The Christmas Card Letter, 2005

Dearest Friends & Family,
 

This year has gotten away from me in a way I had not anticipated 11 months ago! It’s mid-November as I begin to write this, and I marvel that I am being so wasteful as to sit and write a holiday letter when it’s one of the rare evenings that I have free in weeks. Plus the sink is full of dishes, I need to make 2 birthday cakes for tomorrow, and the new Harry Potter movie has just opened and I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to see it at all! Yes, YOU and Entertaining You this Christmas is my priority. Don’t you feel special?

2005 has been one of those Good-For-You years, the emotional equivalent of eating leafy, dark green vegetables and low-fat dairy products. Except that it’s been a Maturing and Patience-developing year. In April, the Big Ole Office Move at William Morris took place, and I survived it, but only briefly… 10 weeks later I was let go, and ever since I have been alternately goofing off and well-nigh killing myself to make ends meet. All my naïve assumptions of immediately finding a new and more impressive job were, alas, ill-founded, and so I have been dabbling in useful activities like clerical work, running errands, babysitting, and pretty much any McJob with a flexible schedule I could find. Including ironing.

On the more positive side, I started my own small business – House Calls Computer Service. As the name rather ...umm... creatively states, I make house calls to provide computer services... It’s enjoyable work, and I think I have a knack for it, especially in giving tutorials. I’m still in the early stages, and I find it difficult to keep myself from giving discounts to my customers so I’m not making enough from it to live on yet, but everyone is amazingly enthusiastic about my future prospects. I also started a regular part-time job working on web design for the American Economic Association on the Vanderbilt University campus – every bit helps! Now I race from house call to house call around the Nashville-Brentwood-Franklin area to keep my workdays filled.

The Latest Hobby
This year I’ve been an obsessed embroiderer – a “Stitcher” as the regulars call themselves. If I am sitting in front of the TV, I am working on a cross-stitch/embroidery project without fail. And as with every hobby, I've assembled a new batch of friends, who gather a few times each month to sit & sew. I've even started a monthly Sewing Bee (renamed "Crafting Bee" when a bunch of scrapbookers wanted in on it) at St. Bartholemew's Church.  See previous vicissitudes on the subject below... 

The Chilluns
Well, there are no new babies this year, and from what my sisters are telling me, there won't be any more in the future. So I am having to console myself with Emma, who is halfway through her Twos and hardly classifies as a baby anymore. *sigh* But she's chirpy and cheerful, and whooo! strong-willed. She wants what she wants, when she wants it, and if it means screaming for 20+ minutes, she has the strength and determination to prevail until distracted by something shiny. She Shall Not Be Moved. At the same time, she's the easiest child to put to bed, although in recent months she will stay awake for an extra hour or two, putting on her own late-night talk show over the baby monitor. Chirp chirp chirp. Plus she looks exactly like Charlie Brown's sister Sally.

Eldest Nephew Elliott is 12 this year, and my heart just SINKS when I think of it. He and George (8) are ardent Boy/Cub Scouters with their Dad, who has developed a widespread reputation in Middle Tennessee as quite the Troop Leader. They WILL be Eagle Scouts. Henry (4) is finding that Emma is an adequate playmate, since he can boss her around after being bossed around by E and G for years. The Knoxville triplet of Taylor (7) Maddie (5) and Virginia (3) have finally lost their shyness of me (what am I saying... Maddie never met a stranger!) and as a result we are having much more fun when Greta and the girls come to Nashville for a visit. We all went to the Gentry Farm Pumpkin Fest in October on what ended up being the coldest day of the month, and those girls went about wrapped in various borrowed sweaters, ponchos, and Aunty/Mimmy arms.

Year-End Picks
Books: Freakonomics, and Harry Potter & The Half-Blood Prince. HP is a bygone conclusion; I'm on the verge of actual memorization of the entire canon. Freakonomics is in response to the steady lean towards non-fiction I have been experiencing in recent years - it's absolutely perfect for people like myself who think Economics = Boring.
Movies: Hitchhikers' Guide to the Universe and Pride & Prejudice. Both British, both funny, charming, romantic and highly entertaining. Of course, I haven't seen the new HP movie yet... but it's British too, isn't it?
TV: The Colbert Report (Comedy Central) and How I Met Your Mother (CBS). I'm so happy to find some funny shows after what seemed to be a serious drought. Stephen Colbert is so good at parodying Fox News & CNN, and Neil Patrick Harris WILL win the Best Supporting Actor in a Comedy Emmy this year.
Music: Anoushka Shankar's Rise. After gaining a fondness for Indian musical influences through my passion for Bollywood, I stumbled on this and just love it - some amazingly nifty combinations of South Asian & Western instruments.  (She's the daughter of Ravi Shankar, and Norah Jones' sister.)

Technology: the iPod & Podcasts.  This thing is awesome - yes, it's great because on a road trip I can pre-load a dozen books-on-tape or more... but then there are downloadable Podcasts, which range from fan discussions of the TV show Lost, to interviews with the historic artisans at Colonial Williamsburg, to ABC's Nightline.  I feel smarter and smarter every day! 

And now, the confession: These are practically the ONLY things I have seen/read/heard this year! It's just been really, really busy.

This coming December feels very odd to me, and I don't quite know what to expect from it.  Turning 37 (30!) does make the biological clock skip a beat (or smash it), and after 8+ years in a generously predictable pattern tied in to my job and year-end bonuses, I don't know how Christmas will turn out now that the routine is gone. The whole Holiday Season is off the tracks for me. But that's how life is supposed to work, I guess - God periodically takes us out of our comfort zone and down a different path. I just hope I arrive at the next stopping place soon and can get comfy again, despite the highly beneficial nature of the rocky hike!

May God bless and keep you this Christmas and in the coming year!

Love, Susan

What Women Want

[Before I begin my rant, I just want to thank everyone who has been calling me for computer help - my business is growing at a steady (though not explosive) rate, and week after week, amazingly, I've been able to pay the bills. Thank God. I just sit back and see my financial needs being met! Although I am feeling more ignorant about computers daily...]
 

So anyway... The other day, I was attempting to explain to a younger friend about something that ever so slightly annoyed me in an older, married women-friend. I was trying to articulate the alarming wholesale enthusiasm she had for the current trend of mass-produced, artificially-cheerful, girlfriend-sharing, bubblebath, margaritas, chocolate, shoes and shopping-bedecked STUFF. You know what I am talking about, although it's just now reaching the point where it's becoming really noticeable, especially at places like TJ Maxx and the gift / cards section at Borders. I'm talking about the product lines that have descended like a hailstorm upon the market that make quippy little remarks about our EXTREME PASSIONS for things like the aforementioned chocolate, bubblebaths, and shopping. With our girlfriends. 

 

I'm talking about the birthday cards that inevitably feature 3-5 older women, usually from about 20-50 years back, doing something outrageous as a group and "celebrating" their girlfriend-ness. See? Even old ladies from way-back-when had fun with their girlfriends!

I'm talking about the notecards in bright fuchsia and black with a single high-heeled pump or an Audrey Hepburn "Breakfast at Tiffanys" hat that just screams how much the sender/recipient loves fashion, especially Manolo Blah-niks.

 

I'm talking about the Chick Lit that is inevitably bound in hot pink, bright orange, or robins-egg blue. Usually all three.

 

I'm talking about the margarita/martini kits, anything with the I-Live-To-Shop philosophy emblazoned upon it, and the assumption that chocolate is a longed-for source of comfort to all women.

 

I don't personally care about any of this stuff (except occasional chocolate, but not for medicinal purposes), and yet it seems unkind and cruel to mock it to friends; usually because many of them were married too young, never discovered their personal tastes and preferences, and so are gladly latching on to these proffered escapes from their husband-work-kids existences, because they don't have time to develop anything on their own. The free time I take for granted (well, not entirely for granted; I certainly suffer when it's taken away from me!) to read and drive and watch TV and movies and do stuff blissfully alone is denied to so many women.

 

So I don't feel inclined to make fun of it; rather I grieve for the women who find these offerings novel and entertaining... because they don't have the time and freedom to find anything beyond them that their own soul really responds to.
 

If you see yourself in this, try reading The Enchanted April by Elizabeth Von Arnim. It's a cure-all for what ails you. Yes, I know you saw the movie. Yes, it's very good. Read the book anyway.

House Calls

I must say, being swept along with an idea makes life SO much easier - you just let the current take you. Last week I decided I would advertise myself for home computer service, since for me it's much more satisfying and profitable than stuffing envelopes for a temp agency. Since then, I've just proceeded as though it was my full-time job, and it has proven far better an idea than I could have anticipated.
 

For years, whenever anyone asked what I did for a living and I said computers, most responses were "man, I need to get someone in to look at my computer, it's so slow!" or "I need wireless set up" or "I need to be shown how to use such-and-such." So, rather lazily, I decided to start making house calls, and this is the result: 

 

Stay tuned!

State of the Susan

I am an amazingly fortunate and well-loved girl, let me tell you! We Southerners know how to cuddle and care for our own, as I have had amply demonstrated to me in the last 6 days. Granted, I did send about 100 folks on my email list a notice saying I was no longer at WMA with my new email address, so the News of Grief was out there... but so many people have been emailing, calling, and praying that I haven't had too much time to dwell on the difficulties of my situation. I haven't been this socially active, for, like, EVER. Almost daily there's been an invitation to lunch, or a horrified friend wanting details over dinner & a movie, etc. It's nice to have people outraged on your behalf!
 

Other developments: I have been dismayed to discover how filthy and cluttered my apartment is by the light of day. This is a strong indication of how lazy yet overworked I've been in the last year, as dusting has become an activity only attempted when guests were imminent, and spiders and roly-poly bugs have had free range of the areas behind furniture. Plus I have been forced to add even more to the clutter by bringing in the boxes of junk from my office. I have nowhere to put this stuff, let alone the gracefully placed stacks of books, boxes, etc. already scattered throughout my apartment. 742 square feet is JUST NOT ENOUGH. I need another room.

 

But that doesn't allay the underlying problem--that I no longer have any excuse whatsoever not to clean up the place. I think we have fully established that I have enough time now. I must root out the Packrat Within, and start hauling out unnecessary detritus to Goodwill and Amvets. But I don't wanna...!

 

Spirits are high, as I dearly love to talk about myself and how I'm doing, and this week has been one non-stop Me Me Me Me session. But I am beginning to get tired of Me, so I will be glad when all of the main people are fully apprised and I can start trying to figure out What To Do Next. I am hoping for a quick, clear and inescapable notification from God as to what my future plans are to be. Yeah, right.

Starting Something New

Yesterday I was let go from my job at William Morris Agency, after 8.5 years. The basic reason was that I was no longer a good fit for the job (which has expanded a great deal over the years), but I was appreciated for all my years of service with the Nashville office. I was a little teary-eyed, but managed to maintain my composure until I was out of the office. The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent in a not-unpleasant state of shock, as I enumerated to friends and family how nice it would be to have free time for several weeks, and maybe try something new, and how nice to be able to sleep late on Monday! A couple of friends came over to commiserate with me, we went out and had a fun dinner, and I got to bed early.
 

I woke up in a considerably different state of mind. As the day as progressed, the shock has been wearing off, and the pain and grief has been setting in. When you're single, I really think that your job is something akin to a spouse. Carrying the analogy a bit further, losing your job can be like being divorced or widowed. The tears have been flowing off and on, and the vast, yawning gulf of "what do I do now?" is before me. I think that perhaps I'm meant to do something else now instead of computer support, but what that might be is unknown to me. I like my stable existence, and am happiest when I have a routine to follow. But now I feel adrift, abandoned, with no solid ground in sight.

 

This might be one of those life-changing seasons I go through periodically, where God (who loves me too well to leave me as I am) starts making changes on my behalf. I can recognize the ultimate advantages and rewards, but it's pretty painful during the process. I feel a little panicky about what Monday will be like, without my routine to cling to; common sense and my Dad say I should start the job search immediately that morning. Part of me rebels at the idea, because I would like to have at least one whole month without working, just to see what it's like. But I also know that I don't do terribly well when I'm idle and have nothing but ME time. Yeah, I need it, but not for days on end!

 

I am fortunate that I am well-enough provided for that I don't have to snatch the first job that comes along; but I think I will feel much better if I can find something suitable and get settled in. In the meantime, I am available for some computer consulting and whatever part-time jobs that might come along.

Handiwork

I am currently engaged in a wholly engrossing activity of truly nerdish/geeky proportions; I have become a chronic embroiderer. My favorite activity most nights is to come home and watch Simpsons episodes while I do needlework. I am keenly aware that this is the most appallingly boring activity most hip young thirty-somethings could ever imagine. But there are several compelling reasons why I feel the need to sew.
 

[BTW, did you know that the word "suzan" in Farsi means "needle"? See?!]

• One, because it keeps me from being an irredeemable couch potato. As long as I am Productive, I don't feel like my evenings in front of the TV are a complete waste.
• Two, because it keeps me from eating from boredom - it is impossible to eat and sew simultaneously.
• Three, because it impresses the hell out of almost everyone. A well-executed sampler or project as a gift will pretty much make every other gift look tawdry, cheap, and ill-considered. "See? I love you more than everyone else!"
• Four, because it is beautiful.
• Five, because it is real.

Four and Five deserve some elaboration... some "embroidery," if you will. All day long at my IT job I manipulate bits of nothingness - I produce NOTHING except documents that more often than not never even get printed - ghosts of words that are read by someone in an email and then deleted, never to be made tangible. Needlework is the one inescapably real thing I do outside the office that actually displays talent and skill beyond my ability to hook up a user laptop on a DSL wireless network and connect via VPN to the office network, or add a show venue address to an enormous database.

 

It used to be that most of the things produced with needle and thread were useful in some way - you made clothing or upholstery or bed linens yourself. But now there's no need - it can be done more cheaply and quickly by machines in factories, or by women at home on sewing machines. Almost the only hand-sewing done now is for art's sake - quilts, cross-stitch, needlepoint. And when you use real linen, and cotton or sometimes silk thread, there is a tangible, beautiful product completed after many hours. It takes focus and it takes patience. Except for little projects, most needlework projects take weeks or months.

 

It's sometimes my only grasp on what is real, what matters, what is meaningful - with a TiVo, iPod, and Blackberry, I can literally spend HOURS on intangibles that have little value or benefit (unless it be to inspire or educate... but for me, usually it's just for entertainment). I come home after herding invisible bits and bytes around an unseen network all day, and I pick up a piece of fine linen with threads of scarlet and purple, and I am making something far more enduring than the report on client earnings I generated that morning, or the software installed that afternoon.

 

And of course, like I said - it impresses the hell out of everyone.

Bunny

It has always been slightly distressing to me that despite my vibrant, sparkling personality, I have never acquired a nickname. I have always been rigidly, unyieldingly "Susan". There has been the occasional "Sooze," "Suze," and "Suzie-Q" but never with any consistency to be considered official. Not even my nieces and nephews have come up with an informal nickname, unless you consider their first attempts at saying my name, which tended to lean towards "Shzughjen" - apparently my name falls into the category of Difficult Consonants for Children Learning to Speak. My friend Rachel has been nicknamed "Kitten," which is so wonderfully inappropriate that it is FABULOUS. It's perfect for her persona in it's ironic, Ann-Margret-in-an-Elvis-movie cuteness.
 

So this has been a topic of conversation several times in recent weeks, by some coincidence. I was just sitting here, and glanced as I often do, at my Bunny calendar, with it's oh-so-cute pictures, and went "Bingo!"

I am a sucker for little, cute, fluffy bunnies, puppies and kittens. I am apt to squeal when seeing them. Really. All adult sensibilities drain out of my body upon sighting such Cuteness. This, despite my fondness for macabre, black comedy. I turn into a 5 year old chasing a baby chick on Easter. Perhaps this tendency has continued into adulthood because my fondness for Cute Things was never accommodated as a child. I have some Hello Kitty items of recent purchase, carefully selected to appear kitschy and ironic when noticed by others… but really, I like them because they're adorable.

 

I don't particularly admire cuteness in human beings, but this weakness for baby animals… what can I say, it's chronic. So, I henceforth wish to be known as "Bunny". It will take a while to get this ingrained in my circle of friends, I admit - but I will strive to make it happen, even though I am an aged 36 (29) and such habits are hard to pick up as an adult. But if I am expected to make a habit of going to the gym, then I think this is certainly MUCH easier to instill.

My New Office

The Dreaded Office Move is over, more or less... I am in my new office, and the worst of it seems to have passed. The fact that I can actually snatch a few moments to plug this in is evidence of it, even though there are a half-dozen things I should be doing. Anyway, I have a little photo essay on my Photos page of my new working environment; it's very classy, stylish, etc... yet I keep thinking "Yes, well, this is all very nice. [pause] So when are we going back to our real office?" I did go back this afternoon to get some odds and ends, and it was just so grimy and battered-looking, I was quite scornful. Which is sad, because I was happy there, and at the time thought it quite well-appointed. I am mean-spirited and shallow - that's all there is to it...
 

I am located in the most well-hidden spot in the office - you have to go through 2 rooms to get to my office door. I am tempted to hang a sign over the door such as:

• Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here
• Ship's Doctor
• Center of the Onion
• The Burrow

None of which are particularly clever or apt, but I am reeeeealy tired. Perhaps someone has a suggestion or two?

How Susan Dropped Off The Face of the Planet

So Leslie Crowder calls me up in the midst of a typically busy day at work, which pretty much stops me cold since I’ve talked to her exactly twice since high school… and wants to know if I’m ok, since my website has disappeared. Having been talked by The Naud into switching my web hosting to godaddy.com which is Good and Cheap, [two points of the Triangle of Construction Desireability, for those not in the know… if you are having work done on your house or building from scratch, you can only have 2 of the following 3 things: Quality, Cheapness, and Speed. If you want it Cheap & Fast, you sacrifice Quality. If you want it Good & Fast, you will Pay Through the Nose, and so on] I neglected to change the nameservers until my Earthlink hosting had completely run out. Do I understand any of this? Not really; I have to go through the whole website hosting re-education process every other year or so for various websites, and it never seems to stick.
 

So Leslie had just wondered if I was still alive or massively depressed, and I was able to reassure her that I was not Dead or Depressed. As the only person who had caught this Loss of Site, I promised her a shout-out in the form of a new entry, and I promised to say that it too would be an entry Forced at Gunpoint. [Sorry about the excessive capitalizations – I’m in an 18th century/AA Milne phase this evening and it just has such a distinctive tone, don’t you think? It’s amusingly ironic as well as helping to emphasize points without underlining or italicizing.]

 

So... I've been processing this idea for a while here: Sometimes I feel like I live in an alternate universe - that I'm in the "what if" existence of some George Bailey, and by his absence, I am living in caution, tepidness (tepidity?) and selfishness, only living half the life I might be living in another, more complete universe. I wonder if I'm a Mary Bailey, living a dowdy and lonely life as a pitiful librarian with no husband and kids because MY George was never born. Not that I feel in any way pitiful - I would say that I generally enjoy my life - but perhaps it could be so much more than it is, and far more satisfying. Anyway, that's all I have on this idea now - read the novels of Jasper Fforde for a far more entertaining articulation.

 

My office is moving on April 1st - we're scooting over to Roundabout Plaza, the new building right next to the statue "Musica" - a heroically-sized, copper-green statue of the nine muses. Classically Nude. Quite the eye opener! I sometimes just start laughing when I catch it out of the corner of my eye. Not that I have any problem with nude statuary or that I think it's in any way inappropriate; but it just feels so out of place in a city like Nashville. We're not exactly known for our historical art & architecture, beyond the Parthenon. Come to think of it, Musica would be far more appropriately placed in Centennial Park. But it's visible from our new office-to-be, and so I will have to grow accustomed to nekkid men & women every time I pass a window.

 

So, I will be dropping back off the face of the planet again for a couple of months while I deal with the massive effort this will require - so much stuff to move -- 8 years of accumulated computer detritus in my office to sort & throw out. Hopefully I'll be back on earth in late April.

Pretensions of Dining

OK, I was at J. Alexander's for lunch the other day, and a more confused confluence of fine dining and fern-bar excess has rarely been seen. Not that I did not enjoy my lunch, or the atmosphere, or the service. But they seem to be suffering from some confusion as to what their niche is in the Nashville dining world.
 

Hostesses in black, wait staff in white shirts with black ties, white cloth napkins. Dim lighting, dark lacquered wood finishes, a visible wine cellar with rows of bottles. The large, heavy cardstock 1-page menu had the entire back devoted to the wine selection. Oh, ok, it's leaning towards Sunset Grill-quality Fine dining.

 

Then I examine the menu. Typical selections, until I spot this: Mr. Jack's Chicken Fingers Dinner. The description starts something like this:

 

Made with Mr. Jack's famous South Carolina low-country recipe...

OK, folks - we are talking CHICKEN FINGERS here. Strips of boneless fried chicken, put on all menus to order for finicky children or as comfort food for the adults. They are not regionally famous - I don't go on vacation and think to myself, "Hmmm, I think I'll order a local delicacy... where's the chicken fingers on the menu?" Secondly, they are not state specialties, either. South Carolina is not famous for it's chicken fingers, let alone the LOWER HALF of the state. 

 

I ordered the chicken salad open-face sandwich on foccacia bread. When the plate was finally placed in front of me, its contents rose almost to my chin - a good half-pound of chunky chicken salad, on an 8 x 6 inch slab of foccacia, with another slab of foccacia off to the side with tomatoes, lettuce and a dab of dressing to place atop the heap and squash it into submission. Plus the huge portion of thin-cut french fries, rising majestically from the plate like a golden haystack.

 

This was fern-bar quantity, not the discreetly cautious portions of a fine dining establishment, where everyone working there is slim and café-chic stylish, and the food reflects similar restraint. I could not finish half of it. It was worthy of TGI Fridays... and perhaps, was a last respectful gesture on the part of the JA kitchen staff, since the local TGIF had been closed down recently. Their competitor had died because it had been unable to adapt to the changing diets of a more sophisticated population, and yet J Alexander's acknowledged their kinship, and in sorrowful respect, heaped my plate high.

Obligatory Journal Entry, Forced at Gunpoint

I write this after working 12 days in a row, and I am CRANKY. Not only am I forced to work like a slave, shifting gears every other minute, racing about fixing things, reading enough email to choke a goat, doing endless company website updates... but apparently, I am expected to write journal entries for the amusement of others. Figures. 

So, here is my insight, which has been refined over time though trial and error and much consultation. I am actually 7 years younger that everyone thinks I am.

 

Now, I am not one of those people who is obsessed about appearing younger than my age, nor do I see any reason to lie about my age, or refuse to tell people what it is. I really could care less, and frankly, I'm delighted in the interest. I think it's pretty well established that my goal in life is being paid attention to. And to that end, I was born on December 3rd, 1968. You can find my birthday wishlist at amazon.com. 

So, when I say I am 28, it isn't vanity. It's REAL years. I noticed several years ago that although I was the same age as several of my co-workers, I felt much younger and more inexperienced. Why? Well, for one, they had more real life experience of the most obvious kind: they were married with children. Now, I've observed enough, read enough, been told enough, that being married is difficult - requires sacrifice, compromise, etc. Then, having kids requires more of the same, in addition to loss of sleep. So after a while I realized that my peers really were much older than I was, in a very practical sense. 

But how much older? I was fortunate enough to pick some numbers which have been confirmed by the approbation of several of these "married with children" individuals, so I see no reason to question the validity of my random choice:

Married: add 3 years
Children: add 4 years 

So, I told married friends to tack on 3 years to their age. That's your actual maturity. If there were children, I told them to tack on 7. Now, this was not popular with many of them, since their vanity did not enjoy this additional imposed aging. But I remained firm, and despite the blow to their vanity, none truly contested my theory. 

Time passed, and I reached my thirtieth birthday, and promptly sank into deep depression. It wasn't that I was getting older; it was that I was at a major threshold, and anything that points out to me that I am actually living in a real world and not an imaginary fairyland where my car never breaks down and Mr. Right is scheduled to appear at the precise moment I am my most charming, lovely, and unselfconscious so that he might fall madly in love with me, tends to frighten me rather badly. I had much the same reaction at ages 10 and 20. 

This deep depression prompted much self-analysis, and I realized a significant flaw in my REAL years calculations: That at thirty, I was supposed to be married with children, but I wasn't. By thirty, the wedding is supposed to be long past, and at least one child produced. Yet I had done none of this, while the MAJORITY of my friends had. So, instead of the Smug Marrieds being 7 years older than I, in reality, I was 7 years younger than them! They were right on schedule - I was not. Upon explaining this difference to several of my test subjects, I was much cheered by their unanimous agreement with my New and Improved Theory. 

So, as a 28 year old, going on my 29th birthday, what does this say? Not a great deal. It's just a clever way of processing a major difference between Singletons and Smug Marrieds, it is a fail-proof conversation starter, and it makes me seem smart and funny which to a single woman is almost as good as looking thin and beautiful. Years from now, as my married sisters enter their 13th and their 17th year of getting up before 9am on a Saturday to feed their families breakfast, while I sleep in past 10 with the help of a couple of Benadryl after a night out with my friends, it will surely be a comfort to them (as they wearily wonder if they will ever get to sleep more than 7 hours ever again on this earth,) that I am an immature baby in comparison to their rich and full lives. 

I live to validate other people. It's just one of the ways I serve.

[Are you happy now, Mike in MI?]

Visualizing Time

As a former History major, I tend to look at things from a... historical perspective, I suppose. That's probably common and obvious. But recently I realized that I look at history, at months and years and centuries, from a VISUAL perspective. For me, time goes in different directions, turns corners, runs perpendicular or parallel (depending on the century) and in the course of a year, goes in a circle.

 

Why do I envision time at different geometric points? Probably due to subconscious memories of elementary school bulletin board displays, or textbook timeline charts. Some "chunks" of time are set apart with a greater focus on individual years, while others are a long line with nothing to distinguish them.

 

This is going to take some drawing, and I'm a lousy artist. Bear with me. I also don't want to mark specific events on the line, as it will become an exercise in "looking things up" that I remember imperfectly.

 

The B.C. years emerge from a misty patch to my right - they go back endlessly past some invisible horizon, but from about the time of Moses is when I can see the beginning of the line. They go in a straight line to the left, until 60 BC, when they break left and go straight down until the BC/AD turnover, where they resume their journey to the left. Upon reaching AD 30-ish, the line turns right and goes straight up through 300 AD, when it breaks left again and continues on in an unbroken line until the Renaissance.

In the year 1400, time begins to fold back and forth upon itself; still continuing from right to left, but starting in the year 01, going straight up to the year 00, and then turning left and skipping back to the starting point of 01, to repeat the upward journey until the year 1800.

In 1800 time takes the left turn, but instead of skipping back down to the 01 starting point, it takes a hairpin turn and time starts running the other direction, from top to bottom. At 1900, time turns right, and skips back up to the "top of the page" and starts running downwards. Only now the line becomes thicker, and as you follow it along, the individual years stand out, and each one has an actual visual significance. It's like zooming in on a DNA strand, and starting to see the details of each individual dot. You realize that each year within the line is actually an oval, which loops from top left down until June-July, and then loops back up on the right to make the oval. Look closer, and each month is, of course, a calendar page, a square grid strung one after the other like beads on a necklace.

Upon reaching 2000, the line becomes less certain - you can't quite figure out which direction it is going, or plans to go. Currently, it is still continuing on from right to left, but it has made no turns - it is the same unbent line since 1900. I suppose that because this is the part of the line that I am personally living in, I can't make it bend any direction other than the inevitable drive to the West/Left. Give me a few more years and maybe I will be able to see if it will bend.

 

I suppose psychological gender studies that look into this sort of thing might make much of the fact that individual years are circular (feminine), while the direction of centuries is in straight lines (masculine). Maybe because women instinctively count the months for their menstrual cycle, or the cycle of yearly rebirth and death is more apparent to women; and the straight lines of history are more about time as visualized by the men who made most of it. I have a healthy curiosity of gender differences, but ultimately all I can say is that my visualization of time has been the slow development of education, books, culture and my perception of the years I have actually inhabited time.

 

Now... it's your turn! How do you see time? I'd love to hear about it.

Happy Holidays!

I didn't write a Christmas letter this year, which troubles me. I always wrote it to get attention; either by my literary skill, humor, or novelty. To remind guys that I had a slight crush on of my existence; to assuage my guilt at having neglected other friends throughout the year. This year I was just too busy at work and by the time I realized that it was time to send cards, it was too late to do a letter. I did design a Christmas Card and send it out; I attach it here for anyone whom I didn't send it to. (I cut down my list this year to 100 people; it's costing me around $125 to do cards and postage!) Heck, here's the one for 2002 as well - much more wordy!
 

My friend John Folsom is a gifted artist, and I've been doing his website for about a year now. His stuff is wonderfully atmospheric and subtle. He sent his Christmas Card just today, and you really ought to go see his work on his website.

You Shouldn't Have

There is a party this week for a girlfriend of mine who just got married. I cannot attend due to a previous engagement, so I brought her gift to the office for someone to take in my place. And I realized, as I waited for the elevator to arrive, that I really hoped that I wouldn't see this friend before I could unload the gift. Because I knew what she would say: "Oh, you shouldn't have!" And you know what? That phrase sickens me. 

Think about it - you've gone to the trouble of picking out a gift; you've taken the time and money to put something together, only to hear the recipient say "you shouldn't have?!" What that really is, is someone protesting that you have made a MISTAKE in getting them a gift, and that on some subconscious level they don't want to be burdened by it; either because:

1) they feel like they don't deserve the loving gesture of a gift
2) they feel guilty that they didn't get anything for you, and resent feeling guilty
3) they feel like they have to pretend they didn't want anything from you for fear of appearing greedy
4) they really don't care for what you've chosen

Passing years have brought clarity to a great many things in my life, and I finally realized why I always hated to hear someone say I shouldn't have gotten them a gift. It takes a great deal of my enjoyment out of giving the gift in the first place, because it implies that I have made a mistake, and I hate making mistakes. Oh, they always say it in a cheerful tone, or with a rueful smile, but as one of my acting teachers observed over and over, "Many a truth is spoken in jest." 

I wonder how many other people get that sinking feeling when they hear this phrase. Now that I've finally recognized how this makes me feel, I'm inclined to start saying in response, "well then, I'll take it back!" I used to LIVE for the chance to see people open presents I'd given them, but the response is often so disappointing. To their credit, I think most people feel like "you shouldn't have" is a self-deprecating expression. But all it does for me is make me feel somewhat rejected. 

So I have some suggestions for a more appropriate response to gifts:

1) If you find yourself saying "You shouldn't have…," immediately follow it up with "…but I'm so glad you did!" That will soften the blow.
2) Come right out with a full-blown "Oh my gosh, you are so sweet/amazing/ thoughtful/inventive/wonderful" instead. Because they are, and your immediate happy response is better than any thank-you note (which you STILL have to send, people!)
3) Be honest. Say "I LOVE presents!" because, really, who doesn't love presents? (excepting one of my friends who feels she doesn't deserve them, and whom I have to trick into accepting them...)
4) If you absolutely hate a gift or don't need it, and know immediately that you want to exchange it, try this: "Oh my gosh, this is perfect! WHEREVER DID YOU FIND THIS?" The information will be happily and enthusiastically given.

Honesty is always the best policy, but take the next step and think about the feelings of the gift-giver and the time, love and money they have expended on your behalf.

Bollywood Ballyhoo

I have found my quality programming. It's called Bollywood Cinema - films made in India. Well, actually, I don't know that I would call all of it "quality", but it is highly addictive. Its complete lack of reality soothes me as nothing else can at present. I wish I could distill it down to a simple description. Some of the more obvious tendencies:

 

1) they're LONG - averaging 3+ hours each.
2) no matter what the genre, they seem to all contain song and dance
3) no kissing, but lots of hugs and nuzzling each others' faces in the romantic bits
4) vibrant color - especially the women's saris. I want to go to India just to buy fabric...
5) lots of tear-filled eyes, men and women alike. The men cry as easily and unashamedly as women.
6) the rich are SUPER rich, and the middle-class are rich, and the poor have enough to get by in moderate comfort. I have yet to see any slums
7) locations in various European countries, rarely related to the plot. I think the more unbelievable remote locations must indicate a dream state (I doubt the hero and heroine would fly for an afternoon to trapise about Mykonos in a dizzying array of outfits...)
8) lots of melodrama; lovers torn apart by parental disapproval, mostly.

 

There are laughable elements - one film has a SUPER rich family living in a French Chateau that I KNOW I've seen in pictures from the French countryside... but they pretend it is in India. Mothers and fathers love their children so much they weep frequently over their joys and sorrows. Sons and daughters may resist arranged marriages, but usually go through with them out of love and respect. If a couple starts dating on their own, they might have to deal with some seriously furious parents. Did I mention no on-the-lips kissing? That's a serious line that I have yet to see crossed - that of respect to one's elders and lack of romantic contact.

 

My description insults, though, by making so many generalities. I wish I could describe how moving these films can be, even to a Western viewer unaccustomed to such Victorian conventions... so Victorian that Louisa May Alcott would be writing screenplays for the Indian cinema had film existed 125 years ago. It takes about 10-15 minutes to get absorbed, but once you've accepted the conventions of the genre as well as its limitations (humor tends toward the slapstick, plot towards soap opera) it can be wholly absorbing.

 

I think I've finally figured out why these films fascinate me. Firstly, because of the sheer novelty. There's so much visual beauty in these movies; in locations, the actors, the clothing... you rarely get that in contemporary film, except for Baz Luhrman's work. Secondly, the unashamed emotion. Joy and sorrow are so strong in these movies, and perhaps it's not terribly subtle, but it really affects you.

Thirdly, and most importantly, these films move me because they're like my childhood daydreams. I was a serious daydreamer as a child, usually because I was miserable and disappointed and felt rejected. I had my own mental music videos even before MTV came along, and the similarities to Bollywood's song and dance are strong. Life is so often colorless, ugly, and disappointing, and we get so used to dull routine with so few things that really DELIGHT us... Bollywood actually addresses the human longing for adventure, beauty, love and heartfelt emotion: the key elements of fairy tales.

 

Plus there's some really cute guys in them who dance really well and don't act remotely gay. Although they need to stop featuring Hrithik Roshan's biceps in an array of sleeveless tops...

Something Clever

I need to write something clever. I desperately need reassurance that I am actually a talented and gifted individual with a knack for writing smart and witty pensees. Yet I lack ideas. No blinding insights of late; no incidents that made me say "dang, I need to write that down!" Nothing that the Sedaris siblings would applaud. 

I did just spend a week on vacation, and it was marked by an utter lack of any productivity. The most I did was to buy a lampshade and fabric to cover it that matches my boudoir. Not that I actually followed through with it - it's still sitting in bags on the table at home. I took an afternoon nap most days, went to the pool a couple of times with the nephews, bought some clothes. Ate a lot of junk, mostly sugary and fried. Towards the end I was getting a bit bored with it - I've learned by now that you have to do SOME work even in the midst of idleness or otherwise it goes sour and you can't enjoy your leisure. So I did go to the gym 4 times, and worked on some computer problems at an organization I help sometimes. 

Now, in my third day back at work, I want to go home and take a nap. Granted, I would like to take a nap most afternoons, but the impulse is particularly strong today, despite the fact that I didn't even have any beers at lunch as I did on Monday and Tuesday. If I were to curl up on the mini-sofa in my office, I would definitely doze off in a minute or less. Yes, I wanna drive on home listening to more of Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix on tape, then fall asleep and doze for a couple of hours, and wake up to a really stellar TV lineup of all my fave shows. 

Maybe that's my problem - lack of quality programming. All of my favorite shows except for The Amazing Race are on hiatus, and many are not even in reruns. I can't wait to get home at night, but then I sit in front of the TiVo for hours until bedtime, and fall asleep feeling unsatisfied and disappointed. I've actually started to just turn off the TV at 9 or 9:30, which is usually an indicator that for a Loner, Life has become Sad and Dreary without the presence of an unacknowledged lover/a small cute child/a dog that has wrecked their apartment but brought a Light into their Existence, Heretofore Unknown. And now that the Light has departed for Parts Yonder, the Loner wonders how they ever lived without that lover/child/dog before. 

Well, considering that there hasn't BEEN a lover/child/dog anywhere near me for...ever, I'm afraid I must chalk my strange restlessness up to a lack of quality programming. Perhaps I should bite the bullet and invest in digital cable, so I can get BBC America and branch into British TV. I do need something to keep me from just eating incessantly in the evenings, and reading doesn't do it for me anymore.

My Poor Hairdryer

My poor hairdryer died yesterday morning. It was a rather dramatic death… There I was, styling away, and suddenly there was a loud pop, sparks whizzed from the dryer past my face, and then silence and the smell of burnt plastic and wiring. The power cable had apparently twisted itself as far as it could go, and suddenly snapped, breaking the copper wiring. Fortunately I didn’t have it too close to my face when it blew out. But I actually felt rather mournful when I realized it was gone. It wasn’t that it had been a particularly good hairdryer or anything — but that I’d had it for so long. I had been using it off and on for 14 years, and that’s pretty amazing when you think of it. I had bought it on my mom’s credit card when I was 20 and in college, and I remember thinking at the time that it was rather pricey (all of $15 at Service Merchandise!)

In the years since then, $15 has seemed like a minor expenditure. I can easily spend that in a restaurant or at the movies. I have bought curling irons, RevoStylers, flatirons, and various hair care products for about the same amount, used them a few times, and stuffed them in a basket under the sink. I’ve wasted $15 on more things than I care to remember. But that hairdryer… It has gone far and beyond in recouping what I initially paid for it. The value of that battered, smudged gadget was far greater than anything else in the bathroom.

And it has been with me through my twenties and into my thirties, through all my Seasons of Hair and pitiful efforts to fix it in a style that actually looked current and fashionable. I’ve used it with diffusers, round brushes, regular brushes, glitter gel, tinted gel, leave-in conditioner, mousse, you name it. And in the moment of its passing, it gained a historical import and a personality all its own. It had been with me when I still permed my hair, when I tried bangs, when I bobbed it short, when I gave up on hairdryers and it sat forlorn in the basket under the sink while I went au naturel for several years. A year ago I cropped my hair the shortest it’s been since my toddler years, and I picked up my old hairdryer and started using it again. For the first time in my whole life I was absolutely current with the flippy, razor-cut styles of the day.

So when it snapped on me, it felt like I’d actually lost a friend, and I put it down on the counter, patted it, and thanked it for so many years of hot air. I hummed Taps as I wrapped its cord around the handle and carried it to the trash. That Conair 1600 hairdryer had done good service, and now it was gone, and I would have to find another one. It seemed like I shouldn’t replace it so soon; to go right out to Target and buy another one would be disrespectful in the face of so many years of faithful service. Plus I knew that whatever I bought to replace it would not be as sturdy or long-lived, since "they really don’t make them like that anymore," whispers my inner Old Codger. For example, my 2-year-old VCR died a few months ago, while the one I bought after college is still going strong.

But I did go get another one, because, after all, it is just an appliance; just an inanimate object with no soul. There is no room in my life to hold onto a dead appliance just because I’ve had it for so many years and I have some nostalgia for what it has endured with me. Plus I am obsessive about making my hair look as good as I can manage, and I can’t do my current hairstyle without one. Vanity reasserts itself. The Revlon 1875 I purchased to replace it only cost about $20, but the thing seems cheap and lightweight and has this ion switch that supposedly cuts back on the frizzies. The Old Codger within rises up in protest, muttering "we didn’t have no Ion Switches on our hairdryers in my day… didn’t need no Ion Switches…"

But then I am cheered by the hopeful thought that, if this one lasts me 14 years too, I will surely be married by then, and possibly have some kids. It will be with me as my looks begin to fade and my hair continues to thin, and I only use it to keep up appearances, and dry my kids’ hair after their bath, until it dies in its own dramatic accident when one of my children attempts to use it to melt plastic. I won’t name it… I refuse to sink to that level of pitiful personification of a mere gadget… but over time it will become common and everyday and familiar as did its predecessor, and when it dies, I will mourn it too in a corner of my mind. Because sometimes your hairdryer is the only thing you can count on.

The Naming of Cats

I'm looking for a condo in Franklin, Brentwood, or Bellevue. Once safely ensconced therein, I shall obtain two cats, and their names shall be (if suitable to their personalities

 

Poisson

and

Bunny (to be said in low growly voice with the emphasis on "Bun")

or

Kotatsu Neko (from Urusei Yatsura, an older anime comedy series by the creator of Maison Ikkoku; a human-sized white cat (neko) with black patches who always sat at one of those low table-warmers (kotatsu) with the blanket hanging from the edge - like the one in Kyoto's apartment)

 

I don't want matching names, like "Fish" and "Chips" or "Mr. Darcy" and "Elizabeth"; no, they must be unrelated and equally absurd. There can be a minor common theme; for example, cats are partial to both fish and bunnies. I'm not entirely satisfied with Bunny or Kotatsu Neko. I feel the need for something on another tangent entirely, perhaps literary or historical. I don't want both names to be French, unless it's too good a word to pass up and has the required cool French pronunciation. I'd like something Japanese, really.

 

It has to engender a certain implied cuteness, either by the extreme stupidity or unsuitability of the word; but also have a soothing hiss or easily repeatable syllables. "Pwa-sohn" works beautifully in that regard. I'm partial to "Brown Cow" or "Smudge" but they don't inspire or make you clap your hands with glee.

 

Suggestions? 

 

October 15, 2002
Now the names are "Poisson" and "Aunt Ada Doom" from Cold Comfort Farm, one of my favorite books/movies. Although "Jiji" from "Kiki's Delivery Service" will be considered if I get a black cat! 

 

December 17, 2002
Now the names are "Poisson" and "Pigwidgeon" from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

May 11, 2003
No, I don't care for "Pigwidgeon" anymore... I'm thinking of "Jambon," the French for "ham" or 'Lapin," for "bunny". "Poisson" is still a definite.

June 24, 2003
OK, I'm back to "Bunny" and "Poisson". The bunnies have returned to the field behind my apartment for the summer, and they are TOO cute! It's the Hello Kitty enthusiast in me that adores the cute and kitschy. But never Precious Memories knickknacks. No no no no no. The cat named Bunny will, of course, have to Hop and Bounce upon occasion.

Fall, 2003
Finally, I have found the unchangeable second name. It is to be "Poisson" and "Laddoo." Laddoo are South Asian sweets; sortof like the Indian version of a cookie. They're perfectly round and fat, very dense with sugar and grainy flour, and I have seen them many times in Bollywood films. I just love the way 'laddoo' rolls off the tongue. Now, having solidified the names, I have to actually GET the cats!

Handicapped

Mark Twain once said that "Worrying about something is like paying interest on a debt you don't even know if you owe." I have spent a great deal of my life worrying about what lies ahead of me, and dwelt much on the possibilities of leukemia, diabetes, paraplegia and acute appendicitis. Yet in my life, despite a weight problem, I have been disgustingly healthy. I rarely take sick days, and when I do, it is usually from exhaustion. Lack of sleep, for me, is the equivalent of illness. [Brief pause for the parents of small children to stop their hysterical laughter…]

 

But despite my robust health, I have been a worrier, and in my senior year of high school finally developed the one thing it had not occurred to me to worry about - depression. In the years following, depression has come and gone in various cycles lasting from 2 days to 3-4 months, with months to years of relative contentment in between. I've been seeing a Christian counselor since I was 20 to combat this, and have gained an enormous amount of personal insight and healthy coping mechanisms. I have also taken St. John's Wort, Celexa, Zoloft and now Prozac.

 

Depression has become my handicap; not the cancer, the diabetes or the actual loss of limbs or senses. The patterns of the affliction have become as familiar to me as going through the motions of brushing my teeth. Yet I have struggled against it, tried to justify it, resisted medication, embraced suffering, sought and found God within it, and eventually hit bottom and begun the rise back up to normalcy.

 

I particularly resisted medication for a long time. Only when I went through a truly horrific bout when I turned thirty did I finally succumb and start on Celexa, eventually switching to Zoloft. It always seemed to me that taking medication meant that I was truly helpless and out of control; that it being a chemical issue meant that I couldn't fix it on my own. I still believe that a lot of my depression is due to my poor coping skills and overactive imagination; but during an extended bout of depression my serotonin levels get so low that I am unable to pull myself back out of despair. The thought of being on medication for the rest of my life seems unendurable. I see the whole Prozac phenomenon as unnatural and an easy escape from coping.

 

Lying on the couch in my office during my lunch break one day, I wept at the life that I saw stretching ahead of me; where I would periodically be incapacitated by depression and the difficulties that might arise if I married or had children. And a little voice in my head pointed out that this was my handicap… that if I had useless legs I would use a wheelchair, wouldn't I? Then why was I (figuratively) dragging myself along the ground, refusing to use a wheelchair or crutches because it wasn't "natural?" It's ludicrous; and likewise, suffering needlessly through depression and despair is the same as dragging myself down the hallway. Yeah, I could get where I'm going eventually, but it would be mighty unpleasant and take a very long time! So for now, my crutch is Prozac. Maybe, years down the road, they'll figure out another way to combat depression that I don't find so... upsetting.

Friendship Halitosis

Recognizing that I have Friendship Halitosis has been a difficult but necessary part of my early thirties. From 4th grade onward, I found I was markedly deficient in friendship skills. My chronic Foot in Mouth Disease, coupled with a relentless honesty that came across as tactlessness was bad enough. What made it worse was a prodigious vocabulary, eccentricity, and way too much reading. These combined together to give me the Stench of Social Outcast; which ultimately led to what I like to call Friendship Halitosis. 

What is Friendship Halitosis? It is desperation, coupled with a demanding spirit. Even now, years after those bleak years in primary education, the fear of finding myself lonely again will push me to heroic feats of friendship. I truly love to be involved in my friends' lives, but on a subconscious level I feel I must perform to be acceptable to them - remembering birthdays, invitations to see movies or watch TV, helping them move, attending Pampered Chef parties, baked goods, backrubs, awesome Christmas and wedding presents - but there is an aura, a smell of fear that I give off even when I am being the best friend in the world, and it turns me into Pepe Le Peu. Friends can't get away from me fast enough. 

The unfairness of it all - how very hard I've worked to keep up "my side" of the friendship! - frustrates me, and so I call, or email, or suggest an outing, or an invitation to lunch or dinner. And they refuse, or do not respond at all. Which makes me angrier, and more frustrated, so I try even harder - I silently demand that they reciprocate my friendship in like manner. The halitosis is great enough at this point to floor a superhero, so of course everyone in my vicinity heads for the hills. It is a self-perpetuating stench, which only recedes when I collapse from exhaustion and give up. 

Having finally understood the pervasive nature of this disease, I make the best effort I can to back away when I start to see the metaphysical wincing of my nearest and dearest. It takes an enormous effort of will to not give in to self-pitying flights of fancy and childish daydreams of "how sorry they'd be if I were dead." To indulge those thoughts is to feed the disease. No, it takes a firm brushing with reality and a concerted effort to find solitary entertainments, like endless stacks of videos from the library or a reeeeealllly good cross-stitch project. I feed my Inner Geek for a while, and eventually may venture out again, bearing firmly in mind to make no demands lest halitosis begin to pervade my life again. 

This is not to say that my friends haven't been unfair or disappointing - it's not always my fault - but how I choose to respond has been like that of an adolescent. I may have been reading James Mitchener when I was in 5th grade, but I traded that in to behave like a 5th grader in my twenties and thirties. I may have the best intentions in the world, and truly enjoy my friends, but self-consciousness and self-interest still play way too big a part of my interactions with people.

"There is luxury in self-reproach ... When we blame ourselves we feel no one else has a right to blame us." -- Oscar Wilde

Restaurants

I'm sure I have nothing particularly fresh to say about restaurants, but I want to, so I'm gonna.

Let me just start by saying that I like throwing peanut shells on the floor. It makes me feel better about my own much less messy apartment. For that reason, Logan's Roadhouse will always hold a special place in my heart. It delights my Inner Child.

 

Restaurants, for me, will always be a treat and a pleasure, except for those rare occasions when I've been to one for every meal in the space of a few days. It's like eating Godiva Chocolates incessantly - they're still fabulous, but after a while you get tired of them if you have them every day. Restaurants are my Godiva Chocolates. Then again, Godiva Chocolates are my Godiva Chocolates. You'd have to be a soulless heathen not to like them.

 

I went to restaurants so rarely as a child that the few occasions we did go tend to stand out in my mind as holidays; Special Events to mark a Special Day, or the simple fact that Mom had put her foot down and was sick and tired of cooking pinto beans and biscuits, which Dad required every night for supper. (I don't personally remember growing tired of them myself; they don't hold any negative associations for me and I still like them.) But we ate so many meals at home; even the traditional Nashville Sunday Lunch at a Restaurant after Church was denied us. How my sisters and I envied our lucky peers who always went out after Church. We were far more likely to go home to leftovers and Yard Work. Talk about your negative connotations!

 

A Snow Day story: we had driven back to Nashville from Christmas in Batesville, Arkansas with my mother's relatives, and we had driven all night to beat a snowstorm (driving east from Memphis; remember, weather always comes from Memphis if you live in Nashville) and arrived home around 3 am. When we got up later that morning, the snow had hit and we had a few inches on the ground. I don't know why we didn't just eat breakfast at home, but instead we drove to Green Hills to a restaurant that was practically empty except for us; I recollect pancakes, and a big screen TV showing old Lone Ranger serials. It was the most delicious feeling; of snow falling that we would play in that afternoon, of pancakes that were not served in our house but in a restaurant, with the added kicker of continual Westerns. We girls didn't particularly care for Westerns, but we knew our Dad loved them, and so it was a guaranteed mood-lifter. Like watching the football game with him - he was so easily angered, that anything that made him happy, however briefly, was a blessing to us as well.

 

A restaurant is not just a place that serves food; it's an encapsulated moment in time with several important elements: Food, conversation, and novelty. I can eat alone, and do on occasion, but that's so I can read a book or a magazine, which is almost another sort of conversation, isn't it? My most meaningful discussions come over a meal. Why else do you think Jesus had the Last Supper? Or ate in the home of a tax collector in the company of prostitutes? Because He knew it was the best way to talk to people. There's something about food and the way it loosens up our emotional and intellectual tongues, and I'm sure some scientist could make a very interesting study about the correlation between brain functions, emotional response, and the act of eating.

 

The novelty comes from having choices. If I go home to eat, I can almost guarantee that I will be eating one of three things: pasta, rice, or stew. I rarely buy vegetables because I never want to prepare them and they go bad before I can use them, and so the only way I can count on occasional roughage is by going to a restaurant and getting a salad or a veggie platter. Given a choice between vermicelli with sauce from a jar in my fridge and a Caesar Salad with Cajun-grilled chicken on top, my response is predictable, particularly when you take into account that the pasta would be eaten in front of the TV, while the salad would be accompanied by an interesting conversation.

 

And my family wonders why I can't seem to save any money. Let's see: I'm not dating anyone, so my chief socialization comes from going to restaurants with friends. I'll spend $10 on the average in a restaurant, compared to $2 for a meal at home. At least it's only lunch and dinner - I never eat breakfast in a restaurant except 3-5 times a year, tops. Even when I'm on a business trip with an expense account, I still tend to go to a guy on the corner and get a bagel and cream cheese for $1.25.

 

I'm not a dining snob; I'm perfectly happy in any average fern bar. I wouldn't be comfortable in a really fancy-shmantzy restaurant. But I will not eat a salad constructed entirely of iceberg lettuce. I want mixed greens or romaine, and even spinach is starting to become pedestrian to me.

Puns

I've been reading a great deal of James Lileks lately - namely, his web log, called The Daily Bleat. I have just recently been elucidated on what "Blogging" is: a consistently maintained online journal. No way I will ever achieve that myself. I have too many dead spells where I haven't any interest or ideas of what to write about. Which makes James Lileks' site all the more inspiring and discouraging at the same time - the guy updates his every single weekday with apparently effortless ease. And writes several newspaper columns, and books on arcane aspects of 20th C. American architecture and pop culture.

 

And it's always interesting, or funny, or apt. One minute he's telling a story about his adored 2 year-old daughter (known to regular readers as Gnat), and the next he's analyzing certain ridiculous aspects of the war on terrorism, and the next he's talking about the latest Star Wars movie. The most wonderful jumble of well-reasoned, well-informed thought on serious matters combined with mundane (but enjoyable) personal revelations on family life.

 

And he is so well-informed. At one point he referred to some local politicians as "Panglossian" which sounded familiar but I couldn't place the reference. Then Google reminded me - Dr. Pangloss in Candide. Now THAT'S a literary allusion. And he tucks them in like truffles throughout - the most delightful little nuggets of intelligent analogy and classical reference. I literally sit there and bounce up and down in my chair sometimes, I'm just so tickled to see a reference to a historical character or event that I haven't heard since college and my more literary days.

I forgot what it was like to have that sort of context to life - to reference arcane aspects of the French Revolution, or Greek and Roman Mythology, or the 18th C. novel. I miss it a lot. I know it sounds conceited to say that, and I wish it didn't. It's like taking delight in something that you do pretty well, like golf or crossword puzzles. In my line of work a classical allusion is as likely as... as Tantalus getting a drink of water. That's why they are so delightful when they do appear.

 

I honestly thought I would stay in academia. I read so much, just tons of books growing up, sometimes 1-2 a day. I never enjoyed studying, and was in fact appallingly bad at math, but I did like cultural history and good stories, and I wrote decent papers. I think I knew that I wasn't going on to a higher degree when a history prof told us one day about grad school and the "Book of the Day" club we would be joining if we continued on in history. The stuff I was reading at this point, though chock-full of goodness and exhaustive scholarly fact, was excessively dull and did nothing to endear me to history from the academic sense. 

 

I did discover soon after the crucial difference between what I liked in history, and what was taught in classes - what I call "cultural" history. What people ate, read, wore, and did. Academia only rarely strayed into those areas, and when it did it was always with a rather surprised sense that this was rather enjoyable, wasn't it? I had read too much historical fiction growing up - I was used to learning historical facts embedded in a narrative.

 

But I have completely strayed away from the point I wanted to make when I started, which is this: I have no gift for puns. I wanted to set a foundation of how I consider myself to be a semi-intellectual, good at Trivial Pursuit and knowledgeable of obscure vocabulary words... but that I can't make a pun to save my life.

 

It's like I have pun dyslexia - I rarely recognize them when they appear, and I most certainly could never come up with them on my own. I have managed to squeeze out 1 or 2 with a very great effort, like a small child laboriously writing his name for the very first time and proudly displaying see what I did? In the improv comedy group I belong to now, there are people who can reel them off like a factory conveyor belt, and I just stand there, as confused as if they were speaking to me in Chinese. The only time I truly feel at a loss in conversation is when pun-swapping is taking place. The chunk of the brain that handles the pun-making process is dead, and has been as long as I've been conscious.

 

I think it is God's way of keeping me humble. If I am thinking that I am particularly clever, then a pun comes along, and when I realize it (a good 60 seconds later, when everyone has already moved on) the sense of self-disgust and "oh how very stupid I am" is quite enervating.