There are things I'm supposed to be doing besides agonizing over Michael Bloomberg. It only makes me feel slightly better to realize that everyone else is agonizing too: now that he's an Independent, will he run? Will 2008 be a joke that begins, "So an Italian New Yorker (R), a WASP New Yorker (D), and a short Jewish billionaire New Yorker (I) walk into a bar. Who do you want to have a beer with? SUCK IT UP, MIDWESTERNERS: YOU HAVE TO CHOOSE"?
Personally, I'm glad Bloomie (no relation except via the Global Conspiracy) has turned all (I) on us. He was always too good for the stodgy gay-bashers and immigrant-hating Scrooges of the GOP; and now it's like he's giving those of us who like him so much license to continue without feeling dirty. You know what I like about Bloomie? Congestion pricing -- I've walked by three car accidents recently, not counting the one that nearly took down Mr. Ben's best man. Get the cars off the streets of Manhattan!
Also thanks to Bloomie: no trans fat lurking in the french fries and no smoking in the bars. He's working on schools and affordable housing and he gives off the sense that if he were running the damn 9/11 monument project the ribbon would be cut already. To me, he combines sensible "big government" policies with intelligent mad managerial skillz, and he does it without incurring the wrath of the unions or the ACLU.
Not that I would vote for him for President in 08. My eyes are not that starry. We need a big D in office, if only for the symbolism. But hang in there, Bloomie -- maybe in '12? '16?
Meanwhile, I need thoughts of '08 to distract me from August 07, which is like a giggly little kid crouching behind a door ready to jump out and yell, "Boo!" This weekend I'm going to be Bachlorette-ing with four of my oldest female friends (they knew me when I was angry and bitter!) at a lakehouse in the Catskills. It will be fantastic. We will kayak and go see waterfalls and cook food and talk about our sex lives and reminisce about how I used to be angry and bitter before I had a sex life and oops family members sometimes read this blog. Well, anyway. I'm going to be an honest woman soon, or some feminist approximation thereof.
This chicks-only getaway was one of the few concrete wedding-related things I really wanted. I am super excited. Thinking about the wedding itself makes me palpitate a little bit -- walking down an aisle? Really? How surreal. Will everyone be crying? Will I? How will I NOT be crying? -- but this trip, and the 2-week trip to Tokyo & Hokkaido that Mr. Ben and I are planning for early September, are much easier to fathom.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
it's early for fireworks
It sounds like the city is practicing for the Fourth of July outside my window. Sadly my apartment faces the wrong way -- even if I go out onto the fire escape, I can only see towards Manhattan, whereas the city sends the fireworks in the other direction, over the river by the Promenade. Maybe we'll keep that in mind when Mr. Ben and I opt for a bigger apartment in this neighborhood.
Technically I should be in Prospect Park at the free Joan Osbourne Sings the Blues concert, one of countless free events NYC has begun to offer in honor of the delicious weather. Just the other night I was swaying to the enthusiasm of Sharon Jones in Rockefeller Park. But this evening I felt compelled to attend to one of the characters in my novel, the mother, Abby. She's been sort of shortchanged. Things tend to happen around her, not to her, and it occurred to me I should fix that. And I haven't had time: this week has been as packed as last week was.
Yesterday, for example, after some necessary but fucking expensive dental work, I wandered around, continuing to make purchases, on the assumption that solace could only be found in the hair of the dog that bit me. Although this experience in the dentist's chair wasn't as bad as the last one with the x-rays that left me in tears, it wasn't fun. Once again I resorted to reciting poetry in my head to keep my mind off the fact that my jaw had been hanging open for an hour.
It's funny, the poems that go through your head at such awkward moments. In fifth grade, when my teacher assigned us all to memorize and recite a piece, most people came in trotting Shel Silverstein behind them. When it was my turn, I got up in front of the class and began at verse 52 of Macaulay's Horatius at the Bridge:
I'm also very partial to the Pied Piper of Hamelin from listening to Gielgud recite it over and over again on a tape I had as a kid. But my memory of it is spotty, sadly. You should read it if you haven't: it's fantastic, full of wickedly clever rhymes.
I have one more dentist appointment before this horror series is over (it's my fault for putting off visiting one for three and a half years--and, um, for not flossing). Maybe I'll work on memorizing something meaty and substantial in preparation. Let me know if you have recommendations.
Technically I should be in Prospect Park at the free Joan Osbourne Sings the Blues concert, one of countless free events NYC has begun to offer in honor of the delicious weather. Just the other night I was swaying to the enthusiasm of Sharon Jones in Rockefeller Park. But this evening I felt compelled to attend to one of the characters in my novel, the mother, Abby. She's been sort of shortchanged. Things tend to happen around her, not to her, and it occurred to me I should fix that. And I haven't had time: this week has been as packed as last week was.
Yesterday, for example, after some necessary but fucking expensive dental work, I wandered around, continuing to make purchases, on the assumption that solace could only be found in the hair of the dog that bit me. Although this experience in the dentist's chair wasn't as bad as the last one with the x-rays that left me in tears, it wasn't fun. Once again I resorted to reciting poetry in my head to keep my mind off the fact that my jaw had been hanging open for an hour.
It's funny, the poems that go through your head at such awkward moments. In fifth grade, when my teacher assigned us all to memorize and recite a piece, most people came in trotting Shel Silverstein behind them. When it was my turn, I got up in front of the class and began at verse 52 of Macaulay's Horatius at the Bridge:
But meanwhile axe and leverI was an overachiever but more importantly, my father was. I still think about poor Horatius from time to time, like when I'm immobilized and Novacained and being prodded with sharp silver sticks.
had manfully been pried
and now the bridge hangs tottering
above the boiling tide ...
But fiercely ran the current,I rose; I tried to ignore my lopsided facial numbness as I ran errands. Shopping for flatware when you can't feel your mouth is an experience, let me tell you.
Swollen high by months of rain:
And fast his blood was flowing;
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armour,
And spent with changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.
I'm also very partial to the Pied Piper of Hamelin from listening to Gielgud recite it over and over again on a tape I had as a kid. But my memory of it is spotty, sadly. You should read it if you haven't: it's fantastic, full of wickedly clever rhymes.
I have one more dentist appointment before this horror series is over (it's my fault for putting off visiting one for three and a half years--and, um, for not flossing). Maybe I'll work on memorizing something meaty and substantial in preparation. Let me know if you have recommendations.
Monday, June 11, 2007
... and it's over
I have been a media glutton lately. Observe:
WEDNESDAY - Knocked Up. And if you think my reaction was conflicted, compare it to the spitting ire of the Flick Filosopher.
THURSDAY - An advance free screening of Becoming Jane, essentially Shakespeare in Love-lite with James McAvey as a hotter version of Joseph Fiennes. Where did all these smoking hot British men come from all of a sudden? Back in the day, our selection was limited to the admittedly more-than-acceptable Ewan MacGregor. Now he's jostling for space with Colin Firth, Clive Owen, Daniel Craig, and Glen Hansard from Once, not to mention the whole cast of Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. Where were they before I got engaged?
FRIDAY - LA Story for Mr. Ben's sake. I fell asleep halfway through since, before we settled in, we'd spent an indefensible amount of time trying to pick out the Perfect Bedset. What this means in practice was that we spent several hours with our ears to the computer screen, waiting to hear the sweet song of the Comforter-Pillow-Sheet-Duvet Combo that would really complete us as a couple.
SATURDAY - Chapter 2 of Angels in America with my viewing posse. I own the DVD so that, when I mention it Kushner's version in conversation and someone hasn't made the 6-hour chunk of time available to subject themselves to it, I can offer it up. (This is also why I own the A&E Pride & Prejudice, Pulp Fiction, and any number of other pieces of Essential Viewing.)
SUNDAY - and the reason I began writing this entry: the final episode, at long last, of the Sopranos, widely recognized as the best television series I've ever watched through my fingers. The fact that I -- with my famously low tolerance for violence -- have found it worthwhile to experience almost a decade of this show should testify to how impressive the acting, pacing, and scripting are, if anyone needs convincing. But you don't, right? You've seen the show, starting from Season 1? Cuz if you haven't, I have the DVDs ...
In a way I'm glad we've gotten the final episode out of the way. I'm the sort of the person that likes to have suspense done with so that I can reread or rewatch and focus on details, not plot. But I did like the finale. Very few people can do suspense as well as David Chase; I nearly fibrillated during that last scene at the diner. When the screen cut to black and a string of curses rose up from the entire East Coast, I felt the same immediate frustration and disappointment I imagine everyone did. But I also think there was something genius about that Brechtian move on DC's part -- calling attention to the medium (how many people thought their cable had gone out?), reminding us that this is just art, that we shouldn't let our emotions overwhelm us.
Also, whether or not you think Tony died in that moment when the screen went black, you have to believe that the best of his life is behind him. He's caught in the same self-destructive, self-obsessed patterns, only now he doesn't have Melfi to help him pan for small shiny bits of insight. He has his wife's and his son's loyalty but only because he bought them; and two of the closest members of his work family are gone forever. Instead of saving babies the way Tony hoped she would as a pediatrician, his daughter will spend her life trying to save mobsters as a lawyer and it's because of Tony. He'll always have to live looking over his shoulder and even if he isn't killed, the specter of Junior lies ahead of him: wasting away toothless in a New Jersey state hospital with no memory of the pride or glory that made "this thing of ours" worth dying for in the first place.
WEDNESDAY - Knocked Up. And if you think my reaction was conflicted, compare it to the spitting ire of the Flick Filosopher.
THURSDAY - An advance free screening of Becoming Jane, essentially Shakespeare in Love-lite with James McAvey as a hotter version of Joseph Fiennes. Where did all these smoking hot British men come from all of a sudden? Back in the day, our selection was limited to the admittedly more-than-acceptable Ewan MacGregor. Now he's jostling for space with Colin Firth, Clive Owen, Daniel Craig, and Glen Hansard from Once, not to mention the whole cast of Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. Where were they before I got engaged?
FRIDAY - LA Story for Mr. Ben's sake. I fell asleep halfway through since, before we settled in, we'd spent an indefensible amount of time trying to pick out the Perfect Bedset. What this means in practice was that we spent several hours with our ears to the computer screen, waiting to hear the sweet song of the Comforter-Pillow-Sheet-Duvet Combo that would really complete us as a couple.
SATURDAY - Chapter 2 of Angels in America with my viewing posse. I own the DVD so that, when I mention it Kushner's version in conversation and someone hasn't made the 6-hour chunk of time available to subject themselves to it, I can offer it up. (This is also why I own the A&E Pride & Prejudice, Pulp Fiction, and any number of other pieces of Essential Viewing.)
SUNDAY - and the reason I began writing this entry: the final episode, at long last, of the Sopranos, widely recognized as the best television series I've ever watched through my fingers. The fact that I -- with my famously low tolerance for violence -- have found it worthwhile to experience almost a decade of this show should testify to how impressive the acting, pacing, and scripting are, if anyone needs convincing. But you don't, right? You've seen the show, starting from Season 1? Cuz if you haven't, I have the DVDs ...
In a way I'm glad we've gotten the final episode out of the way. I'm the sort of the person that likes to have suspense done with so that I can reread or rewatch and focus on details, not plot. But I did like the finale. Very few people can do suspense as well as David Chase; I nearly fibrillated during that last scene at the diner. When the screen cut to black and a string of curses rose up from the entire East Coast, I felt the same immediate frustration and disappointment I imagine everyone did. But I also think there was something genius about that Brechtian move on DC's part -- calling attention to the medium (how many people thought their cable had gone out?), reminding us that this is just art, that we shouldn't let our emotions overwhelm us.
Also, whether or not you think Tony died in that moment when the screen went black, you have to believe that the best of his life is behind him. He's caught in the same self-destructive, self-obsessed patterns, only now he doesn't have Melfi to help him pan for small shiny bits of insight. He has his wife's and his son's loyalty but only because he bought them; and two of the closest members of his work family are gone forever. Instead of saving babies the way Tony hoped she would as a pediatrician, his daughter will spend her life trying to save mobsters as a lawyer and it's because of Tony. He'll always have to live looking over his shoulder and even if he isn't killed, the specter of Junior lies ahead of him: wasting away toothless in a New Jersey state hospital with no memory of the pride or glory that made "this thing of ours" worth dying for in the first place.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
knocked up and out
Considering that when Mr. Ben and I spent Memorial Day Weekend lounging in his mom's house in Chappaqua with friends we rewatched 40 Year Old Virgin, rediscovering exactly how funny that movie is, we naturally wanted to see Apatow's second major at bat, Knocked Up, ASAP. Truly and duly, we laughed very hard throughout Knocked Up, but there were times that I was also squeezing his hand; there was one time that I cried; and at least once I blessed the fact that I was still off sugar. Apatow coulda given me an anxiety attack.
Nobody told me it was a horror movie! was my first comment when the lights came on, and I was only partly kidding. Knocked Up is impressive for dealing with serious topics without melting into sentimentality. But (excuse the cliche) partly because it was so good, I wanted it to be better.
As some critics have noted, Apatow can't really do women. The main character Alison's sister, played by Apatow's real life wife, is a frightening, controlling, hysterical mess who does almost nothing right from start to finish. She and her husband, played by Paul Rudd, communicate so badly they barely bother to try. As even Alison, who for some reason loves her sister, points out, they're miserable and utterly wrong for each other.
In real life, they would divorce. In this movie, that's not an option. Following that same strange moral code, the idea that Alison would consider an abortion when she finds herself unexpectedly pregnant is only discussed briefly by other, minor characters who suggest darkly that Alison should "take care of it." Did Doc Brown abduct these characters and transport them to 1903? On Gray's Anatomy -- a network TV show! -- they dealt with the subject more straightforwardly; and this movie is rated R.
I would have no problem with Alison choosing to have a baby, but you never see her make the choice -- you know, consider her options, make a list, decide what she really wants. You don't even get her looking longingly at kids or something to indicate she has a deep current of maternal instinct. It's Life With Baby Forever or Nothing for this chick, and I just didn't buy it. Why would a twenty-something well-off professional single woman in LA unquestioningly change her life around to have the baby of a shlubby guy with whom she'd had a drunk one-night stand? Even though Ben (the fella in question) is funny and sweet and relatively charming.
That's problem #1 I had with the movie. Problem #2, which I alluded to earlier, is that the main model of marriage is the natural disaster of a couple of Alison's sister and her husband. I've never seen a better ad for homosexuality than this movie. It seems to be saying that men & women are incurably different and can only be "trained" to live together in pseudo peace, because men are wild children at heart and women are appearance-obsessed mysteries who don't know how to have fun.
To be fair, Katherine Heigl has some moments where she shows she's more honest and more human than her sister. She's not judgmental about Ben's drug use or his layabout lifestyle (something he accuses her of, later). At one point she breaks it to him gently that he's fine the way he is; just, the guy he is isn't the guy for her. Great! Plus, she's right -- they would be better friends. Part of me wished the movie would leave it there, giving them full points for trying. But, yeah, part of me enjoyed the rom-com ending.
But there are also plenty of parts where she's CRAZY, too crazy for hormones to function solely as an excuse. Why, female characters? Why must you be so off your rockers, so bats-in-the-bellfry, bricks short of a load? Could you not have pulled Apatow aside and explained in your nicest indoor voices that there's an alternative? Catherine Keener in 40 Y.O.V. must have done that, cuz she did not fare nearly so badly.
All of the fringe characters, by the way, are hilarious. My favorite are the Good Cop/Bad Cop E! TV executives for whom Alison works, but everyone's pitch perfect, ad libbing their hearts out and clearly having a great time. I'd give the movie an 8 for the Vegas sequence alone. Maybe it's because I'm getting married so all of this cuts close to home. But I really wish it had been just a little bit better.
Interesting factoid: Jennifer Love Hewitt, Lindsey Lohan, and Anne Hathaway were all considered for the part of Alison. Throw Selma Hayek and Jessica Simpson into the mix and you have a regular Rockette line of the bustiest thin ladies of Hollywood. Clearly the character needed to be pneumatic, but why? Did the first draft featured a huge flood that Alison needed to survive? Not that I'm complaining; it makes me feel less alone to see the stacked ladies. Although for all the gratutious tit shots, it's worth noting that Heigl keeps her bra on throughout. You see three shots of the baby crowning but not so much as a nipple. Oh, Hollywood.
Nobody told me it was a horror movie! was my first comment when the lights came on, and I was only partly kidding. Knocked Up is impressive for dealing with serious topics without melting into sentimentality. But (excuse the cliche) partly because it was so good, I wanted it to be better.
As some critics have noted, Apatow can't really do women. The main character Alison's sister, played by Apatow's real life wife, is a frightening, controlling, hysterical mess who does almost nothing right from start to finish. She and her husband, played by Paul Rudd, communicate so badly they barely bother to try. As even Alison, who for some reason loves her sister, points out, they're miserable and utterly wrong for each other.
In real life, they would divorce. In this movie, that's not an option. Following that same strange moral code, the idea that Alison would consider an abortion when she finds herself unexpectedly pregnant is only discussed briefly by other, minor characters who suggest darkly that Alison should "take care of it." Did Doc Brown abduct these characters and transport them to 1903? On Gray's Anatomy -- a network TV show! -- they dealt with the subject more straightforwardly; and this movie is rated R.
I would have no problem with Alison choosing to have a baby, but you never see her make the choice -- you know, consider her options, make a list, decide what she really wants. You don't even get her looking longingly at kids or something to indicate she has a deep current of maternal instinct. It's Life With Baby Forever or Nothing for this chick, and I just didn't buy it. Why would a twenty-something well-off professional single woman in LA unquestioningly change her life around to have the baby of a shlubby guy with whom she'd had a drunk one-night stand? Even though Ben (the fella in question) is funny and sweet and relatively charming.
That's problem #1 I had with the movie. Problem #2, which I alluded to earlier, is that the main model of marriage is the natural disaster of a couple of Alison's sister and her husband. I've never seen a better ad for homosexuality than this movie. It seems to be saying that men & women are incurably different and can only be "trained" to live together in pseudo peace, because men are wild children at heart and women are appearance-obsessed mysteries who don't know how to have fun.
To be fair, Katherine Heigl has some moments where she shows she's more honest and more human than her sister. She's not judgmental about Ben's drug use or his layabout lifestyle (something he accuses her of, later). At one point she breaks it to him gently that he's fine the way he is; just, the guy he is isn't the guy for her. Great! Plus, she's right -- they would be better friends. Part of me wished the movie would leave it there, giving them full points for trying. But, yeah, part of me enjoyed the rom-com ending.
But there are also plenty of parts where she's CRAZY, too crazy for hormones to function solely as an excuse. Why, female characters? Why must you be so off your rockers, so bats-in-the-bellfry, bricks short of a load? Could you not have pulled Apatow aside and explained in your nicest indoor voices that there's an alternative? Catherine Keener in 40 Y.O.V. must have done that, cuz she did not fare nearly so badly.
All of the fringe characters, by the way, are hilarious. My favorite are the Good Cop/Bad Cop E! TV executives for whom Alison works, but everyone's pitch perfect, ad libbing their hearts out and clearly having a great time. I'd give the movie an 8 for the Vegas sequence alone. Maybe it's because I'm getting married so all of this cuts close to home. But I really wish it had been just a little bit better.
Interesting factoid: Jennifer Love Hewitt, Lindsey Lohan, and Anne Hathaway were all considered for the part of Alison. Throw Selma Hayek and Jessica Simpson into the mix and you have a regular Rockette line of the bustiest thin ladies of Hollywood. Clearly the character needed to be pneumatic, but why? Did the first draft featured a huge flood that Alison needed to survive? Not that I'm complaining; it makes me feel less alone to see the stacked ladies. Although for all the gratutious tit shots, it's worth noting that Heigl keeps her bra on throughout. You see three shots of the baby crowning but not so much as a nipple. Oh, Hollywood.
Friday, June 01, 2007
clean, clear, and under control
My mother's thyroid biopsy came back empty. No cancer! One of my parents doesn't have cancer! I would have thrown a party when I found out if I hadn't been about to leave for a weekend in DC.
Mr. Ben and I Vamoosed for a mere $25, and if you've been craving an alternative to the Chinatown bus, I recommend it highly. Clean, roomy, with working televisions (even if all they did was inform me How To Lose a Guy in 10 Days if you're the reasonably charming Kate Hudson). Plus, they drop off in Bethesda, close to where my ailing parents reside.
As to my ailing parents, I do wonder a bit what's to be done. Though my mother was found to be out of danger, the surgeons who removed her thyroid left her with a scar that makes her look like Juno, the chain-smoking caseworker in Beetlejuice played by Sylvia Sydney. For some reason I can't find a picture, but you remember her -- the afterlife expert who exhales through the slash in her throat.
My mom's had her throat slit, my dad's been disemboweled. What a year for my parents. My mother is rocking it, though. She looks great -- and when she asked the doctor what the condition of the scar would be in early August, he said, "Well, I can tell you one thing that would help."
"What's that?" asked my mother.
"A really striking diamond necklace."
I fear that my father might need more than some frost to distract attention from his situation. Chemo hasn't been sitting well with him after all; he's hardly been able to eat or sleep. I can only hope he adjusts soon, or something? What can I hope for?
Probably to keep us from thinking such mopey thoughts, when Mr. Ben and I were in town, they wouldn't let us stand still for a moment. The weekend whirled by & all I recall looking back are flashes of my wedding dress, about a hundred pairs of silver slippers, a much amended song list, a stack of stamped invitations, a strapless bra, the Rabbi in his office, some really terrific strawberries, and faces made up to look pretend Japanese for a spirited if a bit silly production of the Mikado at Wolf Trap.
I made it back in time to catch the Sopranos with my next door neighbor. David Chase really knows how to gut a viewer, doesn't he? Except for that overdone bit with the model train, it was an amazing hour of suspense; I think I was whimpering from start to finish. Idly it occurred to me as I watched that it was ridiculous to get all emotionally involved with the deaths of these fictional monsters, whereas I've managed to stay relatively calm about the sickness of both of my parents. But I guess that's what art is for.
Mr. Ben and I Vamoosed for a mere $25, and if you've been craving an alternative to the Chinatown bus, I recommend it highly. Clean, roomy, with working televisions (even if all they did was inform me How To Lose a Guy in 10 Days if you're the reasonably charming Kate Hudson). Plus, they drop off in Bethesda, close to where my ailing parents reside.
As to my ailing parents, I do wonder a bit what's to be done. Though my mother was found to be out of danger, the surgeons who removed her thyroid left her with a scar that makes her look like Juno, the chain-smoking caseworker in Beetlejuice played by Sylvia Sydney. For some reason I can't find a picture, but you remember her -- the afterlife expert who exhales through the slash in her throat.
My mom's had her throat slit, my dad's been disemboweled. What a year for my parents. My mother is rocking it, though. She looks great -- and when she asked the doctor what the condition of the scar would be in early August, he said, "Well, I can tell you one thing that would help."
"What's that?" asked my mother.
"A really striking diamond necklace."
I fear that my father might need more than some frost to distract attention from his situation. Chemo hasn't been sitting well with him after all; he's hardly been able to eat or sleep. I can only hope he adjusts soon, or something? What can I hope for?
Probably to keep us from thinking such mopey thoughts, when Mr. Ben and I were in town, they wouldn't let us stand still for a moment. The weekend whirled by & all I recall looking back are flashes of my wedding dress, about a hundred pairs of silver slippers, a much amended song list, a stack of stamped invitations, a strapless bra, the Rabbi in his office, some really terrific strawberries, and faces made up to look pretend Japanese for a spirited if a bit silly production of the Mikado at Wolf Trap.
I made it back in time to catch the Sopranos with my next door neighbor. David Chase really knows how to gut a viewer, doesn't he? Except for that overdone bit with the model train, it was an amazing hour of suspense; I think I was whimpering from start to finish. Idly it occurred to me as I watched that it was ridiculous to get all emotionally involved with the deaths of these fictional monsters, whereas I've managed to stay relatively calm about the sickness of both of my parents. But I guess that's what art is for.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
the trillster
I've started reading significant chunks of my friend and co-editor Tara Leigh's new memoir in progress, the sequel to her first, Here's To Hindsight (in bookstores now!) As I was leaning over one chapter with a blue pen, as per usual, I made a startling discovery: I was simultaneously in the book. There was my name! Spelled correctly and everything.
To an aspiring New Yorker, being mentioned in a memoir must be an occasion for unalloyed joy. Mine, however, was tempered a bit by context. Tara Leigh, in her infinite wisdom, had chosen to do something I tend to discourage my friends from doing: quote something I said six months ago, when, clearly, I was young and stupid.
"Where do you live?" she recalls me saying.
"Greenwich," she replied.
"Connecticut?"
"No, the Village."
I went on (supposedly) to give her a primer on Village geography and nomenclature that left her confidence shaken. The poor thing had only been in the city two days, after all; but how could I in good conscience let her continue going around mistakenly giving everyone the impression that she lived in the Whitebreadville, Hedge Fund Capital of the World? Am I wrong? Am I wrong? No -- to quote The Big Lebowski -- you're not wrong, Walter, you're just an asshole.
In any event, it is exciting to be namechecked in a book that will soon have printed pages and real covers and everything AND might one day be picked up by Pat Robertson. Hey, it's possible. (Also, did you hear that though Jerry Falwell is no longer with us, his legacy lives on in Poland?)
I also spoke to my father who began chemo today with no adverse effects. In fact he seemed downright chipper. So far as I could tell, chemo is giving him the opportunity to devote not merely his usual three or so hours to reading, but a full, justifiable eight. Eight hours of sitting and ingesting information -- that's a whole workday. I guess some people might get antsy, but to my father, if you throw in a top-notch cornbeef sandwich and a Dr. Brown's cream soda, that's all he needs in the world.
To an aspiring New Yorker, being mentioned in a memoir must be an occasion for unalloyed joy. Mine, however, was tempered a bit by context. Tara Leigh, in her infinite wisdom, had chosen to do something I tend to discourage my friends from doing: quote something I said six months ago, when, clearly, I was young and stupid.
"Where do you live?" she recalls me saying.
"Greenwich," she replied.
"Connecticut?"
"No, the Village."
I went on (supposedly) to give her a primer on Village geography and nomenclature that left her confidence shaken. The poor thing had only been in the city two days, after all; but how could I in good conscience let her continue going around mistakenly giving everyone the impression that she lived in the Whitebreadville, Hedge Fund Capital of the World? Am I wrong? Am I wrong? No -- to quote The Big Lebowski -- you're not wrong, Walter, you're just an asshole.
In any event, it is exciting to be namechecked in a book that will soon have printed pages and real covers and everything AND might one day be picked up by Pat Robertson. Hey, it's possible. (Also, did you hear that though Jerry Falwell is no longer with us, his legacy lives on in Poland?)
I also spoke to my father who began chemo today with no adverse effects. In fact he seemed downright chipper. So far as I could tell, chemo is giving him the opportunity to devote not merely his usual three or so hours to reading, but a full, justifiable eight. Eight hours of sitting and ingesting information -- that's a whole workday. I guess some people might get antsy, but to my father, if you throw in a top-notch cornbeef sandwich and a Dr. Brown's cream soda, that's all he needs in the world.
Friday, May 25, 2007
summer begins
You know spring is over when there's finally a movie worth seeing in a theater. Of course, currently, that movie is playing in only one theater, but I think that's going to change. It's small and charming, exactly what an indie should be. Not perfect -- the songs really don't need to go on quite so long, I mean, after about three minutes we get it -- but lovely and romantic in the Before Sunset/After Sunset vein. And the redhaired main character has an Irish accent. MMMhmm.
You also know spring is over when summer hours start. Summer hours! Out at 12:30 on Friday to enjoy the 90 degree weather! This reminds me of when my high school used to release us on Fridays at 2:15, even though the point of that was that we could rush home and help our mothers prepare for the sabbath before sundown, not frolic in the sunshine like heathens. Still: thanks, German Mother Publishing Company Conglomerate. I appreciate it.
The heat is helping soak my wounded pride. I went to the dentist this morning for the first time in over three years, and they had to take x-rays, and I rewarded them for that by making their jobs almost as difficult as they could be. At least I didn't actually throw up on them. I could have, you know. I had tears in my eyes from holding it back.
Also, Pinkberry tried to poison me yesterday. I found shreds of plastic in my lo-sugar fruit smoothie. And my shoes? That I spent too much money on because I finally thought I had found the perfect soft pretty easy-to-walk-in sandals? Gave me a blister. Because nothing's perfect, friends. That's the life lesson. Sweet diet goodness AND dental hygienists AND the footwear you use to run from both are all out to get you. Any way they can.
Luckwise, my family seems to have stumbled into some bad lighting lately. At least it's Memorial Day Weekend. My mom should be coming home from the hospital today; my dad starts chemo Tuesday; and I'm off to Westchester with Mr. Ben for a bit to escape the dangers lurking in the city's frozen yogurt.
You also know spring is over when summer hours start. Summer hours! Out at 12:30 on Friday to enjoy the 90 degree weather! This reminds me of when my high school used to release us on Fridays at 2:15, even though the point of that was that we could rush home and help our mothers prepare for the sabbath before sundown, not frolic in the sunshine like heathens. Still: thanks, German Mother Publishing Company Conglomerate. I appreciate it.
The heat is helping soak my wounded pride. I went to the dentist this morning for the first time in over three years, and they had to take x-rays, and I rewarded them for that by making their jobs almost as difficult as they could be. At least I didn't actually throw up on them. I could have, you know. I had tears in my eyes from holding it back.
Also, Pinkberry tried to poison me yesterday. I found shreds of plastic in my lo-sugar fruit smoothie. And my shoes? That I spent too much money on because I finally thought I had found the perfect soft pretty easy-to-walk-in sandals? Gave me a blister. Because nothing's perfect, friends. That's the life lesson. Sweet diet goodness AND dental hygienists AND the footwear you use to run from both are all out to get you. Any way they can.
Luckwise, my family seems to have stumbled into some bad lighting lately. At least it's Memorial Day Weekend. My mom should be coming home from the hospital today; my dad starts chemo Tuesday; and I'm off to Westchester with Mr. Ben for a bit to escape the dangers lurking in the city's frozen yogurt.
Monday, May 21, 2007
mints. peppermints.
Two notable New York experiences to add to the books. First, on Saturday evening, two friends and I were on our tiptoes in the Eugene O'Neill theater watching Spring Awakening over the heads of 400 theater-goers (they were seated, the lucky bastards). All of a sudden, during the gay love ballad in Act II, a man stumbled into the darkness directly behind us and, making the most unpleasant noise I've ever heard outside the Union Square Subway Station, vomited all over the floor.
Bad theater district calamari? An adverse reaction to musicals made from 19th century German plays? Or maybe the man was Ted Haggard and onstage sight of the older boy seducing the younger one hit a little too close to home.
In any event, it was a testament to the highly entertaining nature of the show that my friends and I threw our hands over our noses and stayed where we were, though the Standing Room area instantly smelled as bad as anything I've smelled in the city outside the Fulton Street Subway Stop.
Have I mentioned my commute spans both the Union Square and Fulton Street stops? My mornings are fun.
The show was entertaining, although it didn't bother to be terribly coherent or original, at least plotwise. (WARNING: SPOILERS!!) As I said to my friend during the intermission, "Those two sweet kids had *sex.* Naturally that can only lead to pregnancy and despair." And sure enough. In fairness, I should add that in the case of Spring Awakening, it did also lead to more singing.
Seriously, playwrights, moviemakers, TV auteurs -- we've seen it before. We understand that teenagers must be punished for their libidos (just as professional women must be punished for putting off having children by not being able to have children). Sigh. I'm sure there are punishment paradigms I've missed too -- help me out, kidlets?
My second memorable New York experience had me sheepishly knocking on a neighbor's door yesterday morning. We don't know each other well, though we do share wireless internet through the wall. "Hi," I said. "Sorry to bother you. Can I borrow a cup of HBO tonite?" This was the 3rd-to-last-EVER episode of the Sopranos and damned if I was going to miss it just because I didn't have premium cable and my two friends who do were both out of town.
Luckily my neighbor said "Sure!" Score! My assertiveness was rewarded. The show itself was chilling: it visually quoted incredibly disturbing scenes from both Shortbus and American History X. Not bad, Mr. Chase. I whimpered a lot and twisted around in my seat, trying to avoid the violence (the effects of which have lingered with me -- I can't stop thinking about my teeth and touching them with my tongue to make sure they're still intact). My neighbor laughed at me and invited me to return for the next/last two episodes. Must be because I brought chocolate.
Bad theater district calamari? An adverse reaction to musicals made from 19th century German plays? Or maybe the man was Ted Haggard and onstage sight of the older boy seducing the younger one hit a little too close to home.
In any event, it was a testament to the highly entertaining nature of the show that my friends and I threw our hands over our noses and stayed where we were, though the Standing Room area instantly smelled as bad as anything I've smelled in the city outside the Fulton Street Subway Stop.
Have I mentioned my commute spans both the Union Square and Fulton Street stops? My mornings are fun.
The show was entertaining, although it didn't bother to be terribly coherent or original, at least plotwise. (WARNING: SPOILERS!!) As I said to my friend during the intermission, "Those two sweet kids had *sex.* Naturally that can only lead to pregnancy and despair." And sure enough. In fairness, I should add that in the case of Spring Awakening, it did also lead to more singing.
Seriously, playwrights, moviemakers, TV auteurs -- we've seen it before. We understand that teenagers must be punished for their libidos (just as professional women must be punished for putting off having children by not being able to have children). Sigh. I'm sure there are punishment paradigms I've missed too -- help me out, kidlets?
My second memorable New York experience had me sheepishly knocking on a neighbor's door yesterday morning. We don't know each other well, though we do share wireless internet through the wall. "Hi," I said. "Sorry to bother you. Can I borrow a cup of HBO tonite?" This was the 3rd-to-last-EVER episode of the Sopranos and damned if I was going to miss it just because I didn't have premium cable and my two friends who do were both out of town.
Luckily my neighbor said "Sure!" Score! My assertiveness was rewarded. The show itself was chilling: it visually quoted incredibly disturbing scenes from both Shortbus and American History X. Not bad, Mr. Chase. I whimpered a lot and twisted around in my seat, trying to avoid the violence (the effects of which have lingered with me -- I can't stop thinking about my teeth and touching them with my tongue to make sure they're still intact). My neighbor laughed at me and invited me to return for the next/last two episodes. Must be because I brought chocolate.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
spy vs. spy
Jaslene is America's Next Top Model! Say it with me now: "WHAT?" And then, "Ugh." She is dim and bony and looks like a man, which went over well in the competition, unsurprisingly. Also, Tyra <3 <3 <3'ed Jaslene-from-the-block's story arc (to recap: last season Jaslene wasn't good enough to make the cut, but she tried again and redeemed herself).
It's not like I was rooting for anyone, really. Who was there to root for? Spunky mail order bride Natasha Galkina, who was also dim but smart enough at least to borrow Angelina Jolie's mouth for the competition? Or Renee, the annoying, standard blonde from Hawaii?
Renee and Natasha were two of the three teenage mothers in competition, and though we at home could admire the way they managed to magically emerge from childbearing with no scars, fat, or breasts, it got boring hearing over and over again how they had to succeed for the sake of their children. Sure. Because the APA recommends that young mothers enter professions that keep their women starving, travelling, and riddled with alcohol, drugs, and syphilis. If they also train their women to throw cell phones at the help, so much the better.
I guess it was all right that I didn't get emotionally invested in this finale. The Gilmore Girls left me exhausted -- I had to inject Gatorade into my veins to rehydrate me after that much crying.
It's not like I was rooting for anyone, really. Who was there to root for? Spunky mail order bride Natasha Galkina, who was also dim but smart enough at least to borrow Angelina Jolie's mouth for the competition? Or Renee, the annoying, standard blonde from Hawaii?
Renee and Natasha were two of the three teenage mothers in competition, and though we at home could admire the way they managed to magically emerge from childbearing with no scars, fat, or breasts, it got boring hearing over and over again how they had to succeed for the sake of their children. Sure. Because the APA recommends that young mothers enter professions that keep their women starving, travelling, and riddled with alcohol, drugs, and syphilis. If they also train their women to throw cell phones at the help, so much the better.
I guess it was all right that I didn't get emotionally invested in this finale. The Gilmore Girls left me exhausted -- I had to inject Gatorade into my veins to rehydrate me after that much crying.
Monday, May 14, 2007
engaged to the teeth
you can't see too well but in this picture, taken by ms. tara leigh last night in the village, i'm wearing the locket my grandmother just gave me. inside are pictures of my grandfather and her from the early 40s when THEY got engaged; the locket had been his gift to her, since he couldn't afford a ring. it's an incredible piece: she seems like a movie star, and as for my grandfather -- tara leigh took one look at him and shrieked, "Spidey!"
Meaning that the oh-so-dignified late father of my mother resembles Tobey Maguire. Personally I think the Yolato must have gone to her head.
The whole weekend was crazy, although largely in the best possible way. Wednesday Mr. Ben finished his VERY LAST FINAL EVER and we celebrated by attending his law skool's Barrister's Ball at the Tavern on the Green. I was a bit scared the restaurant's 14-foot-wide blue chandeliers would swing low and swallow me up; luckily, we spent most of our time out on the patio under much friendlier lanterns, which did not look like remnants from a giant whorehouse.
Friday, Mr. Ben donned a bright purple gown -- all the rage in graduation fashion -- and crossed the stage to be hooded in a very lengthy ceremony that featured Winner of the Barack Obama prize for Most Inspiring Politican, Mr. Cory Booker of Newark. We celebrated -that- by dining at Tabla with his entire family. Both sides were on their best behavior, as they were again the NEXT night, for the engagement party my aunt and uncle threw us at Pescatore (which was, coincidentally, May 12, the anniversary of our engagement).
About 25 people came to salute us and wish us well over the four hour meal. I can finally attest to the fact that the food was delicious since I'm eating it right now for lunch. At the time, all the speechmaking and toasting in our honor left me too overwhelmed to eat.
The next day, of course, was mother's day. Luckily my mom and my grandmother were still in town, and Mr. Ben and I hung out with them in the city until they headed back to DC and then went to meet Tara Leigh for church! Because what better way to cap off a weekend? I'd never been to a Protestant service before and I didn't like the idea of Jesus Camp being my representative experience of an American Christian religious service.
No wafers'n'wine (the Presbyterians don't do that) which is cool since I'm still off sugar. I sort of bowed my head when everyone else did and waited patiently for the songs to be over, and otherwise listened intently to the sermon that made up 75% of the service. I think it helped me realize how starved I am for textual analysis and also maybe for religious instruction. Even if I'm not a religious person by the standards of religious people, it's how I grew up and I miss talking about and reading about the Bible sometimes in an intellectual way.
The easy answer would be to go to shul, our synagogue in Brooklyn Heights. That seems more threatening, though, like it would mean increased devotion or religiousity on my part, and that's not what I'm looking for. Maybe I just need to get back into full-speed writing of the novel.
Meaning that the oh-so-dignified late father of my mother resembles Tobey Maguire. Personally I think the Yolato must have gone to her head.
The whole weekend was crazy, although largely in the best possible way. Wednesday Mr. Ben finished his VERY LAST FINAL EVER and we celebrated by attending his law skool's Barrister's Ball at the Tavern on the Green. I was a bit scared the restaurant's 14-foot-wide blue chandeliers would swing low and swallow me up; luckily, we spent most of our time out on the patio under much friendlier lanterns, which did not look like remnants from a giant whorehouse.
Friday, Mr. Ben donned a bright purple gown -- all the rage in graduation fashion -- and crossed the stage to be hooded in a very lengthy ceremony that featured Winner of the Barack Obama prize for Most Inspiring Politican, Mr. Cory Booker of Newark. We celebrated -that- by dining at Tabla with his entire family. Both sides were on their best behavior, as they were again the NEXT night, for the engagement party my aunt and uncle threw us at Pescatore (which was, coincidentally, May 12, the anniversary of our engagement).
About 25 people came to salute us and wish us well over the four hour meal. I can finally attest to the fact that the food was delicious since I'm eating it right now for lunch. At the time, all the speechmaking and toasting in our honor left me too overwhelmed to eat.
The next day, of course, was mother's day. Luckily my mom and my grandmother were still in town, and Mr. Ben and I hung out with them in the city until they headed back to DC and then went to meet Tara Leigh for church! Because what better way to cap off a weekend? I'd never been to a Protestant service before and I didn't like the idea of Jesus Camp being my representative experience of an American Christian religious service.
No wafers'n'wine (the Presbyterians don't do that) which is cool since I'm still off sugar. I sort of bowed my head when everyone else did and waited patiently for the songs to be over, and otherwise listened intently to the sermon that made up 75% of the service. I think it helped me realize how starved I am for textual analysis and also maybe for religious instruction. Even if I'm not a religious person by the standards of religious people, it's how I grew up and I miss talking about and reading about the Bible sometimes in an intellectual way.
The easy answer would be to go to shul, our synagogue in Brooklyn Heights. That seems more threatening, though, like it would mean increased devotion or religiousity on my part, and that's not what I'm looking for. Maybe I just need to get back into full-speed writing of the novel.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Sunday, May 06, 2007
the lusty month of may
Book news! Not about mine, really. If I want to fulfill my dream of (1) not working in an office forever and instead 2) travelling around the world in part trying to (3) escape publicity, I have to get back into a routine of writing & revising. Because sadly one has to deserve publicity before one can escape it. Unless one is Paris Hilton.
Did you know the Astor Place Barnes & Noble is closing? I find this mind-boggling, a bit like Tower Records succumbing to the fate of its tarot card.
I guess I'll have to find a different place to buy my literary lover's latest. Actually, more precisely, since I don't buy from chain stores, I'll have to find a different place to use the bathroom when I'm downtown and in need. And let me add, it is a measure of my devotion that I even think of purchase, anywhere. I am a loyal footsoldier of the New York Public Library, with cards for Manhattan & Brooklyn branches. As I am not (yet) dashing incognito to Buenos Aires when being chased by paparazzi becomes too fatiguing, I simply cannot afford to buy every book I read.
Speaking of which, though, I've gotten absorbed back into these Dorothy Sayers's Lord Peter Wimsey mystery novels I loved when I was younger. They're wonderful: witty, thoughtful, exciting, really hard to put down. I recommend them highly even -- or especially -- if you've always turned your nose up when confronted with mysteries or genre fiction in general. The ones with Harriet Vane in them are about as romantic as I get.
Did you know the Astor Place Barnes & Noble is closing? I find this mind-boggling, a bit like Tower Records succumbing to the fate of its tarot card.
I guess I'll have to find a different place to buy my literary lover's latest. Actually, more precisely, since I don't buy from chain stores, I'll have to find a different place to use the bathroom when I'm downtown and in need. And let me add, it is a measure of my devotion that I even think of purchase, anywhere. I am a loyal footsoldier of the New York Public Library, with cards for Manhattan & Brooklyn branches. As I am not (yet) dashing incognito to Buenos Aires when being chased by paparazzi becomes too fatiguing, I simply cannot afford to buy every book I read.
Speaking of which, though, I've gotten absorbed back into these Dorothy Sayers's Lord Peter Wimsey mystery novels I loved when I was younger. They're wonderful: witty, thoughtful, exciting, really hard to put down. I recommend them highly even -- or especially -- if you've always turned your nose up when confronted with mysteries or genre fiction in general. The ones with Harriet Vane in them are about as romantic as I get.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
who's holding the other shoe?
I have a decent amount of generalized angst at the moment. Yes, it's all manageable and under control; travelling to & from DC this weekend didn't unleash the torment, for which I am grateful. But I'm beginning to marvel, myself. Shall I count the ways?
- My dad is sick. He has [the word] -- I hate saying the word. It's such a babyish word, too, full of such straightforward, primary-color letters that, rearranged, spell DEATH. Except, of course, that they don't. My dad is fine. What he has was caught early. He was artfully disemboweled then put together together again, the evil removed. Even his staples have now been taken out. His doctors give him an excellent chance of full recovery after they finish applying their strategic poisons. (Medicine is a bit scary, isn't it?)
- Someone else very close to me is going into the hospital for a procedure as well. Shhhhh. I think it's supposed to be kept under wraps.
- The wedding is a mere three months away and it turns out I can't carry lilacs, because in this modern age of instant gratification, of narcissism and conspicuous consumption, of the internet and QVC, in this 21st century Westernized globalized capitalized world, you can get absolutely anything anytime except lilacs in August.
GOOD NEWS:
- Mr. Ben is about to graduate from Law Skool. Graduate! I am so excited for him, so excited and so proud. Considering that I shared one room with him through the entire three year ordeal, I also feel somewhat accomplished myself, even though I am chagrined to realize that while he has achieved a JD (and others of my friends have rounded up or begun to round up other letters: MA, MS, MD, MFA, MBA) all I have to show for my post-college life is a savings account and an MRS.
- My grandmother seems wonderful. There's something so infinitely inspiring about her. At 94.5, she still lives by herself in her own apartment. She walks, she talks, she laughs, she reads, she does physical therapy, and as far as I'm concerned she flies in the face of modern science. She still has her own teeth!
- My mother and I got some very good wedding planning done over the weekend and it wasn't onerous in the least. Everyone we worked with, from the hair guy and the Russian makeup lady to the French dress shop clerk and the florist, was sweet to me without being didactic or overbearing. We made decisions -- good ones! As the ceremony gets increasingly concrete, I find I like it and can handle it better. Maybe it's just that as an abstraction it was frightening.
- It's springtime! New York is in bloom. I can never be sad when there are trees to admire. And, thanks to Katie, I'm reading this really fun book about zombies.
- My dad is sick. He has [the word] -- I hate saying the word. It's such a babyish word, too, full of such straightforward, primary-color letters that, rearranged, spell DEATH. Except, of course, that they don't. My dad is fine. What he has was caught early. He was artfully disemboweled then put together together again, the evil removed. Even his staples have now been taken out. His doctors give him an excellent chance of full recovery after they finish applying their strategic poisons. (Medicine is a bit scary, isn't it?)
- Someone else very close to me is going into the hospital for a procedure as well. Shhhhh. I think it's supposed to be kept under wraps.
- The wedding is a mere three months away and it turns out I can't carry lilacs, because in this modern age of instant gratification, of narcissism and conspicuous consumption, of the internet and QVC, in this 21st century Westernized globalized capitalized world, you can get absolutely anything anytime except lilacs in August.
GOOD NEWS:
- Mr. Ben is about to graduate from Law Skool. Graduate! I am so excited for him, so excited and so proud. Considering that I shared one room with him through the entire three year ordeal, I also feel somewhat accomplished myself, even though I am chagrined to realize that while he has achieved a JD (and others of my friends have rounded up or begun to round up other letters: MA, MS, MD, MFA, MBA) all I have to show for my post-college life is a savings account and an MRS.
- My grandmother seems wonderful. There's something so infinitely inspiring about her. At 94.5, she still lives by herself in her own apartment. She walks, she talks, she laughs, she reads, she does physical therapy, and as far as I'm concerned she flies in the face of modern science. She still has her own teeth!
- My mother and I got some very good wedding planning done over the weekend and it wasn't onerous in the least. Everyone we worked with, from the hair guy and the Russian makeup lady to the French dress shop clerk and the florist, was sweet to me without being didactic or overbearing. We made decisions -- good ones! As the ceremony gets increasingly concrete, I find I like it and can handle it better. Maybe it's just that as an abstraction it was frightening.
- It's springtime! New York is in bloom. I can never be sad when there are trees to admire. And, thanks to Katie, I'm reading this really fun book about zombies.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
what's with today today?
I got my massage! It was pretty exciting -- only the second time in my life it's ever happened, and the first time was not terribly successful. Right after I'd been let go from my (admittedly crappy) job before Christmas 15 months ago, I decided to treat myself. Sadly, the masseuse who was to treat me was a Stalinist relic, a hardened Back-to-the-USSR type, a human tattoo who had no sympathy for my damaged emotional state.
This was our conversation.
BttU: How are you?
Me: I'm a little bummed. I just lost my job.
BttU: That's no good. What was your major in college?
Me: Film & American History.
BttU: Oh, no, that's no good -- you'll never get a job with that.
She told me her daughter majored in something practical.
[after a pause in which I tried to feel soothed]
BttU: The office where you lost your job. Was there a man there?
Me: Uh ...
BttU: I tell my daughter, when you go into an office, make friends with a man. An older man, to look out for you. Not woman. You can never trust women -- they are always jealous of young pretty girls. You need a man to look out for you.
$50 worth of free advice. Thanks, Eastern Europe.
The only other time I had something like a massage was when I visited the secret lair of the free acupressurist at Swarthmore. They had to keep her existence tightly under wraps, and by "they" of course I mean the Quaker CIA, because had it gotten out that there was a woman on campus who could do such wonders for a tense body, there would have been riots. It would have been like 1789, with Worth, the health building, as the Bastille.
The mystery woman was indeed fantastic. What was really exciting though was that in addition to blissing me out, she told me things about myself that she could tell from my shoulders. Like, I'd had a serious loss recently and the pain was keeping me from being able to fully love, and that I should get a pet to help open my heart again. And she was right! I totally need a pet. And cable TV.
Anyway, this massage -- at Lather Spa -- was wonderful. The young woman who handled me was so skillful I was half in love with her in the during, and bless her heart, she talked very little. She laughed at one point after I started laughing (because she pulled my leg! I dare you not to giggle when your leg is pulled).
And then she asked me to flip over and put my face on the griddle.
"On the griddle?" I asked.
"On the CRADLE," she said, laughing again. "Did you think we were going to bake you?"
Before I get married I'm going to go back and do it again.
This was our conversation.
BttU: How are you?
Me: I'm a little bummed. I just lost my job.
BttU: That's no good. What was your major in college?
Me: Film & American History.
BttU: Oh, no, that's no good -- you'll never get a job with that.
She told me her daughter majored in something practical.
[after a pause in which I tried to feel soothed]
BttU: The office where you lost your job. Was there a man there?
Me: Uh ...
BttU: I tell my daughter, when you go into an office, make friends with a man. An older man, to look out for you. Not woman. You can never trust women -- they are always jealous of young pretty girls. You need a man to look out for you.
$50 worth of free advice. Thanks, Eastern Europe.
The only other time I had something like a massage was when I visited the secret lair of the free acupressurist at Swarthmore. They had to keep her existence tightly under wraps, and by "they" of course I mean the Quaker CIA, because had it gotten out that there was a woman on campus who could do such wonders for a tense body, there would have been riots. It would have been like 1789, with Worth, the health building, as the Bastille.
The mystery woman was indeed fantastic. What was really exciting though was that in addition to blissing me out, she told me things about myself that she could tell from my shoulders. Like, I'd had a serious loss recently and the pain was keeping me from being able to fully love, and that I should get a pet to help open my heart again. And she was right! I totally need a pet. And cable TV.
Anyway, this massage -- at Lather Spa -- was wonderful. The young woman who handled me was so skillful I was half in love with her in the during, and bless her heart, she talked very little. She laughed at one point after I started laughing (because she pulled my leg! I dare you not to giggle when your leg is pulled).
And then she asked me to flip over and put my face on the griddle.
"On the griddle?" I asked.
"On the CRADLE," she said, laughing again. "Did you think we were going to bake you?"
Before I get married I'm going to go back and do it again.
Friday, April 20, 2007
femme guilt
A friend of mine is racked with insecurities that pop up every now and again about whether or not she's femme. Most recently, when she brought it up, I scolded her. Bad intellectual!, I said. Who cares if you're femme? Why must our communities -- and hers more than mine, since she's queer -- spend so much time obsessively navel-gazing over our Identities when (a) they're constantly in flux anyway; (b) half the time they're ironically put on; and (c) we can't really help what we are. Some of us have baby-faces and apple-checks and big breasts and hips and we will look femme virtually no matter what. Why feel guilty for going with it?
Later I apologized for scolding her because scolding is bad. There's no point making someone feel bad about feeling bad about something. I mean, my god, it's like entering an Escher drawing, stairway upon stairway of guilt.
Also, though, I realize I myself have a pretty complicated attitude toward femininity. I don't like to be looked at, and being looked at is sort of Girly Tenet #1. I've had two anxiety dreams about the wedding where I had to wear a big red or pink ballgown down the aisle. At first I interpreted this to be some submerged worry about chastity, but a wiser friend pointed out it actually speaks more to my fear of attention.
You can't escape attention if you're the bride. The big dress may as well be clown makeup and floppy shoes: you are the show. The three ring circus is just backdrop. No wonder I spent my first few engaged months freaking out.
Of course, as we all know:
In that spirit, I'm going to try to come to terms with the femme stuff before it explodes all over me the weekend of August 5. & what better time than during Spa Week? I soldiered bravely into the perfume-scented unknown and scheduled a discounted massage. It'll be good preparation for the subsequent weekend my mother has prepared for me, which includes makeup and hair auditions as well as dress and shoe shopping. Perhaps I will reemerge, on Monday, as Lindsay Lohan. One never knows.
Luckily, as long as there's an internet, there will be gender-neutral spaces where I can be totally comfortable, like Goodreads.
Later I apologized for scolding her because scolding is bad. There's no point making someone feel bad about feeling bad about something. I mean, my god, it's like entering an Escher drawing, stairway upon stairway of guilt.
Also, though, I realize I myself have a pretty complicated attitude toward femininity. I don't like to be looked at, and being looked at is sort of Girly Tenet #1. I've had two anxiety dreams about the wedding where I had to wear a big red or pink ballgown down the aisle. At first I interpreted this to be some submerged worry about chastity, but a wiser friend pointed out it actually speaks more to my fear of attention.
You can't escape attention if you're the bride. The big dress may as well be clown makeup and floppy shoes: you are the show. The three ring circus is just backdrop. No wonder I spent my first few engaged months freaking out.
Of course, as we all know:
In that spirit, I'm going to try to come to terms with the femme stuff before it explodes all over me the weekend of August 5. & what better time than during Spa Week? I soldiered bravely into the perfume-scented unknown and scheduled a discounted massage. It'll be good preparation for the subsequent weekend my mother has prepared for me, which includes makeup and hair auditions as well as dress and shoe shopping. Perhaps I will reemerge, on Monday, as Lindsay Lohan. One never knows.
Luckily, as long as there's an internet, there will be gender-neutral spaces where I can be totally comfortable, like Goodreads.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Non-phenomenon
I've been meaning to write this for a long time. You know all the fuss about Joshua Bell's unheralded rush hour performance in the DC subway system, and how everyone was gasping for days about how they couldn't believe such a travesty could take place and how it was a sign of the apocalypse, the deadening of the senses of the modern age?
Joni Mitchell wrote a song about it THIRTY YEARS AGO. It's call "For Free," it's on Ladies of the Canyon, and the most salient verse goes:
Joni Mitchell wrote a song about it THIRTY YEARS AGO. It's call "For Free," it's on Ladies of the Canyon, and the most salient verse goes:
Nobody stopped to hear himNext, Gene Weingartner is going to do a sociological experiment involving Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts and is going to be clucking for hours when someone gets shot.
Though he played so sweet and high
They knew he had never been on their TV
So they passed his music by
Monday, April 16, 2007
slow times at ridgemont high
Infrequency of posting can be blamed on Time Warner. The internet at my apartment is still out -- it's been about two weeks now -- and will be out until maybe Thursday. I think the bastards are trying to win. They won't.
Meanwhile, I have an elusive sense of how slow things are in general. A friend I hadn't talked to in a little while called me, breathless, from a subway platform for a quick update. She gave me her exciting news and then asked for mine. I had nuthin. Nothing that could be reported in a chirpy tone of voice, anyway, before the train arrived.
That's the trouble, isn't it? Not telling your friends about the bad stuff feels dishonest, but telling the bad stuff requires their time, their attention, their energy and their sympathy, even when conversations happen away from the forced constraints of commuting -- and by the way, if you haven't read that New Yorker piece on commuting, you must. Basically, it's more presumptuous to share bad news, and I am somewhat shy of it.
By the end of today, I should be able to feel better about one serious thing. Until then I need distraction, and so I loved this and recommend it, even for people who aren't crazy about R. Traister &/or Salon. It rings very true for me: Harry Potter and the Sopranos are my modern epics, serialized entertainment I could get passionate about. There is something about the time span over which both have unfurled that adds to the sentiment. I started watching The Sopranos in my old house on Unicorn Lane with my father several episodes into the First Season. I remember acutely those early Bada Bing scenes, wondering whether to avert my eyes.
Harry Potter introduced himself to me soon after, while I was in Israel with my high school class. The boy I liked, at that point, handed me his paperback copy and though I had wrinkled my nose at the phenomenon up to that point, there was something about this boy's puppydog eyes and his scruffy hair. For him, okay, I guessed I would read this sure-to-be-overrated kids book.
Now when the new volumes come out, Mr. Ben and I are first in line at little NYC bookstores to get a shared copy and stay up all night devouring it. This last volume will be my 25th birthday present and I'll probably get it to myself, since Mr. Ben will be only days from taking the bar. And then ten days later, we'll get married. Considering the presumed fragility of that future emotional state, for my sake, NOTHING better happen to Harry.
Meanwhile, I have an elusive sense of how slow things are in general. A friend I hadn't talked to in a little while called me, breathless, from a subway platform for a quick update. She gave me her exciting news and then asked for mine. I had nuthin. Nothing that could be reported in a chirpy tone of voice, anyway, before the train arrived.
That's the trouble, isn't it? Not telling your friends about the bad stuff feels dishonest, but telling the bad stuff requires their time, their attention, their energy and their sympathy, even when conversations happen away from the forced constraints of commuting -- and by the way, if you haven't read that New Yorker piece on commuting, you must. Basically, it's more presumptuous to share bad news, and I am somewhat shy of it.
By the end of today, I should be able to feel better about one serious thing. Until then I need distraction, and so I loved this and recommend it, even for people who aren't crazy about R. Traister &/or Salon. It rings very true for me: Harry Potter and the Sopranos are my modern epics, serialized entertainment I could get passionate about. There is something about the time span over which both have unfurled that adds to the sentiment. I started watching The Sopranos in my old house on Unicorn Lane with my father several episodes into the First Season. I remember acutely those early Bada Bing scenes, wondering whether to avert my eyes.
Harry Potter introduced himself to me soon after, while I was in Israel with my high school class. The boy I liked, at that point, handed me his paperback copy and though I had wrinkled my nose at the phenomenon up to that point, there was something about this boy's puppydog eyes and his scruffy hair. For him, okay, I guessed I would read this sure-to-be-overrated kids book.
Now when the new volumes come out, Mr. Ben and I are first in line at little NYC bookstores to get a shared copy and stay up all night devouring it. This last volume will be my 25th birthday present and I'll probably get it to myself, since Mr. Ben will be only days from taking the bar. And then ten days later, we'll get married. Considering the presumed fragility of that future emotional state, for my sake, NOTHING better happen to Harry.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
I-minus
You know what drives me crazy about this Don Imus craziness? The way everyone who in any way defends him makes sure to call him "an equal opportunity offender" (one example here).
They mean he has insulted:
Gays
Women
Jews
Blacks
Asians
(as Timothy Noah has aptly demonstrated)
Who's missing? The people in power.
How is "Don't worry, he hates EVERYONE (except people his own size)" a defense? How is it better to be an *indiscriminate* demeaning thoughtless loudmouth?
While I don't have much love for that ambulance chaser, Al Sharpton, and I don't necessarily think Imus should be removed from the air, I'd like us all to stop and agree for a moment that spreading ones hate around does not making hating better.
Sigh.
Any day on which Kurt Vonnegut dies is guaranteed to be sad, but the cold driving rain outside and the other bad news that keeps piling up isn't helping. Here, in Vonnegut's honor, a poem of his that appeared in the New Yorker:
JOE HELLER
True story, Word of Honor:
Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer
now dead,
and I were at a party given by a billionaire
on Shelter Island.
I said, "Joe, how does it make you feel
to know that our host only yesterday
may have made more money
than your novel 'Catch-22'
has earned in its entire history?"
And Joe said, "I've got something he can never have."
And I said, "What on earth could that be, Joe?"
And Joe said, "The knowledge that I've got enough."
Not bad! Rest in peace!
- Kurt Vonnegut
They mean he has insulted:
Gays
Women
Jews
Blacks
Asians
(as Timothy Noah has aptly demonstrated)
Who's missing? The people in power.
How is "Don't worry, he hates EVERYONE (except people his own size)" a defense? How is it better to be an *indiscriminate* demeaning thoughtless loudmouth?
While I don't have much love for that ambulance chaser, Al Sharpton, and I don't necessarily think Imus should be removed from the air, I'd like us all to stop and agree for a moment that spreading ones hate around does not making hating better.
Sigh.
Any day on which Kurt Vonnegut dies is guaranteed to be sad, but the cold driving rain outside and the other bad news that keeps piling up isn't helping. Here, in Vonnegut's honor, a poem of his that appeared in the New Yorker:
JOE HELLER
True story, Word of Honor:
Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer
now dead,
and I were at a party given by a billionaire
on Shelter Island.
I said, "Joe, how does it make you feel
to know that our host only yesterday
may have made more money
than your novel 'Catch-22'
has earned in its entire history?"
And Joe said, "I've got something he can never have."
And I said, "What on earth could that be, Joe?"
And Joe said, "The knowledge that I've got enough."
Not bad! Rest in peace!
- Kurt Vonnegut
Monday, April 09, 2007
Still kicking
Barely.
A nasty virus toppled me and I lay toppled about a week. One of my days off from work coincided with the first seder so at Mr. Ben's urging, I dragged myself up and made it to Washington Heights, where we did the traditional Passover thing with his family. Mr. Ben and I were called upon to lead; I did my part, hoarsely.
It was the first time I've celebrated the Endless, Breadless Holiday (TM) stateside but not with the Blooms. My family goes all out -- china, crystal, 25 people each night, a grand multi-hour event, complete with dinner. This year, they went all out without me. Luckily both my brothers were there to help ease my parents through this painful process that we call Ester Beginning to Spend Some Holidays & Important Times With the Future In-Laws.
And who is there to ease me through that process?
Nevertheless, I made it through seder, and Mr. Ben's father sent us home in a car with not too much harm done. Passover always makes me think about odd things. For example, isn't it funny that Easter -- which, of course, coincides with Passover -- is about Jesus ascending to Heaven, whereas Passover is the holiday of nothing leavened? Which is to say, for the goyim, "He is risen!" so they get to eat chocolate eggs; for the Jews, everything is by mandate flat and dry.
In addition to (clearly) lots of deep thinking, a fantastic production of Company on Broadway and the Sopranos helped me get through the week. And some generous NY hospitality afforded me access to the season premiere yesterday. Bless this city.
A nasty virus toppled me and I lay toppled about a week. One of my days off from work coincided with the first seder so at Mr. Ben's urging, I dragged myself up and made it to Washington Heights, where we did the traditional Passover thing with his family. Mr. Ben and I were called upon to lead; I did my part, hoarsely.
It was the first time I've celebrated the Endless, Breadless Holiday (TM) stateside but not with the Blooms. My family goes all out -- china, crystal, 25 people each night, a grand multi-hour event, complete with dinner. This year, they went all out without me. Luckily both my brothers were there to help ease my parents through this painful process that we call Ester Beginning to Spend Some Holidays & Important Times With the Future In-Laws.
And who is there to ease me through that process?
Nevertheless, I made it through seder, and Mr. Ben's father sent us home in a car with not too much harm done. Passover always makes me think about odd things. For example, isn't it funny that Easter -- which, of course, coincides with Passover -- is about Jesus ascending to Heaven, whereas Passover is the holiday of nothing leavened? Which is to say, for the goyim, "He is risen!" so they get to eat chocolate eggs; for the Jews, everything is by mandate flat and dry.
In addition to (clearly) lots of deep thinking, a fantastic production of Company on Broadway and the Sopranos helped me get through the week. And some generous NY hospitality afforded me access to the season premiere yesterday. Bless this city.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
the shoals of the NYT
This NYT article about how Jane Austen looked is both dumb and a complete misreading of her texts. The author -- a, you guessed it, MAN -- bumbles around for a bit at the beginning, talking about Austen must not have been pretty and how that's a problem. He goes off the cliff at the end:
As for the men! Bingley, to be sure, is described as "wonderfully handsome" and Darcy as having "handsome features" and "noble" bearing. But it could be argued that the whole damn point of the book is that appearances aren't objective. As soon as the crowd discovers Darcy has more money than Bingley, they declare him far better looking. Yet he's still an ass.
Here's the famous passage dear Mr. McGrath should have consulted before blithely going on his Week in Review way:
In Sense and Sensibility, all three Dashwood daughters are at least relatively good looking, it is assumed, but in Austen's descriptions of them at the beginning, their appearances aren't even mentioned. Marianne, the more romantic daughter, of course falls for a dashing and ultimately worthless Willoughby. Later, following more sober counsel, she ends up with the good-hearted but old, plain Colonel Brandon. Elinor, by contrast, wiser to begin with, falls for the good-hearted and not sparkling Edward Ferrars. Here is how he is described:
On the basis of this evidence, I suggest to you, Jane Austen did not like hunks, nor did she entirely trust beauty. She understood, as many of us have come to (and as my brother will, eventually,) that the hottest girls are very often the bat-shit crazy ones and that the hunks are often arrogant fools. To judge a woman, an author, by such shallow measures -- calling her "plain," "homely," even "dreary" (!) -- and saying that that must disappoint her readers -- is insulting in its shallowness to her AND us.
Maybe if Austen had been a beauty queen, she would have been married at 15 and never written a word. Would that be better for anyone? Maybe if Fran Lebowitz, Roseanne Barr, Margaret Cho, Eddie Izzard, and Woody Allen had been captains of sports teams instead of social outsiders who were no doubt made fun of as children, they wouldn't have needed to cultivate the talent that has made them such priceless entertainers. If I do believe in a God, it's one who has consciously given us, fair or not, people who range from hideous to Lohan, and all for a reason: nerdy types (to disappear into labs and invent things), malcontents (who forge revolutions), the weird (who write poems) and the wacky (who paint). And the Simpsons and Spears for the schadenfreude.
In P&P, what recommends Bingley ultimately isn't his face, it's his character, and what recommends Darcy ultimately is that he's willing to admit he was wrong, that a person can learn to see a kind of beauty -- whether entirely inner or merely subtle -- they originally overlooked. I would like to hear that Mr. McGrath has learned a similar lesson. But since he seems to be very much a product of our Good = Beauty, Bad = Ugly society with its starkly mistaken and unsubtle ideas of what makes women worthwhile, I'm not holding my breath.
We’ve watched them so often that we think we really do know what Austen’s people looked like, and the men — the good ones, anyway — are all hunks and the women are all adorable, with just a hint of gingham-gowned sexiness. That their creator might not be part of this club seems unfair. We can accept that Austen might have been a Cinderella — underappreciated, with an elusive beauty of character and intellect that maybe took a little getting used to — but the dreary spinster of the Cassandra sketch isn’t anyone we recognize.That's WRONG. I don't need to have taken an Austen seminar to know that. Pride and Prejudice makes a big deal out of the fact that Elizabeth Bennett isn't beautiful, "not half so handsome as Jane," the family stunner. Her sister Mary is not considered worth describing; Lydia is merely cute, mostly a flirt; and Kitty is a follower.
As for the men! Bingley, to be sure, is described as "wonderfully handsome" and Darcy as having "handsome features" and "noble" bearing. But it could be argued that the whole damn point of the book is that appearances aren't objective. As soon as the crowd discovers Darcy has more money than Bingley, they declare him far better looking. Yet he's still an ass.
Here's the famous passage dear Mr. McGrath should have consulted before blithely going on his Week in Review way:
``Come, Darcy,'' said he, ``I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.''Very pretty, very agreeable, says the nice guy; tolerable, retorts the more fastidious. By the end of the book, of course, Darcy has remarked that that "tolerable" woman has grown on him. Voici:
``I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.''
``I would not be so fastidious as you are,'' cried Bingley, ``for a kingdom! Upon my honour I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life, as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.''
``You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,'' said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
``Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.''
``Which do you mean?'' and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, ``She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.''
``I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, "She a beauty! -- I should as soon call her mother a wit." But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.''Ooh, snap! (I love that scene.)
``Yes,'' replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, ``but that was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.''
In Sense and Sensibility, all three Dashwood daughters are at least relatively good looking, it is assumed, but in Austen's descriptions of them at the beginning, their appearances aren't even mentioned. Marianne, the more romantic daughter, of course falls for a dashing and ultimately worthless Willoughby. Later, following more sober counsel, she ends up with the good-hearted but old, plain Colonel Brandon. Elinor, by contrast, wiser to begin with, falls for the good-hearted and not sparkling Edward Ferrars. Here is how he is described:
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement.Now, does that say hunk to you? No. Willoughby is the hunk and he turns out to be a paper doll of a man.
On the basis of this evidence, I suggest to you, Jane Austen did not like hunks, nor did she entirely trust beauty. She understood, as many of us have come to (and as my brother will, eventually,) that the hottest girls are very often the bat-shit crazy ones and that the hunks are often arrogant fools. To judge a woman, an author, by such shallow measures -- calling her "plain," "homely," even "dreary" (!) -- and saying that that must disappoint her readers -- is insulting in its shallowness to her AND us.
Maybe if Austen had been a beauty queen, she would have been married at 15 and never written a word. Would that be better for anyone? Maybe if Fran Lebowitz, Roseanne Barr, Margaret Cho, Eddie Izzard, and Woody Allen had been captains of sports teams instead of social outsiders who were no doubt made fun of as children, they wouldn't have needed to cultivate the talent that has made them such priceless entertainers. If I do believe in a God, it's one who has consciously given us, fair or not, people who range from hideous to Lohan, and all for a reason: nerdy types (to disappear into labs and invent things), malcontents (who forge revolutions), the weird (who write poems) and the wacky (who paint). And the Simpsons and Spears for the schadenfreude.
In P&P, what recommends Bingley ultimately isn't his face, it's his character, and what recommends Darcy ultimately is that he's willing to admit he was wrong, that a person can learn to see a kind of beauty -- whether entirely inner or merely subtle -- they originally overlooked. I would like to hear that Mr. McGrath has learned a similar lesson. But since he seems to be very much a product of our Good = Beauty, Bad = Ugly society with its starkly mistaken and unsubtle ideas of what makes women worthwhile, I'm not holding my breath.
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