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.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
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.
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