Sorry, no photos. I don't even know if any were taken. Halloween was coming up, and, after the release of "Victor/Victoria" I had the idea of dressing as a female impersonator. I was living with Fred-the-make-up-artist at the time and he asked me what I wanted to do. If I was going to be seen with him, it had better be good. I told him. His expression was blank for a few seconds and then the idea grew on him. He liked it. He liked it a lot.
My job was to find a dress. I was hoping to find something cheap and slutty on E. 86th Street where, Fred claimed, prostitutes hung out. They were utterly invisible to me. What I really needed was a Salvation Army store, but I didn't know of anything like that in the upper east 80s. Apparently, "cheap" was not an E. 86th Street description. I found instead a grey silk dress that had long sleeves (the better to hide arm hair), a scarf, and a sash that one could throw together in interesting ways, if one isn't me. I have no ability there, but I figgered Fred did.
Fred acquired a red wig that would do Danny LaRue proud. He explained what he would be doing to make me look more like a guy trying to look like a woman. "I'll cover your eyebrows and draw in new ones above them," he told me - which explains the perpetually surprised look of some FIs.
For my part, I took my bra and stuffed it, clumsily. I wanted it to look stuffed, so I balled some tissues and put them on top of my breasts and maybe a few to the side.
Fred was initially excited about his own costume idea, which reminded me of those spinning paint things you do at carnivals, but he really got into doing me up: gold over the brows, exaggerated lips, etc. It wasn't his first FI job, but this was a new twist.
Our first stop was a party on the Upper West with some of Fred's friends. One of them was a young guy who had a part-time job as a clown, so he had a ready-made costume for all occasions. I don't recall his name (sorry! waited too long to write my memoirs, didn't I?), so I'll just call him Bubo the Clown. On the Upper West, I was crossing my legs ankle to knee, in keeping with someone less-familiar with transvestitism. Bubo started lecturing me on the proper way for ladies to cross their legs. I listened studiously, agog. Really? How fascinating. Fred eventually stepped in to set him ... straight. "Marf," he explained, "as in Martha. This is my roommate." Bubo actually gasped. "Oh, nooooooo!" he wailed. He was horrified that he'd made some sort of gaff, but I was quite chuffed to have actually fooled someone.
It was then decided we should test the costume on a tougher audience. We were going to go to the Christopher Street Parade, the Gay Halloween Mecca. I already was regretting my heels, spiky and pointy-toed.
At the parade, I had Fred and Bubo as heralds, proclaiming the arrival of this Beautiful Woman. I got whistles and leers. It put me in mind of Pres's experience on Christopher Street when he was walking with me. He'd become frustrated because he wasn't being "cruised." Then he remembered that I was with him. Duh! He had expected that he would still be looked at, eye-contact would be made, but a woman at his side disconnected him from a familiar world. Now I had the reverse on them. The laugh was on them, the men who mistook me for another man ... dressed as a woman. At one point, someone grabbed my ass and then shrieked, "Omigawd! It's a real woman!" The three of us burst out laughing. I waved airily at my admirers. I didn't have many in my drab, everyday existence. It was fun to steal some attention from gay men, to be cruised, whistled at, fondled, and to horrify. After all, it was Halloween.
Halloween is Everyday in Second Life. Anyone can be disguised. People can be fooled. This is something that I avoid doing, probably because it is outside of Halloween or April Fool's Day when license is granted. I don't consider the multitude of avatars I keep "on hangers" in my inventory to be fooling anyone. They still carry the label "Lludmila." I may act slightly differently with each of them on (wearing a male av I resist some of my squealing noises: Ewwww! OoooOOoooo!), but it's still me back there behind the mask behaving in what I hope is a reasonably normal fashion. It's much easier to pad the bra ... or even squish it down with the sliders. I can be fatter, thinner, prettier, younger, older than I am in RL. It might be my lack of imagination, but I can't bring myself to stray too far from my real self.
A strikingly beautiful older woman was in the library today and because we were short-handed, I was at the front desk doing her library card. She had written her birthdate down and I realised ... she was five years younger than I was. Aw, sh111111t! I was thinking 60s! SH1111111T!!!! She's not even 50!!!! How old must I look? Whatever age it is, it's nowhere as good as she looks!I used to have an imagination. What the hell happened to it? Right now I just seem to imagine myself too old. arrrrgh!
Monday, June 23, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
More Cross-Pollination
Cartoons I did in the 1980s of Fritz and his then wife. Calling him a Nazi is a little unfair - but doesn't really stop me. Always go for the joke.
What a horror to discover that one of your dad's favorite relatives is an unrepentant Nazi, replete with German accent. That he was a decorated (Danish Modern, perhaps) Navy veteran of the Pacific Theater seems incongruous, but true. This is Cousin Fritz. He was to my dad all that was manly and admirable: he got into knife fights, he traveled the world, and probably killed some people. It seems to be one of my dad's greatest regrets that he didn't stick with the Army so he'd been able to fight in WWII.
When I met cousin Fritz, he was a fat, disgusting old man with unpopular (with me) views on Jews and Blacks. They were in collusion, of course. And that was what was wrong with this country. "Don't worry," my mother told me later, "we'll be dead soon and our ideas with us." But she was wrong. The ideas are still floating about, literally, in my wateraerobics class, Omblastit! It was cousin Fritz who provided us with the (what appeared to me to be sanitized) Ruhe family tree. Dad used to say that there were some possible Jews in there, especially with names like Ruhe and Seele, beautiful names that mean "peace" and "soul" in German. You wouldn't hear anything like that from cousin Fritz! There was quite a bit of family tree trimming in Germany, to make your background more palatable, and to save your sorry white ass.
Before WWI, our family received letters from the Fatherland begging that no one join the army and end up fighting their own family. I don't know of anyone the right age in that family to do so. Dad says it was awkward at school having a German name and accent. He also mentions getting in a fight with another boy, but doesn't link it to this.
Fritz fighting was another thing. Fritz had a touchy sense of pride. He was the farm manager for a nearby farm, after working on my grandparents' farm in upstate New York. He was a chaparone (or what my dad calls a "chaparoon") for the two daughters at a dance. When one young swain told the girls to get rid of the "guard dog," the girls made the mistake of telling Fritz about it, as though it were a great joke. "Dog, eh?" he said, and pulled a knife on the guy and suggested they take it outside.
At the same time that Fritz came to America and stayed with my dad's family, another cousin from a different branch came. Dad had nothing good to say about this dandy who arrived with a suit of formal clothes and seemed unfamiliar with farmwork. I think Adolph later had an illustrious career in the laundry/dry cleaning business.
My money is on Adolph, actually. I wish Dad had more stories about him and fewer about Fritz. In the end, Fritz lived in a house packed with newspapers he didn't throw out. His wife had left him (they had not been married long and she told my mother to never marry someone without first checking the state of their bathroom) and he ended his years without indoor plumbing or hygiene of any kind. I think my dad admires that.
When I met cousin Fritz, he was a fat, disgusting old man with unpopular (with me) views on Jews and Blacks. They were in collusion, of course. And that was what was wrong with this country. "Don't worry," my mother told me later, "we'll be dead soon and our ideas with us." But she was wrong. The ideas are still floating about, literally, in my wateraerobics class, Omblastit! It was cousin Fritz who provided us with the (what appeared to me to be sanitized) Ruhe family tree. Dad used to say that there were some possible Jews in there, especially with names like Ruhe and Seele, beautiful names that mean "peace" and "soul" in German. You wouldn't hear anything like that from cousin Fritz! There was quite a bit of family tree trimming in Germany, to make your background more palatable, and to save your sorry white ass.
Before WWI, our family received letters from the Fatherland begging that no one join the army and end up fighting their own family. I don't know of anyone the right age in that family to do so. Dad says it was awkward at school having a German name and accent. He also mentions getting in a fight with another boy, but doesn't link it to this.
Fritz fighting was another thing. Fritz had a touchy sense of pride. He was the farm manager for a nearby farm, after working on my grandparents' farm in upstate New York. He was a chaparone (or what my dad calls a "chaparoon") for the two daughters at a dance. When one young swain told the girls to get rid of the "guard dog," the girls made the mistake of telling Fritz about it, as though it were a great joke. "Dog, eh?" he said, and pulled a knife on the guy and suggested they take it outside.
At the same time that Fritz came to America and stayed with my dad's family, another cousin from a different branch came. Dad had nothing good to say about this dandy who arrived with a suit of formal clothes and seemed unfamiliar with farmwork. I think Adolph later had an illustrious career in the laundry/dry cleaning business.
My money is on Adolph, actually. I wish Dad had more stories about him and fewer about Fritz. In the end, Fritz lived in a house packed with newspapers he didn't throw out. His wife had left him (they had not been married long and she told my mother to never marry someone without first checking the state of their bathroom) and he ended his years without indoor plumbing or hygiene of any kind. I think my dad admires that.
The cartoon above comes from a collection I put together while working at the law firm. I can't publish much of it because it's a.) 99% in-jokes 2.) contains material relevant to on-going litigation and lastly, it would be a total bitch to scan and cut and paste, something I did with family pictures, but am not doing for this. I do go back over the cartoons and think some are funny and some show just how painful my life was at the time. sigh.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Cross Pollination from the Work Blog
I grew up in a small town at the furthest reaches of the commuter train to Manhattan in the house of lesser-known comedians. My mother, whose other abilities at oil painting, flower arranging and decorating I did not inherit, married a man with truncheon-like wit and they both consumed cocktails with like-minded neighbors for inspiration. They led inebriates in sing-alongs from the IBM songbook. They named their dogs after the IBM president, in the event that there was a bonus for that as well as for naming children after Tom Watson.
Then there was an annual New Year's progressive dinner party in the neighborhood that included most of the families on the street and ended in a colossal binge at our house. My sister told what I considered to be exaggerated stories that likened these middle-class suburban gatherings to Roman orgies but the most I ever saw was the traditional stroke of midnight kiss, admittedly pretty sloppy one by that time. Having drunk and eaten their way all up and down Vassar View, the celebrants would then pick up our "Twelve Days of Christmas" placemats (which Mom only used for decoration ... and caroling) and tramp through the snow to the only house in the neighborhood whose occupants were never invited to this event and treat them to a sort of cheerfully loutish shivaree.
These nice people who were so rudely awakened each year were the Bradys. They were dignified people that the other neighbors were too chicken to invite to such brawling festivities. It's not as though they were aloof. My mother went over there fairly frequently to have coffee with the elegant Catherine Brady. She liked her coffee served very, very hot - but then wouldn't drink it until it was almost tepid. Her husband was a very quiet and reserved gentleman with a dry wit who worked as a stockbroker on Wall Street, and their son P. T. (or "Petey," an adult in college when I knew them) a cheerful character who teased me about the plural of "moose" and took his bride on a camping honeymoon that featured sleeping bags that zipped together.
The family was alternately worshiped and razzed because they seemed so sober and upright. Catherine Brady was a cousin of Joel Chandler Harris of Uncle Remus fame. I was told this in awed tones although at the time I had no clue who this Uncle Remus guy was.
As if the annual shivaree wasn't enough, my mother once sent me over to Paul Brady with a sponge sandwich to see if he would eat it. Never mind that we'd never taken a sandwich to him before or that he'd just been outside spraying the ornamentals with insecticide. Mom carefully made a sandwich out of a thin, dry yellow sponge, two slices of white bread, and mustard. She wrapped it in wax paper (as was done in those days before little plastic baggies) and, giggling, sent me across the street with the unlikely comestible.
It says volumes about me that I undertook this delicate mission for her. This was the same woman who sent me out in the yard with a salt shaker to catch birds (the same wheeze her mother used when she wanted some peace in the house). At last I would be in control of the joke! I could barely contain myself, but knew that a straight face would be necessary. In the end, Mr. Brady had the good grace to at least attempt to take a bite because he could see how crushed I was that he was suspicious of a highly unlikely sandwich. I took great pleasure in admitting it was a sponge after his teeth were in it.
Older than most of the people on the street even then (and most of the others were in their forties and fifties), the Bradys senior must be long gone. Om alone knows what they made of the antics of their silly neighbors.
Then there was an annual New Year's progressive dinner party in the neighborhood that included most of the families on the street and ended in a colossal binge at our house. My sister told what I considered to be exaggerated stories that likened these middle-class suburban gatherings to Roman orgies but the most I ever saw was the traditional stroke of midnight kiss, admittedly pretty sloppy one by that time. Having drunk and eaten their way all up and down Vassar View, the celebrants would then pick up our "Twelve Days of Christmas" placemats (which Mom only used for decoration ... and caroling) and tramp through the snow to the only house in the neighborhood whose occupants were never invited to this event and treat them to a sort of cheerfully loutish shivaree.
These nice people who were so rudely awakened each year were the Bradys. They were dignified people that the other neighbors were too chicken to invite to such brawling festivities. It's not as though they were aloof. My mother went over there fairly frequently to have coffee with the elegant Catherine Brady. She liked her coffee served very, very hot - but then wouldn't drink it until it was almost tepid. Her husband was a very quiet and reserved gentleman with a dry wit who worked as a stockbroker on Wall Street, and their son P. T. (or "Petey," an adult in college when I knew them) a cheerful character who teased me about the plural of "moose" and took his bride on a camping honeymoon that featured sleeping bags that zipped together.
The family was alternately worshiped and razzed because they seemed so sober and upright. Catherine Brady was a cousin of Joel Chandler Harris of Uncle Remus fame. I was told this in awed tones although at the time I had no clue who this Uncle Remus guy was.
As if the annual shivaree wasn't enough, my mother once sent me over to Paul Brady with a sponge sandwich to see if he would eat it. Never mind that we'd never taken a sandwich to him before or that he'd just been outside spraying the ornamentals with insecticide. Mom carefully made a sandwich out of a thin, dry yellow sponge, two slices of white bread, and mustard. She wrapped it in wax paper (as was done in those days before little plastic baggies) and, giggling, sent me across the street with the unlikely comestible.
It says volumes about me that I undertook this delicate mission for her. This was the same woman who sent me out in the yard with a salt shaker to catch birds (the same wheeze her mother used when she wanted some peace in the house). At last I would be in control of the joke! I could barely contain myself, but knew that a straight face would be necessary. In the end, Mr. Brady had the good grace to at least attempt to take a bite because he could see how crushed I was that he was suspicious of a highly unlikely sandwich. I took great pleasure in admitting it was a sponge after his teeth were in it.
Older than most of the people on the street even then (and most of the others were in their forties and fifties), the Bradys senior must be long gone. Om alone knows what they made of the antics of their silly neighbors.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Sold American!
At long last I have finished this book, Sold American: Consumption and Citizenship, 1890 - 1945 by Charles F. McGovern. I need to preface my remarks on it by admitting that I do not recall ever discussing anything concerning this topic with Charlie in the time I spent living in the half-a-house he and a friend of mine rented. Therefore, this is not a "why the hell didn't he mention me in his acknowledgements when there were six pages of them and he mentioned everyone else who walked by" essay ... regardless of how it sounds.
We talked of plenty of other stuff, mostly his roommate and my friend who is a pretty colorful character. And of course we would talk about me, or, rather, I would talk about me and he would listen. Charlie is an Olympic Champion at Active Listening. "Talk to me," he would say and then nod audibly through the whole shebang. He did this for me the first time we talked, which was actually when I had called from New York and was trying to reach his roommate. "You sound upset," he said. "Talk to me." Why his bed did not "groan from the weight of grateful women" is beyond me (or maybe it did and I just wasn't around). He listened, he played guitar, and he was immensely entertaining as an armchair commentator on the World Series. "Hal Laneah [aka: Lanier]? Hal Laneah?! Where do they dredge up these third base coaches?!" I can't watch sports unless I'm with someone who takes it personally. Then it's fun. Well, fun to watch the paroxysms.
But, to The Tome. I'm not through with the footnotes yet, but I did slog through the text. And I mean "slog" in the nicest way. This is the meaty prose of the dissertation, lightened hither and yon by Charlie's inimitable wryness. Example: subheading in chapter 7: "Slaughter on Madison Avenue" - great balls o' fire, he even worked in a musical reference! Further on, he remarks that "in the early 1930s the Buy-ological Urge [as expressed by Better Homes and Gardens] seemed less frequent than cicadas." This topic is actually one of my pet bugbears. I am a fan of Consumer Reports, which I refer to before all major purchases (using the library copy - tee hee!) I was crushed when the kids' version, Zillions, went on-line where I couldn't read it. There was a time that I wandered around ranting that our economy was based solely on the exchange of cash for crap, yards of crap, endless steaming juggernauts of crap. And what was worse, there seemed to be no way away from it. I truly hoped that this book would tell me where this happened (which might lead to a way away from it). Not wishing to provide any "spoilers" to my posse of reader, the book does not do this. You can start reading again, Bob. Anyway, it's never one defining moment. This is a process beginning in the 1890s and on-going to our day and beyond. By "beyond," I mean more than in time, but also geographically. Consumerism seems to be the Ice Nine that will doom our civilization.
If Charlie's book does anything, it confirms my fears (not really immediate fears, but deep ones) about business and advertising. In the three years before I moved in with Charlie and Our Mutual Friend, I lived in Manhattan and took the occasional job in an advertising and/or public relations firm. These jobs might last a day or a week. In one case, it lasted about half a week until I became disgusted by the practices of one agency and started to feign illness so I would not have to go back and be a part of it the next day. I knew admen and PR people were soulless bastards who callously labeled the public in denigrating terms (even before I saw the Goodies "String" episode). That wouldn't surprise or bother me to see it confirmed. The work this particular agency was doing on behalf of a pharmaceutical company wouldn't have seemed half as bad if they hadn't been so covert about it. Why was I not given the job of typing up a particular letter, that was then put in an envelope and the copy and the mag-card (remember mag-cards?) put in a locked cabinet? Hmmmm.
I really do not remember how I got my hands on the letter. No, I really don't. It didn't take long, though. They were hiring a writer to create a "professional newsletter" about a particular therapy that would push a medication that hadn't fared too well in testing (not being particularly effective and causing problems to the user). Okay, that's not so bad. They had, however, developed a similar medication for the same condition that was more effective and had fewer side effects, but they were planning on releasing that later and getting their money out of the development of the inferior treatment first. The free newsletter only had to go on for two or three issues before disappearing. It would be provided to doctors who specialized in treating this ailment. This is all you need to explain my opinion of pharmaceutical companies and the whores they hire to represent them.
In another all-about-me anecdote, after I moved across town, Our Mutual Friend came to visit and after hours of playful banter, excused himself and used the bathroom. When he came out, he commented that he'd looked at the personal care products that were in the shower (interesting - they wouldn't be readily viewable). "Are those yours?" he asked. I allowed as they were mine. "I didn't recognize a single brand," was his comment. I said I didn't buy by brand. I look at the ingredients and then I smell it. If it's body lotion, I might taste it as well (just in case I got lucky, really really lucky). He had visited once when I was braising some root vegetables and beef bones to make soup stock. "Boy, it sure smells good in here. What are you making?" I told him and he looked at me curiously. "Why do you do that?" And then he answered his own question, perhaps with a touch of sarcasm. "So you know what's in it?" Bingo.
So, I have a lot of weird stuff in my bathroom. So what? There are plenty of people who will run out and buy ... whatever the expensive shampoo stuff is. Can't even remember the name of the brand. Admen would be appalled. I buy the store brands and the off-brands because I was raised that way. My dad pontificated about the cost of the corn that went into a package of cornflakes versus the price and how the national advertising drove up that price ... at the breakfast table. Over his cornflakes. A kid can go one way or the other because of that. I went that-a-way.
So now, thanks to Charlie, I want to read Veblen and bust the stranglehold business has on our society ... excepting, of course, my husband's business which should thrive and everyone should have a lovely Harmonic Capo whether they have a guitar or not. Get out there and buy, y'all!
The only thing worse than the crushing realization that we cannot get off this tiger of relentless consumption of crap, is the knowledge that we're infecting the rest of the world. We rape the natural resources of other continents, we allow their people to be enslaved to make our crap that we just throw away, and, on top of it, they want a piece of the crap-cycle themselves. But despite the major depression this brings on (well, on me, anyway), imagine the fun of researching this by poring over old magazines! Look at the cover of the book! And there's more inside the book - some absolutely appalling ads supporting business interests, not just promoting products. During the Second World War, production of consumer goods was curtailed for the war effort, but the producers didn't want people to forget their products or for the dreaded consumerists to get the upper hand, so they promoted themselves. American GIs were out there being killed for Kelvinator. They were dying so that the folks at home could some day enjoy the benefits of modern appliances again. Never mind that Hitler guy and his crazy ideas about non-Aryans. Advertising didn't care about anyone who wasn't white and middle-class. The freedom we fight for now is the freedom to choose Maytag over GE!
America has some bizarre potlatch society (this was another one of my rants from back in the day) where we have to have more than anyone else or better or newer and we just throw things away when we get bored with them. I include myself in this group. My boombox eats the cassette tapes? It won't pick up NPR anymore? Time to buy a new one! (Actually, if I tried to take my boombox to the local repair shop, I'd get eyes rolled at me by that arsehole ... again, and my husband would probably disown me because he hasn't forgiven that arsehole for the "Not all moslems are terrorists but all terrorists are moslem" on his marquee, which I have to admit is pretty unforgivable - how soon we forget, eh?) I saw a cd-player in a catalog once that held 100 cds and I was waxing all rabid about "Who would have that many cds?!" when I stopped and thought a moment and went to count mine. I had over 150. Key-rist, I'd need two of those players! Just because I don't buy ... hmmm, brand name still escapes me - blah-blah shampoo doesn't mean I'm not a die-hard consumer! Just look at the desk in front of me: big-ass monitor, printer/scanner/copier, digital camera, headset with microphone, speakers and a sub-woofer, and a little brush for getting the cathair out of the keyboard.
A little brush ... for getting cathair ... out of a keyboard.
I am currently engaged in a great experiment (no caps) in which society can be re-created in better ways. Thrilled at the outset, I plunged into Second Life (registered trademark lalala) to see what people were making of this virtual world. I found the library ... I heard about the sex clubs (big deal - all new genres and formats will first be used to titillate and finally frustrate the dateless) ... but mostly it seems to be about shopping. Making things and selling them. Huge malls spring up:
Lludmila overwhelmed by glittery crap.
And, of course, I'm there. I don't have any money, because I didn't think I needed any. You don't need to eat or sleep there, so what do you need the money for? You can create your own clothing out of nothing. What am I doing there? Pursuing the freebie. The size of my inventory is something outrageous. Do I ever throw anything away? Even the ugly clothes? Apparently not! If I actually had money here, I can't imagine what depths of consumer depravity I'd resort to. Today I saw for sale a gynecologist's table, with a "fist animation" - for only $99L! This is less than half a penny. And I don't even need a house to put it in! I can store it in my inventory, "just in case!" And I have not spent one dime in this place. I can earn money just by "camping" (usually just sitting in a chair to plump up the location's usage statistics) or by getting an actual job (a virtual friend recently had an opening for a hostess in her cafe). I usually win my Lindens at trivia quizzes. Most of this virtual money goes to tips at locations where I hang out. Occasionally I will purchase an item, but most of the things I've gotten have been free. I subscribe to a blog that will tell me exactly where to find free things and what they look like. When I'm poor, I resent other avatars that have "homes" they've furnished and fancier clothing and accessories than I have. This has made me all the more acquisitive ... in-world. Money seems to be piling up in my real life bank account because I don't have time to go out shopping for my real self. I wonder how many other residents feel the same.
Below are some March 2008 spending statistics from the SL website. Apparently, there are a lot of us out there handing over virtual money. The great thing about this virtual world business for economists is that every niggly little transaction is recorded. Raw numbers are posted on the website along with astounding graphs. Don't you just love graphs?
Monthly Spending by Amount (2008 March)
Transaction Size - Residents
1 - 500 L$ - 119,205
501 - 2,000 L$ - 63,940
2001 - 5,000 L$ - 48,453
5,001 - 10,000 L$ - 34,651
10,001 - 50,000 L$ - 59,092
50,001 - 100,000 L$ - 12,818
100,001 - 500,000 L$ - 9,338
500,001 - 1,000,000 L$ - 769
Over 1,000,000 L$ - 506
Total Customers Spending Money In-World - 348,772
The net result of this, is the exchange (between residents) of Linden dollars that are the equivalent of over US$25,000,000. Yes, I put the proper amount of zeros there, but I'll spell it out for you. Avatars spent over twenty-five million US dollars in the month of March. On what? On Things That Don't Even Exist. Charlie, put that in your Kelvinator and smoke it.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
I Take It All Back
Former Post: This weekend I got a message on my Facebook account from someone who thought he remembered me from many years ago. I replied, jovially, that if he was the one who had us over for dinner and got all stressed out by it, then we did know each other. I was sincerely glad he looked me up. No, really. I haven't heard from him since. He didn't friend me or reply. So I think it's only fair that I post these records of the event mentioned above, which was a lot of fun ... for the guests anyway. I have our version and his version. The truth, if such a thing exists, is somewhere in between. You figure it out.
New Post: He was just really busy, in and out of town. Claims to have found one of my cartoons. Hmmm, I wonder which one, eh? eh?
Moral: Friend me. Friend me right away, or else!
New Moral: Maybe not everyone checks their Facebook account 20 times a day.
New Post: He was just really busy, in and out of town. Claims to have found one of my cartoons. Hmmm, I wonder which one, eh? eh?
Moral: Friend me. Friend me right away, or else!
New Moral: Maybe not everyone checks their Facebook account 20 times a day.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
My Penance for Warm Winters
This is just a little present I found attached to my dad's mailbox. I certainly will "keep this flyer for future reference." Now I know exactly whom to not contact if I need pressure washing or cosmetics. I wonder if Avon allows the inclusion of religious tracts in their reps' advertising.This whole thing has sooo much wrong with it I don't even know where to start. Okay, here's a good place. This tract is equating AIDS with sin. Sure, it says we are all sinners because we are all born that way, but who really reads these things carefully?
And is advertising for your business really the best way to proselytize? It's one thing to put the "Smile God Loves You" on your flyer, but including a tract?
I suppose the "Smile God Loves You" is meant to brighten your day. The believers can look at it and be reminded (if they feel that way) to be happy in their lives because even though their marriage is breaking up, their kids are in trouble, they've lost their job, and their mother has some painful, terminal illness, at least God loves them. Even if no one else does. Even if He sends them these trials while the neighbors don't go to church and seem to be enjoying prosperity and laughing a lot.
The unbelievers can feel a stab in the eyeball and have a nervous tic the rest of the day ... or perhaps they scan the document, redact any personal info, and post it on a blog thinking they are making it look ridiculous. That would only work, I suppose, if anyone actually read the blog.
It seems long ago and far away that things religious did not annoy me. I laughed at alleged "Buddhists" in Massachusetts who hailed me on the street and tried to tell me that if I chanted "Ohmanipadmahummm" over and over that I would get what I desired. The thought of using religion to get material goods was repugnant to me, but one nut on the street did not make me want to not say "Happy Dhamma Day!" and spin a wheel for Buddhist friends (okay, friend singular). I put up a Christmas tree, wished people "Happy Christmas!" (Where appropriate), and got all teary over the story of the Passion. It's a good story.
Then I moved back to the south and things changed. My elderly mother was harassed by other old ladies who told her she would burn in hell. Everywhere I go, gatherings are begun with Christian prayers. For years I bowed politely out of respect, but now it's starting to get on my nerves. I've started asking for the "Eid" stamps at the post office to put on my greeting cards. I put Hanukkah stamps on the "Season's Greetings" cards I send to Jewish friends and still get "Why are you sending me a Christmas card when you know perfectly well I'm Jewish?" messages back. I'm beginning to understand that. (Not totally, Alex - since there was no reference to Christmas, Christ, or even Santa on that card!) I feel like a minority here and each reminder of it raises my hackles.
I think everyone should live for a while as a minority. We should send southerners to California, maybe, and make them listen to that New Age piffle for a year or so and then debrief them. "So, Mrs. Knotwattle, how did that make you feel? Are you any more inclined to use crystals and prayer wheels in your life?"
Extreme beliefs beget opposite extreme beliefs.
And I haven't even gotten started on that tract. It never ceases to amaze me how Christians can side-step what Jesus actually said and go back to the Old Testament and pull verses out of context. Love the Lord with all your heart ... and give away all your riches, that's the baseline. Don't go mining another religion's ancient texts for juicy bits and making up arcane rigmarole to keep the sheep in line or scare up more converts.
This tract is intentionally inflammatory. Comparing sin to AIDS is not clever. It obliquely demonizes homosexuals (the group most often associated with AIDS). It endorses intolerance and breeds hatred. A stupid person reads this and thinks, It's okay to hate queers (black people, muslims, insert long-suffering minority of your choice), sin is in their blood. And don't try to tell me that people are not that stupid. No one (not even yours truly) reads something to change their minds. They pick out only the parts they want to see and use them to bolster their (my) own cherished opinions.
Sin is everything that is wrong ... with someone else. Even though this tract directs you to look inside yourself, people so rarely do this. Vast herds of Stupid People are convinced that AIDS is God's punishment visited on sinners. This is, by the way, the same God who loves you so much that you should be smiling! Never mind those hemophiliacs that became HIV positive through transfusions before they were able to screen the blood and the donors for that. They, no doubt, were just being "tested." There's no need to look to God for punishment when we so effectively bring it upon ourselves. We start wars. By "we" I mean people, not just the United States, although we seem to start more than our fair share. We pollute our environment and poison our own bodies. There is plenty that is not our fault as well, but as it rains, my father says, "on the yust and the un-yust yust the same," let's not blame God for any of it. Bad things happen to all kinds of people for no particular reason as well as happen through their own doing. It's not our job to assign blame, we need to deal with the aftermath.
I'd like to see tracts that say "Love thy neighbor" or "Whatsoever you do to the least of these my brothers, you do to me." Go do some good things for someone else, regardless of who they are. Visit them if they are ill. Feed them if they are hungry. Find jobs for them if they are willing to work. Show others a good way to live instead of shaking your fingers at them. In sooth, though, 'twill never happen. Religion seems to be about us versus them. We're right and you're wrong, so you: are going to hell/don't deserve help/need a whole new government.
How did we get it so wrong?
"I realize there are people out there who don't love their fellow man," Tom Lehrer said, "and I hate people like that."
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Pitty Poo
Marlene pointed out today that a mutual friend from the Bad Old Days (some of which I am no longer allowed to mention in her presence) has published a book. She discovered this in the process of googling her name, as one does. Her name turned up in the acknowledgments section (I don't dare call it "page" because of the length). "He mentioned just about everybody from back then!" she claimed. Sure enough, he mentioned his old girlfriend and his roommate that snaked his old girlfriend, and more people that I recall from those days. Marlene is astonished that she was mentioned. She was more mildly surprised to find that I wasn't. Nope, I checked that long list pretty thoroughly and I wasn't there.
Not that I need to be.
I only lived in that house for a half a year.
I was only there when all the poo hit the propeller.
And I've been acknowledged before. See for yourself in John Jakes' best seller North and South. And again in Steve Naifeh and Greg White's Pulitzer Prize winning biography Jackson Pollock: an American Saga.
So, I don't need the mention. I mean, I actually did some work on those books. Steve jokingly referred to me as the foremost expert on Lee Krasner at the time of her death because of all the transcription work I had done.
That isn't what hurts.
It takes me back to a very painful time, a time of rejection, manipulation, and hostility and brings it all back to me. So today I have held my own little pitty party. I boo-hoo'd a bit. Then I got angry all over again at old stuff.
I am so thankful to have found Bob. Bob is a wonderful man. He tried to cheer me up by claiming that the way our state is, anyone who didn't like Obama wouldn't like Hillary either and it wouldn't hurt Obama if people voted for other people down the list, like John Edwards. Nice try!
If not, maybe we'll both mope around this evening over a bowl of ice cream.
Not that I need to be.
I only lived in that house for a half a year.
I was only there when all the poo hit the propeller.
And I've been acknowledged before. See for yourself in John Jakes' best seller North and South. And again in Steve Naifeh and Greg White's Pulitzer Prize winning biography Jackson Pollock: an American Saga.
So, I don't need the mention. I mean, I actually did some work on those books. Steve jokingly referred to me as the foremost expert on Lee Krasner at the time of her death because of all the transcription work I had done.
That isn't what hurts.
It takes me back to a very painful time, a time of rejection, manipulation, and hostility and brings it all back to me. So today I have held my own little pitty party. I boo-hoo'd a bit. Then I got angry all over again at old stuff.
I am so thankful to have found Bob. Bob is a wonderful man. He tried to cheer me up by claiming that the way our state is, anyone who didn't like Obama wouldn't like Hillary either and it wouldn't hurt Obama if people voted for other people down the list, like John Edwards. Nice try!
If not, maybe we'll both mope around this evening over a bowl of ice cream.
A Rant I Thought of After Passing a New Bank
Last year a yobbo (a lout or a yokel - I just looked it up) wrote a letter to the editor of what passes for a newspaper in this town of a sole equine quadruped complaining that some of the new buildings (the bank I glanced at on my way home from a pleasurable Indian meal, for instance) being put up in the selfsame town had taken on the appearance of mosques. The letter-writer was complaining about this, as if it were a terrible thing.
Now, this complaint of his has two things wrong with it. First of all, he is an idiot. Okay, it has three things wrong with it. I'd have to get out a thesaurus to do justice to his idiocy, stupidity, ignorance, and headuphisassedness, not to mention out-and-out bigotry. And I mention "bigotry" as if it were a bad thing. Hmm, maybe that makes four.
A mosque is a building used for public worship by Muslims. Muslims worship the same God as the Jews and Christians - they call this divine being Allah, which means "The God." We are not at war with Muslims. Muslims are not bad people. Anyone who thinks only Muslims are terrorists have either very short memories or very, very narrow vision (or else they are stupid, ignorant idiots with their heads up their nethers). Does Northern Ireland ring a bell? Remember all the trouble those "heathens" got up to? How about the insane people who bomb women's clinics and threaten the employees? The guy who shot up the mosque? What were they? Let me think - they start with "C" and "J." Hmmmmmm.
Here are two examples of mosques (although I realize they can come in all shapes):
Now, by way of comparison, here are the local buildings in question:
Ahhh, I see. They all have domes! And here in the good old U. S. of A. We don't use domes in our architecture! Thomas Jefferson would never use one of those heathen domes for anything! Our Great Nation's Capitol would not sully their grounds with buildings with any domes on them!
Whatta moron! Okay, so he's Architecturally Ignorant. And he's a bigot.
So, let's recap:
This man is (choose four) an idiot, a very stupid person, an ignoramus, a fatuous ass, a lout, an inbred hayseed, a witless yokel, a moronic bumpkin, a ... ummm, I'm running out of steam here ... Get your own thesaurus.
This stupidity has led to incorrect deductions which make him bigoted, narrow-minded, intolerant, and prejudiced.
These buildings no more resemble mosques than they resemble Monticello or the many Catholic (which, contrary to stupid people down here, is a form of Christianity) cathedrals in Europe.
Even if they did resemble mosques, if, for instance, they had minarets and nice courtyards in the front, there would still be nothing wrong with that, except that one of them is a bank and that would be blasphemous. If that were so, Muslims everywhere should take offense, not the other way around!
And I don't want to hear another thing about it! (/me walks away muttering "Idiots! Morons!")
Now, this complaint of his has two things wrong with it. First of all, he is an idiot. Okay, it has three things wrong with it. I'd have to get out a thesaurus to do justice to his idiocy, stupidity, ignorance, and headuphisassedness, not to mention out-and-out bigotry. And I mention "bigotry" as if it were a bad thing. Hmm, maybe that makes four.
A mosque is a building used for public worship by Muslims. Muslims worship the same God as the Jews and Christians - they call this divine being Allah, which means "The God." We are not at war with Muslims. Muslims are not bad people. Anyone who thinks only Muslims are terrorists have either very short memories or very, very narrow vision (or else they are stupid, ignorant idiots with their heads up their nethers). Does Northern Ireland ring a bell? Remember all the trouble those "heathens" got up to? How about the insane people who bomb women's clinics and threaten the employees? The guy who shot up the mosque? What were they? Let me think - they start with "C" and "J." Hmmmmmm.
Here are two examples of mosques (although I realize they can come in all shapes):
Now, by way of comparison, here are the local buildings in question:
Ahhh, I see. They all have domes! And here in the good old U. S. of A. We don't use domes in our architecture! Thomas Jefferson would never use one of those heathen domes for anything! Our Great Nation's Capitol would not sully their grounds with buildings with any domes on them!Whatta moron! Okay, so he's Architecturally Ignorant. And he's a bigot.
So, let's recap:
This man is (choose four) an idiot, a very stupid person, an ignoramus, a fatuous ass, a lout, an inbred hayseed, a witless yokel, a moronic bumpkin, a ... ummm, I'm running out of steam here ... Get your own thesaurus.
This stupidity has led to incorrect deductions which make him bigoted, narrow-minded, intolerant, and prejudiced.
These buildings no more resemble mosques than they resemble Monticello or the many Catholic (which, contrary to stupid people down here, is a form of Christianity) cathedrals in Europe.
Even if they did resemble mosques, if, for instance, they had minarets and nice courtyards in the front, there would still be nothing wrong with that, except that one of them is a bank and that would be blasphemous. If that were so, Muslims everywhere should take offense, not the other way around!
And I don't want to hear another thing about it! (/me walks away muttering "Idiots! Morons!")
Monday, December 10, 2007
Thanks for Reminding Me
Now ...and then ...
I don't have any photos from this period, more's the pity (probably get some good blackmail out of it). Okay, there's this one, which I scanned recently and comes from the tail end of my stay in New York. My Glamorous cousin Marylynn and I went to Tavern on the Green. This was just prior to her trip to Russia and she is wearing her red Red Square dress, which is entirely and utterly backless. Hope she has a nice wrap in case it was chilly!
This weekend I was reminded of a number of things having to do with theatre (which link directly to NYC, but also elsewhere) and thought I'd better write some of them down before I forgot them - not impossible considering I can barely remember what I did yesterday.
I had gone to NY to audition for shows and do the Theatre Thing. One did this by reading the trade papers, finding audition ads, calling for an appointment/sending in the 8x10 and resume (if not a cattle call) and hustling over to the locations. One was the marvelous Ansonia Hotel, the home-away-from-home for many in the biz. Others were in catch-as-catch-can locations (Let's see how many dashes I can use! They're free!). One in particular was in the auditorium of the New York Times newspaper building.
The ad had been for redheads, which I was at the time, although this photo might not show it very well. Red fades, you know. A company was going to put on a production of "The Taming of the Shrew," a show I love, having seen the BBC version with John Cleese who shocked everyone by doing it abso-tootin-lutely straight (except for one tiny bit where he clucked like a chicken) and a Spanish golden age drama by Calderón de la Barca, "Life Is a Dream." Coincidentally, I had been a Spanish major and had memorized Segismundo's famous soliloquy ... in Spanish. And I swear this was entirely a coincidence.
The audition was at an awkward time for me. I was working as a temp and the audition was right after work, not giving me time to change. I was wearing a grey/lavendar wool suit, a polyester blouse (probably - although I did have one silk one that was white), and some Italian heels that cost what at that time (for me anyway) was an unheard of $84 plus NY tax. Should have bought them in Boston. No tax on clothing in "Taxachusetts." Go figure.
So, that is how I showed up: red hair, tight wool suit, hose, big fake pearls that would make Barbara Bush envious, and expensive leather shoes. We were to meet in the lobby and, you know, it was obvious who was there for the audition. It was redhead central. I thought this was really funny, but then I think everything is really funny.
All us alleged redheads were herded into the auditorium and the woman in charge (let's call her Hilda for want of her real name) sighed and announced that "some" of us apparently had (message) services that had not given us the part of the message that said to "dress for movement." I had actually talked to a live person and knew for certain that no one had mentioned that. I checked later and there had been no follow-up call to add it. Bitch. She meant me.
She then described some of the other shows this group had put on. The latest one, and the one that stuck in my mind, was "The Merchant of Venice." They had created a concept on this poor play wherein the performers were concentration camp inmates who were being forced to put on TMoV. Extra actors entered in German uniforms and holding machine guns, marching the prisoners in, glaring at both actors and audience. OMG.
Does anybody remember that movie, "The Goodbye Girl"? There's a Shakespeare group whose director wants Richard Dreyfuss to play Richard III as a screaming queen? I'm sitting in the auditorium thinking, "This is the group! This is the group Neil Simon was talking about!" They also wanted to do "The Taming of the Shrew" as a sort of Buzby Berkeley thing. Well, I could almost see that. Almost. I wasn't sure what they were going to do with the Calderón piece, but by this time I was pretty sure that I did not want to be part of it.
I love auditions. I enjoy rehearsals. Performances are a pain. Auditions are The Thing. In an audition, you can spend a couple of minutes doing a part you have not the slightest business playing. And if you don't really want the part, if you've just found a long-term temp job that is loaded with perks and gives you a huge office with a view of the ... the ... Empire State Building, then an audition gives you the chance you've always wanted to be a complete and total asshole. I felt my adrenalin surge. This was my moment, my destiny called me! And though it may be just once in a lifetime ... I'm gonna slam-dunk this audition!
But first, I had to go through the hazing process called "The Warm-Up."
"Okay, everyone," said Hilda. "Let's all get up on the stage here and sit in a circle!" On the floor, I might add. So be it! I was younger and more bendy, although my skirt resisted. We were going to play the Memory Game. The guy directly on my left started. He said his name. The next person to the right (that's-a me!) said his name and then her own name. That's easy! Skinny Dude, Marf. The next person added her name to the list. I could see where this was going. Even in my early 30s my memory was mush, especially with names. They were going to come around again and I'd have to do everyone. I studied. Feverishly I worked on learning the names as they went around the circle. I tried to make my face look neutral, but I could feel the sweat running down my spine. Some of the women were faltering, and they were barely halfway around. Sure enough, they made me do the whole list ... they also went a few more people past me to lead me to believe I wasn't being singled out.
One test down, we lay down and made a sound symphony with just tones to warm up our voices. Then, one by one we went up on stage to do our humorous and dramatic monologues. In order to finish my monologues (you are often cut off early), I had developed some eight-line ones, poetry or lyrics, that I could do quickly but that still ran a gamut of feelings. I don't remember what my dramatic one was, but when I led off with it, the group laughed. I say it was dramatic, which doesn't mean it wasn't wry, but when I finished, I announced that as they had laughed at my dramatic monologue, I would have to substitute another. Oh, sure! Actually, I had planned this.
"Since you are planning to do Calderón's "Life Is a Dream," I'll do Segismundo's soliloquy. Unfortunately," I added in my patent off-hand manner, "I only know it in Spanish." With that, I threw myself against the back wall and proceeded to eat scenery like nobody's bidness.
"¡Es verdad!" I shouted. "Pues reprimamos esta fiera condición, esta furia, esta ambición - por si una vez soñamos y si haremos pues estamos en un mundo tan singular, que el vivir solo es soñar ..." I went on like this through the entire soliloquy until I ended it, flat on my face: wool suit, fake pearls, Italian shoes and all. Dead silence. I haven't been that proud since. Well, except for the day that someone called me an "asshole" for reminding him of "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree" all afternoon. Ahhhhh, that felt soooo gooood!
Oh, and for a treat afterwards, I got to do an improvisation with Skinny Dude and Short Dude. Skinny Dude is the bastard who called me and did not tell me about the clothes for moving. He was gonna pay. Each auditioner was given pretty much the same improv. Short Dude would try to make us laugh. I don't laugh when I don't want to. Full Stop. Now, for those of you who don't "do" theatre, I might have to point out that the whole point behind improvisation is not "to win." It is to create something together (if you are working with someone), to show thinking on your feet and cooperation. But, the situation being what it was, my whole purpose in life that day was to win, to flatten these people like 'possums on I-75.
The next improv? I was to try to kiss Skinny Dude, who would be oblivious to my intentions regardless of what was going on. Short Dude was to try and stop me. Ohhhh, they picked the wrong dude. And the memory of the looks on their faces still has the ability to make me giggle. A shiver of pleasure runs through me as I see the look on Short Dude's face change after I've made a couple of feints, harrumphed in disgust, and then picked him up bodily and set him behind me. I just put my hands in his armpits and lifted him. Carrying people my own size on stage was my specialty. This guy was a flea. And again a surge of delight as I remember the look on Skinny Dude's face. Talk about a deer in the headlights. I grabbed the front of his sweater and he tried to make a break for it. I hung on and, as he reached the end of his yarn, he toppled and I swung him to the floor, straddled his inert frame, and kissed the bastard. Actually, he was quite cute - despite the two inches of roots where the natural hair color was belying the black he'd had for TMoV.
"Is that it?" I asked, glancing up at the audience and Hilda.
"I don't think so!" said Skinny Dude, who pulled me down and kissed me back.
Sometimes life just doesn't get better than that.
Oh, I'd like to say they called me and begged me to do one or both of the shows and that I'd airily turned them down, but I think we know better. Not a sausage.
Instead, let me include a totally imaginary, fictionalized, untrue fantasy of the company's conversation later that evening.
Skinny Dude: I liked her.
Short Dude: Jesus Christ.
Hilda: No, she's immature. She can't follow direction.
Skinny Dude: She's got a prodigious ... memory!
Short Dude: JEsus!
Hilda: No, forget it. She's not what we're looking for.
Skinny Dude: Are you kidding? She's got Katharine written all over her!
Short Dude: I need a drink.
Hilda: I'm telling you, forget it. I'm not working with her!
Skinny Dude: Let me just call her ...
Hilda: I said, No!
Short Dude: You are such a masochist!
Skinny Dude: I'm calling her. She seems like she'd be fun.
Hilda: If it's a date you want...
Short Dude: He doesn't want to date her, trust me.
Skinny Dude: I'm calling.
(Exit, not pursued by bear.)
Hilda: I don't believe it. She's a scenery chewer!
Short Dude: My armpits still hurt.
Hilda: I can't believe anyone thinks they can land a part that way.
(Skinny Dude re-enters.)
Hilda: Well?
Skinny Dude: I got her roommate and he laughed at me. Then he put her on, and she laughed at me and said she wouldn't be caught dead in one of our productions.
Hilda (in meltdown): That bitch!
Skinny Dude: But we're meeting for drinks at Uncle Charlie's Friday.
Ba-boom!
End of Fantasy.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
The Story I Will Never Write
It being excruciatingly close to my birthday, I got to thinking recently.
There is a story in my life that I will never write. I have had all sorts of bizarre experiences, but the most bizarre will never issue from this keyboard, any other keyboard, or any of the myriad forms of writing that exist. And the story that I will not be able to tell is of the one where I give birth.
I can tell the one story about the time where I might have been pregnant. I have a blind terror of pregnancy, because it is something I have never experienced and so I fear it. It is a life changing experience and I don't take change well. The scariest part is that once I have passed through that experience event horizon, I think, Oh, that was nothing! I can do that a thousand more times! And the last thing I or anyone else on earth needs is a thousand of my babies. But that's what happens. Once I have an experience under my belt, I turn into a ditto machine and I do it over and over.
To prevent this, I have never been pregnant. I have never carried a child to term. And I have never given birth. You can say all you want about what a wonderful experience this is, I can read all about it, I can watch Jennifer Anniston on "Friends" fake it to much canned laughter, but it has not happened nor will it ever happen to me.
Therefore, there will be no amusing, traumatic, poignant (a word that a Tidewater English teacher I had pronounced "pwahg-nent"*), hilarious, or otherwise interesting story about me breaking water, having contractions, having false contractions, panicking my husband, exciting my mother, alarming the neighbors, getting stopped by state troopers, having flat tires, giving birth in the back seat of a taxi, demanding painkillers in an Exorcist voice, screaming invectives at my bewildered husband when he tries to coach me in the LaMaze breathing while inflicting cold irony on my obstetrician, sharing wisecracks with the nursing staff, loping like an orangutan to a bathroom dragging my IV on a wheeled stand, finding my emotional balance when confronted by a terminal cancer patient, threatening friends who arrive with videocameras, suddenly going back into labor to give birth to an unexpected twin-triplet-quadruplet-etc., being forgiven for the stream of invectives by a frazzled but proud father, blogging the whole thing on MySpace, and passing out from happy exhaustion after a job well done or crying inconsolably over sixteen hours of pain in vain. I will have no funny stories about the nursing bra, incompetent baby-changing (I hope - I could still get stuck with that for someone else's kid, I suppose), and a thatch of outrageously colored hair that is quickly superceded by four years of bald baby girl with a pink bow taped to her head (as was done for me).
No, the only stories I will be able to relate (or even relate to) are about me. I was born, but I don't remember it. I wasn't born blogging, nor were my parents. My sister is no longer around to describe the series of failed pregnancies that preceded me nor to pointedly not tell about how she wandered off when she was supposed to be in a neighbor's care and stepped into a yellow jackets' nest and wound up in the hospital at the same time as our mother.
And then there's that one time (referenced above) that I thought I might be pregnant because I had skipped a period and was nauseus each evening. Yes, I know it's supposed to be morning sickness, but I have a tendency to get things backwards and at the time I was going through a phase where I ate dinner things for breakfast and finished off the day with a bowl of cereal. It seemed logical that I might have evening sickness in that case instead. I don't recall if I'd been having sex at a time prior that would have put me in the early stages of pregnancy - probably not. My friend Cindy was also skipping, but she felt she at least had an excuse. We considered moving to Charleston and she could have the baby there and we would each tell people it was the other person's baby, thereby covering the embarrasment. In the end, our periods returned naturally and the need to leave town (it was the 1970s and there was still a stigma to unwed motherhood. In fact, according to my state supplied health insurance, pregnancy was not covered if I was not married) evaporated. Yes, years later when I was married I had a skipped period, but by then it could just as easily have been menopause as a pregnancy.
So, I've never been pregnant. And the only reason I'd ever want to be is because there's this smug superiority to deal with from the women who have been through it, the same smug superiority that I wield when I have had an experience someone else has not. It's as if I am not a real woman if I haven't been through this. No one ever actually says this out loud, but their actions and their looks at the rest of us hiss it in a nasty, nasty whisper. What is it, some sort of exclusive club? Faugh! In fact, they are probably just jealous that we can still stay out late, need no babysitters, buy toys for ourselves, never deal with teenagers, not have to pay for some ingrate's college, don't have some out-of-work adult child move back in just when we thought we were free and clear, and never, never, never have to set a good example.
So that is the story that will never be told. You will never have to read my amusing tales of motherhood. I will never show you photos of children or grandchildren or bore you with details of their unexceptional lives.
Remember, you never read it here.
*Okay, this could be "poin-yant," or "pwahn-yant" or the fully frenchified "pwahn-yong," but it just can't be "pwahGG-nent" and I was aware of this even as early as high school.
There is a story in my life that I will never write. I have had all sorts of bizarre experiences, but the most bizarre will never issue from this keyboard, any other keyboard, or any of the myriad forms of writing that exist. And the story that I will not be able to tell is of the one where I give birth.
I can tell the one story about the time where I might have been pregnant. I have a blind terror of pregnancy, because it is something I have never experienced and so I fear it. It is a life changing experience and I don't take change well. The scariest part is that once I have passed through that experience event horizon, I think, Oh, that was nothing! I can do that a thousand more times! And the last thing I or anyone else on earth needs is a thousand of my babies. But that's what happens. Once I have an experience under my belt, I turn into a ditto machine and I do it over and over.
To prevent this, I have never been pregnant. I have never carried a child to term. And I have never given birth. You can say all you want about what a wonderful experience this is, I can read all about it, I can watch Jennifer Anniston on "Friends" fake it to much canned laughter, but it has not happened nor will it ever happen to me.
Therefore, there will be no amusing, traumatic, poignant (a word that a Tidewater English teacher I had pronounced "pwahg-nent"*), hilarious, or otherwise interesting story about me breaking water, having contractions, having false contractions, panicking my husband, exciting my mother, alarming the neighbors, getting stopped by state troopers, having flat tires, giving birth in the back seat of a taxi, demanding painkillers in an Exorcist voice, screaming invectives at my bewildered husband when he tries to coach me in the LaMaze breathing while inflicting cold irony on my obstetrician, sharing wisecracks with the nursing staff, loping like an orangutan to a bathroom dragging my IV on a wheeled stand, finding my emotional balance when confronted by a terminal cancer patient, threatening friends who arrive with videocameras, suddenly going back into labor to give birth to an unexpected twin-triplet-quadruplet-etc., being forgiven for the stream of invectives by a frazzled but proud father, blogging the whole thing on MySpace, and passing out from happy exhaustion after a job well done or crying inconsolably over sixteen hours of pain in vain. I will have no funny stories about the nursing bra, incompetent baby-changing (I hope - I could still get stuck with that for someone else's kid, I suppose), and a thatch of outrageously colored hair that is quickly superceded by four years of bald baby girl with a pink bow taped to her head (as was done for me).
No, the only stories I will be able to relate (or even relate to) are about me. I was born, but I don't remember it. I wasn't born blogging, nor were my parents. My sister is no longer around to describe the series of failed pregnancies that preceded me nor to pointedly not tell about how she wandered off when she was supposed to be in a neighbor's care and stepped into a yellow jackets' nest and wound up in the hospital at the same time as our mother.
And then there's that one time (referenced above) that I thought I might be pregnant because I had skipped a period and was nauseus each evening. Yes, I know it's supposed to be morning sickness, but I have a tendency to get things backwards and at the time I was going through a phase where I ate dinner things for breakfast and finished off the day with a bowl of cereal. It seemed logical that I might have evening sickness in that case instead. I don't recall if I'd been having sex at a time prior that would have put me in the early stages of pregnancy - probably not. My friend Cindy was also skipping, but she felt she at least had an excuse. We considered moving to Charleston and she could have the baby there and we would each tell people it was the other person's baby, thereby covering the embarrasment. In the end, our periods returned naturally and the need to leave town (it was the 1970s and there was still a stigma to unwed motherhood. In fact, according to my state supplied health insurance, pregnancy was not covered if I was not married) evaporated. Yes, years later when I was married I had a skipped period, but by then it could just as easily have been menopause as a pregnancy.
So, I've never been pregnant. And the only reason I'd ever want to be is because there's this smug superiority to deal with from the women who have been through it, the same smug superiority that I wield when I have had an experience someone else has not. It's as if I am not a real woman if I haven't been through this. No one ever actually says this out loud, but their actions and their looks at the rest of us hiss it in a nasty, nasty whisper. What is it, some sort of exclusive club? Faugh! In fact, they are probably just jealous that we can still stay out late, need no babysitters, buy toys for ourselves, never deal with teenagers, not have to pay for some ingrate's college, don't have some out-of-work adult child move back in just when we thought we were free and clear, and never, never, never have to set a good example.
So that is the story that will never be told. You will never have to read my amusing tales of motherhood. I will never show you photos of children or grandchildren or bore you with details of their unexceptional lives.
Remember, you never read it here.
*Okay, this could be "poin-yant," or "pwahn-yant" or the fully frenchified "pwahn-yong," but it just can't be "pwahGG-nent" and I was aware of this even as early as high school.
How Does Nora Ephron Get Published?
I picked up this cd of Nora Ephron's book - something with a title about not being happy about her neck. Anyway, I'm listening to this and my first thought is how ever did she get this published? I am 53 (or will be soon), I've got surgery in the neck area coming up, and I can in no way relate to this problem with the neck. What's with the turtlenecks and scarves? Then she goes into her life in New York City. I should be able to relate to that. But she talks about an apt. she paid a $24,000 (yes, that's right) key fee for. She was paying more a month in the 1980s than I earn a month now. Perhaps this is amusing to other people who had eight room apartments in New York.
The next thing I wonder is why on godsgreenearth they allowed this woman to read her own material? Her speaking voice is driving me crazy - and that's saying something after I endured a computer-generated voice reading Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden, a book larded over with t' broad Yorkshire dialect and all. The eerie feeling you were being read a children's book by Stephen Hawking aside, I was sucked right into the story and mostly forgot it was a machine.
This is Ephron's real speaking voice? I just get the impression that she has tried to slow it down, which only makes the s's hissier and her final t's like tiny hammers on metal. I'm sure when she talks normally she picks up the pace ... and in fact, has some pace. This audio book reminds me of a truism I used to have about poets, that they should never be allowed to read their own material. I have since revised this opinion, as there are some poets who read beautifully. There are some authors who make great speakers and do a boffo job of reading their material, even when you think they wouldn't (Kaye Gibbons comes to mind).
Fran Lebowitz is just plain funny. I read Metropolitan Life when I first moved to New York and laughed my arse off. Dodging dog poo is indeed an Olympic Event. I don't know if I'd let her read it to me, though. I'd audition her first. Then I might recommend a nice out-of-work actor to read her stuff and she can just lick her wounds all the way to the bank.
I'm not saying I could read Ephron's material any better. I bet she's drop dead hilarious in person. But talking and telling stories is not reading written material. Ask anyone who's ever corresponded by audio tape.
Maybe I just can't relate to her lifestyle. Sorry, Nora, I'm just not getting it.
The next thing I wonder is why on godsgreenearth they allowed this woman to read her own material? Her speaking voice is driving me crazy - and that's saying something after I endured a computer-generated voice reading Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden, a book larded over with t' broad Yorkshire dialect and all. The eerie feeling you were being read a children's book by Stephen Hawking aside, I was sucked right into the story and mostly forgot it was a machine.
This is Ephron's real speaking voice? I just get the impression that she has tried to slow it down, which only makes the s's hissier and her final t's like tiny hammers on metal. I'm sure when she talks normally she picks up the pace ... and in fact, has some pace. This audio book reminds me of a truism I used to have about poets, that they should never be allowed to read their own material. I have since revised this opinion, as there are some poets who read beautifully. There are some authors who make great speakers and do a boffo job of reading their material, even when you think they wouldn't (Kaye Gibbons comes to mind).
Fran Lebowitz is just plain funny. I read Metropolitan Life when I first moved to New York and laughed my arse off. Dodging dog poo is indeed an Olympic Event. I don't know if I'd let her read it to me, though. I'd audition her first. Then I might recommend a nice out-of-work actor to read her stuff and she can just lick her wounds all the way to the bank.
I'm not saying I could read Ephron's material any better. I bet she's drop dead hilarious in person. But talking and telling stories is not reading written material. Ask anyone who's ever corresponded by audio tape.
Maybe I just can't relate to her lifestyle. Sorry, Nora, I'm just not getting it.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Snore?
Mij and Marf "Wedding" Photo
I don't know where this memory came from, but it popped up recently. While living in New York with Fred, we would occasionally take in people who were trying to break into the city. We were a sort of launching pad, if a very small one. We lived in a studio apartment and Fred and I were very much in each other's pockets. So, taking in a third party was a stretch. We tried to confine it to people we knew and liked from back South.
This brings in someone I will, to protect his anonymity, call Mij. Our Dear Friend Mij Mubnergard came to stay with us. Now, Fred and I (and I can admit this now that my mother is dead) shared a sofabed. Mij had to sleep on the floor, when he arrived, on the sofabed cushions. We wanted to give him time to get on his feet, leave the nest, fly on his own - yadda-yaddah. As it happened, he would be getting a little extra time because I was scheduled to go to Cambridge to see Temple at Harvard Law School. I would be gone a week or more. Undoubtedly, I would be sharing Temple's bed as well (sorry, Mom). Before returning, though, I gave Fred a call to see how things were going.
"How's Mij?" I asked.
"Still here," he moaned.
"Oh," and a thought occurred to me. "Should I find another place to stay?"
"No, no," Fred insisted, "come home!"
When I arrived I found that Mij had made himself at home, moving to the sofabed. Fred had done his best to make things uncomfortable for him. He insisted that Mij stand out in the hallway to smoke. At night, though, we were all in the same bed, Mij then Fred, then me. It was ... cramped.
Most of the time we weren't all in the apartment together. Mij and I would be alone waiting for Fred to finish a show for the night. Don't get me wrong, we loved Mij. We enjoyed each other's company, it was just too small a space for three people.
One day Fred made a strangled noise from the kitchen area. He was standing at the clothes closet (in the kitchen) and holding a white shirt at arm's length.
"Look at this!" he squawked and I dutifully moved the six feet required to get from the couch to the kitchen.
It was one of Fred's shirts. The collar of the shirt was almost black with dirt. "He must have worn this for a week! And then hung it back up instead of putting it in the laundry pile!" Fred was very particular about his clothes and his appearance. Mij had not asked to borrow a shirt. He'd worn it until dirt was ground into it.
"He has to go," said Fred.
"Don't do it when I'm here!" I pleaded. I hate confrontations.
Later that week Fred called me at work. "What are you doing this evening?" I didn't have any plans and I said so. "That's fine if you want to go out with your friends," he said, pointedly.
I sucked in my breath. "This is it, isn't it? You're going to tell him to go."
"I thought Mij and I would go out for dinner," he said.
"He's there, isn't he?"
"That's fine. Some other time then." He was going to let Mij have it, firmly, and then he was going to go off to work, leaving me to deal with the shrapnel. I stayed away as long as I could.
When I got home, Mij was standing in the hallway, smoking. He asked me about my day. And I returned the favor, as if I didn't know what had gone on.
"Fred told me I had to go," he said, putting out his cigarette and following me inside. "But, you know, it's just as well. I just can't stand the snoring anymore."
"Snoring?" I began, worrying that I might have been disturbing his sleep.
"Fred's snoring. It's just too much. I can't take it."
"Snoring?" I reiterated, "but Fred d-" and I caught myself. I had never heard Fred snore, and he was usually asleep first. He was intentionally turning to face Mij each night and snoring very loudly. Such genius!
After that, Fred and I agreed on some rules for houseguests, who, like fish, take up way too much room after three days. We had three basic rules for the House:
1. We Share Everything (towels, tableware, food, bevvies, space).
2. Anyone who spends the night has to meet the approval of both residents because
3. See rule number 1.
A couple of years later, I was the one who got the Dinner. Fred was crashing and burning and didn't want me there when it happened. We went out for dinner and after we ordered he said that he had to tell me something. He told me I had to move out and once he'd told me, he felt better and tucked in when the food arrived. My salad turned to ashes in my mouth. Oh, well. What goes around, comes around.
I moved in with two other people and decided it was time to leave New York. One of my new roommates, let's call him Nad, was a backstabbing little trick who lied about the cost of the rent so he could charge us girls more and get a free ride. When I was packing to leave, he switched sweaters on me (we had bought identical sweaters) because he had torn the armpits out of his. Nad was the nightmare roommate I had not experienced until then. He did have his good points, though, I must admit. He had good taste in boyfriends and we enjoyed some Metropolitan Opera perks thanks to him. This just goes to show that it's not always who you know that counts, but with whom who-you-know is sleeping.
This brings in someone I will, to protect his anonymity, call Mij. Our Dear Friend Mij Mubnergard came to stay with us. Now, Fred and I (and I can admit this now that my mother is dead) shared a sofabed. Mij had to sleep on the floor, when he arrived, on the sofabed cushions. We wanted to give him time to get on his feet, leave the nest, fly on his own - yadda-yaddah. As it happened, he would be getting a little extra time because I was scheduled to go to Cambridge to see Temple at Harvard Law School. I would be gone a week or more. Undoubtedly, I would be sharing Temple's bed as well (sorry, Mom). Before returning, though, I gave Fred a call to see how things were going.
"How's Mij?" I asked.
"Still here," he moaned.
"Oh," and a thought occurred to me. "Should I find another place to stay?"
"No, no," Fred insisted, "come home!"
When I arrived I found that Mij had made himself at home, moving to the sofabed. Fred had done his best to make things uncomfortable for him. He insisted that Mij stand out in the hallway to smoke. At night, though, we were all in the same bed, Mij then Fred, then me. It was ... cramped.
Most of the time we weren't all in the apartment together. Mij and I would be alone waiting for Fred to finish a show for the night. Don't get me wrong, we loved Mij. We enjoyed each other's company, it was just too small a space for three people.
One day Fred made a strangled noise from the kitchen area. He was standing at the clothes closet (in the kitchen) and holding a white shirt at arm's length.
"Look at this!" he squawked and I dutifully moved the six feet required to get from the couch to the kitchen.
It was one of Fred's shirts. The collar of the shirt was almost black with dirt. "He must have worn this for a week! And then hung it back up instead of putting it in the laundry pile!" Fred was very particular about his clothes and his appearance. Mij had not asked to borrow a shirt. He'd worn it until dirt was ground into it.
"He has to go," said Fred.
"Don't do it when I'm here!" I pleaded. I hate confrontations.
Later that week Fred called me at work. "What are you doing this evening?" I didn't have any plans and I said so. "That's fine if you want to go out with your friends," he said, pointedly.
I sucked in my breath. "This is it, isn't it? You're going to tell him to go."
"I thought Mij and I would go out for dinner," he said.
"He's there, isn't he?"
"That's fine. Some other time then." He was going to let Mij have it, firmly, and then he was going to go off to work, leaving me to deal with the shrapnel. I stayed away as long as I could.
When I got home, Mij was standing in the hallway, smoking. He asked me about my day. And I returned the favor, as if I didn't know what had gone on.
"Fred told me I had to go," he said, putting out his cigarette and following me inside. "But, you know, it's just as well. I just can't stand the snoring anymore."
"Snoring?" I began, worrying that I might have been disturbing his sleep.
"Fred's snoring. It's just too much. I can't take it."
"Snoring?" I reiterated, "but Fred d-" and I caught myself. I had never heard Fred snore, and he was usually asleep first. He was intentionally turning to face Mij each night and snoring very loudly. Such genius!
After that, Fred and I agreed on some rules for houseguests, who, like fish, take up way too much room after three days. We had three basic rules for the House:
1. We Share Everything (towels, tableware, food, bevvies, space).
2. Anyone who spends the night has to meet the approval of both residents because
3. See rule number 1.
A couple of years later, I was the one who got the Dinner. Fred was crashing and burning and didn't want me there when it happened. We went out for dinner and after we ordered he said that he had to tell me something. He told me I had to move out and once he'd told me, he felt better and tucked in when the food arrived. My salad turned to ashes in my mouth. Oh, well. What goes around, comes around.
I moved in with two other people and decided it was time to leave New York. One of my new roommates, let's call him Nad, was a backstabbing little trick who lied about the cost of the rent so he could charge us girls more and get a free ride. When I was packing to leave, he switched sweaters on me (we had bought identical sweaters) because he had torn the armpits out of his. Nad was the nightmare roommate I had not experienced until then. He did have his good points, though, I must admit. He had good taste in boyfriends and we enjoyed some Metropolitan Opera perks thanks to him. This just goes to show that it's not always who you know that counts, but with whom who-you-know is sleeping.
Monday, March 19, 2007
The Sedaris's Are Not Dysfunctional
I was in LibraryThing this morning reading posts on librarians who librarything and blog when I followed some links to a review of a book by one of my favorite authors. The reviewer referred to the Sedaris family as dysfunctional and that while the reviewer laughed at the stories, they also made the reviewer sad. I started to submit a comment, but it wasn't working and the site didn't accept it. Fortunately for you, hahaha!, I saved the comment and I add it here:
You know, I get a completely different reaction to Sedaris's family, but then I have read just about all his books (there might be one I missed). His family was deeply involved in each other and his parents apparently supported him in all his crazy incarnations (until it became obvious that he was gay and his father threw him out, but apparently his father has gotten past that). If anything, they were too much in each other's lives.
Despite all the cigarettes and alcohol (which look normal by 1960s standards) of the parents and the apparent drug use of the children, they are functioning pretty well. The Sedaris kids were "encouraged" to do volunteer work in the summers and to take music lessons (which they were allowed to discontinue when they showed a lack of interest or aptitude). Despite their upper middle class status, they did not consider "menial" jobs beneath them. They rally around each other when things go wrong.
My reaction is often one of delighted relief, mostly that his family, while entertaining, was not mine. Yet at the same time, I am envious of their spirit and lack of reserve. My family is northern euro and despite the eerie parallels (IBM, drinking-which goes with the IBM, moving south, an overly-thrift-conscious dad, live-in granny of foreign birth, my move to Manhattan to pursue acting of all things), they come off as, well, boring. This leads me to the tentative conclusion that Sedaris may be, how you say, exaggerating the seemingly dysfunctional bits just a wee bit. And I seem to note that they come off as being very, very ... happy.
That was all I had intended to put in there, as it was just a comment on the review, which shouldn't be longer than the review itself, right? And I left out the bit about how much I just plain love David Sedaris. I stood in line for over an hour (it might have been two, I'll have to ask my husband) for his autograph on his cd, "Live at Carnegie Hall," but that is nothing compared to the amount of time he sat there autographing. Yes, he's making money (ca-ching! ca-ching!), but he stayed until the absolutely last person got their autograph. He spoke with people as if he really liked them (perhaps he's just hunting for new material). He presented new material at his reading, rather than capitalizing on his old stuff. And then there are those eerie parallels.
I was an IBM child. Even after my dad left IBM, we were still tied up in the IBM satellite system of friends and vendors. My parents were drinkers. They had been smokers, but gave it up fairly early. All of my dad's friends were grateful because Dad was a terrible mooch. In the end I think they only gave it up because it was an expense. My mother did some occasional smoking and tells a story about how after one of her Kaffeklatsches we, and I was only three or four, shared out a Turkish cigarette whose colored paper matched the theme colors for the party. As a family we would eat the wine gelatin that was leftover from such frolics, right down to the family beagle. Tommy (named after the IBM president, the dog's full name was Thomas J. Watson Shopmyer Jr. the Second in a comic parody of the habit of naming a child after said prez in order to get the $50 bonus) would whimper and whimper until he got the gelatin, which he ate gingerly and spit out the grapes.
My parents and their friends used to get drunk and then pull out the IBM songbook for a good old, drunken sing-along. Now, my sister claimed that our parents' parties were just short of orgies. And she actually went so far to say to our mother when she was married and had children, "Mother, we have nice parties." [Mom's retort to that was that she had "fun parties."] Speaking as someone who sat in my sister's laundry room and translated the subtitles on the x-rated movies for one of her and her husband's legally blind friends, Blind Fred (he could not see well enough to follow the video and read the subtitles), I can't recall my parents' parties being quite as "nice" as that. Yeah, the adults jumped up and kissed each other at midnight on New Year's Eve, but I don't recall any couples under the table or in a spare bedroom. Of course, I was nine years younger than my sister.
I'm beginning to suspect that my sister could have written some Sedaris-type stories about our family that I just can't. I am loath to exaggerate. I scruple to misrepresent. It's one thing to write wild tales of fiction, but I can't do it about me or my family. Consequently, these Tales of the Blonde Shikseh wind up being almost funny. My experiences are not quite adventures. For this, I apologise, but at least you know that, barring my infamous poor memory, everything that I have written here is factual.
The cartoons, though, might have a teeny bit of exaggeration.
You know, I get a completely different reaction to Sedaris's family, but then I have read just about all his books (there might be one I missed). His family was deeply involved in each other and his parents apparently supported him in all his crazy incarnations (until it became obvious that he was gay and his father threw him out, but apparently his father has gotten past that). If anything, they were too much in each other's lives.
Despite all the cigarettes and alcohol (which look normal by 1960s standards) of the parents and the apparent drug use of the children, they are functioning pretty well. The Sedaris kids were "encouraged" to do volunteer work in the summers and to take music lessons (which they were allowed to discontinue when they showed a lack of interest or aptitude). Despite their upper middle class status, they did not consider "menial" jobs beneath them. They rally around each other when things go wrong.
My reaction is often one of delighted relief, mostly that his family, while entertaining, was not mine. Yet at the same time, I am envious of their spirit and lack of reserve. My family is northern euro and despite the eerie parallels (IBM, drinking-which goes with the IBM, moving south, an overly-thrift-conscious dad, live-in granny of foreign birth, my move to Manhattan to pursue acting of all things), they come off as, well, boring. This leads me to the tentative conclusion that Sedaris may be, how you say, exaggerating the seemingly dysfunctional bits just a wee bit. And I seem to note that they come off as being very, very ... happy.
That was all I had intended to put in there, as it was just a comment on the review, which shouldn't be longer than the review itself, right? And I left out the bit about how much I just plain love David Sedaris. I stood in line for over an hour (it might have been two, I'll have to ask my husband) for his autograph on his cd, "Live at Carnegie Hall," but that is nothing compared to the amount of time he sat there autographing. Yes, he's making money (ca-ching! ca-ching!), but he stayed until the absolutely last person got their autograph. He spoke with people as if he really liked them (perhaps he's just hunting for new material). He presented new material at his reading, rather than capitalizing on his old stuff. And then there are those eerie parallels.
I was an IBM child. Even after my dad left IBM, we were still tied up in the IBM satellite system of friends and vendors. My parents were drinkers. They had been smokers, but gave it up fairly early. All of my dad's friends were grateful because Dad was a terrible mooch. In the end I think they only gave it up because it was an expense. My mother did some occasional smoking and tells a story about how after one of her Kaffeklatsches we, and I was only three or four, shared out a Turkish cigarette whose colored paper matched the theme colors for the party. As a family we would eat the wine gelatin that was leftover from such frolics, right down to the family beagle. Tommy (named after the IBM president, the dog's full name was Thomas J. Watson Shopmyer Jr. the Second in a comic parody of the habit of naming a child after said prez in order to get the $50 bonus) would whimper and whimper until he got the gelatin, which he ate gingerly and spit out the grapes.
My parents and their friends used to get drunk and then pull out the IBM songbook for a good old, drunken sing-along. Now, my sister claimed that our parents' parties were just short of orgies. And she actually went so far to say to our mother when she was married and had children, "Mother, we have nice parties." [Mom's retort to that was that she had "fun parties."] Speaking as someone who sat in my sister's laundry room and translated the subtitles on the x-rated movies for one of her and her husband's legally blind friends, Blind Fred (he could not see well enough to follow the video and read the subtitles), I can't recall my parents' parties being quite as "nice" as that. Yeah, the adults jumped up and kissed each other at midnight on New Year's Eve, but I don't recall any couples under the table or in a spare bedroom. Of course, I was nine years younger than my sister.
I'm beginning to suspect that my sister could have written some Sedaris-type stories about our family that I just can't. I am loath to exaggerate. I scruple to misrepresent. It's one thing to write wild tales of fiction, but I can't do it about me or my family. Consequently, these Tales of the Blonde Shikseh wind up being almost funny. My experiences are not quite adventures. For this, I apologise, but at least you know that, barring my infamous poor memory, everything that I have written here is factual.
The cartoons, though, might have a teeny bit of exaggeration.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Doin' the Dishes
I have learned that older people don't see well. Or hear. This is doing the dishes without my sister, while I was living as an adult (in my 40s) with my parents between jobs.
Doin' the Dishes: The Beginning
These things always start somewhere. My mother recounted to me how her mother and her mother-in-law behaved when they were both visiting at the same time and offered to do the dishes. No, really. Would I lie to you?
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Son of Doin' the Dishes (Part the Third)
All true; all factual. Relationships with our siblings just don't get any worse than this ... without the actual shedding of blood. Inside some of us, the younger siblings, there is a well of anger and frustration just waiting to get out. Unfortunately, some of us don't get to release that and we wind up punching refrigerators because our mothers informed us that our older siblings, as large as they might be, have little feelings that are easily hurt. We have to "make nice." This will serve us well (?) in our future where we will run into this same type of relationship again and again and again. To be fair, it is because I look for these people. It's a relationship I am comfortable in. Phew! How sick is that!?
Doin' the Dishes Part 2
I can't tell you how many times this was enacted. The only over-the-top part is where my sister grabs me by the throat. She never did that. Otherwise ...Friday, January 05, 2007
Doin' the Dishes, Part the First
This hearkens back to the days when our parents would leave us alone and my sister (who was nine years older) and I would have this wrangle over who would do the dishes. There's a double issue here: dishes and my relationship with an older sister who adored me ... but.Saturday, December 30, 2006
Richard Hertz, MD
Once upon a time, there were two people who lived together in a very, very, very small apartment. They both liked movies, but one of them liked movies more than the other. One of them would sit through any movie at all no matter how bad it was. The other would walk out of a movie if it failed in any way to live up to expectations. Oddly enough, the one who really loved movies was the walker, and his name was Fred. The other one, who only sort of liked movies but was willing to sit through nearly any swill rather than embarrass herself by walking out was called, let's say, me. Anyway, I knew of Fred's proclivities and he was aware of my inertia and the spooky brew of our tendencies was about to come to a boil.
Richard Gere had been in another movie that was playing not too far from where we were living on the Upper East. I had never actually seen a Richard Gere movie (although I'd seen clips from "American Gigolo" and hadn't really liked what I'd seen) and it was a rip-off of a French film (and I had to look it up on imdb.com to recall the name, otherwise I'd be making a total arse of myself with possible titles such as: Blowing, This Blows, Barking, etc.) and renamed "Breathless."
Not long into this spleen-jerker, I started wondering how Fred felt about the film and if he was about to walk out. I had never walked out of a film, but I was now ready for a new experience. I didn't say anything and we sat through the whole, long, ghastly turd. Afterwards I mentioned to Fred that I would have walked out of that one if he wanted to and he said that he was staying put because he knew I didn't like to walk out. Then we both started laughing and went in search of a watering hole in which to sluice away the bad taste in our mouths.
We had passed a watering hole called Uncle Charlie's North. This was patently a gay bar, as its brother in the Village was. But we also patronized a gay bar up in our neighborhood called Brandy's, and didn't think anything of it.
The clincher on this deal was that Uncle Charlie was having a happy hour for the next 40 minutes or so, making it a wise financial choice. The counter bar was crowded, so we ambled off to a quiet corner to sip our beers and trash the waste of celluloid we'd just suffered through. The first round went fairly quickly, having also demolished a container of over-salted, over-priced popcorn at said "flick." After the second round, though, Fred claimed he was tired of braving the group at the bar and being ogled (which I never knew he ever had a problem with), and he told me to make the next trip.
Because we'd been sitting by ourselves and absorbed in our mutual grievances, I hadn't really looked around the bar, but standing in a short line at the counter for the last happy hour call, I realized that I was next to the only other woman in the place and all the monitors were showing male strippers (a waste of time, as far as I'm concerned). This may have shown on my face, for a denizen of the barstools leaned back and said, "Don't worry, Honey, we don't bite!" To which I retorted rather quickly, "Oooooo, I wish you would!"
This seemed to entertain my new friend, which he intended to be. He invited me to bring my escort to the bar (where, happy hour closing out, there was now room). Fred reluctantly joined us.
Perhaps I should describe Fred a bit, explain what he was doing in New York and our relationship. When we met in South Carolina, Fred was a hairdresser and we dated. Fred has a lot of gay friends. Fred moved to New York to work on Broadway, and he did; as a hair and make-up man he worked on "Cats" (very tiny perm rods), "Amadeus," and "Doonesbury: the Musical," to name a few. In New York, however, our relationship was different. Wisely, we were just roommates. Fred, however, should have been having no problem in this bar. It took several drinks to loosen him up.
Our new friend and benefactor (he was now buying) was absolutely delighted with the two of us. He pardoned himself at one point to go to the men's room. I had to check with Fred who was going from "I'm not all that happy here" to "Well, okay, if you're having a good time" when the bartender, using the same microphone he'd used to announce the last happy hour call, called out, "Phone call for Doctor Hertz! Paging Doctor Dick Hertz!" and our benefactor, just coming around the corner bleated, "That's meeee!"
To this day I only know this man as Dr. Dick Hertz. If he mentioned his name, I did not retain it.
Dr. Hertz convinced us to go to another bar in the Village and we all (as he had some other friends) piled into a taxi. The next thing I remember, I was on a dance floor dancing with someone I did not know. There were all men around me, mostly bald, bearded, pierced, black leather-clad. Notably, one of them was wearing some sort of studded black leather halter and black leather shorts, and probably a black leather, studded dog collar. This was a new experience for me, and I was grateful for it. However, it was a "school night." Our intention had been to see a movie and perhaps consume a beverage or two.
After the song, I located the bar and found Fred sitting there looking shell-shocked. "Where are we?" I yelled over the music. "We're in the Village," he told me, "at a bar called The Monster." "How did we get here?" "I don't know," he admitted, "but I remember something about a taxi ride and someone named Dr. Dick Hertz."
Right on cue, the good doctor came up to us shouting, "That's meee!" We thanked him and made our way out. Nothing looked familiar. We spent the next couple of hours wandering around the Village, trying to find a subway and our way home. At that hour, the subways were coming right seldom and we had to take three to get back home. After the subways we had to negotiate the eight blocks from Lexington and 86th Street (where Fred claimed to see prostitutes all the time and I never knew what he was talking about) back to our apartment.
I look back and shudder at the escapades I had in New York and am amazed that nothing ever happened to me. I am thankful, though, that I don't have stories to tell about bondage clubs or being mugged or other more lurid fare. I'll leave those tales to others. A couple of decades down the line when I'm appalling my great-niece and -nephews with stories, the contrast between my grey head and wrinkles and the mild excitement of these stories will be enough to make them goggle. Well, at least they will goggle the first few hundred times.
Richard Gere had been in another movie that was playing not too far from where we were living on the Upper East. I had never actually seen a Richard Gere movie (although I'd seen clips from "American Gigolo" and hadn't really liked what I'd seen) and it was a rip-off of a French film (and I had to look it up on imdb.com to recall the name, otherwise I'd be making a total arse of myself with possible titles such as: Blowing, This Blows, Barking, etc.) and renamed "Breathless."
Not long into this spleen-jerker, I started wondering how Fred felt about the film and if he was about to walk out. I had never walked out of a film, but I was now ready for a new experience. I didn't say anything and we sat through the whole, long, ghastly turd. Afterwards I mentioned to Fred that I would have walked out of that one if he wanted to and he said that he was staying put because he knew I didn't like to walk out. Then we both started laughing and went in search of a watering hole in which to sluice away the bad taste in our mouths.
We had passed a watering hole called Uncle Charlie's North. This was patently a gay bar, as its brother in the Village was. But we also patronized a gay bar up in our neighborhood called Brandy's, and didn't think anything of it.
The clincher on this deal was that Uncle Charlie was having a happy hour for the next 40 minutes or so, making it a wise financial choice. The counter bar was crowded, so we ambled off to a quiet corner to sip our beers and trash the waste of celluloid we'd just suffered through. The first round went fairly quickly, having also demolished a container of over-salted, over-priced popcorn at said "flick." After the second round, though, Fred claimed he was tired of braving the group at the bar and being ogled (which I never knew he ever had a problem with), and he told me to make the next trip.
Because we'd been sitting by ourselves and absorbed in our mutual grievances, I hadn't really looked around the bar, but standing in a short line at the counter for the last happy hour call, I realized that I was next to the only other woman in the place and all the monitors were showing male strippers (a waste of time, as far as I'm concerned). This may have shown on my face, for a denizen of the barstools leaned back and said, "Don't worry, Honey, we don't bite!" To which I retorted rather quickly, "Oooooo, I wish you would!"
This seemed to entertain my new friend, which he intended to be. He invited me to bring my escort to the bar (where, happy hour closing out, there was now room). Fred reluctantly joined us.
Perhaps I should describe Fred a bit, explain what he was doing in New York and our relationship. When we met in South Carolina, Fred was a hairdresser and we dated. Fred has a lot of gay friends. Fred moved to New York to work on Broadway, and he did; as a hair and make-up man he worked on "Cats" (very tiny perm rods), "Amadeus," and "Doonesbury: the Musical," to name a few. In New York, however, our relationship was different. Wisely, we were just roommates. Fred, however, should have been having no problem in this bar. It took several drinks to loosen him up.
Our new friend and benefactor (he was now buying) was absolutely delighted with the two of us. He pardoned himself at one point to go to the men's room. I had to check with Fred who was going from "I'm not all that happy here" to "Well, okay, if you're having a good time" when the bartender, using the same microphone he'd used to announce the last happy hour call, called out, "Phone call for Doctor Hertz! Paging Doctor Dick Hertz!" and our benefactor, just coming around the corner bleated, "That's meeee!"
To this day I only know this man as Dr. Dick Hertz. If he mentioned his name, I did not retain it.
Dr. Hertz convinced us to go to another bar in the Village and we all (as he had some other friends) piled into a taxi. The next thing I remember, I was on a dance floor dancing with someone I did not know. There were all men around me, mostly bald, bearded, pierced, black leather-clad. Notably, one of them was wearing some sort of studded black leather halter and black leather shorts, and probably a black leather, studded dog collar. This was a new experience for me, and I was grateful for it. However, it was a "school night." Our intention had been to see a movie and perhaps consume a beverage or two.
After the song, I located the bar and found Fred sitting there looking shell-shocked. "Where are we?" I yelled over the music. "We're in the Village," he told me, "at a bar called The Monster." "How did we get here?" "I don't know," he admitted, "but I remember something about a taxi ride and someone named Dr. Dick Hertz."
Right on cue, the good doctor came up to us shouting, "That's meee!" We thanked him and made our way out. Nothing looked familiar. We spent the next couple of hours wandering around the Village, trying to find a subway and our way home. At that hour, the subways were coming right seldom and we had to take three to get back home. After the subways we had to negotiate the eight blocks from Lexington and 86th Street (where Fred claimed to see prostitutes all the time and I never knew what he was talking about) back to our apartment.
I look back and shudder at the escapades I had in New York and am amazed that nothing ever happened to me. I am thankful, though, that I don't have stories to tell about bondage clubs or being mugged or other more lurid fare. I'll leave those tales to others. A couple of decades down the line when I'm appalling my great-niece and -nephews with stories, the contrast between my grey head and wrinkles and the mild excitement of these stories will be enough to make them goggle. Well, at least they will goggle the first few hundred times.
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