From The Role Model. This should keep you busy for a while...heck, at this rate, you won't have to buy any of my books. ;)
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Diana had imagined that the moment when a person achieves a hundred-pound weight loss would be more...momentous, somehow. That flashbulbs would pop and music would play and confetti would shower from the ceiling. Or at least there would be someone else in the room with which to share the news. But it’s just Diana and Jeff among the motivational posters and the low buzz of fluorescent lights, in the back booth on the left. He in his stocking feet - a threadbare spot on the right pinkie toe - atop the same scale she’d been weighing him on every Saturday morning for the past two and a half years.
And at this moment, as the red diodes settle into place on the digital readout and she records this week’s loss on his file chart, Diana is the only one who knows. Swelling with pride as if she’d lost the weight herself, her body floods with warmth. Her Weight Away training had taught her that any success was wholly owned by the participants - coaches should take credit only for supplying the tools. But she feels at least partially responsible, like she’d created him somehow, week by week, pound by pound, coaxed him out of wet clay with patient and gentle hands. He’d joined the program a depressed, taciturn mountain of a man who couldn’t walk across the parking lot without gasping for breath, and now...
“I made it, didn’t I?” Jeff says.
She raises her gaze to his pale-lashed eyes, and smiles. “Congratulations.”
He doesn’t smile back. She’s disappointed that he isn’t acting happier. Maybe it’s simply anticlimactic. That they’d been talking about this day for so long that the actual fact has lost its significance.
“So I guess they’ll want to do that interview,” he says.
Weight Away Magazine publishes a profile when anyone makes a hundred pounds. To inspire others. With the disclaimer, of course, that actual results may vary. “Like we talked about before.” Diana curves her fingers over the outside of his forearm, surprised at its new firmness. “That’s completely up to you.”
A pink flush bleeds across his freckled cheeks and up his forehead into the thinner spots on his scalp, as he lifts one corner of his mouth into a sort of trepidacious hover. “They’ll want pictures?”
“I imagine they will.” She copies today’s weight onto his card.
“You’ll be in it, too, right?”
She feels his eyes on her, and as she looks up from her notations she sees him looking back, through her, until she feels warmth trickle down her shoulders.
“I...think there’s a form in here for submissions...” She turns away, thumbing through the literature rack, full of flyers with recipes and motivational tips and exercise suggestions. “We could check if the group leaders are also to be interviewed—”
“Diana...you don’t have to dig through all that stuff...I’ll do it. I guess...yeah.” She hears him draw in a deep breath, and she stops, and turns toward him. “I’ll do it. Except...” He looks down at his body, the baggy shirt, the shapeless trousers twisting around his knees, the heartbreaking thinness of the toes of his socks. One black and one navy. “Hell. Guess with that and a couple, three job interviews lined up, I should probably find something that fits a little better. And maybe, you know.” He forces out a smile. “Socks that match.”
“I was going to suggest that,” Diana says.
“Yeah, except I was waiting to go whole hog on the new wardrobe. For when I lose the last twenty.”
“But it’s important to take care of yourself along the way,” Diana says. “It’s hard to start seeing yourself as thinner until you get out of your old clothes.”
He nods. “Right, the body image thing. Like when you look in the mirror and keep seeing the fat guy.” His shoulders sag. “I don’t know, but I look, and look, and all I see is that fat guy Noreen walked out on. I see a fat slob standing in the driveway, holding a note and a frying pan, with a ridiculous expression on his face.”
Don’t, she thinks, as something in her chest softens, as her mouth draws downward. Don’t do that to yourself, not now, not after this long, you’ve been doing so well. Diana was the only person he’d told about Noreen. A year into his weight loss, on a dark, bleak morning in November. He’d gained five pounds that week, and she was on a slight backslide following a series of arguments with Ted. Sitting together over coffee after the meeting, deconstructing what was happening in both of their lives to derail their healthy habits, he’d revealed the real reason he’d joined the program. So one day his wife and daughter would come back.
They hadn’t come back.
Maybe today is an anniversary of sorts, maybe this morning he’d found something of theirs, a toy, a sweater, a tiny little sock. Something must have happened. It happened to her, one Wednesday when she was going through a box of old clothes in the back of a closet, and found the elbow-length satin gloves from her first wedding gown, the one she’d never worn. She went down to the kitchen and started eating and didn’t stop until she heard Ted’s car in the driveway.
“Was it a bad week?” Diana says softly. “You want to get some coffee?”
He shrugs, and jutting out his chin, exhales long and hard. His mouth begins to form a word - a tender word, from the softening of the muscles, the liquid quality of his grape-green eyes, pale brows arched above them, molding furrows into his forehead. But then he stops. Wendy, who leads the ten o’clock meeting, had just burst through the community room doors on her cheap and too-tall shoes, too-red lips stretched wide with her “good morning!” as effusively false as a kindergarten teacher with a hangover. She sees the two of them together, her face goes slack, the eyes knowing. Then says she’d left something in her car.
They listen until Wendy’s heels clip-clip down the corridor and disappear. Jeff sags into a nearby blue plastic chair as if he could no longer shoulder the weight of this stifled, tender word. Diana pulls a second chair beside him.
“Caroline’s birthday,” he says. “I sent a card, and a check, so Noreen could buy her something, a little dress, a doll, heck, I don’t know what a three-year-old wants. It came back, no forwarding address. And I still had a loss this week. Not like it matters anymore. Like it ever mattered, like she was ever planning on coming back even if I lost the weight.” He shoves a hand through thinning, strawberry-blond hair. “Christ. No wonder sometimes I look in the mirror and can’t see anything but that sorry-ass fat guy.”
Diana lets his words settle. Then reaches for his hand. It’s no longer the soft, paw-like appendage it used to be, and her fingers fit more easily around it. Screw Corporate’s warnings about physical contact, about invading people’s personal space. They could fire her, if they wanted. No one had complained yet.
“Can I tell you what I see?” she says.
His mouth forms a grim smirk as he begins pulling on his boots. “A pathetic, sniveling mess whose socks don’t match?”
She starts to smile back but then arranges her face more seriously. “I see a man who had the courage and the strength to change his life.”
He’s quiet a moment. “OK. OK, I don’t totally believe it, but it’s something to hang my hat on. For now.”
Wendy is back, trailed by her weigh-in assistants, and a few of the early birds for the next meeting. They begin to flutter about taking their positions, the participants finding their registration cards, the assistants setting up their stations.
“You want to tell them?” Diana says.
Jeff winks at Diana, then grins, curling up one arm to flex his bicep. “One hundred pounds!” he says.
And it’s different now, the women clap and Wendy squeals and in her head Diana can almost hear the music. After the imaginary confetti falls, and the fake flashbulbs are no longer blinking white spots before her eyes, the bustle resumes, of another meeting about to begin.
Jeff finishes tying the laces of his boots, leans over to Diana and says, “You’re right. I ought to go buy a few things to tide me over. Sort of celebrate. Sort of learn how to see the new me. But I could kind of use some advice. I’m all thumbs about this stuff. I don’t even know the right places to go.”
“Sure,” she says. She’s used to helping Ted with his wardrobe. The tie that goes with the shirt that goes with the jacket. “We’ll go have coffee and talk about it. There are sales all over, I could tell you where—“
“No,” says. “I’m asking if you could, you know, help me.”
“You mean...go shopping with you.“
“Well, yeah. You always look so good, you know, pulled together? I figured, maybe that skill translates over to guy’s stuff and you could help me look intentional instead of like some kind of accident of whatever fits from the Big Man’s store.”
Diana considers her schedule. The errands that Ted asked her to take care of. Replace a watch battery, get a pair of shoes re-soled. She hates how he does that, goes off leaving her a list, like his time is more important than hers.
“Heck, what am I thinking, it’s Saturday, you probably got plans. With your husband—“
“Ted’s in Detroit,” she says, too quickly.
“Think he’ll mind? You spending the afternoon with a pathetic, sniveling mess whose socks don’t match? If he gets mad, call it an act of charity. Call it doing your part to improve the landscape.” He lowers his voice. “Call it helping me look good enough to find a job so I don’t have to keep going to meetings on the Diana Blisko scholarship.”
She stares at him, a flush creeping into her cheeks. “You...know about that?”
“Diana, I’m not stupid. Corporate’s too greedy to let anyone slide that long. Besides, I’ve seen you sneaking money into the till after you checked me in. Several times.”
“I’m sorry...I didn’t mean to...make you feel...”
“No, it’s OK. Call it a nice person doing a nice thing.” He smiles. “But I got dirt on you now, so you’re obligated to help me, or I’ll sing like a canary.”
Diana smiles back. Ted could do his own damned errands. “I’ll get my coat.”
Friday, February 17, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
God Bless Masochism
Now before you flag my blog for pornographic references, this isn’t a how-to guide or an article for Penthouse Forum (do these things still exist?) Sorry to disappoint you.
Anyway…
I have a hazy memory of a sign in my mother’s kitchen (seems like everything is hazy these days; life as seen through a fogged mirror of medication and one unemployed day melting into the next…cripes, I feel like something out of a barenaked ladies song)
The sign read: The best substitute for brains is silence.
Which is why I haven’t posted anything for a bit. In the last few days I’ve gone from curmudgeonly to grouchy to just sitting around alternating between staring at the piles of crap in my kitchen and staring at the piles of crap in my living room. A curmudgeonly blog might be entertaining, maybe something cute and snappy about clutter and the difference between how men and women see dirt, but I couldn’t even muster the p&v necessary to get that far. It’s been like the little writer in my head has been in the corner in a fetal curl, wrapped in an afghan, eating Cherry Garcia out of the carton while watching reruns of The Gilmore Girls.
And I almost joined her with a second spoon. But thanks to a couple of unseasonably beautiful days and some time on my physical therapist’s S&M table, I’m back on my knees if not my feet (please, no Monica jokes, I beg you).
Which frightens me a little.
If I feel better after being harnessed by the ankles and chest and stretched like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, does that mean…I’m…one of…those people? The ones with rubber masks and whips (not that I know what any of this stuff is…I just read copiously as a child).
Anyway, at least I know what a corset might have felt like. And I thank fate not to have been born into that time in history. No wonder all the women got the vapors.
Hopefully this era of good feeling will continue. Or else it’s back on the table. I don’t know, I think the guy enjoys his job a little too much.
Anyway…
I have a hazy memory of a sign in my mother’s kitchen (seems like everything is hazy these days; life as seen through a fogged mirror of medication and one unemployed day melting into the next…cripes, I feel like something out of a barenaked ladies song)
The sign read: The best substitute for brains is silence.
Which is why I haven’t posted anything for a bit. In the last few days I’ve gone from curmudgeonly to grouchy to just sitting around alternating between staring at the piles of crap in my kitchen and staring at the piles of crap in my living room. A curmudgeonly blog might be entertaining, maybe something cute and snappy about clutter and the difference between how men and women see dirt, but I couldn’t even muster the p&v necessary to get that far. It’s been like the little writer in my head has been in the corner in a fetal curl, wrapped in an afghan, eating Cherry Garcia out of the carton while watching reruns of The Gilmore Girls.
And I almost joined her with a second spoon. But thanks to a couple of unseasonably beautiful days and some time on my physical therapist’s S&M table, I’m back on my knees if not my feet (please, no Monica jokes, I beg you).
Which frightens me a little.
If I feel better after being harnessed by the ankles and chest and stretched like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, does that mean…I’m…one of…those people? The ones with rubber masks and whips (not that I know what any of this stuff is…I just read copiously as a child).
Anyway, at least I know what a corset might have felt like. And I thank fate not to have been born into that time in history. No wonder all the women got the vapors.
Hopefully this era of good feeling will continue. Or else it’s back on the table. I don’t know, I think the guy enjoys his job a little too much.
Monday, February 13, 2006
As we change...
How did I get on the mailing list for this? Between husband and me, we get a lot of strange things in the mail – his pictures of W and pleas for contributions (I throw them out when he isn’t looking), my New Age nutrition sales pitches, and for some reason, a catalog for medieval weapons (Curse thee, spouse, now take yon trash to the landfill or I’ll smite thee with my mighty and powerful mace!)
There’s probably some Hal-like database deep beneath Battle Creek, Michigan which directs thousands of tiny elves (probably immigrants, probably underpaid) to collate together mailings based upon your age and stage of life…remember all the stuff you got as you entered college, trial coupons for this or questionnaires about that, which led you to believe that yours was the most important demographic group ever to be born into modern civilization? They have one for when you graduate (mostly it’s credit card offers – low interest!!), they have one for pregnancy (bulk discount on diapers, and, now that you’re responsible for another, isn’t it time for more life insurance?) They have one for the bride-to-be. Now, apparently, another group of elves (the ones who are forever fanning themselves and asking, “is it hot in here or is it me?”) are putting together this one for women going through The Change.
You’ve probably only seen this catalog if you’re of a certain age, (And how do they decide what that is? Is this like Logan’s Run, and the minute I turned 44 (apparently a number of interns have gotten together and determined that this is the median age where women might experience their first hot flash), a light in my belly started glowing and I am now marked as “about to become invisible to society,”) but it’s all the goodies and knickknacks you might need as you’re going through menopause. Breathable jammies for the night sweats, fashionable swimwear with “tummy control,” aromatherapeutic mind de-foggers, full-figure bras (When I go into menopause, will I suddenly develop a bust large enough to need to be controlled? Ladies? Please? Anybody? Will I? Damn.), and my absolute favorite, which is a bunch of scary-looking devices that promise to strengthen your pelvic floor (trust me, nobody really wants to know how these things work, so even if I could figure it out from the vague copy in the brochure I would refrain from sharing it with you).
But why is this the only period of life change that can benefit from a catalog? Certainly I’ve gone through other life transitions and would like to have had more help than I received from ABC After School specials or MTV or thirtysomething.
How about a catalog for those of us leaving college and entering the workforce? Lipstick that lasts through happy hour and beyond? Clothing that goes from work to that big date, then just turn it inside out, give it a shake and you’re good to go the next morning without anyone in your cube farm giving you the evil eye? Attractive throws to make Salvation Army furniture look like you actually bought it at IKEA?
What about the catalog you should get when you leave that fat and happy 18-34 demographic group? Condolence cards to send to your friends? Fake Nielsen boxes to put atop your TV to make everything think ad agencies still care what you think? DVDs of music and TV shows that are age-appropriate and still make you think you’re cool?
Guaranteed the top seller would be the one you should receive when you either move in with or marry your intended. Clothing that is as comfortable as sweat pants but doesn’t really say that now that you don’t have to date anymore you haven’t really let yourself go. Scads of books on communication, including a great big encyclopedia on how to deal with any relationship crisis, from how to handle your first holiday meal in your own home, what not to say when she asks if her new jeans make her look fat, what’s the one thing a man should never say to a woman and vice versa.
Hopefully, this helpful advice will eliminate any need for the medieval weapons catalog. But if anyone wants one, let me know. I'm off to Battle Creek to get my name off the menopause mailing list.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Happy birthday, Mom!!!
A short poem for my mother on the day before her birthday,
When there’s too much snow to travel to New Jersey
For all the things you taught me….
…that no matter how much my teachers whine,
it’s OK to color outside the lines.
…that wherever I play, at whichever house I choose,
I shouldn’t leave without my shoes.
…that when you’re smarter than the boys,
you should carry yourself with pride and poise.
…that if you’re on the highway, out of gas,
if you’re wearing a bikini you’ll get help fast.
…that if you have a leek, bouillon cubes and lemon peel,
you can still make a gourmet meal.
…that all things can be borne, every strife, trial and rumor,
as long as you keep your sense of humor.
And lest we forget, imagine husband and I singing this in two-part harmony:
Happy Birthday To You
Happy Birthday To You
Happy Birthday Dear Mom
Happy Birthday To You…..
(Mike, am I supposed to pay someone ASCAP royalties now or what?)
When there’s too much snow to travel to New Jersey
For all the things you taught me….
…that no matter how much my teachers whine,
it’s OK to color outside the lines.
…that wherever I play, at whichever house I choose,
I shouldn’t leave without my shoes.
…that when you’re smarter than the boys,
you should carry yourself with pride and poise.
…that if you’re on the highway, out of gas,
if you’re wearing a bikini you’ll get help fast.
…that if you have a leek, bouillon cubes and lemon peel,
you can still make a gourmet meal.
…that all things can be borne, every strife, trial and rumor,
as long as you keep your sense of humor.
And lest we forget, imagine husband and I singing this in two-part harmony:
Happy Birthday To You
Happy Birthday To You
Happy Birthday Dear Mom
Happy Birthday To You…..
(Mike, am I supposed to pay someone ASCAP royalties now or what?)
Saturday, February 11, 2006
The Costas Curse
I love the Olympics. Mock the opening ceremonies all you want to (God knows we did; what was more ridiculous – the little Italian kids towing plastic cows around while the Ricola guys made moose calls on the giant horns, or Rob Lowe singing and dancing with Snow White at the Oscars?), but come on, 418 televised hours of amusement, awe, and at times, sheer terror are well worth the price of admission.
I love the half-pipe. I want to be one of these people in my next life. Just to get a chance to fly. Right now when I watch them all I can think about is how many of them have chiropractors on retainer. And where else in the world can former skateboarding slackers get so much public attention, and maybe, maybe some money? (Can you actually be called a slacker anymore once you’ve made the Olympic team?) Bizarre outfits, though. They look like old-fashioned prisoners swimming in uniforms seven sizes too big. Or, an Olympic version of the clothes they normally wear.
I even love those little misty, Vaseline-lensed profiles of the favorites in each sport. While the bobsled run is being resurfaced or the judges argue over a score, Bob Costas runs his interview: Here’s Sven, who hails from a mountain village in Norway so remote that he only had a yak for a friend. He and his family had to boil snow for fresh water and chip lichen off of the walls of caves so they’d have enough to eat. But little Sven had a calling. Even as a tot he’d swipe a log from the woodpile, hug his tiny arms around it and slide down the mountain. And as he grew stronger and stronger from trudging back up the mountain with the log strapped to his back with elk sinew and a pair of shed yak antlers for poles, he got faster and faster. And now here he is, just seventeen and Norway’s best hope for a medal in the luge…and cut to Sven at the gate, crashing and burning on his first run, flipping end over end like a confused salmon until he comes to rest against the orange netting.
Never fails. It’s like being on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
I’ll stop anything to watch professional ice-skating, just because I admire the skill it takes to get even half as far as any of these people. First you have to born with the right body. And then you go to work your ass off on the skating part. Even the bad skaters are better than I ever was or ever will be. The only trick I was able to master in ice-skating was skating backwards, which would come in handy…like, never. Watching Olympic ice-skating, I drift into a sort of Walter Mitty-esque haze, like Snoopy on his doghouse pretending he was the World War I flying ace on his Sopwith Camel off to get the Red Baron…
...here's the graceful but freakishly powerful young skater about to start her Olympic short program....
“Here comes that graceful but freakishly powerful young skater everyone’s been talking about, Dick.”
”Yes, Peggy, she’s just amazing. And a get a load of that costume. I understand she refused the usual skating skirt for a more practical and definitely more stylish unitard. And I have to say that purple is her color.”
“And not only is she easy on the eyes, Dick, but she was the first woman to land a triple axel triple toe triple loop sequence in competition and she opens with that combination, here it comes, and….woh-ho! Look at that!”
“She nails it! Absolutely amazing, Peggy. Oh. Oh, wait.” Dick cups his hand around his earpiece, suddenly looking serious. “I’m hearing some terrible news.”
“What's that, Dick?”
“Well, it seems that somebody attacked Bob Costas with a tire iron in the men’s room.”
“My Lord, Dick. Is he all right?”
“Yes, but they say he kept holding his knee and crying “why, why, why?’”
“Do they know who did it?”
“No, but allegedly a witness said he smelled like a yak.”
I love the half-pipe. I want to be one of these people in my next life. Just to get a chance to fly. Right now when I watch them all I can think about is how many of them have chiropractors on retainer. And where else in the world can former skateboarding slackers get so much public attention, and maybe, maybe some money? (Can you actually be called a slacker anymore once you’ve made the Olympic team?) Bizarre outfits, though. They look like old-fashioned prisoners swimming in uniforms seven sizes too big. Or, an Olympic version of the clothes they normally wear.
I even love those little misty, Vaseline-lensed profiles of the favorites in each sport. While the bobsled run is being resurfaced or the judges argue over a score, Bob Costas runs his interview: Here’s Sven, who hails from a mountain village in Norway so remote that he only had a yak for a friend. He and his family had to boil snow for fresh water and chip lichen off of the walls of caves so they’d have enough to eat. But little Sven had a calling. Even as a tot he’d swipe a log from the woodpile, hug his tiny arms around it and slide down the mountain. And as he grew stronger and stronger from trudging back up the mountain with the log strapped to his back with elk sinew and a pair of shed yak antlers for poles, he got faster and faster. And now here he is, just seventeen and Norway’s best hope for a medal in the luge…and cut to Sven at the gate, crashing and burning on his first run, flipping end over end like a confused salmon until he comes to rest against the orange netting.
Never fails. It’s like being on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
I’ll stop anything to watch professional ice-skating, just because I admire the skill it takes to get even half as far as any of these people. First you have to born with the right body. And then you go to work your ass off on the skating part. Even the bad skaters are better than I ever was or ever will be. The only trick I was able to master in ice-skating was skating backwards, which would come in handy…like, never. Watching Olympic ice-skating, I drift into a sort of Walter Mitty-esque haze, like Snoopy on his doghouse pretending he was the World War I flying ace on his Sopwith Camel off to get the Red Baron…
...here's the graceful but freakishly powerful young skater about to start her Olympic short program....
“Here comes that graceful but freakishly powerful young skater everyone’s been talking about, Dick.”
”Yes, Peggy, she’s just amazing. And a get a load of that costume. I understand she refused the usual skating skirt for a more practical and definitely more stylish unitard. And I have to say that purple is her color.”
“And not only is she easy on the eyes, Dick, but she was the first woman to land a triple axel triple toe triple loop sequence in competition and she opens with that combination, here it comes, and….woh-ho! Look at that!”
“She nails it! Absolutely amazing, Peggy. Oh. Oh, wait.” Dick cups his hand around his earpiece, suddenly looking serious. “I’m hearing some terrible news.”
“What's that, Dick?”
“Well, it seems that somebody attacked Bob Costas with a tire iron in the men’s room.”
“My Lord, Dick. Is he all right?”
“Yes, but they say he kept holding his knee and crying “why, why, why?’”
“Do they know who did it?”
“No, but allegedly a witness said he smelled like a yak.”
Friday, February 10, 2006
Fiction Friday
Another excerpt from the dark comedy that will never see the light of day....
Nate: more fluff and puppies next week, hopefully.
-----
Estelle found the first lump by accident, on the morning of Adam’s wedding. The night before her youngest son Charlie had given her a pill, and she’d overslept, and then she had to race to get ready. She rushed through her makeup, painted on eyebrows and colored her cheeks. She’d been planning to wear the dress she wore to her niece’s wedding the year before. Now it didn’t sit right in the bosom, and as she was slipping it this way and that and adjusting her brassiere she felt something hard and uneven in her right breast, like the end of a chicken bone. She thinks about all of those medical shows and the books she reads and the women she’s known who’ve gone through such things and when they talk about tumors, they talk about them like food. A pea, and orange, a grapefruit. This was nothing that friendly, and nothing that round. This was like a knuckle, a dagger, a hand grenade. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoked three cigarettes in a row. The phone rang twice and each time she didn’t answer, just sat on her damask spread and smoked and smoked and listened to it ring.
The first time when the answering machine picked up nobody left a message. That was Adam. Adam didn’t leave messages.
The second time it was Charlie.
“Ma. Just seeing when you want me to pick you up. Call me at the hotel.”
People do this every day, she thought. People get married. Other people dress up and go see them recite their vows and step on the wine glass. They eat rumaki and drink champagne and slip checks into the groom’s pockets. They smile and wish them well and gossip about the in-laws and debate the couple’s chances in the car on the way home.
She didn’t know about that Liza. She just didn’t know. Something wrong about the family, something wrong about the way she was raised by her father, like a boy. Adam needed a woman. He had Eddie’s feckless streak and needed a firm hand, someone like herself. She just didn’t know if Liza was up to the task. But Liza was a smart girl, a practical girl. Estelle hoped to God Liza was smart enough to figure out how to make the marriage work.
The phone rang again. If she didn’t answer maybe the boys would wonder if something was wrong and rush over and she didn’t want to tell them now, she wouldn’t, not like this, not on the day of his wedding. She wouldn’t do that to her Adam. Whatever she thought personally about Liza, he seemed happy. She wouldn’t make this the day he found out the time bomb went off. But she prayed it wouldn’t be Adam calling.
It’s Charlie, asking how she’d slept.
Fine. She’d slept fine. Your schmuck of a father, she’d said, may he rest in peace, he couldn’t drop dead on the golf course like everybody else, he couldn’t go quietly in his sleep, he had to have a massive coronary in the middle of synagogue on Yom Kippur and make the newspapers and scar the entire community for life.
“I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose, Ma. Although if you have to go, it might as well be memorable.”
“Adam could have gotten married anywhere. A catering hall. That beautiful park on the river. But no. He had to pick Temple Beth-make-the-rest-of-your-mother’s-hair-fall-out.”
“You need another Valium?” Charlie had said.
Estelle lit another cigarette. “Bring the bottle.”
Nate: more fluff and puppies next week, hopefully.
-----
Estelle found the first lump by accident, on the morning of Adam’s wedding. The night before her youngest son Charlie had given her a pill, and she’d overslept, and then she had to race to get ready. She rushed through her makeup, painted on eyebrows and colored her cheeks. She’d been planning to wear the dress she wore to her niece’s wedding the year before. Now it didn’t sit right in the bosom, and as she was slipping it this way and that and adjusting her brassiere she felt something hard and uneven in her right breast, like the end of a chicken bone. She thinks about all of those medical shows and the books she reads and the women she’s known who’ve gone through such things and when they talk about tumors, they talk about them like food. A pea, and orange, a grapefruit. This was nothing that friendly, and nothing that round. This was like a knuckle, a dagger, a hand grenade. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoked three cigarettes in a row. The phone rang twice and each time she didn’t answer, just sat on her damask spread and smoked and smoked and listened to it ring.
The first time when the answering machine picked up nobody left a message. That was Adam. Adam didn’t leave messages.
The second time it was Charlie.
“Ma. Just seeing when you want me to pick you up. Call me at the hotel.”
People do this every day, she thought. People get married. Other people dress up and go see them recite their vows and step on the wine glass. They eat rumaki and drink champagne and slip checks into the groom’s pockets. They smile and wish them well and gossip about the in-laws and debate the couple’s chances in the car on the way home.
She didn’t know about that Liza. She just didn’t know. Something wrong about the family, something wrong about the way she was raised by her father, like a boy. Adam needed a woman. He had Eddie’s feckless streak and needed a firm hand, someone like herself. She just didn’t know if Liza was up to the task. But Liza was a smart girl, a practical girl. Estelle hoped to God Liza was smart enough to figure out how to make the marriage work.
The phone rang again. If she didn’t answer maybe the boys would wonder if something was wrong and rush over and she didn’t want to tell them now, she wouldn’t, not like this, not on the day of his wedding. She wouldn’t do that to her Adam. Whatever she thought personally about Liza, he seemed happy. She wouldn’t make this the day he found out the time bomb went off. But she prayed it wouldn’t be Adam calling.
It’s Charlie, asking how she’d slept.
Fine. She’d slept fine. Your schmuck of a father, she’d said, may he rest in peace, he couldn’t drop dead on the golf course like everybody else, he couldn’t go quietly in his sleep, he had to have a massive coronary in the middle of synagogue on Yom Kippur and make the newspapers and scar the entire community for life.
“I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose, Ma. Although if you have to go, it might as well be memorable.”
“Adam could have gotten married anywhere. A catering hall. That beautiful park on the river. But no. He had to pick Temple Beth-make-the-rest-of-your-mother’s-hair-fall-out.”
“You need another Valium?” Charlie had said.
Estelle lit another cigarette. “Bring the bottle.”
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Misery loves company
A short one today because I’m grumpy. And when I’m grumpy I like to spread it around. Your pet peeves encouraged. Have fun!
Amazon women at the Y – to prove how much weight they’ve been pumping, they shut the shower faucet so tight that those of us who don’t look like Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2 can’t turn it on.
Doesn’t that thing come with an ashtray? – People who flick cigarette butts out the windows of their cars.
No, really, I’ve seen them do it. – People who smoke in supermarkets.
Just ‘cause it’s on doesn’t mean I’m out – Damn it, leave a message so husband and I don’t stand there staring stupidly at each other asking, “wonder who called?” And if that’s your idea of a joke, then I hope you break out in a rash.
Get a grammar book, for Pete’s sake – Journalists who write “completely destroyed” (Destroyed means Destroyed. Done. Gone. Nothing left but the rubble.). Radio journalists who pronounce the “t” in often.
TV news – Ditch the crawl. Remember when crawls were reserved for things we absolutely needed to know, like there’s a tornado coming or someone important had died. Not only have they lost all meaning, but they’re a distracting nuisance. Especially when husband and I watch TV news together. He’s watching and listening, I’m reading. I make a joke about something I read on the crawl and he misses it completely because he’s watching Rumsfeld in front of a microphone or something getting blown up and then he looks at me like I’m nuts. And the reverse, when he’s laughing over some squirrel run through a domino maze and I’m reading how much blew up in Afghanistan that day. No wonder we all have ADD.
More journalist pet peeves – Commentators who pronounce Latin countries with Latin accents, even if they’re from South Dakota. If we’re doing this to be politically correct, then why don’t we pronounce the names of Islamic countries properly? If Bush can wrap his lips around them, so can that blond doofus guy on the Fox morning show. Also, commentators who smile while they talk. Stop it. It’s creepy. It makes you look like a politician.
Amazon women at the Y – to prove how much weight they’ve been pumping, they shut the shower faucet so tight that those of us who don’t look like Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2 can’t turn it on.
Doesn’t that thing come with an ashtray? – People who flick cigarette butts out the windows of their cars.
No, really, I’ve seen them do it. – People who smoke in supermarkets.
Just ‘cause it’s on doesn’t mean I’m out – Damn it, leave a message so husband and I don’t stand there staring stupidly at each other asking, “wonder who called?” And if that’s your idea of a joke, then I hope you break out in a rash.
Get a grammar book, for Pete’s sake – Journalists who write “completely destroyed” (Destroyed means Destroyed. Done. Gone. Nothing left but the rubble.). Radio journalists who pronounce the “t” in often.
TV news – Ditch the crawl. Remember when crawls were reserved for things we absolutely needed to know, like there’s a tornado coming or someone important had died. Not only have they lost all meaning, but they’re a distracting nuisance. Especially when husband and I watch TV news together. He’s watching and listening, I’m reading. I make a joke about something I read on the crawl and he misses it completely because he’s watching Rumsfeld in front of a microphone or something getting blown up and then he looks at me like I’m nuts. And the reverse, when he’s laughing over some squirrel run through a domino maze and I’m reading how much blew up in Afghanistan that day. No wonder we all have ADD.
More journalist pet peeves – Commentators who pronounce Latin countries with Latin accents, even if they’re from South Dakota. If we’re doing this to be politically correct, then why don’t we pronounce the names of Islamic countries properly? If Bush can wrap his lips around them, so can that blond doofus guy on the Fox morning show. Also, commentators who smile while they talk. Stop it. It’s creepy. It makes you look like a politician.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Opus No. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
All right, call me a blatant copycat, but Nate (http://tidus-blitz-rex.livejournal.com), Supergirlfriend (http://theoralreport.blogspot.com/) and Highlander (http://miserableannalsoftheearth.blogspot.com) (sorry for the URL jungle, but my browser won't let me make links) already ran with this idea on their blogs and it sounded like fun.
If I’d made different choices in my life…in an alternate universe...
1. From the stress of living with an emotionally abusive, philandering boyfriend, I gain a hundred pounds and an addiction to raw cookie dough ice cream and a twitch in my left eye. In the dead of night, I escape to a battered women's shelter, but have to be moved several times because my ex seems to be able to charm my current address out of the agency in charge. Despite the many orders of protection taken out against him, he manages to appear in my window every other night. Finally I have a breakdown and while recovering at a hospital guarded by very large men and un-charmable women, I lose the weight and write the screenplay to "Sleeping with the Enemy." Except my version wins an Oscar. After it's nominated, my ex tracks me down and stalks me, demanding a cut of the profits because the character was based on him. I ignore him, and then while I'm coming up the red carpet to accept my award, he charges me. My husband, Harrison Ford, wrestles him to the ground. In my next screenplay, I give his character erectile dysfunction and a nasty case of the crabs.
2. I am a single mother, divorced from the alcoholic cokehead father who managed to stay awake and focused long enough to knock me up. He’s home crashed on the day of the hearing and his mother begrudgingly pays me child support. I start my own version of Alanon, called Women Who Should Have Known What They Were Getting Into But Were So Deep In Denial They Couldn't See Daylight Until Planting Season (“WWSHKTWGIBWSDIPCSDUPS”, or "We wish to God that we hadn't been so pathetically stupid"). Oprah finds out about me and begs me to write a memoir. It wins the Pulitzer, the National Book Award, and the Booker Prize, (the British Empire makes their first exception and gives the honor to someone outside Britannica because they laughed so hard they wet themselves). While I'm doing my reading at the 92nd Street Y, my ex's mother charges me and demands an apology and a share of my profits because I made her out to be a Jewish battleaxe with a permanent claw in her son's shoulder and a bad case of body odor, which had been vetted by my lawyers and found to be the truth . She's taken out by my current husband, Colin Firth, who will be playing my ex in the movie. I ask the screenwriter to make his character gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
3. I become a world-class marathon runner and I'm so focused and competitive that my poor, beleaguered significant other has to go to great lengths to get my attention and approval. So I plot to poison her rival by spiking a cup of water and holding it out to her from the sidelines. Unfortunately I grab it, and...no, wait a minute, that was a TC Boyle story. Never mind. But it's a really good story. You should read it.
4. Getting in my head that I could write a novel, I hunker down at my very first computer and write not just one, but two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.... I write continually for two, three decades. I'm so focused that I don't notice the meals someone slips under my door, or when the phone stops ringing. Or the red alert level siren blaring from the firehouse. I don't notice the explosions, the screaming, even that the electricity has gone out. Eventually I wander out into the light of day, blinking through the fallout haze, and find that I'm the only person still alive except for Dick Cheney, who finally pops his head out of his secret undisclosed location. I tell him I’m a novelist and he says, great, I could use the distraction. He offers me his printer so I can run them out from my backups. "Backups?" I say. "What's a backup?"
5. Wendy Pini from Elfquest catches wind that I can write comic book script. She offers me a job, which I accept, and spend years hunkered down in a tiny room bent over a keyboard writing dialog for elves and fairies. Eventually I go mad, and become a bag lady, wandering around pushing a shopping cart, sipping on a Diet Pepsi and murmuring, “Nastybad high thing…nastybad high thing…”
If I’d made different choices in my life…in an alternate universe...
1. From the stress of living with an emotionally abusive, philandering boyfriend, I gain a hundred pounds and an addiction to raw cookie dough ice cream and a twitch in my left eye. In the dead of night, I escape to a battered women's shelter, but have to be moved several times because my ex seems to be able to charm my current address out of the agency in charge. Despite the many orders of protection taken out against him, he manages to appear in my window every other night. Finally I have a breakdown and while recovering at a hospital guarded by very large men and un-charmable women, I lose the weight and write the screenplay to "Sleeping with the Enemy." Except my version wins an Oscar. After it's nominated, my ex tracks me down and stalks me, demanding a cut of the profits because the character was based on him. I ignore him, and then while I'm coming up the red carpet to accept my award, he charges me. My husband, Harrison Ford, wrestles him to the ground. In my next screenplay, I give his character erectile dysfunction and a nasty case of the crabs.
2. I am a single mother, divorced from the alcoholic cokehead father who managed to stay awake and focused long enough to knock me up. He’s home crashed on the day of the hearing and his mother begrudgingly pays me child support. I start my own version of Alanon, called Women Who Should Have Known What They Were Getting Into But Were So Deep In Denial They Couldn't See Daylight Until Planting Season (“WWSHKTWGIBWSDIPCSDUPS”, or "We wish to God that we hadn't been so pathetically stupid"). Oprah finds out about me and begs me to write a memoir. It wins the Pulitzer, the National Book Award, and the Booker Prize, (the British Empire makes their first exception and gives the honor to someone outside Britannica because they laughed so hard they wet themselves). While I'm doing my reading at the 92nd Street Y, my ex's mother charges me and demands an apology and a share of my profits because I made her out to be a Jewish battleaxe with a permanent claw in her son's shoulder and a bad case of body odor, which had been vetted by my lawyers and found to be the truth . She's taken out by my current husband, Colin Firth, who will be playing my ex in the movie. I ask the screenwriter to make his character gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
3. I become a world-class marathon runner and I'm so focused and competitive that my poor, beleaguered significant other has to go to great lengths to get my attention and approval. So I plot to poison her rival by spiking a cup of water and holding it out to her from the sidelines. Unfortunately I grab it, and...no, wait a minute, that was a TC Boyle story. Never mind. But it's a really good story. You should read it.
4. Getting in my head that I could write a novel, I hunker down at my very first computer and write not just one, but two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.... I write continually for two, three decades. I'm so focused that I don't notice the meals someone slips under my door, or when the phone stops ringing. Or the red alert level siren blaring from the firehouse. I don't notice the explosions, the screaming, even that the electricity has gone out. Eventually I wander out into the light of day, blinking through the fallout haze, and find that I'm the only person still alive except for Dick Cheney, who finally pops his head out of his secret undisclosed location. I tell him I’m a novelist and he says, great, I could use the distraction. He offers me his printer so I can run them out from my backups. "Backups?" I say. "What's a backup?"
5. Wendy Pini from Elfquest catches wind that I can write comic book script. She offers me a job, which I accept, and spend years hunkered down in a tiny room bent over a keyboard writing dialog for elves and fairies. Eventually I go mad, and become a bag lady, wandering around pushing a shopping cart, sipping on a Diet Pepsi and murmuring, “Nastybad high thing…nastybad high thing…”
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
It's not just a job, it's $249.33 a week
All right, I swallowed my self-respect and applied for social security disability. After a 2-1/2 hour phone interview, I was sent a packet of information and was told to fill some stuff in and return it, but they neglected to tell me which things to fill in. This, unfortunately, required a phone call to the local office and I’ve been trying for hours and it’s either busy or nobody answers. All of this waiting gave me lots of time to imagine what they might be doing instead of answering the phones.
1 An angry grandma couldn't get her Medicare prescription information straightened out so she came back with a deer rifle, shattered the front window and is holding all of the employees hostage until somebody can explain it to her. Because the “Medicare Changes for Dummies” books have not yet arrived, the boss makes an intern call Congress. The rest of the employees are all cowering underneath their desks, nibbling on donuts like frightened mice.
2. Congress is too busy arguing amongst themselves to answer the phones, so the employees tried to figure it out for themselves. But all of their heads exploded. Granny is now answering the phones, telling people they’d be better off cashing in their 401Ks and stashing their money under their mattresses. She’s a nice lady underneath; we’re having lunch next week.
3. All of the employees are furtively tapping away on the company phones trying to get on Al Franken's radio show.
4. They're all too busy Googling test words for the NSA.
5. A retired postal employee didn't get his social security check so he came back with a gun but Grannie beat him to it, so he's taking advantage of all the vacant computers to cruise porn sites on the web.
6. They are playing "caller-id bingo" and my telephone number fills up everyone's cards at once. A fistfight breaks out and in the melee, two employees strangle themselves on their own headseat cords, because wireless sets are not in the budget.
7. Due to an internet prank by Al Gore, the entire Department of Social Security believes they have been laid off. They are trying to apply for unemployment benefits, but everyone at unemployment have all been fired too. One phone number now exists for all governmental services. The voice mail directs all calls to Hillary Clinton's office. She and her staff are sitting back puffing on stogies, drinking champagne, listening to the phone ring and laughing their asses off.
1 An angry grandma couldn't get her Medicare prescription information straightened out so she came back with a deer rifle, shattered the front window and is holding all of the employees hostage until somebody can explain it to her. Because the “Medicare Changes for Dummies” books have not yet arrived, the boss makes an intern call Congress. The rest of the employees are all cowering underneath their desks, nibbling on donuts like frightened mice.
2. Congress is too busy arguing amongst themselves to answer the phones, so the employees tried to figure it out for themselves. But all of their heads exploded. Granny is now answering the phones, telling people they’d be better off cashing in their 401Ks and stashing their money under their mattresses. She’s a nice lady underneath; we’re having lunch next week.
3. All of the employees are furtively tapping away on the company phones trying to get on Al Franken's radio show.
4. They're all too busy Googling test words for the NSA.
5. A retired postal employee didn't get his social security check so he came back with a gun but Grannie beat him to it, so he's taking advantage of all the vacant computers to cruise porn sites on the web.
6. They are playing "caller-id bingo" and my telephone number fills up everyone's cards at once. A fistfight breaks out and in the melee, two employees strangle themselves on their own headseat cords, because wireless sets are not in the budget.
7. Due to an internet prank by Al Gore, the entire Department of Social Security believes they have been laid off. They are trying to apply for unemployment benefits, but everyone at unemployment have all been fired too. One phone number now exists for all governmental services. The voice mail directs all calls to Hillary Clinton's office. She and her staff are sitting back puffing on stogies, drinking champagne, listening to the phone ring and laughing their asses off.
Monday, February 06, 2006
When dreams die
I was going to write about the much maligned and misquoted Dorothy Parker today, one of my favorite women, but then realized that Women’s History Month is in March, and this is still Black History Month and I hadn’t given 12% of the calendar (or 12% of the US population) their due. I realize I’m only scratching the surface with this, but it’s waaay too big for one person and one blog. And a white blogger at that.
First, a story. Years ago, I was teaching an adult-ed class at Northeastern University in Boston. This was in the mid-eighties, during the Tawana Brawley incident. For those of you not living in New York (or were too young to remember those years), I’ll make an ugly chapter in Black History short: an African American teenager named Tawana Brawley was discovered in a condo complex in Wappingers Falls New York, naked in a black plastic bag and smeared with racial epithets written in feces, and said a group of white cops had attacked her and left her there. Al Sharpton descended and basically called the people who lived in Dutchess County (where I grew up, and as color-blind and educated a populace as I defy you to find outside of Manhattan) a bunch of racist honky crackers and demanded justice. Pete Seeger (who lives in the county) organized a protest. It was all over the news. Turned out the girl made the whole story up because she was out late misbehaving and didn’t want to get in trouble. Meanwhile Sharpton ruined DA Steven Pagones’s career, (Pagones sued for defamation and won; Sharpton claimed poverty and dragged his heels on producing payment), and cost the county millions of dollars in legal expenses and god knows how much in good will. Tawana quietly went away but I’m taking bets that one day you’ll see her on celebrity boxing facing off against Tanya Harding.
So. I was in the classroom packing up to go home, and one student was left, a middle-aged African-American woman. We started a conversation and began walking to the T stop. Somehow we got talking about Al Sharpton. “Well, that fool doesn’t represent me,” she said, standing up a little straighter.
Yet these are the representatives, the guys who are first to the microphones when any African American individual or interest is wronged. You get Al. You get Louis Farrakhan. You get Jesse Jackson. They speak eloquently and whip up the masses. But what are they whipping them up to do? Burn down their own communities? Continue hating white people? Continuing to believe that young African Americans have no future and no hope because the Big White Government won’t give them enough money or adequate opportunities? Because they haven’t yet been given their 40 acres and a mule? Cripes. Where are we going to find 40 acres for every African American man, woman and child in this country? How about an apology instead? (oh, right, Clinton did that) Well, then, how about a cat? Or some of Reagan’s leftover government cheese?
I never got my apology. I’m a left-handed agnostic female Unitarian Jew. Left-handed people and agnostics and women used to be burned at the stake. And what Hitler did to the Jews pales against the actions of Stalin or the former czars of Russia. God knows how many of my relatives were killed by marauding Cossacks. While they were praying in synagogue yet. Hell. They ought to give me Disneyland.
But seriously…where are the Martin Luther King’s of our time, demanding not just justice but reason? Where are the Ghandis?
Oh, right. Somebody shot them.
But Dr. King would be disgusted if he were alive today. By the healthy young black men selling coke on the streetcorners of the cities of the Hudson Valley, and elsewhere. By gang-bangers shooting each other up. By kids calling each other the "n" word. And he'd be heartbroken to see that nothing had been done about his dream. That this is a world not united but still divided, and worse, divided by choice.
Colleges have black fraternities and white fraternities, by choice.
Their dining halls have black tables and white tables, by choice.
Walk through the mall and black kids are over here and white kids are over there.
Studies were done years ago showing that girls learned better in an atmosphere free from boys. So all-girls schools were established. An African American woman in the Bronx extended the model and started an all-black-girls school in the Bronx. They almost lost their funding because they were accused of discrimination – not against whites but against boys.
Are we really back to the days of “separate but equal?” What will be next? Health clubs? Restaurants? TV networks? (all right, I think we have that already) But I seem to remember who was an advocate for separate but equal. Governor George Wallace. And someone shot him, too.
I hope to hell that this isn’t the truth, but perhaps the pendulum has to swing all the way around before we can see a glimmer of that dream again.
First, a story. Years ago, I was teaching an adult-ed class at Northeastern University in Boston. This was in the mid-eighties, during the Tawana Brawley incident. For those of you not living in New York (or were too young to remember those years), I’ll make an ugly chapter in Black History short: an African American teenager named Tawana Brawley was discovered in a condo complex in Wappingers Falls New York, naked in a black plastic bag and smeared with racial epithets written in feces, and said a group of white cops had attacked her and left her there. Al Sharpton descended and basically called the people who lived in Dutchess County (where I grew up, and as color-blind and educated a populace as I defy you to find outside of Manhattan) a bunch of racist honky crackers and demanded justice. Pete Seeger (who lives in the county) organized a protest. It was all over the news. Turned out the girl made the whole story up because she was out late misbehaving and didn’t want to get in trouble. Meanwhile Sharpton ruined DA Steven Pagones’s career, (Pagones sued for defamation and won; Sharpton claimed poverty and dragged his heels on producing payment), and cost the county millions of dollars in legal expenses and god knows how much in good will. Tawana quietly went away but I’m taking bets that one day you’ll see her on celebrity boxing facing off against Tanya Harding.
So. I was in the classroom packing up to go home, and one student was left, a middle-aged African-American woman. We started a conversation and began walking to the T stop. Somehow we got talking about Al Sharpton. “Well, that fool doesn’t represent me,” she said, standing up a little straighter.
Yet these are the representatives, the guys who are first to the microphones when any African American individual or interest is wronged. You get Al. You get Louis Farrakhan. You get Jesse Jackson. They speak eloquently and whip up the masses. But what are they whipping them up to do? Burn down their own communities? Continue hating white people? Continuing to believe that young African Americans have no future and no hope because the Big White Government won’t give them enough money or adequate opportunities? Because they haven’t yet been given their 40 acres and a mule? Cripes. Where are we going to find 40 acres for every African American man, woman and child in this country? How about an apology instead? (oh, right, Clinton did that) Well, then, how about a cat? Or some of Reagan’s leftover government cheese?
I never got my apology. I’m a left-handed agnostic female Unitarian Jew. Left-handed people and agnostics and women used to be burned at the stake. And what Hitler did to the Jews pales against the actions of Stalin or the former czars of Russia. God knows how many of my relatives were killed by marauding Cossacks. While they were praying in synagogue yet. Hell. They ought to give me Disneyland.
But seriously…where are the Martin Luther King’s of our time, demanding not just justice but reason? Where are the Ghandis?
Oh, right. Somebody shot them.
But Dr. King would be disgusted if he were alive today. By the healthy young black men selling coke on the streetcorners of the cities of the Hudson Valley, and elsewhere. By gang-bangers shooting each other up. By kids calling each other the "n" word. And he'd be heartbroken to see that nothing had been done about his dream. That this is a world not united but still divided, and worse, divided by choice.
Colleges have black fraternities and white fraternities, by choice.
Their dining halls have black tables and white tables, by choice.
Walk through the mall and black kids are over here and white kids are over there.
Studies were done years ago showing that girls learned better in an atmosphere free from boys. So all-girls schools were established. An African American woman in the Bronx extended the model and started an all-black-girls school in the Bronx. They almost lost their funding because they were accused of discrimination – not against whites but against boys.
Are we really back to the days of “separate but equal?” What will be next? Health clubs? Restaurants? TV networks? (all right, I think we have that already) But I seem to remember who was an advocate for separate but equal. Governor George Wallace. And someone shot him, too.
I hope to hell that this isn’t the truth, but perhaps the pendulum has to swing all the way around before we can see a glimmer of that dream again.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Fiction Friday
This is another excerpt from The Role Model. Oh, it almost makes me miss my job! ;)
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Pissed at having to burn valuable phone time attending another sales meeting - and prompted three times by the god-awful blinking reminder on his desktop - Ted and his monthly inflow figures huffed toward the glass-walled conference room at exactly 11:01.
But the meeting wasn’t even close to starting. The lights were on, the projector wasn’t hooked up yet, the inevitable PowerPoint presentation wasn’t vacillating against the screen. The jowly bulk of Garrett Ames, Senior VP of Sales, leered into the guts of a laptop being disemboweled by Lucy, the company’s one-woman IT department. Yeah, he was really looking at the motherboard, the dirty old fuck. His gin-blossom nose was virtually buried in her cleavage.
Ames stabbed a bloated pink paw holding a pencil toward the open circuitry. “So what’s that thingamabob do?”
“It’s the disk drive.” Lucy shielded it with her hand. “Please be careful with that.”
He was undaunted. “And that’s where you’re supposed put the CDs?”
She gave Ames a withering glance over the tops of the tiny black-framed glasses that every female under thirty seemed to be wearing those days. She’d told Ted that Ames had broken three laptops in the last year. “Theoretically.”
Ted caught Lucy’s eye and smiled. She smiled back, ungluing something in his knees. She was like Kryptonite to him: a lethal polyglot of brains and beauty, thick black hair and long legs and clear olive-green eyes that looked straight through him to all the bullshit he tried to hide from the world.
What the hell are you doing, he warned himself, shoving a hand through a hairline that used to be lower. It was a good thing that the Charleston job was about to come through. Before what was still an innocent flirtation could go any further.
She had to know he was married. He kept a picture of Diana on his desk, for Christ’s sake. But maybe Lucy was one of those girls who didn’t care. He’d met a few. One of those young, opportunistic girls, who assumed legal age during Clinton’s definition of “is,” devoid of guilt, who figured that if you were cheating on your wife, it was your problem, not theirs, but only if someone found out.
“Amazing things. Amazing things,” Ames muttered toward Lucy’s breasts. Then somehow caught that Ted was standing in the doorway. He didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. “Oh, hey, Teddy. I just can’t get over how they get all that stuff into a box that small.”
In Ted’s peripheral vision he could see Lucy rolling her eyes. One of their discussions, over their series of innocent coffees and innocent lunches, was about how different generations have accepted the computerized workplace. Ted, not weaned on a mouse like Lucy, had learned all his technology on the fly. Lucy had admired that about him, what she called his “mental flexibility.” (Diana had likened it more to “the attention span of a coke-snorting gnat.”) He preferred to think of his thirst for novelty as self-inoculation against the kind of staidness so many of his contemporaries had settled into as they aged. God forbid he wound up like Garrett Ames, a sixty-something dinosaur. Either Ames’s synapses were ossified by too many three-martini lunches to absorb new information, or he simply didn’t care. The guy was still probably amazed by the invention of the telephone. And by the idea of having attractive young women in his own workplace to do his bidding, far from his wife’s scolding eyes.
Dirty old fuck.
But the dirty old fuck was still Ted’s boss. And the only thing standing between him and the Southeast Regional VP job that had been vacant for the last six weeks. Ted had made his case. Paraded out his numbers for the last fiscal year. Enumerated the deals he’d closed, his meteoric rise and stellar accomplishments since joining the company three years ago. He’d taken all the right parties out to lunch and talked about his eagerness to pursue new challenges. Never lost an opportunity to display his willingness to make the move to Charleston that the job required. Hell, he’d done everything short of grabbing Ames by his flabby jowls and singing “I wish I was in Dixie.”
But it was getting harder to play the waiting game. He’d paid his dues. He was forty-five years old. A youthful forty-five, he liked to think. Not too much gray or too many lines in his face, not yet. Good genes - from his mother’s side, at least - would only get you so far. It was time he either got the spoils, or moved on.
“Yeah,” Ted said. “Amazing. Look, Garrett, do I have time for a couple of calls? If I don’t catch Zurich now, I’m going to lose them until tomorrow. Time is money, you know.”
That was a technology that Ames could understand.
Still gaping into the maw of the laptop - or perhaps down Lucy’s blouse - Ames waves Ted off. But not before Ted could casually set his notepad computer and file folders at the “power position” at the conference table. Directly across from where the president usually sits. Not at his right hand. That was for squids, subordinate suits who will never rise higher than Regional VP. Eye contact, baby, that’s what worked. Hell, if he had to be mired in some time-suck of a meeting, he might as well make political hay out of it.
If Ames was too addled to get the message, perhaps it was time to go over his head.
--------
Pissed at having to burn valuable phone time attending another sales meeting - and prompted three times by the god-awful blinking reminder on his desktop - Ted and his monthly inflow figures huffed toward the glass-walled conference room at exactly 11:01.
But the meeting wasn’t even close to starting. The lights were on, the projector wasn’t hooked up yet, the inevitable PowerPoint presentation wasn’t vacillating against the screen. The jowly bulk of Garrett Ames, Senior VP of Sales, leered into the guts of a laptop being disemboweled by Lucy, the company’s one-woman IT department. Yeah, he was really looking at the motherboard, the dirty old fuck. His gin-blossom nose was virtually buried in her cleavage.
Ames stabbed a bloated pink paw holding a pencil toward the open circuitry. “So what’s that thingamabob do?”
“It’s the disk drive.” Lucy shielded it with her hand. “Please be careful with that.”
He was undaunted. “And that’s where you’re supposed put the CDs?”
She gave Ames a withering glance over the tops of the tiny black-framed glasses that every female under thirty seemed to be wearing those days. She’d told Ted that Ames had broken three laptops in the last year. “Theoretically.”
Ted caught Lucy’s eye and smiled. She smiled back, ungluing something in his knees. She was like Kryptonite to him: a lethal polyglot of brains and beauty, thick black hair and long legs and clear olive-green eyes that looked straight through him to all the bullshit he tried to hide from the world.
What the hell are you doing, he warned himself, shoving a hand through a hairline that used to be lower. It was a good thing that the Charleston job was about to come through. Before what was still an innocent flirtation could go any further.
She had to know he was married. He kept a picture of Diana on his desk, for Christ’s sake. But maybe Lucy was one of those girls who didn’t care. He’d met a few. One of those young, opportunistic girls, who assumed legal age during Clinton’s definition of “is,” devoid of guilt, who figured that if you were cheating on your wife, it was your problem, not theirs, but only if someone found out.
“Amazing things. Amazing things,” Ames muttered toward Lucy’s breasts. Then somehow caught that Ted was standing in the doorway. He didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. “Oh, hey, Teddy. I just can’t get over how they get all that stuff into a box that small.”
In Ted’s peripheral vision he could see Lucy rolling her eyes. One of their discussions, over their series of innocent coffees and innocent lunches, was about how different generations have accepted the computerized workplace. Ted, not weaned on a mouse like Lucy, had learned all his technology on the fly. Lucy had admired that about him, what she called his “mental flexibility.” (Diana had likened it more to “the attention span of a coke-snorting gnat.”) He preferred to think of his thirst for novelty as self-inoculation against the kind of staidness so many of his contemporaries had settled into as they aged. God forbid he wound up like Garrett Ames, a sixty-something dinosaur. Either Ames’s synapses were ossified by too many three-martini lunches to absorb new information, or he simply didn’t care. The guy was still probably amazed by the invention of the telephone. And by the idea of having attractive young women in his own workplace to do his bidding, far from his wife’s scolding eyes.
Dirty old fuck.
But the dirty old fuck was still Ted’s boss. And the only thing standing between him and the Southeast Regional VP job that had been vacant for the last six weeks. Ted had made his case. Paraded out his numbers for the last fiscal year. Enumerated the deals he’d closed, his meteoric rise and stellar accomplishments since joining the company three years ago. He’d taken all the right parties out to lunch and talked about his eagerness to pursue new challenges. Never lost an opportunity to display his willingness to make the move to Charleston that the job required. Hell, he’d done everything short of grabbing Ames by his flabby jowls and singing “I wish I was in Dixie.”
But it was getting harder to play the waiting game. He’d paid his dues. He was forty-five years old. A youthful forty-five, he liked to think. Not too much gray or too many lines in his face, not yet. Good genes - from his mother’s side, at least - would only get you so far. It was time he either got the spoils, or moved on.
“Yeah,” Ted said. “Amazing. Look, Garrett, do I have time for a couple of calls? If I don’t catch Zurich now, I’m going to lose them until tomorrow. Time is money, you know.”
That was a technology that Ames could understand.
Still gaping into the maw of the laptop - or perhaps down Lucy’s blouse - Ames waves Ted off. But not before Ted could casually set his notepad computer and file folders at the “power position” at the conference table. Directly across from where the president usually sits. Not at his right hand. That was for squids, subordinate suits who will never rise higher than Regional VP. Eye contact, baby, that’s what worked. Hell, if he had to be mired in some time-suck of a meeting, he might as well make political hay out of it.
If Ames was too addled to get the message, perhaps it was time to go over his head.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Treat yourself
Yesterday I went to yet another specialist and as I was leaving I did one of those mental forehead smacks and thought, hey, I’ve got four bucks in my pocket, why go right home when there’s a Starbucks next door? In just a few minutes, some 20-something Barista could be whipping me up a decaf latte with soy milk and I could be soothing away the memory of yet another person with letters after their name telling me there’s nothing wrong with me when my body keeps telling me otherwise.
Then, for some weird brain-bending reason, going for a grown-up treat after a doctor’s appointment made me think not of the lollipop after the childhood injection (that’s a story for another blog), but about a cat I used to have in Boston. We found each other when I saw a flyer posted in one of those 24/7 marts in Cleveland Circle advertising “Free kittens to good home.” At the time I lived in a studio apartment with a parakeet, two doves, and a man who was a serious control freak. I mean serious. I mean serious to the point of causing his girlfriends to develop eating disorders serious. I had some doubts as to whether this would qualify as a “good home,” but I needed a friend and ally, someone who would be glad to see me when I came home from work no matter what the hour, someone who wouldn’t scold me for buying the wrong brand of peanut butter. I chose a black tabby and named him Phineas. The woman loaned me a wicker basket to take him home on the subway.
The man I lived with took a shine not to the kitten but to the basket, and wouldn’t let me return it to the woman who’d loaned it to me, and I was young and cowed enough to obey him. The cat, however, didn’t. Phineas must have known in his little kitty heart that this was a bad man. I should have listened. Among other points of contention between us, he and I had major disagreements on how a cat should be raised. I know every feline has his or her own nature, but I think about eighty percent of how a cat turns out has to do with care and environment. Love given equals love returned (At least where pets are concerned. People are much more complicated). All of the cats I’d raised “from scratch” (all of two) had grown into loving, affectionate, loyal adults. This is what I’d planned for Phinny. Turns out my boyfriend had other ideas. He thought cats should be raised like dogs, and over the next few months, proceeded to yell, shove, smack and scold all the affection right out of the poor thing. Then, fortunately, the guy got a job that took him on the road about three weeks out of the month. But Finny didn’t catch on right away. He developed nervous tics. He followed me around the apartment as I got ready for work in the morning, clawing at my ankles, as if to say, “don’t leave me alone with him.” He had some kind of feline version of agoraphobia, and was afraid to leave the apartment. (maybe he was afraid to leave me alone with him) So, lacking the money for a cat carrier, I’d put him in a cardboard box to get him out the door. Then, because he was also claustrophobic, as soon as we got out, he had to be outside of the box, riding on my shoulder. My big mistake (besides not kicking this guy out on his ass) was that the first time I did this was to take him to the vet to have him neutered. I worked it out with the vet that I’d drop Phinny off on my way to work and pick him up on my way home. So in the morning I put him into the box, we got on the subway, he got out and started climbing up my coat to my shoulder. But something scared him. Maybe it was all the people. My feeling was that either he got an inkling of what was going to be done to him, or got hit with one of his many other neuroses.
He sprayed me.
In the middle of a crowded Green Line car, all over my brand new calf-length purple down coat that I’d gotten in Filene’s basement for some ridiculous discount, he let loose, his last chance to exert his feline manhood. Or to mark me as his territory for the rest of my life.
I never got the smell out.
And the difficulty of getting Finny out of the apartment never changed. After that, I tried bringing him to fun places – the Cleveland Circle Reservoir, the Public Gardens, even sitting with me at the Laundromat, hoping he’d want to cuddle up on a warm towel placed next to a dryer while I read – to show him that leaving the house wouldn’t always lead to getting your balls chopped off. But no dice.
It went from bad to worse. One night I had to work until midnight and came home to find a dead parakeet on my threshold. And by the time the guy left me for good, Phinny was so traumatized that I had no choice but to find him a better home. Fortunately, the friend who helped me move owned a large house on an acre of land.
I got reports on his condition from time to time. Phinny remained slightly aloof, but on the whole, was much, much happier for the rest of his life.
So always remember to get your lollipop, your latte, whatever gets you through the rough patches. Then they won’t have to take you out in a box until it’s absolutely necessary.
Then, for some weird brain-bending reason, going for a grown-up treat after a doctor’s appointment made me think not of the lollipop after the childhood injection (that’s a story for another blog), but about a cat I used to have in Boston. We found each other when I saw a flyer posted in one of those 24/7 marts in Cleveland Circle advertising “Free kittens to good home.” At the time I lived in a studio apartment with a parakeet, two doves, and a man who was a serious control freak. I mean serious. I mean serious to the point of causing his girlfriends to develop eating disorders serious. I had some doubts as to whether this would qualify as a “good home,” but I needed a friend and ally, someone who would be glad to see me when I came home from work no matter what the hour, someone who wouldn’t scold me for buying the wrong brand of peanut butter. I chose a black tabby and named him Phineas. The woman loaned me a wicker basket to take him home on the subway.
The man I lived with took a shine not to the kitten but to the basket, and wouldn’t let me return it to the woman who’d loaned it to me, and I was young and cowed enough to obey him. The cat, however, didn’t. Phineas must have known in his little kitty heart that this was a bad man. I should have listened. Among other points of contention between us, he and I had major disagreements on how a cat should be raised. I know every feline has his or her own nature, but I think about eighty percent of how a cat turns out has to do with care and environment. Love given equals love returned (At least where pets are concerned. People are much more complicated). All of the cats I’d raised “from scratch” (all of two) had grown into loving, affectionate, loyal adults. This is what I’d planned for Phinny. Turns out my boyfriend had other ideas. He thought cats should be raised like dogs, and over the next few months, proceeded to yell, shove, smack and scold all the affection right out of the poor thing. Then, fortunately, the guy got a job that took him on the road about three weeks out of the month. But Finny didn’t catch on right away. He developed nervous tics. He followed me around the apartment as I got ready for work in the morning, clawing at my ankles, as if to say, “don’t leave me alone with him.” He had some kind of feline version of agoraphobia, and was afraid to leave the apartment. (maybe he was afraid to leave me alone with him) So, lacking the money for a cat carrier, I’d put him in a cardboard box to get him out the door. Then, because he was also claustrophobic, as soon as we got out, he had to be outside of the box, riding on my shoulder. My big mistake (besides not kicking this guy out on his ass) was that the first time I did this was to take him to the vet to have him neutered. I worked it out with the vet that I’d drop Phinny off on my way to work and pick him up on my way home. So in the morning I put him into the box, we got on the subway, he got out and started climbing up my coat to my shoulder. But something scared him. Maybe it was all the people. My feeling was that either he got an inkling of what was going to be done to him, or got hit with one of his many other neuroses.
He sprayed me.
In the middle of a crowded Green Line car, all over my brand new calf-length purple down coat that I’d gotten in Filene’s basement for some ridiculous discount, he let loose, his last chance to exert his feline manhood. Or to mark me as his territory for the rest of my life.
I never got the smell out.
And the difficulty of getting Finny out of the apartment never changed. After that, I tried bringing him to fun places – the Cleveland Circle Reservoir, the Public Gardens, even sitting with me at the Laundromat, hoping he’d want to cuddle up on a warm towel placed next to a dryer while I read – to show him that leaving the house wouldn’t always lead to getting your balls chopped off. But no dice.
It went from bad to worse. One night I had to work until midnight and came home to find a dead parakeet on my threshold. And by the time the guy left me for good, Phinny was so traumatized that I had no choice but to find him a better home. Fortunately, the friend who helped me move owned a large house on an acre of land.
I got reports on his condition from time to time. Phinny remained slightly aloof, but on the whole, was much, much happier for the rest of his life.
So always remember to get your lollipop, your latte, whatever gets you through the rough patches. Then they won’t have to take you out in a box until it’s absolutely necessary.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Some reflections on the turning of the calendar
I hate when the snow melts in the middle of winter. Not only does it remind me of all the yard work we didn't get to last fall (oh, those slimy piles of leaves, the twigs and branches scattered by the winds of November), it's just plain weird. Snow is supposed to pile up from Christmas through January, spend a couple days melting (our classic "January Thaw") but never enough to take it all out. There may be some thin brown spots around some trees, or where the late December blizzards blew the snow cover thin, but mostly enough sticks around so I can pretend the world is still beautiful, still the way I imagine it to be underneath that white blanket. While the neighborhood we live in is nice, there are some areas of Taxville that, well let's just say that a blanket of snow improves their property values. I don't have to see the piles of crap in the Junkman's lawn, I don't have to see the cars up on blocks, the falling-down outbuildings. I can imagine that the barn with the ratty, moss-covered roof and the caved in side is something out of an Impressionist painting. Not that I'm a snob or anything. I could care less what people do or have on their little acres. Much as I don't want them judging mine. I'm sure there are people who shake their heads when they drive by and see that while I know the word "gardening," I'm loathe to practice it. It's just that aesthetically, snow is the rising tide that lifts all boats. A good coating makes us all equal, or as my little Polish grandmother used to say, "covers a multitude of sins."
At least until the rains come.
The world has gotten confused, I fear. In spots I can smell the earth. In spots, the grass is getting too green. No! I want to wave my arms at the earth. We're not ready! You're only going to back into the deep freeze and ice of February and your efforts will be in vain, your tiny shoots will only have just awoken and rubbed their eyes when they will be wiped out by the cold. I'm reminded of ancient Pompeii, where they told us in school that fossils were found showing Etna blew so quickly that dinners were still on the table, families still in their seats.
The squirrels aren't fooled, though. I see them scurrying about, checking their stores of nuts at the bases of the trees, knowing there's still more to come, that the season hasn't given up on us yet, there's still enough room for a little more geographic equality before the final thaw.
At least February, if not the cruelest month, is the shortest. I propose adding the equivalent of April Fool's day to February. By this time of winter, with the gloom and gray and shortened days wearing down our spirits, and even the Groundhog heading back into his den, we could all use a few good jokes.
At least until the rains come.
The world has gotten confused, I fear. In spots I can smell the earth. In spots, the grass is getting too green. No! I want to wave my arms at the earth. We're not ready! You're only going to back into the deep freeze and ice of February and your efforts will be in vain, your tiny shoots will only have just awoken and rubbed their eyes when they will be wiped out by the cold. I'm reminded of ancient Pompeii, where they told us in school that fossils were found showing Etna blew so quickly that dinners were still on the table, families still in their seats.
The squirrels aren't fooled, though. I see them scurrying about, checking their stores of nuts at the bases of the trees, knowing there's still more to come, that the season hasn't given up on us yet, there's still enough room for a little more geographic equality before the final thaw.
At least February, if not the cruelest month, is the shortest. I propose adding the equivalent of April Fool's day to February. By this time of winter, with the gloom and gray and shortened days wearing down our spirits, and even the Groundhog heading back into his den, we could all use a few good jokes.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
A Brief Football Tutorial for Women; or, how to impress guys during the Superbowl
Ladies, if you are like most American women, you could give a damn about football. You think it’s a pointless, barbaric sport and at game time your significant other is a chip-chomping zombie on the couch and you’d much rather be at the mall. Or, if you agree to go to whatever Superbowl party you’ve been invited to, you shrug, say you don’t understand football, and retreat into the kitchen with the other women to check on the nachos and drink margaritas.
Yes, you could continue like this. Or, if you’re interested in “Opus’s Cliff notes on football and how to look impressive in the eyes of men,” then keep reading. Otherwise, I’ll meet you at the mall later. We’ll get our nails done then try on shoes.
I warn you now, throwing out a few “GO, GO, GO”s when one of the guys has the ball and is running really fast isn’t going to cut it. Men will think you’re cute if you comment on which team has the more attractive uniform, but it’s not going to earn their respect or that prime couch position you’ve had your eye on since the opening kickoff.
First, a quick update on what we’re dealing with:
Usually the Superbowl game itself is duller than listening to Howard Cosell read the Iliad. It tends to be a one-sided yawn-fest because all through the playoffs there is usually one clear outstanding team, just waiting for the final dance. This year, it was the playoffs that were the disappointment. Two of the best teams in the NFL had very, very bad days. And now, because with two more evenly-matched teams going head-to-head, the attention is going to be on the game, and not just the commercials and the food.
Here are some basic facts about the match-up next Sunday:
• The Pittsburgh Steelers (in yellow (they call it gold) and black, from the AFC North Division) will be playing the Seattle Seahawks (in charcoal gray (for some reason they call it Royal Blue) and black, from the NFC West Division)
• Seattle did pretty well this year (13-3) and never lost at home, but Pittsburgh is the lowest-seeded team (rated at #6, and went 11-5 this year) to have ever made it to the Superbowl.
• Both teams have their own “sympathy” factors (eg: reasons to root for one team or another) Jerome Bettis of the Steelers, a potential Hall-of-Famer (Call him “The Bus” and sound really impressive), who is probably retiring this season, has his first and probably last chance for a Superbowl ring in his career. And this is Seattle’s first trip to the big show. Points for being the underdog.
• The “eyeball” factor (how many people the network expects to be watching) is about equal for both teams. In other words, the media doesn’t really care as much about this game as, say, if the teams were from larger cities or had greater followings or were more controversial. So the commercials might not be that great either. (Except for the MasterCard Debit Card commercial: keep a look out for this one) But in general, this is another reason why you should know something about the game.
For those of you who don’t know anything about how football works, here are the basics:
1. The game is played on a 100-yard rectangular field. If you’ve ever jogged on your local high school or college track, then it’s a little less than the distance from end-to-end. Doesn’t seem like a whole lot to run, but try doing it really, really fast wearing cleats and five pounds of helmet and full padding while a pack of ginormous, sweaty guys are trying to catch you and make you eat dirt. Unless you like that sort of thing. But there are other web sites for that.
2. The overall objective of the game is, after four 15-minute quarters and as many quarters of overtime as it takes (or two, in regular season play) to score more points than the other team. Note: overtime requires lots more beer on the part of the spectators. If you are hosting the party, try to anticipate this need.
3. During their turn with the ball, each team gets, at minimum, four tries (called “downs”) to try to reach their opponent’s goal line. They do this by passing or running the ball down the field, gaining as many yards as they can before they are tackled by the other team’s defense (see “eating dirt, point #1), forced to run out of bounds, or have the ball stripped away from them by the other team. If they gain enough yardage during a drive, they are granted “first down” which means that they get a whole new set of downs in order to move the ball and try to score. On TV, they put in a handy electronic orange line to show you how many yards the team needs to move the ball in order to get a first down. It would be very, very cool to have a device like this in real life (think how handy it would be for dating and finding a parking space), but unfortunately, like instant holes, it only exists on TV.
4. To score, the offensive squad of the team with possession of the ball can run the ball into the end zone, catch the ball in the end zone (both of these are called a touchdown), or kicking the ball through the upright posts at the end of the field (this is called a field goal). After a touchdown, the player who made the touchdown often does a little “in your face” dance. While this may be entertaining to watch, there are no extra points awarded for form or creativity, although sometimes if he is too creative, the NFL may decide to fine him. Nudity is especially frowned upon.
5. When the team doesn’t get a touchdown or a field goal after using up their four downs, (If they use them up consecutively without gaining at least 10 yards, it’s called “four and out.” This is where you roll your eyes and ask a guy to get you a beer) then the other team gets possession of the ball.
There are LOTS more rules, but basically this is all you need to get started. If you’re interested in things like quarterback blitzes and what a cornerback does and what’s it mean when the ref circles his hands round each other like he’s playing Jon Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever” (it means “false start,” by the way), the full rules are at http://www.football.com/rulesandinfo.shtml and you can study your little heart out. (Yes, this may sound un-feminist, but most men are still awed by women who know football. Extra points for questioning the ref’s calls, high-fiving and drinking beer out of the bottle)
But if after this you still don’t give a damn about the game, but plan to go to a party anyway, there are other things to look forward to. The commercials should be pretty good. And Mick Jagger is performing at the halftime show. Enough said. Maybe there will be another wardrobe malfunction.
Yes, you could continue like this. Or, if you’re interested in “Opus’s Cliff notes on football and how to look impressive in the eyes of men,” then keep reading. Otherwise, I’ll meet you at the mall later. We’ll get our nails done then try on shoes.
I warn you now, throwing out a few “GO, GO, GO”s when one of the guys has the ball and is running really fast isn’t going to cut it. Men will think you’re cute if you comment on which team has the more attractive uniform, but it’s not going to earn their respect or that prime couch position you’ve had your eye on since the opening kickoff.
First, a quick update on what we’re dealing with:
Usually the Superbowl game itself is duller than listening to Howard Cosell read the Iliad. It tends to be a one-sided yawn-fest because all through the playoffs there is usually one clear outstanding team, just waiting for the final dance. This year, it was the playoffs that were the disappointment. Two of the best teams in the NFL had very, very bad days. And now, because with two more evenly-matched teams going head-to-head, the attention is going to be on the game, and not just the commercials and the food.
Here are some basic facts about the match-up next Sunday:
• The Pittsburgh Steelers (in yellow (they call it gold) and black, from the AFC North Division) will be playing the Seattle Seahawks (in charcoal gray (for some reason they call it Royal Blue) and black, from the NFC West Division)
• Seattle did pretty well this year (13-3) and never lost at home, but Pittsburgh is the lowest-seeded team (rated at #6, and went 11-5 this year) to have ever made it to the Superbowl.
• Both teams have their own “sympathy” factors (eg: reasons to root for one team or another) Jerome Bettis of the Steelers, a potential Hall-of-Famer (Call him “The Bus” and sound really impressive), who is probably retiring this season, has his first and probably last chance for a Superbowl ring in his career. And this is Seattle’s first trip to the big show. Points for being the underdog.
• The “eyeball” factor (how many people the network expects to be watching) is about equal for both teams. In other words, the media doesn’t really care as much about this game as, say, if the teams were from larger cities or had greater followings or were more controversial. So the commercials might not be that great either. (Except for the MasterCard Debit Card commercial: keep a look out for this one) But in general, this is another reason why you should know something about the game.
For those of you who don’t know anything about how football works, here are the basics:
1. The game is played on a 100-yard rectangular field. If you’ve ever jogged on your local high school or college track, then it’s a little less than the distance from end-to-end. Doesn’t seem like a whole lot to run, but try doing it really, really fast wearing cleats and five pounds of helmet and full padding while a pack of ginormous, sweaty guys are trying to catch you and make you eat dirt. Unless you like that sort of thing. But there are other web sites for that.
2. The overall objective of the game is, after four 15-minute quarters and as many quarters of overtime as it takes (or two, in regular season play) to score more points than the other team. Note: overtime requires lots more beer on the part of the spectators. If you are hosting the party, try to anticipate this need.
3. During their turn with the ball, each team gets, at minimum, four tries (called “downs”) to try to reach their opponent’s goal line. They do this by passing or running the ball down the field, gaining as many yards as they can before they are tackled by the other team’s defense (see “eating dirt, point #1), forced to run out of bounds, or have the ball stripped away from them by the other team. If they gain enough yardage during a drive, they are granted “first down” which means that they get a whole new set of downs in order to move the ball and try to score. On TV, they put in a handy electronic orange line to show you how many yards the team needs to move the ball in order to get a first down. It would be very, very cool to have a device like this in real life (think how handy it would be for dating and finding a parking space), but unfortunately, like instant holes, it only exists on TV.
4. To score, the offensive squad of the team with possession of the ball can run the ball into the end zone, catch the ball in the end zone (both of these are called a touchdown), or kicking the ball through the upright posts at the end of the field (this is called a field goal). After a touchdown, the player who made the touchdown often does a little “in your face” dance. While this may be entertaining to watch, there are no extra points awarded for form or creativity, although sometimes if he is too creative, the NFL may decide to fine him. Nudity is especially frowned upon.
5. When the team doesn’t get a touchdown or a field goal after using up their four downs, (If they use them up consecutively without gaining at least 10 yards, it’s called “four and out.” This is where you roll your eyes and ask a guy to get you a beer) then the other team gets possession of the ball.
There are LOTS more rules, but basically this is all you need to get started. If you’re interested in things like quarterback blitzes and what a cornerback does and what’s it mean when the ref circles his hands round each other like he’s playing Jon Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever” (it means “false start,” by the way), the full rules are at http://www.football.com/rulesandinfo.shtml and you can study your little heart out. (Yes, this may sound un-feminist, but most men are still awed by women who know football. Extra points for questioning the ref’s calls, high-fiving and drinking beer out of the bottle)
But if after this you still don’t give a damn about the game, but plan to go to a party anyway, there are other things to look forward to. The commercials should be pretty good. And Mick Jagger is performing at the halftime show. Enough said. Maybe there will be another wardrobe malfunction.
Friday, January 27, 2006
The Search Engine That Couldn't
Early in my attempts to find work after I was last separated from my paycheck, I posted my resume on a local employment web site and clicked a little box that offered to send me e-mail alerts IMMEDIATELY should any suitable jobs be posted. How nice of them, I thought. How considerate of my time. How special I felt, that they would send me compatible openings AS SOON AS THEY BECAME AVAILABLE! Not only did I click this little box, but to make these searches more tailored to my needs, they wrote, I could enter a number of keywords at the requested places, listing titles of jobs I was interested in, skills I could provide, and keywords I did NOT want to see.
For a little background (for those of you who aren’t familiar with what the books call my “skill set” (sounds like I come equipped with my own selection of power tools)) I was a project manager in marketing communications for the last eight years. I do desktop publishing, web design (front end only) and editing. I know the standard desktop-publishers set of software – Quark, Illustrator, Photoshop, Word, Excel, Dreamweaver and enough Access and HTML to be dangerous. I do graphic design for print; I write and proofread and edit. I put all of these things in the little boxes. I also indicated that I did not want to be considered for an entry-level position.
So, to date, here’s what I’ve been offered (the MINUTE they became available!)
• Truck driver
• Visual Basic Application Programmer
• Entry-Level Java Software Developer
• Insurance Claim Examiner
• Restaurant Manager
• Clinical Research Manager for a pharmaceutical firm
The truck driver one looks kind of interesting. Except all I can think about is that Harry Chapin song, “30,000 pounds of bananas” about a truck driver whose brakes fail and he spills his cargo and slides all the way into Scranton, PA. If I was interested in losing the rest of my eyesight and developing permanent spinal deformities, I could give the programmer positions a try. And wouldn’t I like a crack at insurance claims! MRIs for everyone!!! Everyone would get approved!! I think I might last a few weeks, though, before they’d catch onto me. I’d be pretty bad at restaurants – one sexist comment and some customer might be wearing his dinner. Plus I’d have to be on my feet all night. (I don’t remember “works standing” to be one of the skill sets I checked off) And hey, I could be qualified for the pharmaceutical firm. I’ve certainly tested enough medications over the last year. But maybe they don’t want me at the helm.
Then they sent me another e-mail. The subject line was: “Is your resume being overlooked?”
Yes, I thought. BY YOU!!!! It offered me a chance, for only $9.95, to become a “featured job seeker!” so my resume will be stuck right under the noses of the biggest decision-makers in the area!
I had a feeling that the key to better success was to throw some money at them. Just like the rest of the world. But maybe I’ll just go back to the original keywords. Maybe if I enter the OPPOSITE of what I want, I might actually get something I’m qualified for. It’s worth a shot!
(Note from Opus: Fiction Friday will resume next week...had to get this off my bill first)
For a little background (for those of you who aren’t familiar with what the books call my “skill set” (sounds like I come equipped with my own selection of power tools)) I was a project manager in marketing communications for the last eight years. I do desktop publishing, web design (front end only) and editing. I know the standard desktop-publishers set of software – Quark, Illustrator, Photoshop, Word, Excel, Dreamweaver and enough Access and HTML to be dangerous. I do graphic design for print; I write and proofread and edit. I put all of these things in the little boxes. I also indicated that I did not want to be considered for an entry-level position.
So, to date, here’s what I’ve been offered (the MINUTE they became available!)
• Truck driver
• Visual Basic Application Programmer
• Entry-Level Java Software Developer
• Insurance Claim Examiner
• Restaurant Manager
• Clinical Research Manager for a pharmaceutical firm
The truck driver one looks kind of interesting. Except all I can think about is that Harry Chapin song, “30,000 pounds of bananas” about a truck driver whose brakes fail and he spills his cargo and slides all the way into Scranton, PA. If I was interested in losing the rest of my eyesight and developing permanent spinal deformities, I could give the programmer positions a try. And wouldn’t I like a crack at insurance claims! MRIs for everyone!!! Everyone would get approved!! I think I might last a few weeks, though, before they’d catch onto me. I’d be pretty bad at restaurants – one sexist comment and some customer might be wearing his dinner. Plus I’d have to be on my feet all night. (I don’t remember “works standing” to be one of the skill sets I checked off) And hey, I could be qualified for the pharmaceutical firm. I’ve certainly tested enough medications over the last year. But maybe they don’t want me at the helm.
Then they sent me another e-mail. The subject line was: “Is your resume being overlooked?”
Yes, I thought. BY YOU!!!! It offered me a chance, for only $9.95, to become a “featured job seeker!” so my resume will be stuck right under the noses of the biggest decision-makers in the area!
I had a feeling that the key to better success was to throw some money at them. Just like the rest of the world. But maybe I’ll just go back to the original keywords. Maybe if I enter the OPPOSITE of what I want, I might actually get something I’m qualified for. It’s worth a shot!
(Note from Opus: Fiction Friday will resume next week...had to get this off my bill first)
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Meditations For Women Who Think Too Much, part 1
Stuck among the other things in one of the boxes that came back from my office was a tiny, tastefully-designed book, “Meditations For Women Who Do Too Much.” It was never my book; I’m not sure how it made it into my stuff, (a coincidental mistake or something watching over my shoulder?) but as soon as I opened it and read that day’s entry I knew that someone had written it for recovering Wonder Women like me.
But they didn’t go far enough. With my current to-do list consisting of fascinating items like “make appointment with doctor” and “cruise web for jobs that potentially might not suck and don’t require heavy lifting or an hour commute,” the problem is now a matter of thinking too much. Does that pain in my knee mean that I walked too far yesterday? The ache in my back from breaking in my new sneakers or should I call the physical therapist? What is the meaning of life, anyway? If I ate a different ratio of protein to carbohydrates earlier in the evening would I sleep better? What if I can’t fall asleep tonight? What if I never sleep again? Do electric heating pads cause cancer? What if no one will ever hire me? What if they do? What did it mean when my physical therapist asked when my next appointment with the neurosurgeon was? Was this so he’d be sure to have his report done in time or is there something seriously wrong with me that I should have checked out by a specialist?
And it’s only 10:49 in the morning. I could go on like this all day. And have.
So maybe one of those tastefully-designed little books with inspirational quotes and heart-soothing homilies could do the trick. Here’s a sample entry:
---------
January 24, 2006
OBSESSION
“I don't really think about anything too much. I live in the present. I move on. I don't think about what happened yesterday. If I think too much, it kind of freaks me out.”
--Pamela Anderson
It has been shown that thinking too much can actually kill brain cells, cause cellulite and Keanu Reeves movies. Therefore thinking lightly, staying in the present so you don’t miss one ounce of life going on around you, is really the most effective and healthful way to pass the time between sit-com offers and bikini fittings, or while the peroxide is marinating into your scalp.
Don’t worry, be Pammy.
--------
I don't know, but for us ladies who are recovering from life, this could just be an idea whose time has come.
But they didn’t go far enough. With my current to-do list consisting of fascinating items like “make appointment with doctor” and “cruise web for jobs that potentially might not suck and don’t require heavy lifting or an hour commute,” the problem is now a matter of thinking too much. Does that pain in my knee mean that I walked too far yesterday? The ache in my back from breaking in my new sneakers or should I call the physical therapist? What is the meaning of life, anyway? If I ate a different ratio of protein to carbohydrates earlier in the evening would I sleep better? What if I can’t fall asleep tonight? What if I never sleep again? Do electric heating pads cause cancer? What if no one will ever hire me? What if they do? What did it mean when my physical therapist asked when my next appointment with the neurosurgeon was? Was this so he’d be sure to have his report done in time or is there something seriously wrong with me that I should have checked out by a specialist?
And it’s only 10:49 in the morning. I could go on like this all day. And have.
So maybe one of those tastefully-designed little books with inspirational quotes and heart-soothing homilies could do the trick. Here’s a sample entry:
---------
January 24, 2006
OBSESSION
“I don't really think about anything too much. I live in the present. I move on. I don't think about what happened yesterday. If I think too much, it kind of freaks me out.”
--Pamela Anderson
It has been shown that thinking too much can actually kill brain cells, cause cellulite and Keanu Reeves movies. Therefore thinking lightly, staying in the present so you don’t miss one ounce of life going on around you, is really the most effective and healthful way to pass the time between sit-com offers and bikini fittings, or while the peroxide is marinating into your scalp.
Don’t worry, be Pammy.
--------
I don't know, but for us ladies who are recovering from life, this could just be an idea whose time has come.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Fun with magnetic poetry
Many months ago, at the nadir of my recovery when I couldn't do much writing, my friend "Gladys" brought me a gift of a refrigerator magnet of the cartoon character Maxine plus a boatload of magnetized words you could have her "say." At one time I had running up and down the fridge random groups of words that either amused me or I thought would make interesting short story titles. (MEP, I think you helped with some of these). I wrote them all down in my journal so I could mix the words up and play again. Just found the journal entry today. Call it my creative gift to you. Use them to go write something, stuff fortune cookies, amuse your friends, or just go watch football and the hell with it. Your choice.
Lottery Hurry
Touch Maxine
Know Life
Remote Road
Somebody Stop Me
Those Who Annoy
Funny Boobs
Phone Sag
Ask About Our Old Hips
Been There, Do Them
Lost An Age
His Was Tiny
Nice Insult
Throw Behind Us
Are Not
Am
Worst Beach
Best Dream
Dirt Control
Wimp Ahead
Crazy Birthday
Look For Floyd
Slow People
Sore Loser
New Gripe
Small Men
What State Are We In
Jerk Of The Year
Just Smell Here
Someplace Without Man
Drive Like Their Kid
Leave Well
No Lady
Boring Little Hot Flash
Look Under Him
Be Mine Or Else
Lottery Moon
To Hell With Getting Old
Damned Far Away
Lottery Hurry
Touch Maxine
Know Life
Remote Road
Somebody Stop Me
Those Who Annoy
Funny Boobs
Phone Sag
Ask About Our Old Hips
Been There, Do Them
Lost An Age
His Was Tiny
Nice Insult
Throw Behind Us
Are Not
Am
Worst Beach
Best Dream
Dirt Control
Wimp Ahead
Crazy Birthday
Look For Floyd
Slow People
Sore Loser
New Gripe
Small Men
What State Are We In
Jerk Of The Year
Just Smell Here
Someplace Without Man
Drive Like Their Kid
Leave Well
No Lady
Boring Little Hot Flash
Look Under Him
Be Mine Or Else
Lottery Moon
To Hell With Getting Old
Damned Far Away
Saturday, January 21, 2006
If I was that smart I'd be rich
For those of you who don’t live in Eastern New York, Alan Chartock is the President and CEO of WAMC, our local NPR affiliate. I’m a huge fan of WAMC, don’t know what I’d do without Garrison Keillor and All Things Considered, but Chartock is one of the few things I don’t like about the station. He’s most impressed with himself, has an annoying voice, and from the number of programs he either hosts or participates in, loves to hear the sound of it.
Say what you want about him, but he’s either a marketing genius or he’s sold his soul to the devil.
I don’t know how he and his team does it, but for the last few years, every fund drive the station holds just happens to coincide with some event guaranteed to galvanize every liberal with a checkbook 100 miles outside of the sound of that whiny, wheedling voice.
When Mario Cuomo, beloved 4-term democratic governor of New York (beloved toward the end only, I believe, out of nostalgia and for his impassioned oratory for The Way Things Should Be, for at the time the state’s financial system was going down in flames), lost to Republican challenger George Pataki, it just happened to be right before a fund drive. Pledges in Cuomo’s honor rained, no, poured upon the station, coupled with fears Chartock whipped up that now with a Republican at the helm, the enemy would soon be at the gate to cut their funding. Volunteers could barely keep up with the callers, and it was one of the fastest fund drives in the station’s history.
When Paul Wellstone was tragically killed in a plane crash, it just happened to be right before a fund drive. And the pledges cascaded in. “They are surely going to take over now,” Chartock said.
Now he’s got a doozy planned. The next Pledge Week (at the beginning of February) is slated to correspond with the Arlen Spector hearings, which want to investigate whether or not Bush undermined the constitution with his wiretaps. But…to allow the station to air the hearings at all, a certain pledge quota must be made each night. Not enough money pulled in by morning, and the station couldn’t run the hearings. Chartock has been airing service announcements about this for a few days, so that you have an opportunity to get your pledges in early, through the station’s web site.
Brilliant. This is absolutely brilliant. Not only do I NOT have to listen to Chartock talking and pleading his way all the way through yet another fund drive (and threatening to yodel, which he does when the phones get slow), but the station is guaranteed to make a lot of money, which might even keep the Metropolitan Opera on the air.
For the opera fans among us (even though I learned all my arias from Bugs Bunny), for Garrison Keillor and something to balance out the growing weight of conservative radio, in the interest of keeping all opinions in the public ear, keep those pledges coming.
Now if I could only figure out a way to market myself as cleverly. Perhaps I can choose the most dour times of year – income tax deadline looming, the day we set the clocks back, that one week in February when it’s been snowing for ten days in a row and you can’t bear to put on the coat and scarf and boots one more time..and have my own Pledge Drive! Buy my books (when I get them published) and laugh a little!
Hey…it could work. Now if I could only get my hands on a few dozen phones and some volunteers….
Say what you want about him, but he’s either a marketing genius or he’s sold his soul to the devil.
I don’t know how he and his team does it, but for the last few years, every fund drive the station holds just happens to coincide with some event guaranteed to galvanize every liberal with a checkbook 100 miles outside of the sound of that whiny, wheedling voice.
When Mario Cuomo, beloved 4-term democratic governor of New York (beloved toward the end only, I believe, out of nostalgia and for his impassioned oratory for The Way Things Should Be, for at the time the state’s financial system was going down in flames), lost to Republican challenger George Pataki, it just happened to be right before a fund drive. Pledges in Cuomo’s honor rained, no, poured upon the station, coupled with fears Chartock whipped up that now with a Republican at the helm, the enemy would soon be at the gate to cut their funding. Volunteers could barely keep up with the callers, and it was one of the fastest fund drives in the station’s history.
When Paul Wellstone was tragically killed in a plane crash, it just happened to be right before a fund drive. And the pledges cascaded in. “They are surely going to take over now,” Chartock said.
Now he’s got a doozy planned. The next Pledge Week (at the beginning of February) is slated to correspond with the Arlen Spector hearings, which want to investigate whether or not Bush undermined the constitution with his wiretaps. But…to allow the station to air the hearings at all, a certain pledge quota must be made each night. Not enough money pulled in by morning, and the station couldn’t run the hearings. Chartock has been airing service announcements about this for a few days, so that you have an opportunity to get your pledges in early, through the station’s web site.
Brilliant. This is absolutely brilliant. Not only do I NOT have to listen to Chartock talking and pleading his way all the way through yet another fund drive (and threatening to yodel, which he does when the phones get slow), but the station is guaranteed to make a lot of money, which might even keep the Metropolitan Opera on the air.
For the opera fans among us (even though I learned all my arias from Bugs Bunny), for Garrison Keillor and something to balance out the growing weight of conservative radio, in the interest of keeping all opinions in the public ear, keep those pledges coming.
Now if I could only figure out a way to market myself as cleverly. Perhaps I can choose the most dour times of year – income tax deadline looming, the day we set the clocks back, that one week in February when it’s been snowing for ten days in a row and you can’t bear to put on the coat and scarf and boots one more time..and have my own Pledge Drive! Buy my books (when I get them published) and laugh a little!
Hey…it could work. Now if I could only get my hands on a few dozen phones and some volunteers….
Thursday, January 19, 2006
These aren't a few of my favorite things
I was thinking about something I wrote on a post to Highlander (http://miserableannalsoftheearth.blogspot.com) (dammit, I know HTML; I just have to sit down and figure out how to do links on this thing) - and I lost track of what post it was, but just go there anyway when you get a chance; he's funny and articulate) about movie remakes.
I was expressing my disappointment that there have been so many lately. Perfectly perfect, classic movies like King Kong, The Producers, Fun with Dick and Jane, Yours, Mine and Ours and Cheaper by the Dozen being remade ostensibly for “the current generation,” or because a hot new star with lots of power always liked that Doris Day movie or now they can do special effects that were impossible before. Now, I know that there are talented screenwriters out there. I’ve met one or two. Not to drop names, but Ron Nyswander, in particular, who wrote “Philadelphia,” lives nearby and gave a small talk and Q&A to a local publishing network group. And I’m sure there are many, many more writers out there besides him. I’ve heard of them. I know they exist.
SO WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?
Just like in publishing, all these gatekeepers who continually say in interviews that they’re looking for “fresh new voices,” yet they keep putting out the same old tripe because it made money before.
WHERE IS YOUR COURAGE, PEOPLE?
All right, there was Breakneck Mountain. There was the new Woody Allen flick. Several others I’m sure you (and especially Highlander) could list without taking a breath.
And I have to add a disclaimer here, in the interest of full disclosure: I like classics. I hate artificial turf and the designated hitter. I cringe at misplaced apostrophes. It bothers me that “dis” is now in the dictionary.
But if anyone makes an updated “Philadelphia Story” starring Tea Leoni and Matt Damon, or “Pillow Talk” with Uma Thurman and Ben Affleck, I will have to hunt them down and take away their union cards.
And unfortunately this virus has spread. I don’t know who has infected whom, but it’s taken over Broadway. And television. With a few notable exceptions, TV and its creeping amoeba of reality shows is becoming worthless. I watched a few minutes of “American Idol” with my husband last night, just because I’d never seen it before and I was curious at what all the hoopla was about. And it made me sad, that this kind of thing now passes for entertainment. (all right, I admit, I do like “Survivor” and it’s my blog and I don’t have to explain why.)
I know that reality shows are cheaper than sitcoms. They don’t have to pay a team of writers or a gaggle of stars. And it’s damned expensive to produce a show on Broadway. They have to pay all the same union people, so why take a chance on a flop?
But movies? Even a bad remake (except for “The Goodbye Girl,” they could have lip-synced the damned thing, the male lead was even trying for Richard Dreyfus’s delivery, which was abysmal and embarrassing) requires a screenwriter. So why not hire someone good?
I know they exist. My theory is that they are being held hostage.(funny, I haven’t seen Ron around town in a while) Like Collette, they have been locked away in some tower and forced to write things that other people take credit for, and in script meetings these other people read the treatments and frown and say, “I don’t know, it seems like a long shot. So let’s take out the half-blind, homeless lesbian folk singer and replace her with, oh, I don’t know, a young Julie Andrews type, what’s her name, the one that was in that Hugh Grant movie, and let’s make her straight and have her fall in love with her boss, who is in the Army and has all these kids…oh, what the hell. Let’s just remake “The Sound of Music.”
And if anyone does that, there’s going to be serious hell to pay.
I was expressing my disappointment that there have been so many lately. Perfectly perfect, classic movies like King Kong, The Producers, Fun with Dick and Jane, Yours, Mine and Ours and Cheaper by the Dozen being remade ostensibly for “the current generation,” or because a hot new star with lots of power always liked that Doris Day movie or now they can do special effects that were impossible before. Now, I know that there are talented screenwriters out there. I’ve met one or two. Not to drop names, but Ron Nyswander, in particular, who wrote “Philadelphia,” lives nearby and gave a small talk and Q&A to a local publishing network group. And I’m sure there are many, many more writers out there besides him. I’ve heard of them. I know they exist.
SO WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?
Just like in publishing, all these gatekeepers who continually say in interviews that they’re looking for “fresh new voices,” yet they keep putting out the same old tripe because it made money before.
WHERE IS YOUR COURAGE, PEOPLE?
All right, there was Breakneck Mountain. There was the new Woody Allen flick. Several others I’m sure you (and especially Highlander) could list without taking a breath.
And I have to add a disclaimer here, in the interest of full disclosure: I like classics. I hate artificial turf and the designated hitter. I cringe at misplaced apostrophes. It bothers me that “dis” is now in the dictionary.
But if anyone makes an updated “Philadelphia Story” starring Tea Leoni and Matt Damon, or “Pillow Talk” with Uma Thurman and Ben Affleck, I will have to hunt them down and take away their union cards.
And unfortunately this virus has spread. I don’t know who has infected whom, but it’s taken over Broadway. And television. With a few notable exceptions, TV and its creeping amoeba of reality shows is becoming worthless. I watched a few minutes of “American Idol” with my husband last night, just because I’d never seen it before and I was curious at what all the hoopla was about. And it made me sad, that this kind of thing now passes for entertainment. (all right, I admit, I do like “Survivor” and it’s my blog and I don’t have to explain why.)
I know that reality shows are cheaper than sitcoms. They don’t have to pay a team of writers or a gaggle of stars. And it’s damned expensive to produce a show on Broadway. They have to pay all the same union people, so why take a chance on a flop?
But movies? Even a bad remake (except for “The Goodbye Girl,” they could have lip-synced the damned thing, the male lead was even trying for Richard Dreyfus’s delivery, which was abysmal and embarrassing) requires a screenwriter. So why not hire someone good?
I know they exist. My theory is that they are being held hostage.(funny, I haven’t seen Ron around town in a while) Like Collette, they have been locked away in some tower and forced to write things that other people take credit for, and in script meetings these other people read the treatments and frown and say, “I don’t know, it seems like a long shot. So let’s take out the half-blind, homeless lesbian folk singer and replace her with, oh, I don’t know, a young Julie Andrews type, what’s her name, the one that was in that Hugh Grant movie, and let’s make her straight and have her fall in love with her boss, who is in the Army and has all these kids…oh, what the hell. Let’s just remake “The Sound of Music.”
And if anyone does that, there’s going to be serious hell to pay.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Boggle by candlelight
I woke today to a raging windstorm (and no, it wasn’t my husband bloviating). Thankfully I got in a good long shower, some yoga, my daily bowl of oatmeal and a few minutes on the heating pads to further loosen my stiff back before the power blew.
I just shrugged my mental shoulders and continued with my PT exercises.
Outages come more frequently around here and last longer than they used to - our little Mayberry has expanded in the last couple of years but the power company has yet to upgrade the infrastructure. A lot of people in the ‘hood are getting upset about this - but secretly, I like blackouts. (Of course I like them better in the summer, and I definitely like them better when I can call the automated outage line and they tell me when service will resume.)
No, really. Some people tell me the lack of infrastructure – the sighs and moans the house makes when the electrical appliances are humming - makes them nervous. It’s not simply that they miss their electrical conveniences; they just can’t stand all that quiet. Not me. While I like my microwave and computer as much as the next person, I can do with a bit of quiet every so often. And if you listen for a while, especially during summer outages when you can open the windows or sit outside, it’s really not that quiet around here. Even in the winter with the house shut up tight as a drum you can hear the birds tussling around the feeder, the whip of the wind through the bare branches, the whinnying of the horses in the next field. I can identify each neighbor by the sound of their cars, which kids should zip up their coats because their bus is coming up the hill. In summer, it’s the splash of a child cannonballing into a pool, the rustle of the leaves, the rush of the rain, the coyotes in the distance. OK, outages at night are initially inconvenient – all that hunting about for candles and flashlights and batteries, fretting if the basement will flood as we sleep. But reading a favorite book by candlelight? Getting together with neighbors for “blackout parties” where we bring whatever is in the fridge and throw it on the grill, crack open a few beers and tell outrageous stories from our youths? Actually talking to people instead of getting together to watch a game or a DVD? One blackout my husband’s cousin was visiting, and we lit all our candles and set up a Boggle game. (warning: never play Boggle with anyone who has high-functioning autism – they’ll kick your ass) Boggle by candlelight is awesome. And we were playing and talking and I was really enjoying just the sound of our voices and imagining how life would have been in the eighteenth century. Getting water from the pump, lighting the whale-oil lamps when the sun went down.
And then with a blink and a beep, the electricity went on. My husband and his cousin let out a mutual whoop of relief. They left skid marks as they dashed off to reset clocks, restart the video game they’d been playing when the lights blew.
I felt…disappointed. Abandoned. But, I thought, watching them settling back into the sofa with their remote controls and snacks, you can’t put this genie back into the bottle.
Perhaps we should initiate National Blackout Day. One day a year, cut your house off from the grid. Not just as an energy-conservation measure, or a protest against our dependency on foreign oil, but to remember our roots. To bring us back together. Let’s pick a not-too-hot summer day. One with a nice breeze and a awe-inspiring sunset. You bring the beer. I’ll bring the Boggle.
I just shrugged my mental shoulders and continued with my PT exercises.
Outages come more frequently around here and last longer than they used to - our little Mayberry has expanded in the last couple of years but the power company has yet to upgrade the infrastructure. A lot of people in the ‘hood are getting upset about this - but secretly, I like blackouts. (Of course I like them better in the summer, and I definitely like them better when I can call the automated outage line and they tell me when service will resume.)
No, really. Some people tell me the lack of infrastructure – the sighs and moans the house makes when the electrical appliances are humming - makes them nervous. It’s not simply that they miss their electrical conveniences; they just can’t stand all that quiet. Not me. While I like my microwave and computer as much as the next person, I can do with a bit of quiet every so often. And if you listen for a while, especially during summer outages when you can open the windows or sit outside, it’s really not that quiet around here. Even in the winter with the house shut up tight as a drum you can hear the birds tussling around the feeder, the whip of the wind through the bare branches, the whinnying of the horses in the next field. I can identify each neighbor by the sound of their cars, which kids should zip up their coats because their bus is coming up the hill. In summer, it’s the splash of a child cannonballing into a pool, the rustle of the leaves, the rush of the rain, the coyotes in the distance. OK, outages at night are initially inconvenient – all that hunting about for candles and flashlights and batteries, fretting if the basement will flood as we sleep. But reading a favorite book by candlelight? Getting together with neighbors for “blackout parties” where we bring whatever is in the fridge and throw it on the grill, crack open a few beers and tell outrageous stories from our youths? Actually talking to people instead of getting together to watch a game or a DVD? One blackout my husband’s cousin was visiting, and we lit all our candles and set up a Boggle game. (warning: never play Boggle with anyone who has high-functioning autism – they’ll kick your ass) Boggle by candlelight is awesome. And we were playing and talking and I was really enjoying just the sound of our voices and imagining how life would have been in the eighteenth century. Getting water from the pump, lighting the whale-oil lamps when the sun went down.
And then with a blink and a beep, the electricity went on. My husband and his cousin let out a mutual whoop of relief. They left skid marks as they dashed off to reset clocks, restart the video game they’d been playing when the lights blew.
I felt…disappointed. Abandoned. But, I thought, watching them settling back into the sofa with their remote controls and snacks, you can’t put this genie back into the bottle.
Perhaps we should initiate National Blackout Day. One day a year, cut your house off from the grid. Not just as an energy-conservation measure, or a protest against our dependency on foreign oil, but to remember our roots. To bring us back together. Let’s pick a not-too-hot summer day. One with a nice breeze and a awe-inspiring sunset. You bring the beer. I’ll bring the Boggle.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Who lives, who dies
I promise, this is one of the few times where I’ll get political. I usually leave that to my husband – he’s the true politico in the family, and when he gets his own blog, you guys can argue with him until you all get carpal tunnel syndrome.
But something’s been bothering me ever since I heard that Clarence Ray Allen was slated to be put to death in California. The death penalty is one of those issues that’s always made me queasy, because I can see both sides of it. The very idea seems so Hammurabian, yet in what circumstances is it to be used, if at all?
For killing all those children, I thought justice was well served when Timothy McVeigh was taken out (although if justice was really well served, I would have strapped a suicide belt around him, rolled him into a field and blew him up). And John Mohammed deserves his fate - he was hunting people, for chrissakes. (Yet prison officials in August were ordered to force feed him following a hunger strike, to keep him alive so they could kill him. Huh?) And Scott Peterson, for killing his wife and the viable fetus of his child, has also earned his fate.
Yet the threat of death does not seem to be a deterrent to crime, and with newer DNA techniques what if we find out we’ve killed a lot of innocent people? But on the flip side, why do these people deserve to live? (if you can call being in prison with no hope of parole a life) Especially if it’s pretty clear that they are sociopaths who, when given the opportunity, probably would kill again? Why are some people’s lives more punishable for the taking than others? How can we justify paying for the upkeep of murderers into perpetuity when so many of our own children go to bed hungry at night? When our army is not adequately paid or armed?
But in the case of Clarence Ray Allen, a Choctaw Indian (for some reason, probably to show another example that it’s mostly minorities who get the death penalty, the press thought it important to report that he was a Choctaw Indian) I think the taking of his life was merciful. Here is a 75-year-old man with a long history of crime, already in prison for the murder of his son’s 17-year-old girlfriend in 1974 (At 40, he and his gang had committed a robbery and was afraid that his son’s girlfriend would tell police), then he compounds his crimes in 1980 by ordering members of his gang to murder three more people. He’s in a wheelchair; he’s blind and diabetic. He had a heart attack in September, was revived and sent back to death row. (again, revived so they could kill him)
Yet his lawyers were arguing up until the last that it would be “cruel and unusual punishment” to put this frail man to death. I can’t get into the guy’s head, but I’d imagine that under the circumstances of his health, on death row with the sword of Damocles dangling over his head every single day, I’d just as soon take the needle and have it done with.
And with what prison guards described as a “jovial” Allen’s final words, “this is a good day to die,” possibly he agreed with me.
But something’s been bothering me ever since I heard that Clarence Ray Allen was slated to be put to death in California. The death penalty is one of those issues that’s always made me queasy, because I can see both sides of it. The very idea seems so Hammurabian, yet in what circumstances is it to be used, if at all?
For killing all those children, I thought justice was well served when Timothy McVeigh was taken out (although if justice was really well served, I would have strapped a suicide belt around him, rolled him into a field and blew him up). And John Mohammed deserves his fate - he was hunting people, for chrissakes. (Yet prison officials in August were ordered to force feed him following a hunger strike, to keep him alive so they could kill him. Huh?) And Scott Peterson, for killing his wife and the viable fetus of his child, has also earned his fate.
Yet the threat of death does not seem to be a deterrent to crime, and with newer DNA techniques what if we find out we’ve killed a lot of innocent people? But on the flip side, why do these people deserve to live? (if you can call being in prison with no hope of parole a life) Especially if it’s pretty clear that they are sociopaths who, when given the opportunity, probably would kill again? Why are some people’s lives more punishable for the taking than others? How can we justify paying for the upkeep of murderers into perpetuity when so many of our own children go to bed hungry at night? When our army is not adequately paid or armed?
But in the case of Clarence Ray Allen, a Choctaw Indian (for some reason, probably to show another example that it’s mostly minorities who get the death penalty, the press thought it important to report that he was a Choctaw Indian) I think the taking of his life was merciful. Here is a 75-year-old man with a long history of crime, already in prison for the murder of his son’s 17-year-old girlfriend in 1974 (At 40, he and his gang had committed a robbery and was afraid that his son’s girlfriend would tell police), then he compounds his crimes in 1980 by ordering members of his gang to murder three more people. He’s in a wheelchair; he’s blind and diabetic. He had a heart attack in September, was revived and sent back to death row. (again, revived so they could kill him)
Yet his lawyers were arguing up until the last that it would be “cruel and unusual punishment” to put this frail man to death. I can’t get into the guy’s head, but I’d imagine that under the circumstances of his health, on death row with the sword of Damocles dangling over his head every single day, I’d just as soon take the needle and have it done with.
And with what prison guards described as a “jovial” Allen’s final words, “this is a good day to die,” possibly he agreed with me.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
What's Opera, Doc?
I have to apologize to my mother. I know she and my father tried so hard to give us “culture” when my two brothers and I were growing up – taking us to New York to see Broadway shows and go to museums, playing classical music on the piano, rehearsing show tunes from her community theater productions while we cleaned the house or rode in the car (thanks to her I can now sing the entire scores of “Oklahoma,” “Sound of Music” and “Fiorello,” something I don’t think my husband really has the same patience for, especially when we’re out in public).
And I appreciate everything. I really do. You guys were the best. But for some reason – and my younger brother concurs, in fact, he was the first one to bring it up – in my adult-created memory, my entire classical music education has come from Warner Brothers cartoons. I hear “Blue Danube” and I think of the ugly duckling swimming behind all those pretty swans. I hear Wagner and anyone of a certain age knows what I’m thinking: “Kill the WAB-it, kill the WAB-it…” from “What’s Opera, Doc,” the only BB cartoon ever to win an Oscar. “Bully for Bugs” I’m sure contained something from “Carmen,” or at least that’s how I remember it. Who could forget “Rabbit of Seville” as Bugs duked it out with a demented barber. And there’s the pompous basso profundo belting out arias from "Marriage of Figaro" cowing as whispers of “Leopold” go through the crowd and Bugs steps up to the podium in white tie and tail. (For those under 35, I mean Leopold Stokowski, inarguably the most famous director in the world or at least in New York in the late 40s, when the best of the Bugs Bunny cartoons were made)
And even now if I’m flipping around and see Bugs or Daffy or Elmer, I’m glued to the spot for the next 7-8 minutes, admiring the stuff that Tex Avery or Friz Freling or especially Chuck Jones put in there that was never meant for children. During Looney Tunes 40s heyday, the animators and directors were paid so poorly and managed so laughably (the claim is that Porky Pig was modeled after one of the studio heads) that they just wrote whatever the heck they wanted.
And it was brilliant.
So maybe it was a case of adults having fun without supervision (something a well-disciplined child of the 60s rarely got to see), or maybe hearing classical music while Bugs dressed up as Carmen Miranda that made it stick harder to my gray matter than sitting in some stuffy concert hall or listening to the radio on a Sunday afternoon.
Either way, it worked. So well that when several years ago my husband and I got a last-minute call to escort my older nephew to the Met for his tenth birthday to see “Carmen,” I could close my eyes and with only a small stretch of my imagination see Bugs Bunny swinging his tail in a lace mantilla.
And we pass the torch to another generation.
And I appreciate everything. I really do. You guys were the best. But for some reason – and my younger brother concurs, in fact, he was the first one to bring it up – in my adult-created memory, my entire classical music education has come from Warner Brothers cartoons. I hear “Blue Danube” and I think of the ugly duckling swimming behind all those pretty swans. I hear Wagner and anyone of a certain age knows what I’m thinking: “Kill the WAB-it, kill the WAB-it…” from “What’s Opera, Doc,” the only BB cartoon ever to win an Oscar. “Bully for Bugs” I’m sure contained something from “Carmen,” or at least that’s how I remember it. Who could forget “Rabbit of Seville” as Bugs duked it out with a demented barber. And there’s the pompous basso profundo belting out arias from "Marriage of Figaro" cowing as whispers of “Leopold” go through the crowd and Bugs steps up to the podium in white tie and tail. (For those under 35, I mean Leopold Stokowski, inarguably the most famous director in the world or at least in New York in the late 40s, when the best of the Bugs Bunny cartoons were made)
And even now if I’m flipping around and see Bugs or Daffy or Elmer, I’m glued to the spot for the next 7-8 minutes, admiring the stuff that Tex Avery or Friz Freling or especially Chuck Jones put in there that was never meant for children. During Looney Tunes 40s heyday, the animators and directors were paid so poorly and managed so laughably (the claim is that Porky Pig was modeled after one of the studio heads) that they just wrote whatever the heck they wanted.
And it was brilliant.
So maybe it was a case of adults having fun without supervision (something a well-disciplined child of the 60s rarely got to see), or maybe hearing classical music while Bugs dressed up as Carmen Miranda that made it stick harder to my gray matter than sitting in some stuffy concert hall or listening to the radio on a Sunday afternoon.
Either way, it worked. So well that when several years ago my husband and I got a last-minute call to escort my older nephew to the Met for his tenth birthday to see “Carmen,” I could close my eyes and with only a small stretch of my imagination see Bugs Bunny swinging his tail in a lace mantilla.
And we pass the torch to another generation.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Fiction Friday
I’ve been going through a rough time lately. It’s not easy becoming a butterfly at 44; the chrysalis is damned tight and itches. Part of my “therapy” includes indulging myself with comfort foods from my childhood like grilled cheese sandwiches and cinnamon toast. These foods made me think of the following passage from a novel I wrote last November during National Novel Writing Month, but never edited. Forgive me if this is something I might have given you to read before; but I just thought the universe needed this right now.
------
Adam had a speech prepared (his wife Liza had coached him through it), for when his mother demanded to be returned to her apartment after the biopsy and not back to Adam and Liza’s, where she’d been staying. For when she told him it wouldn’t be necessary for Adam and Liza to babysit her until the results come in. But after the procedure she’s quiet. Probably from the Valium she’d taken. Or maybe the reality of the claw-like creature on the x-ray and the doctor’s warning that she shouldn’t have waited so long are catching up with her and she’s been cowed into fearful silence. Adam is gentle with her, eases her into the car, offers help with the shoulder harness she’ll ultimately refuse in favor of the lap belt. He comes around the driver’s side, belts himself in and starts the engine.
“There’s that place at the Thruway exchange,” Adam says. “You want to stop for lunch?”
“Don’t spend your money,” she says out the window.
“It’s a diner, Ma. It’s not that expensive.”
“We can make at home. There’s still some of that casserole left. Or I’ll make you grilled cheese. You used to like grilled cheese. Remember, I’d make it for you after school?”
“Yeah. I remember.” He’d been craving grilled cheese lately. The way his mother made it. White bread, smashed flat, fried in Crisco, American cheese oozing over the edges. Liza, a nutritionist, called it artery-clogging nightmare, was surprised he and his brother Charlie had reached adulthood without having a coronary. Liza had tried to healthy it up for him with whole wheat and cheddar, snuck in grilled onions and tomato, brushed the bread with olive oil. It was good, he told her, and he appreciated the effort, but it just wasn’t the same.
Bathed now in the warmth of nostalgia and his mother’s seeming pliability, Adam throws caution to the wind. “Anything you need from the apartment? We’re going right by.”
She thinks a moment. Or maybe is just slow to react. “I wouldn’t mind some different clothes. And my knitting.”
“No problem,” he says.
She doesn’t speak again until after he maneuvers the Toyota out of the hospital parking garage and onto the main road leading to her apartment complex. “If I knew this was going to be such a little nothing thing, such a tiny needle, I could have driven myself.”
He grips the wheel, biting back what he really wants to say. The only little nothing thing about this morning was the needle. When they arrived at the medical center, there was no appointment on the books for Estelle Trager. Adam gave her the evil eye, but she swore she made an appointment. Or thought she had. A few phone calls later, they worked her in.
“It’s OK, Ma.”
“I know I made that the appointment. I spoke to the nurse myself. She must have forgotten to write it down.”
“It’s OK, Ma.”
They pull into her complex and park in front of her building. He hasn’t been here since earlier in the fall, when he and Liza came for Rosh Hashana. Liza had been the one making the runs back and forth for her mail, for cosmetics, to water her plants. The place seems smaller, older, more run down. The leaves have been haphazardly removed. A gutter droops from the north side of Building B. “I don’t know why they’re raising your rent,” he says. “It doesn’t look like they’re doing anything to deserve it.”
“Not like I’m going to be here too much longer.”
“Ma.” He snaps off the engine. “Don’t.”
-----
Estelle wanders her apartment like a real-estate appraiser, touching furniture and frowning into corners. The place stinks of cigarettes. The curtains are yellowed, the paint on the walls has a kind of film over it, sticky to the touch. A layer of dust had formed over the Queen Anne side table and the framed childhood portraits of Adam and Charlie, adding to the fuzzy aura.
“You’ll take the sofa,” she says.
“What. Now?”
“Later. Tell Charlie he can have the armoire. It was your father’s. He’s always liked it, and it will be nice, he doesn’t have any closet space in that apartment.”
“Ma. You’re still here. You can stop with giving your stuff away.”
“I just don’t want any arguments. I’ve seen people. They go without telling anyone what’s what and the family argues.”
“We won’t argue,” he says. He and Charlie got along well. The only serious argument they’d ever had was that Charlie had known Liza first. But they were past that. Mostly.
“It’s human nature,” she says.
For someone who’d come to get clothing she was going nowhere near the bedroom. She was adjusting blinds. Putting away the dishes that had dried on the rack next to the sink. Poking her fingers into the philodendron. “What are you doing?” Adam says. “Liza watered the plants right before we took you out of the hospital.”
“I’m just checking to see if maybe she forgot. When I was in her condition, my brain was like a sieve.”
He rubs the back of his neck. Christ. He couldn’t keep up this charade, keep coming home to Liza’s accusing looks. Oh, well. He’d gotten his mother as far as the biopsy. The rest they’d just have to take one day at a time. “Ma. I gotta tell you something.”
“She’s drinking,” Estelle says.
“Huh?”
“Liza. With the baby. I smelled alcohol on her breath last night. After she came home from the neighbor’s. I knew that girl was trouble, with those tight dungarees and the bosom out to here and the husband who’s never home and the kids running wild. I didn’t say anything. I just thought you should know first. As her husband.”
“Ma. There’s no baby.”
“Because she’s been drinking!” Obviously, the Valium is wearing off. “Did I warn you? Jewish girls don’t drink like fish! It’s her father. I told you. Unitarian? What kind of a religion is that? With all that coffee and talk about the origin of the universe and letting people believe in God or not. You know, he was drunk at the wedding.”
“Ma. I was drunk at the wedding.”
“No. There’s drunk and there’s drunk. You were celebrating. He was drunk. It’s in the genes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you come home one day and find your wife passed out on the sofa - on my sofa - and your son sticking his fingers in electrical sockets and eating rat poison.”
“Ma.” He’d almost forgotten his point. “There’s no baby because there’s no baby. It was a false alarm.”
The indignation drains from her face. “False alarm?”
“She got her period yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you before the procedure.”
She digests this a moment, then smacks the side of his head. “Schmuck.”
He blinks at her. “Huh? How is this my fault?”
“It was your fault it was a false alarm. It’s bad luck. To go around tempting fate, talking about things when you don’t know yet.”
“But we’ve been trying! When she was late, I thought—“
“You thought. You thought you’d get a sick woman’s hopes up for nothing? I was gonna knit a blanket!”
“Ma. You can still knit a blanket. It’s gonna happen. One day.”
“Schmuck,” she says. “Just like your father. May he rest in peace.”
------
Adam had a speech prepared (his wife Liza had coached him through it), for when his mother demanded to be returned to her apartment after the biopsy and not back to Adam and Liza’s, where she’d been staying. For when she told him it wouldn’t be necessary for Adam and Liza to babysit her until the results come in. But after the procedure she’s quiet. Probably from the Valium she’d taken. Or maybe the reality of the claw-like creature on the x-ray and the doctor’s warning that she shouldn’t have waited so long are catching up with her and she’s been cowed into fearful silence. Adam is gentle with her, eases her into the car, offers help with the shoulder harness she’ll ultimately refuse in favor of the lap belt. He comes around the driver’s side, belts himself in and starts the engine.
“There’s that place at the Thruway exchange,” Adam says. “You want to stop for lunch?”
“Don’t spend your money,” she says out the window.
“It’s a diner, Ma. It’s not that expensive.”
“We can make at home. There’s still some of that casserole left. Or I’ll make you grilled cheese. You used to like grilled cheese. Remember, I’d make it for you after school?”
“Yeah. I remember.” He’d been craving grilled cheese lately. The way his mother made it. White bread, smashed flat, fried in Crisco, American cheese oozing over the edges. Liza, a nutritionist, called it artery-clogging nightmare, was surprised he and his brother Charlie had reached adulthood without having a coronary. Liza had tried to healthy it up for him with whole wheat and cheddar, snuck in grilled onions and tomato, brushed the bread with olive oil. It was good, he told her, and he appreciated the effort, but it just wasn’t the same.
Bathed now in the warmth of nostalgia and his mother’s seeming pliability, Adam throws caution to the wind. “Anything you need from the apartment? We’re going right by.”
She thinks a moment. Or maybe is just slow to react. “I wouldn’t mind some different clothes. And my knitting.”
“No problem,” he says.
She doesn’t speak again until after he maneuvers the Toyota out of the hospital parking garage and onto the main road leading to her apartment complex. “If I knew this was going to be such a little nothing thing, such a tiny needle, I could have driven myself.”
He grips the wheel, biting back what he really wants to say. The only little nothing thing about this morning was the needle. When they arrived at the medical center, there was no appointment on the books for Estelle Trager. Adam gave her the evil eye, but she swore she made an appointment. Or thought she had. A few phone calls later, they worked her in.
“It’s OK, Ma.”
“I know I made that the appointment. I spoke to the nurse myself. She must have forgotten to write it down.”
“It’s OK, Ma.”
They pull into her complex and park in front of her building. He hasn’t been here since earlier in the fall, when he and Liza came for Rosh Hashana. Liza had been the one making the runs back and forth for her mail, for cosmetics, to water her plants. The place seems smaller, older, more run down. The leaves have been haphazardly removed. A gutter droops from the north side of Building B. “I don’t know why they’re raising your rent,” he says. “It doesn’t look like they’re doing anything to deserve it.”
“Not like I’m going to be here too much longer.”
“Ma.” He snaps off the engine. “Don’t.”
-----
Estelle wanders her apartment like a real-estate appraiser, touching furniture and frowning into corners. The place stinks of cigarettes. The curtains are yellowed, the paint on the walls has a kind of film over it, sticky to the touch. A layer of dust had formed over the Queen Anne side table and the framed childhood portraits of Adam and Charlie, adding to the fuzzy aura.
“You’ll take the sofa,” she says.
“What. Now?”
“Later. Tell Charlie he can have the armoire. It was your father’s. He’s always liked it, and it will be nice, he doesn’t have any closet space in that apartment.”
“Ma. You’re still here. You can stop with giving your stuff away.”
“I just don’t want any arguments. I’ve seen people. They go without telling anyone what’s what and the family argues.”
“We won’t argue,” he says. He and Charlie got along well. The only serious argument they’d ever had was that Charlie had known Liza first. But they were past that. Mostly.
“It’s human nature,” she says.
For someone who’d come to get clothing she was going nowhere near the bedroom. She was adjusting blinds. Putting away the dishes that had dried on the rack next to the sink. Poking her fingers into the philodendron. “What are you doing?” Adam says. “Liza watered the plants right before we took you out of the hospital.”
“I’m just checking to see if maybe she forgot. When I was in her condition, my brain was like a sieve.”
He rubs the back of his neck. Christ. He couldn’t keep up this charade, keep coming home to Liza’s accusing looks. Oh, well. He’d gotten his mother as far as the biopsy. The rest they’d just have to take one day at a time. “Ma. I gotta tell you something.”
“She’s drinking,” Estelle says.
“Huh?”
“Liza. With the baby. I smelled alcohol on her breath last night. After she came home from the neighbor’s. I knew that girl was trouble, with those tight dungarees and the bosom out to here and the husband who’s never home and the kids running wild. I didn’t say anything. I just thought you should know first. As her husband.”
“Ma. There’s no baby.”
“Because she’s been drinking!” Obviously, the Valium is wearing off. “Did I warn you? Jewish girls don’t drink like fish! It’s her father. I told you. Unitarian? What kind of a religion is that? With all that coffee and talk about the origin of the universe and letting people believe in God or not. You know, he was drunk at the wedding.”
“Ma. I was drunk at the wedding.”
“No. There’s drunk and there’s drunk. You were celebrating. He was drunk. It’s in the genes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you come home one day and find your wife passed out on the sofa - on my sofa - and your son sticking his fingers in electrical sockets and eating rat poison.”
“Ma.” He’d almost forgotten his point. “There’s no baby because there’s no baby. It was a false alarm.”
The indignation drains from her face. “False alarm?”
“She got her period yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you before the procedure.”
She digests this a moment, then smacks the side of his head. “Schmuck.”
He blinks at her. “Huh? How is this my fault?”
“It was your fault it was a false alarm. It’s bad luck. To go around tempting fate, talking about things when you don’t know yet.”
“But we’ve been trying! When she was late, I thought—“
“You thought. You thought you’d get a sick woman’s hopes up for nothing? I was gonna knit a blanket!”
“Ma. You can still knit a blanket. It’s gonna happen. One day.”
“Schmuck,” she says. “Just like your father. May he rest in peace.”
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Up next: your five-day forecast
I've been spending (some might say, wasting) a bit of time lately searching the web for some kind of activity where I might actually get paid (coming to the conclusion with a heavy heart that it's doubtful anyone will give me a living wage for writing pitch letters to literary agents, quirky little bits for your (mostly my) entertainment or for staring at the stack of paper that is the (almost) first draft of my next novel and hoping that that magically it will become a publishable manuscript.)
So here's my plan. The perfect job for me,
I'm going to be a Weather Caster.
My whole body is like one giant barometer anyway, so why not take advantage of my natural talent? I get sinus headaches and burning pains in my hips when it's about to rain. I'm agitated before thunderstorms. My knees ache before it snows, the intensity equals the amount. When everything I've ever injured begins to ache, then it's time to get your ass into the SUV and load it up for bear; something big is about to go down. So, to do the "forecast," I pour myself a cup of decaf, go to my Weather Center "office" and plot the coordinates: a full body scan versus temperature, time of year, and an isobar "cheat sheet" so I can extrapolate how much snow or rain you're going to get in your area. If there's a conflict, I call my stepmother, who is equally gifted, and fortunately for her, already employed.
Then I dress up pretty, starch my hair and stand in front of a blue screen on camera for five minutes, making appropriately sympathetic faces and lame jokes with the news readers while I sweep my hands across an invisible map of the tri-state area and babble on about the latest models and cold fronts.
Bet I'm right more often then the "real" meteorologists. But would they hire me? No, you have to have some kind of snooty degree or something, you have to know phrases like "rain event" and "Alberta Clipper." Oh, if someone would just give me a chance...
So here's my plan. The perfect job for me,
I'm going to be a Weather Caster.
My whole body is like one giant barometer anyway, so why not take advantage of my natural talent? I get sinus headaches and burning pains in my hips when it's about to rain. I'm agitated before thunderstorms. My knees ache before it snows, the intensity equals the amount. When everything I've ever injured begins to ache, then it's time to get your ass into the SUV and load it up for bear; something big is about to go down. So, to do the "forecast," I pour myself a cup of decaf, go to my Weather Center "office" and plot the coordinates: a full body scan versus temperature, time of year, and an isobar "cheat sheet" so I can extrapolate how much snow or rain you're going to get in your area. If there's a conflict, I call my stepmother, who is equally gifted, and fortunately for her, already employed.
Then I dress up pretty, starch my hair and stand in front of a blue screen on camera for five minutes, making appropriately sympathetic faces and lame jokes with the news readers while I sweep my hands across an invisible map of the tri-state area and babble on about the latest models and cold fronts.
Bet I'm right more often then the "real" meteorologists. But would they hire me? No, you have to have some kind of snooty degree or something, you have to know phrases like "rain event" and "Alberta Clipper." Oh, if someone would just give me a chance...
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Drop and give me 20 queries
Despite doing 100 crunches every morning, I’m afraid I’ve gotten soft. It’s been over three months since I’ve had a job. I’m no longer accustomed to people shooting down my ideas, talking over me at meetings, denying my promotions and generally doing things that would make a lesser Superwoman run to the ladies room in tears. It’s been over two years since I pitched a manuscript, so there have been no rejection slips, no “try us again later,” no “perhaps you should have gone to nursing school like your mother wanted.” And cripes, I’ve been with my husband for so long that as far as dating – I have a vague memory that it used to involved chaperones, white gloves and calling cards. And maybe my father was supposed to give the guy a herd of cows or something.
Anyway, I think my hide is no longer tough enough to withstand rejection.
Therefore I consulted my old friend Google for help.
I was searching for some kind of writer’s boot camp. And I found them, by the dozens. But they were all about the writing. Several promised that I would produce a saleable script by the end of their overpriced conferences. One promised to break through my writer’s block once and forever. One promised that I would Learn To Write A Novel From Start To Finish.
Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending upon your circumstances) I already had the goods. I knew the basics of how to sell the goods. What I wanted was a little extra help, something that would promise Buns of Steel, or at least Teflon, so that any rejection slips I’m bound to get in the next few months will slide right off.
Then magically, this little flyer appeared in my mailbox. Funny how it had no postage and was only addressed to “Opus,” but somehow it found me. The pitch went something like this:
Feeling too good about yourself and your writing?
Want to get published but don’t know if you can take the punishment?
THEN WE WANT YOU!
Come to our campus on historical Alcatraz Island and we’ll pound the self-esteem right out of you!
Be completely ignored when you attempt to TALK TO BEST SELLING AUTHORS!
Get disdainful looks by TOP-FLIGHT AGENTS, as they pronounce in a round-table discussion that they’re always looking for “fresh new voices,” but just not yours.
Then the fun really starts. Network with your fellow conference participants while you fight bare-handed for a place on line to sign up for the five or six open slots to actually MEET THE AGENTS (or one of their assistants, a girl named Jennifer who just graduated from NYU) face to face, where, if you’re lucky and either you or your protagonist doesn’t remind him or her of one of their ex-spouses, you might actually get them to tell you what’s wrong with your project, or if you’re very lucky, you.
Space is limited, and so are cells (bring your own mattress) so send in your non-refundable thousand-dollar deposit TODAY!
Boy, does this sound like something for me. Now off to the bank to try to get a loan…
Anyway, I think my hide is no longer tough enough to withstand rejection.
Therefore I consulted my old friend Google for help.
I was searching for some kind of writer’s boot camp. And I found them, by the dozens. But they were all about the writing. Several promised that I would produce a saleable script by the end of their overpriced conferences. One promised to break through my writer’s block once and forever. One promised that I would Learn To Write A Novel From Start To Finish.
Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending upon your circumstances) I already had the goods. I knew the basics of how to sell the goods. What I wanted was a little extra help, something that would promise Buns of Steel, or at least Teflon, so that any rejection slips I’m bound to get in the next few months will slide right off.
Then magically, this little flyer appeared in my mailbox. Funny how it had no postage and was only addressed to “Opus,” but somehow it found me. The pitch went something like this:
Feeling too good about yourself and your writing?
Want to get published but don’t know if you can take the punishment?
THEN WE WANT YOU!
Come to our campus on historical Alcatraz Island and we’ll pound the self-esteem right out of you!
Be completely ignored when you attempt to TALK TO BEST SELLING AUTHORS!
Get disdainful looks by TOP-FLIGHT AGENTS, as they pronounce in a round-table discussion that they’re always looking for “fresh new voices,” but just not yours.
Then the fun really starts. Network with your fellow conference participants while you fight bare-handed for a place on line to sign up for the five or six open slots to actually MEET THE AGENTS (or one of their assistants, a girl named Jennifer who just graduated from NYU) face to face, where, if you’re lucky and either you or your protagonist doesn’t remind him or her of one of their ex-spouses, you might actually get them to tell you what’s wrong with your project, or if you’re very lucky, you.
Space is limited, and so are cells (bring your own mattress) so send in your non-refundable thousand-dollar deposit TODAY!
Boy, does this sound like something for me. Now off to the bank to try to get a loan…
Sunday, January 08, 2006
What makes an animal?
Consider the Madagascar hissing cockroach. Or…maybe not. They are not exactly the Brad Pitt of the insect world. If I lived in Madagascar I’d be laying in a good supply of Raid.
But somehow PETA has overlooked the fact that scores and scores of obviously live and kicking Madagascar hissing cockroaches are allowed to be crunched to their doom by obviously insane “Fear Factor” contestants every year, who seem to be willing to eat or do anything for the prospect of going home with $50,000 (and probably some form of exotic parasitic disease).
Yet PETA nails a Virginia Beach nightclub that allowed contestants participating in the TV show on location at their establishment to swallow live goldfish.
I don’t know. Is it the “cute” factor? Must a creature pass some sort of beauty-pageant litmus test in order to be taken under PETA’s wing? Spotted owl? Cute. Baby harp seal? Awww. Madagascar hissing cockroach? Pass. Get some plastic surgery, dude, then send in that head shot again, OK?
Possibly the omission is because PETA has too much on their plates. What with getting all huffy demanding that a town near me change its name from "Fishkill" to something less violent toward our finny friends (Someone didn’t do their research: "kill" is Old Dutch for "brook," folks. Every other town around here is named Something-kill) to killing dozens of trees with mailings warning me of the evils of animal product testing, they’ve got quite a lot to do.
But hissing cockroaches aside, they've missed something really, really huge.
An estimated 1 billion birds are killed each year by windows.
That's right. Windows. (and that's why I use a Mac)
But seriously, according to ornithologist Daniel Klem, who was interviewed by NPR's John Nielsen on January 3rd's broadcast of Morning Edition, "It's a very common phenomenon. Birds are deceived. They just don't see glass as a barrier and this is a problem for them."
I'd say dying a horrible death by ramming your tiny little body head first into a solid pane of glass could be a bit of a problem.
But just to prove his hypothesis, Klem went into a forest and hung some windows off the branches of trees. Then he watched as an "appalling" number of collisions occurred. From an eight-foot perch, many of the birds smacked splat into the windows and died.
Cripes, he could have saved his research money (and many unnecessary avian deaths) and come over to my house to watch the dingbat birds doing the same thing here.
We've had a feeder up over our front stairs for at least four months now. The same birds keep coming around. They’ve somehow become smart enough to know how to get the seed out of the feeder. They’ve figured out that when the bowl becomes empty, to peck around on the stairs for what they’ve spilled. Then, when it’s obvious we’re not going to refill for a few days (we’re afraid of them getting so fat they won’t be able to get away from the neighborhood kitties) they stop coming, and when we refill the feeder, somehow they figure out that it’s safe to come back. You'd think they'd have a good bead on the lay of the landscape down by now, but no, there’s that THUNK again.
Window, dipstick.
Tiny pinfeathers are sticking to the panes.
And there’s your research.
And still, PETA hasn’t got someone on this. A quick search of their web site revealed that their only beef against birds and windows is the recommendation that when you cage a large bird (and remember, there are no such things as “caged” birds, all birds are wild animals and deserve to be free), don’t use a cage with glass sides or mirrors for the very same reason that birds can’t see it and will fly headfirst into it and knock themselves silly.
However, another site (birdsandbuildings.org) suggests putting a flexible screen outside your window (they claim decals don’t work) or using “fritted or patterned” glass. The problem is that humans have found these alternatives objectionable in their homes, as it interferes with the clarity of their views.
I mean, which would you rather have, a semi-obstructed view or billions of kamikaze birds going splat against your panes?
Frankly if a creature is that stupid, I’d rather spend my resources trying to save the Madagascar hissing cockroach. I could go on Fear Factor, eat a bunch of them, and put the $50,000 toward modifying their DNA to make them look like bunnies.
PS. Opus wants to thank everyone for their heartfelt well-wishes during his recent illness. He wants to assure everyone that he is fine, after eating a bunch of sardines and Pop-Tarts and sitting in the dark listening to his Moody Blues albums.
But somehow PETA has overlooked the fact that scores and scores of obviously live and kicking Madagascar hissing cockroaches are allowed to be crunched to their doom by obviously insane “Fear Factor” contestants every year, who seem to be willing to eat or do anything for the prospect of going home with $50,000 (and probably some form of exotic parasitic disease).
Yet PETA nails a Virginia Beach nightclub that allowed contestants participating in the TV show on location at their establishment to swallow live goldfish.
I don’t know. Is it the “cute” factor? Must a creature pass some sort of beauty-pageant litmus test in order to be taken under PETA’s wing? Spotted owl? Cute. Baby harp seal? Awww. Madagascar hissing cockroach? Pass. Get some plastic surgery, dude, then send in that head shot again, OK?
Possibly the omission is because PETA has too much on their plates. What with getting all huffy demanding that a town near me change its name from "Fishkill" to something less violent toward our finny friends (Someone didn’t do their research: "kill" is Old Dutch for "brook," folks. Every other town around here is named Something-kill) to killing dozens of trees with mailings warning me of the evils of animal product testing, they’ve got quite a lot to do.
But hissing cockroaches aside, they've missed something really, really huge.
An estimated 1 billion birds are killed each year by windows.
That's right. Windows. (and that's why I use a Mac)
But seriously, according to ornithologist Daniel Klem, who was interviewed by NPR's John Nielsen on January 3rd's broadcast of Morning Edition, "It's a very common phenomenon. Birds are deceived. They just don't see glass as a barrier and this is a problem for them."
I'd say dying a horrible death by ramming your tiny little body head first into a solid pane of glass could be a bit of a problem.
But just to prove his hypothesis, Klem went into a forest and hung some windows off the branches of trees. Then he watched as an "appalling" number of collisions occurred. From an eight-foot perch, many of the birds smacked splat into the windows and died.
Cripes, he could have saved his research money (and many unnecessary avian deaths) and come over to my house to watch the dingbat birds doing the same thing here.
We've had a feeder up over our front stairs for at least four months now. The same birds keep coming around. They’ve somehow become smart enough to know how to get the seed out of the feeder. They’ve figured out that when the bowl becomes empty, to peck around on the stairs for what they’ve spilled. Then, when it’s obvious we’re not going to refill for a few days (we’re afraid of them getting so fat they won’t be able to get away from the neighborhood kitties) they stop coming, and when we refill the feeder, somehow they figure out that it’s safe to come back. You'd think they'd have a good bead on the lay of the landscape down by now, but no, there’s that THUNK again.
Window, dipstick.
Tiny pinfeathers are sticking to the panes.
And there’s your research.
And still, PETA hasn’t got someone on this. A quick search of their web site revealed that their only beef against birds and windows is the recommendation that when you cage a large bird (and remember, there are no such things as “caged” birds, all birds are wild animals and deserve to be free), don’t use a cage with glass sides or mirrors for the very same reason that birds can’t see it and will fly headfirst into it and knock themselves silly.
However, another site (birdsandbuildings.org) suggests putting a flexible screen outside your window (they claim decals don’t work) or using “fritted or patterned” glass. The problem is that humans have found these alternatives objectionable in their homes, as it interferes with the clarity of their views.
I mean, which would you rather have, a semi-obstructed view or billions of kamikaze birds going splat against your panes?
Frankly if a creature is that stupid, I’d rather spend my resources trying to save the Madagascar hissing cockroach. I could go on Fear Factor, eat a bunch of them, and put the $50,000 toward modifying their DNA to make them look like bunnies.
PS. Opus wants to thank everyone for their heartfelt well-wishes during his recent illness. He wants to assure everyone that he is fine, after eating a bunch of sardines and Pop-Tarts and sitting in the dark listening to his Moody Blues albums.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Bird flu?
Op's got a touch of the bird flu and won't be posting for a few days.
(Actually rumor has it that she got swallowed up by a snowbank)
Thanks and best wishes,
Bill the Cat.
(Actually rumor has it that she got swallowed up by a snowbank)
Thanks and best wishes,
Bill the Cat.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
I hates meeses to pieces
I learned a couple of things about mice this week.
1. They eat everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. Including candle wax. Soap. Rubber spatulas.
2. They are the cause of more household disputes than infidelity, finances and the correct way to fold a fitted sheet COMBINED.
So a few days ago I found evidence of a mouse in the house. This information by itself is no great shakes. Every winter we evict from one to four critters via our humane trap baited with peanut butter (if I were a mouse I'd be sniffing around that, too) but this winter it's been especially annoying. We’re spotty housekeepers on a good day, and lately, we've been a little more, shall we say, casual about cleaning. Things tend to stay where they fall, most of the dishes land in the sink, and I'm not quite sure where we keep the vacuum any more. But even with our usual disarray, a bunch of mouse poop on the kitchen counter is difficult to miss. I cleaned what I could see, alerted my spouse, who set the trap. The next morning, nothing. Then I went into mouse-mania-mode and started cleaning what I couldn't see. Underneath the waffle-maker. The toaster. The Foreman grill. The blender. Then looked behind the "speed rack" we keep next to the fridge, containing Pepsi and seltzer bottles, the three bottles of Martinelli's sparkling cider that we keep forgetting to bring to people's houses for New Year's, and my various vials of medication and vitamins. And there I found a Dr. Roger Murphree Fibromyalgia formula mega-multi-vitamin pill - I did say that things tend to fall where they land - nibbled around the edges. This was bad. Not only did we have a smart mouse, but we had Mighty Mouse (for those of you under thirty-five, he is a cartoon mouse who is the rodential equivalent of Arnold Schwarznegger.)
Another night of peanut butter, another empty trap.
As I was doing more cleaning, I realized it’s been a while since I’ve seen certain credit cards (Oh, no, did the mouse take them out on the town? Was he having a fling on my Target card?) and then I remembered that they were in a small fanny-pack-type pocketbook I keep on the kitchen table. It contains emergency items when I only want to grab something small and go – credit cards, Burt’s Bees lipgloss and snacks. Keep in mind that since I've been liberated from my job I've been using our kitchen table as a kind of headquarters - the computer chair from my office wheeled up to my Levenger slanted editing desk (these are great things, worth the investment.) Scattered all around the pocketbook and in and among my books, unopened mail, New York Times crossword puzzles, candles, and loose paperwork were soy nut crumbs and more mouse poop. The bag of snacks in my pocketbook had been chewed open.
I almost leapt up onto a chair like a 50s housewife and screamed.
“Look at this!!” I said to my husband, as I pointed and shuddered. “My God! It was on the table!!” Then I started getting mad. The little bastard had been in my pocketbook. Now it was personal. Nobody goes into my pocketbook.
What happened next was a mystery. Maybe you guys could help me understand this. Did I use some extraterrestrial language in between my words? Did I push into my tone something accusatory? Did he mistake my anger at the mouse for anger at him? But for a moment he was silent. A horrible silence as his eyes blazed and that vein throbbed in his forehead.
“So it’s MY fault? You want ME to fix it? What, I didn’t catch the mouse fast enough?”
I just blinked at him. “But I didn’t ask…I’m not…”
“You know, I’m tired of this! I can’t do everything around here!”
And that really made me mad. We stomped off in opposite directions. I believe I yelled a few things in an extraterrestrial language over my shoulder.
And after I cooled off for a while, I cleaned the rest of the table. I dumped out the contents of my pocketbook and scrubbed them clean. I wiped up the excrement and soy nut husks. I threw away the scented candles. While I was upstairs fuming, my husband had put a trap at the edge of the table. I set a second one for good measure.
He’s still out there somewhere. But if anything ever comes between a husband and wife, damned sure it shouldn’t be a mouse. Not even Mighty Mouse.
1. They eat everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. Including candle wax. Soap. Rubber spatulas.
2. They are the cause of more household disputes than infidelity, finances and the correct way to fold a fitted sheet COMBINED.
So a few days ago I found evidence of a mouse in the house. This information by itself is no great shakes. Every winter we evict from one to four critters via our humane trap baited with peanut butter (if I were a mouse I'd be sniffing around that, too) but this winter it's been especially annoying. We’re spotty housekeepers on a good day, and lately, we've been a little more, shall we say, casual about cleaning. Things tend to stay where they fall, most of the dishes land in the sink, and I'm not quite sure where we keep the vacuum any more. But even with our usual disarray, a bunch of mouse poop on the kitchen counter is difficult to miss. I cleaned what I could see, alerted my spouse, who set the trap. The next morning, nothing. Then I went into mouse-mania-mode and started cleaning what I couldn't see. Underneath the waffle-maker. The toaster. The Foreman grill. The blender. Then looked behind the "speed rack" we keep next to the fridge, containing Pepsi and seltzer bottles, the three bottles of Martinelli's sparkling cider that we keep forgetting to bring to people's houses for New Year's, and my various vials of medication and vitamins. And there I found a Dr. Roger Murphree Fibromyalgia formula mega-multi-vitamin pill - I did say that things tend to fall where they land - nibbled around the edges. This was bad. Not only did we have a smart mouse, but we had Mighty Mouse (for those of you under thirty-five, he is a cartoon mouse who is the rodential equivalent of Arnold Schwarznegger.)
Another night of peanut butter, another empty trap.
As I was doing more cleaning, I realized it’s been a while since I’ve seen certain credit cards (Oh, no, did the mouse take them out on the town? Was he having a fling on my Target card?) and then I remembered that they were in a small fanny-pack-type pocketbook I keep on the kitchen table. It contains emergency items when I only want to grab something small and go – credit cards, Burt’s Bees lipgloss and snacks. Keep in mind that since I've been liberated from my job I've been using our kitchen table as a kind of headquarters - the computer chair from my office wheeled up to my Levenger slanted editing desk (these are great things, worth the investment.) Scattered all around the pocketbook and in and among my books, unopened mail, New York Times crossword puzzles, candles, and loose paperwork were soy nut crumbs and more mouse poop. The bag of snacks in my pocketbook had been chewed open.
I almost leapt up onto a chair like a 50s housewife and screamed.
“Look at this!!” I said to my husband, as I pointed and shuddered. “My God! It was on the table!!” Then I started getting mad. The little bastard had been in my pocketbook. Now it was personal. Nobody goes into my pocketbook.
What happened next was a mystery. Maybe you guys could help me understand this. Did I use some extraterrestrial language in between my words? Did I push into my tone something accusatory? Did he mistake my anger at the mouse for anger at him? But for a moment he was silent. A horrible silence as his eyes blazed and that vein throbbed in his forehead.
“So it’s MY fault? You want ME to fix it? What, I didn’t catch the mouse fast enough?”
I just blinked at him. “But I didn’t ask…I’m not…”
“You know, I’m tired of this! I can’t do everything around here!”
And that really made me mad. We stomped off in opposite directions. I believe I yelled a few things in an extraterrestrial language over my shoulder.
And after I cooled off for a while, I cleaned the rest of the table. I dumped out the contents of my pocketbook and scrubbed them clean. I wiped up the excrement and soy nut husks. I threw away the scented candles. While I was upstairs fuming, my husband had put a trap at the edge of the table. I set a second one for good measure.
He’s still out there somewhere. But if anything ever comes between a husband and wife, damned sure it shouldn’t be a mouse. Not even Mighty Mouse.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Why I don't make resolutions
After a lifetime of refusing to make New Years Resolutions (because I hardly ever kept them and, as a Mets fan, who needs additional disappointment?), I made a few private ones to myself last year. They were:
1. Let my hair grow out (yeah, you say, what effort is involved here, just don’t cut it, for God’s sake, but those of you who’ve tried to go from short hair to long know there’s much more work and discipline required than simply NOT CUTTING IT when every day when you look in the mirror you want to hack off the strays with nail scissors and cover your head with styling products until the ends of your hair could pop balloons)
2. Take some time off from work.
3. Strengthen my core muscles, as my chiropractor had been nagging me to do for months.
Well, I was riding out #1 fairly well, but I blew off #2 and #3. I was working on a major project with a ridiculous deadline at work, so I couldn’t take time off. And even when I had as much as an evening free, who could get into the parking lot at the gym, because everybody else’s New Year’s resolutions involved joining a gym. (Yeah, but did it have to be MY gym? Surely there are several other fine athletic establishments in the area that would have welcomed them with clean towels and bottled water. Except that mine isn’t a clean towel and bottled water sort of establishment, which is why I like it. Half the equipment doesn’t work, the guys don’t wear cologne, women don’t show up in thongs and make me feel bad about myself. It’s fairly inexpensive, which is another reason why I like it (and probably why all those other people seem to like it) except that now all these new people join and demand things like clean floors and hot water and elliptical trainers that work, so they have to raise the membership fees so I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to go either. So while I was dragging my butt on #2 and #3, whining about overtime and no parking spaces and membership fees, a higher power intervened. As everyone in the world probably knows by now, that’s when I hurt my back.
1. My hair grew in all by itself because I could give a hang about looking in mirrors. Instead, if leaving the house, I'd pop on a baseball cap. And a baseball cap on a woman walking with a cane has much more panache than the cap alone.
2. I got time off with pay (granted, disability pays enough to basically cover the phone and cable bills, but it’s better than nothing) and then without pay (which basically sucks)
3. Thanks to my physical therapist, you can now bounce quarters off my abdomen.
So this is why no resolutions this year.
Well, maybe one.
Which is to be very careful what I wish for.
1. Let my hair grow out (yeah, you say, what effort is involved here, just don’t cut it, for God’s sake, but those of you who’ve tried to go from short hair to long know there’s much more work and discipline required than simply NOT CUTTING IT when every day when you look in the mirror you want to hack off the strays with nail scissors and cover your head with styling products until the ends of your hair could pop balloons)
2. Take some time off from work.
3. Strengthen my core muscles, as my chiropractor had been nagging me to do for months.
Well, I was riding out #1 fairly well, but I blew off #2 and #3. I was working on a major project with a ridiculous deadline at work, so I couldn’t take time off. And even when I had as much as an evening free, who could get into the parking lot at the gym, because everybody else’s New Year’s resolutions involved joining a gym. (Yeah, but did it have to be MY gym? Surely there are several other fine athletic establishments in the area that would have welcomed them with clean towels and bottled water. Except that mine isn’t a clean towel and bottled water sort of establishment, which is why I like it. Half the equipment doesn’t work, the guys don’t wear cologne, women don’t show up in thongs and make me feel bad about myself. It’s fairly inexpensive, which is another reason why I like it (and probably why all those other people seem to like it) except that now all these new people join and demand things like clean floors and hot water and elliptical trainers that work, so they have to raise the membership fees so I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to go either. So while I was dragging my butt on #2 and #3, whining about overtime and no parking spaces and membership fees, a higher power intervened. As everyone in the world probably knows by now, that’s when I hurt my back.
1. My hair grew in all by itself because I could give a hang about looking in mirrors. Instead, if leaving the house, I'd pop on a baseball cap. And a baseball cap on a woman walking with a cane has much more panache than the cap alone.
2. I got time off with pay (granted, disability pays enough to basically cover the phone and cable bills, but it’s better than nothing) and then without pay (which basically sucks)
3. Thanks to my physical therapist, you can now bounce quarters off my abdomen.
So this is why no resolutions this year.
Well, maybe one.
Which is to be very careful what I wish for.
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