with a grandchild or more?
Sir Terry and Me, continued...
Last year it so happened that the Discworld book I took with me featured a man of power and evil, and nicely put a face to the demons I wrestled with at home. This year, as our politicians continue to search for ways to avoid making our country safe from gun violence, we have the power and evil of the gonne. And here, believe it or not, is a quote from this book written in 1993:
It must be nearly time to leave. The weather is definitely spring-like and I saw my first local gnats today. Bad germs are still hovering, taking one more bad night's sleep.
But it's been a good week. Some beach walking and some good food. Good books, lots to think about.
Vacations alone are fine for me. The advantages are plenty: I don't have to worry about what other people want to do, or feel responsible for whether we're all having a good time. I get to choose movies, foods, activities (or none) that I enjoy.
But also it's a time to visit past vacations. First, I see things I've enjoyed that I'll probably not do again -- bicycling, for sure, and possibly, sadly, tennis.
When I am on vacation, my family is there with me, my first years with Stephan, my babies, altogether, and then just us three. There was our first time, the two of us, in the Caribbean, Paradise Island, where we did the new tourist bit of turning lobster red, but I also read aloud on the beach, could have been Mark Twain.
There was our first Disney vacation with our two little ones, when I began writing the first of the three Antoinette and Nikko stories. I'd write a chapter a day, and read it to the family later. I worked harder on those stories than I've ever spent on my writing. I haven't looked at them in the many years since the rejection letters, but I still remember them being pretty good, and featuring two wildly fun kids that just happened to be my own.
 |
| A clue from the first Antoinette and Nikko adventure |
So many bits and pieces of memories of great times.
I'm hoping that there will be more vacations together in our future, and do I dare to hope for family vacations with a grandchild or more?
Sir Terry and Me, continued...
Last year it so happened that the Discworld book I took with me featured a man of power and evil, and nicely put a face to the demons I wrestled with at home. This year, as our politicians continue to search for ways to avoid making our country safe from gun violence, we have the power and evil of the gonne. And here, believe it or not, is a quote from this book written in 1993:
"Gonnes don't kill people. People kill people." -- The Gonne
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Hilton Head Spring
Thursday -- Day 5
Finally!
I do believe I am winning the battle of good germs v. bad germs. And the weather is beginning to change.
I had my longed-for walk on the beach, still cool and breezy, but spring is in the air. The beach is enormous, it seems there is either not much high tide, or I've been there at extremely low tide all week, and it's as calm as a bathtub. No cars on the beach, not even the patrol variety, but lots of people, riding bikes (lots of bikes), flying kites, building sand castles, walking, sunning. But the shore was so vast it hardly seemed populated. My kind of place.
Sir Terry and Me
And it must be a vacation because I'm reading another Discworld saga. The problem being that laughter -- even a chuckle -- can still lead to coughing fits. But worth the risk. I think the word "delight" was invented for the experience of recognizing the parallel between what has just happened in Ankh-Morpork and here in our world. I know my aha! moments happen far later than the average Pratchett fan, but with no less amazement and joy.
Finally!
I do believe I am winning the battle of good germs v. bad germs. And the weather is beginning to change.
I had my longed-for walk on the beach, still cool and breezy, but spring is in the air. The beach is enormous, it seems there is either not much high tide, or I've been there at extremely low tide all week, and it's as calm as a bathtub. No cars on the beach, not even the patrol variety, but lots of people, riding bikes (lots of bikes), flying kites, building sand castles, walking, sunning. But the shore was so vast it hardly seemed populated. My kind of place.
Sir Terry and Me
And it must be a vacation because I'm reading another Discworld saga. The problem being that laughter -- even a chuckle -- can still lead to coughing fits. But worth the risk. I think the word "delight" was invented for the experience of recognizing the parallel between what has just happened in Ankh-Morpork and here in our world. I know my aha! moments happen far later than the average Pratchett fan, but with no less amazement and joy.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Hilton Head -- It's Not Belleair Beach
Wednesday -- Day 4
So last year I had a much more ordinary condo in a much more amazing location. A year ago I was on Belleair Beach, in a place that I could not have afforded except for the fact that the place was somewhat worn down and in they process of selling the condos and remodeling. But it was right on a beautiful beach in a quiet area. Belleair Beach is so small that there are no gift shoppes that sell Belleair Beach tchotchkes. Perfect.
And the second day after my first traditional restless night, I found out that the big chair was a recliner, which I turned around to face the Gulf and made it my home.
But I was in this wonderful spot feeling massive amounts of anxiety and depression, and to be honest, heart-wrenching sadness. I was wrestling with the fact that I could no longer continue in my low-wage job at the county library, which I had loved dearly. The "new" library director had come in selling a bright shiny object that turned out to be a weapon designed to downsize and devastate our library system. (I wrote about it here a year ago, and in more detail at my Thankful...to Have a Job? blog.)
This year, despite the cold weather and the body wracked with germs, I am feeling at peace with where my life has landed. When I returned from my angst-ridden vacation, I wrote a letter to the Charleston Post & Courier describing the damage that was being done by policies that resulted in thousands of library books being discarded. A couple of weeks later I decided that I could no longer continue to do that job.
Since then I have continued to speak honestly about what I see happening at the library, although (gratefully) not from within, but as a knowledgeable outsider. It is still upsetting, but I am no longer a part of the mechanism of destruction.
My year has been a year of growing and learning new things and feeling as though I've entered another stage, not of retirement, but of being able to do good work that may make a difference. I have been blogging like crazy, and happy to learn that many people enjoy reading what I write. I am learning more about the crazy-land of local politics in South Carolina mostly through helping my friends at the ACLU track legislation. I write letters to the editor, and meet with other Charleston activists. And I am attempting to learn web design. Oh, and I read. A lot.
So I have had restless nights this week, mostly due to my nasty disease bugs, but the dreams I have had have been light. In fact, since I have been giving much thought to where I was a year ago, last night I dreamed that on my last day at the library, I soundly told off the director, who was actually George W. Bush and not Doug Henderson. Either way, a good time was had.
Me and Jack Reacher
I discovered Lee Child just about four years ago, and after a little initial confusion, I am reading the Jack Reacher series in order. Since I just finished DeMille's The Panther, it just makes sense to compare the two.
There was more action in the first ten pages of Echo Burning than in the first 300 pages of The Panther. Reacher, unlike John Corey, is a man of few words, which DeMille (not Corey) could learn from. His whole refusal to grow roots leads to some hysterical character traits and habits, like wearing the same clothes for three days and throwing them out and buying a new (cheap) set. He has no sense of humor, which ordinarily doesn't appeal, but the pace of the plots and Child's ability to make the absurd credible makes for great reading.
Speaking of which, I have about fifty pages left, and I'm in the middle of a gunfight, so I'm off.
So last year I had a much more ordinary condo in a much more amazing location. A year ago I was on Belleair Beach, in a place that I could not have afforded except for the fact that the place was somewhat worn down and in they process of selling the condos and remodeling. But it was right on a beautiful beach in a quiet area. Belleair Beach is so small that there are no gift shoppes that sell Belleair Beach tchotchkes. Perfect.
And the second day after my first traditional restless night, I found out that the big chair was a recliner, which I turned around to face the Gulf and made it my home.
But I was in this wonderful spot feeling massive amounts of anxiety and depression, and to be honest, heart-wrenching sadness. I was wrestling with the fact that I could no longer continue in my low-wage job at the county library, which I had loved dearly. The "new" library director had come in selling a bright shiny object that turned out to be a weapon designed to downsize and devastate our library system. (I wrote about it here a year ago, and in more detail at my Thankful...to Have a Job? blog.)
This year, despite the cold weather and the body wracked with germs, I am feeling at peace with where my life has landed. When I returned from my angst-ridden vacation, I wrote a letter to the Charleston Post & Courier describing the damage that was being done by policies that resulted in thousands of library books being discarded. A couple of weeks later I decided that I could no longer continue to do that job.
Since then I have continued to speak honestly about what I see happening at the library, although (gratefully) not from within, but as a knowledgeable outsider. It is still upsetting, but I am no longer a part of the mechanism of destruction.
My year has been a year of growing and learning new things and feeling as though I've entered another stage, not of retirement, but of being able to do good work that may make a difference. I have been blogging like crazy, and happy to learn that many people enjoy reading what I write. I am learning more about the crazy-land of local politics in South Carolina mostly through helping my friends at the ACLU track legislation. I write letters to the editor, and meet with other Charleston activists. And I am attempting to learn web design. Oh, and I read. A lot.
So I have had restless nights this week, mostly due to my nasty disease bugs, but the dreams I have had have been light. In fact, since I have been giving much thought to where I was a year ago, last night I dreamed that on my last day at the library, I soundly told off the director, who was actually George W. Bush and not Doug Henderson. Either way, a good time was had.
Me and Jack Reacher
I discovered Lee Child just about four years ago, and after a little initial confusion, I am reading the Jack Reacher series in order. Since I just finished DeMille's The Panther, it just makes sense to compare the two.
There was more action in the first ten pages of Echo Burning than in the first 300 pages of The Panther. Reacher, unlike John Corey, is a man of few words, which DeMille (not Corey) could learn from. His whole refusal to grow roots leads to some hysterical character traits and habits, like wearing the same clothes for three days and throwing them out and buying a new (cheap) set. He has no sense of humor, which ordinarily doesn't appeal, but the pace of the plots and Child's ability to make the absurd credible makes for great reading.
Speaking of which, I have about fifty pages left, and I'm in the middle of a gunfight, so I'm off.
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