I'm in love with Judge Sotomayor!
[ Thank * for NY1 -- hour upon hour of different people asking the same questions. . .]
Also crushing a bit on Al Franken.
And an old, articulate Senator with an eagle-ish face and a liver-spotted head, whose name I (shamefully) don't know. . .
A note to the curious --
There are directions to the abandoned garage where I am building my unholy machine, hidden somewhere. .. in this very weblog ( ! )
Now, go! Go - -- -
You have enough of my. . . se-crrretsss. ..
Helloo, my lovely ladies, and possibly occasional gentlemen, etc., of the Blogosphere !
And a particular shout-out to Tracey, of Pale Page-- whose persistence in wanting to read me makes me feel truly blessed-- in a way we can both understand, despite our different religious stances/ stances on religion . (?)
Anyway, thank you Tracey. You're a beautiful writer and finder of good music videos. You have a lovely, gentle taste in art, and you seem a genuinely thoughtful person. I'm glad to have met you-- even though we haven't.
I'm working on something.
It's incubating.
But it's probably not what you think.
It's keeping me busy these days.
But I'll see ...
well, we'll see how it goes.
so,
Until we meet again . .. .
TTFN !
or,
Hasta la pasta. Ra-men....
or--
adieux .
What's that?
A path through these dense, dark woods,
towards what I've always wanted,
out there in the unknown--
My husband says he'll come with me.
I don't think he's convinced,
but I believe him.
Grace in small things.
I imagine anyone who's watched TV
sometime in the last two years or so
has seen the credit report commercial
featuring a doughy, curly-haired hipster
singing a punk ballad
about his wife's credit woes.
If you don't know the one, click here.
Despite my best efforts
to either mute the TV or shut it off
the moment I hear those opening bars,
the damn song seems to have engraved itself
permanently onto brain cells
I would have preferred to save
for better use elsewhere--
like remembering where I put the remote
when I'm in a mad rush to escape
indoctrination by jingle.
The advertising world may have won
the battle to get inside my head,
but today I'm taking a stand
against that irritating dude
and all he represents--
like companies that try
to simultaneously charm and frighten
people into paying for a service,
by offering free copies of reports
consumers are already legally entitled
to request free of charge,
direct from the credit bureaus themselves.
Apparently, the Doughy Hipster
is filled with sardonic rue,
because his wife never told him
she had some bad credit
before they got married.
One wonders why DH would have
entered into a binding contract
to become a legal economic unit
with someone, when he couldn't
have a frank discussion with her
about personal finances.
Clearly, he neglected to ask her
some important questions
after popping the Big One.
But he doesn't see that as his fault--
he just wishes he'd thought to order
her credit report on the sly
before he closed the doors on his
matrimonial cage.
So they're living in her
parents' basement, where
she resignedly does the laundry
while he and his pals from the band
lie about and whine about
their crimped lifestyle.
Whatever happened to his old place?
You know, the apartment he lived in
before his marriage--
couldn't she have just moved in
with him there?
Maybe he didn't have one.
An old joke from my college days
comes to mind:
What do you call a musician
without a girlfriend?
Homeless.
Seems to me that even though the wife
may have bad credit, she's still the one
putting a roof over their heads--
even if it means moving back in
with her parents to do it.
And she seems to be doing
all the housework, to boot.
Considering how crowded their basement is,
I also wonder why the band couldn't go
to another member's place to rehearse.
Or maybe rent a rehearsal space?
After all, if your in-laws
are kind enough to let you live with them,
you might not want to irritate them
with electric guitars, basses and drum kits
pounding away downstairs at all hours.
At the very least, DH and dudes
could have cleared out
when they wanted to bitch about
the front-man's girl--
instead, they let her work around them
while they sing songs about
how bad she is with money,
and how much her husband wishes
he'd never married her.
I wonder how long the wife
is going to put up with DH's bullshit.
She's a pretty lady--
it wouldn't be hard for her
to land someone better.
It's hard to give much rocker cred
to a guy who dreams of
pleasant suburban lawns,
but if that's what DH really wants,
maybe he should stop jamming
and go look for a job,
so he can start saving
for a down payment.
I understand there's
a pirate-theme restaurant hiring--
he wouldn't even have to shave
or get a haircut to apply.
At the very least,
DH should consider wiping that smirk
off his face and doing some dishes,
or offering to help his wife
fold those clothes.
Otherwise, he might find out
what could really wreck his credit--
Divorce.
Five Fears
I'm Glad to Understand
Are Entirely Unreasonable:
1. When pigeons are disturbed
by my approach down the sidewalk,
and suddenly, en masse, take to the skies,
one of the dumb birds, not looking
where his wings are taking him,
will fly right into my eye socket
beak first.
Continuing with the bird theme,
2. I will be disemboweled
by an ostrich's mighty rearward kick.
3. A running table saw is a likely place
I might unwittingly sit, or rest my hand.
4. The crack in the plaster
under the chair rail in my parents' bedroom
will materialize into a malevolent spirit
who will capture me, the moment it senses
I've stopped being wary of it.
5. Someday I will look up
from washing my face, to find
my reflection gazing back at me
with malice.
1. I ran around the Cloisters, and across
the George Washington Bridge and back.
I've been seriously slacking
on the personal fitness front
for the past few weeks--
projects and a sore knee
swelled the general tide of
sluggish depression.
Not today, though.
I went out into the
beautiful, bright noon,
sucked down crisp air
and shut my mind off for a while.
I feel cleaned-out from the inside.
2. I finished that dress I've been making.
Signed, sealed, delivered--
on to the next!
3. I reached out to friends--
instead of sitting alone,
thinking about loneliness.
This realization of mine
seems so objectively obvious
I'm a little ashamed to mention it.
Still, someone who learns
to read at age forty has as much reason
to be proud as someone who mastered it
as a child--
More, maybe,
since the older you get,
the more probability is stacked against
your ever learning something new.
So, spending time with people who like me
fights the blues. Huh.
Better get it late than never.
4. I made fun plans
with some of the aforementioned friends.
Another dumb realization:
I'm happier when I have
fun plans in my future.
Sometimes even more
than I enjoy the future
when it arrives.
This thought troubles me.
Still, avoiding future disappointment
is the kind of thinking
that can leave you
strapped in your armchair,
flipping through the offerings
on the TV guide channel,
never choosing anything to watch.
At least, that's been my experience.
Instead, I'm going out with the girls.
5. This is my twelfth entry
for Grace in Small Things--
which means that this project
is roughly one-thirtieth complete.
If this project were a month,
I'd be able to draw
a big red X over today;
or, in the black-and-white version,
I'd be able to tear today
from my office daily calendar--
numbered pages ripped and fluttering
in a way that lends itself to fast-forward.
I've been casting the movie of my life.
Sometimes I hold mental auditions--
a way to entertain myself
if I'm stranded somewhere
without a book.
Sometimes my husband and I
issue a living-room casting call,
and deliberate together
which among the hopeful entrants
we'd choose for each role.
Of course, looking the part
doesn't hurt. But the perfect choice
is an actor who has the right...
charisma? body language?
a certain quality that
allows an actor to
inhabit a role convincingly.
After all, stage make-up
isn't exactly new technology.
Even with that allowance,
the task is harder than
it may sound.
We often resort to era-blind casting.
Or we create mutant composites
of groups of actors,
who each capture part, but not all,
of the essential distinguishing
characteristics of the role in question.
It's a work in progress.
Here's a portion
of the list as it stands:
My Mother- Patricia Routledge.
The main reason we chose Ms. Routledge
to play my mother is that
it's very easy, conversely,
to picture my mom playing
Hyacinth Bucket.
My mom loves her candlelight suppers.
And using words like blooming and petrol.
I guess the blood of pompous twits
runs strong in me.
Sometimes I think
Brenda Blethyn might be a better choice--
less satire, more substance.
And Blethyn certainly has
the chops to pull off my mom's
strange mix of timidity and stridence,
vulnerability, willfulness,
a body that betrays her...
But then, I agree with
a former professor of mine,
who said, "Brenda Blethyn?
Oh yeah. She can do anything"--
-- another quality that reminds me of my mom.
My Father- Rip Torn.
Or maybe Kris Kristofferson
with a lot of body padding.
He could be a Rhodes Scholar.
Or he could fix your roof, instead.
And he likes to sing while playing guitar.
He drinks too much, tells dirty jokes,
approves of rednecks and guns.
He's volatile and loving by turns.
J's Father- Jon Voigt.
Our selection of Voigt reflects
his looks more than his manner.
Ian Holm in The Sweet Hereafter
reminds me of J's father, a bit,
though I'd be hard pressed
to define the resemblance.
J's Mother- Glenn Close
for looks and intensity level,
Georgia Engel for manner of speech.
It's a potent combination--
I'll leave it at that.
My Sister- Nia Vardalos.
My sister was horrified by this choice,
though I couldn't say why.
She thinks she should be played
by Phoebe Cates.
Who doesn't, really?
Just ask Judge Reinhold.
Or Kevin Kline.
Unfortunately for her,
my sister's not in charge of casting.
J and I agree-- Vardalos it is.
Our Brother-In-Law
(My Sister's Husband)- Moby.
Or Steve Buscemi, dressed like Moby.
BIL wasn't thrilled with his casting, either.
He and his wife might have to
produce their own biopics.
BIL's father- Max Wright,
otherwise known as The Dad from ALF.
We might not have cast
a secondary character so quickly,
except that he really does
look like the dad from ALF.
J's sister- Julia Stiles.
Both for looks and general glum-ness.
My Aunt
(Mother's Sister)- Susan Sarandon.
I hope I age as well as my aunt has.
She and Sarandon also share
an aura of well-dressed hippy-ness,
and an activist spirit.
My Younger Cousin- Drew Barrymore.
Parallel life experiences influenced
this choice as much as looks or style--
though the resemblance is striking.
My Older Cousin- Lisa Kudrow,
with a big dollop of Maura Tierney.
Or maybe Stacy London as a blonde.
Pretty, with some hard edges.
Goofy, but her sarcasm
will cut you, bitch.
Fashionable. Genuinely warm-hearted.
There are a lot of contenders, but
the perfect choice is still out there.
My Uncle
(My dad's brother)- Tommy Smothers.
J' friend R, or
Our Best Man- John Turturro.
It might just be the hair.
Or the glasses.
Or the sense that he's a nice guy,
but still kind of weird.
My Non-gay Gay Friend From New York, M-
John C. Reilly.
M's response: "Hey. That's cool.
I like him. Good choice."
I'm glad some people
are happy with their casting.
My Non-gay Gay Friend From Maine, VB4-
A magical hybrid of Michael J. Fox
and Philip Seymour Hoffman.
I'm not sure what VB4
thinks of these choices.
He's still smarting
over being dubbed my non-gay
gay friend.
My friend SJ- Shelley Long.
Well-bred, well-educated, quirky--
she seems innocent, maybe naive,
until she shows everyone
what she's really made of
by winning with style.
SJ's husband- Paul Giamatti.
My friend V- Toni Collette.
Toni Colette doesn't look
completely unlike V.
But she captures a lot of
what I consider V's
primary character traits--
a vulnerable, open heart,
coupled with the strength
of stability and purpose,
and an air of no-bullshit
common sense.
Plus, Toni Colette plays good moms.
And V's daughter's a dead ringer
for Abigail Breslin.
And now,
the moment you've all
been waiting for--
the two starring roles...
J, or, My Husband- Tim Robbins.
There's some physical resemblance.
Which might explain why
my aunt's so keen to offer J back-rubs
when we're home for the holidays.
On a less superficial level,
Robbins and J are both mild-mannered,
reserved, liberal-minded idealists.
They enjoy iconoclasm
and occasional silliness.
Not too long ago,
we re-watched The Shawshank Redemption
on TV. He and I were both struck
by the scene where Andy DuFresne
failed to convince a jury
that he was the innocent, grieving husband
of a murdered wife.
DuFresne responded to his grief
with numbness, withdrawal.
He seemed cold, when
he was anything but.
J and I could both picture
J in those circumstances,
suffering the same fate.
We were both upset by the image.
At the other extreme
of the Tim Robbins-as-J spectrum,
I find it very easy to imagine
J smirking and pronouncing something
a humdinger.
Other contenders for the role of J:
Ralph Fiennes.
Liam Neeson.
They capture his quiet intensity
and a bit of his profile...
but then, my judgement on this point
might be biased.
Me- Hmmm.
I'm uncomfortable casting myself,
since I doubt I see myself
objectively enough
to make a good choice.
As for famous people
I've been told I resemble,
Neve Campbell, Anne Hathaway,
and Alanis Morissette
have each been mentioned
on numerous occasions--
with Alanis strongly
in the lead.
Much to my chagrin.
I'm sure you can guess
which choice on this list
I'd find most flattering.
And hey, she has some experience
playing earnest youths
who run around the garment district
sloshing their Starbucks,
trying to make their mark on the big city.
Of course, J thinks
none of those ladies would do.
Not enough depth, he says.
Sweet talker.
"Maybe Hope Davis,
if she went brunette and wore contacts."
Well, she's certainly capable
of drastically changing her affect--
as anyone who's seen both American Splendor
and Next Stop Wonderland would attest.
She's a good actor.
And she's pretty.
Actually, she might be another
good choice for SJ.
I'd rather choose someone
who didn't need to go to such lengths
to look like me.
"What about Madeleine Stowe?"
"Wow. Really?
You think I look like her?
I mean, I'm really flattered,
but I don't know if I see it.
Beyond the hair, I mean."
"No. You don't really look like her.
Who you really look like
is Bettie Page."
"Yeah, whatever. You're delusional."
"Don't be so sure--
I've seen your body
from a lot more angles
than you have."
I wonder if that's true.
Regardless,
I'm lucky he takes his glasses off
before he comes to bed.
1. Roasting.
It's so easy!
And so delicious!
It's my new favorite way to cook vegetables.
Not that I had an old favorite.
I'm still learning how to cook dinner--
the next logical step, now that I've
mastered breakfast and lunch.
Early success gives heart.
2. Baking.
I have much more experience
with baking than cooking.
On a lot of levels.
Still, I'm excited when
I can look in my pantry
and magically turn its contents into
peanut-butter-chocolate-coconut-banana bread.
Without a recipe, even!
3. Enjoying a slice of said magical bread
with a mug of milk,
4. While baking.
(artful segue)
5. My blog friends.
So easy!
And so delicious!
No, not really.
I just feel lucky to know
such smart, talented ladies,
who leave kind comments
when I'm feeling blue.
To my blog friends!
Mug in hand, I salute you.
I think I've figured out
how to make this hat
I've had in mind
for a while.
The picture cleared
sometime last night.
I should make samples.
I don't remember what I was doing.
Certainly nothing millinery-related--
maybe I was sweeping my living room.
I could have been watching TV.
The idea arrived Athena-like,
a full-grown image in my mind--
I saw myself putting the hat together,
and thought, So that's how you do it...
But I'm wondering
why it took a month and a half
for my brain to hit upon
something that, in retrospect,
seems so obvious a solution.
Weeks of staring at the sketch,
picking it apart for clues,
actively trying to solve the problem,
yielded nothing.
Accepting momentary defeat,
I'd given up thinking about it.
When suddenly...
Where did that
picture in my head come from?
Why did it arrive when it did?
Is there any way I could have
sped the process along somehow?
I know this is how creativity works.
It strikes when you're in the bathtub,
or sitting on the john,
or washing dishes.
Never when you're looking for it.
I'm trying to charm myself
with images of fairy-hunting--
creatures you can only see from
the side of your eye,
that flit away when you
try to get a good head-on look.
It's not working. I'm irritated.
I'm like that little Labyrinth troll,
squirting the fairies with pesticide
from a hand-held fumigator.
