Besieged

The siege towers are encircling me, and the food and water are running low. I may have to start eating the horses to survive. The independent life that has been 95% satisfactory is now only about 40% endurable, and it's worsening. Living alone, which can be such a pleasure, is definitely sucking now. Why the "siege" analogy? Because the catapults are hurling difficulties and frustrations over my walls as fast and furious as they can.

It started with my car… my darling, cute little Honda Civic 1993 hatchback with the rear window windshield wiper that was only made for a 6 month period (then discontinued); that dearly loves to kick off its grease boots so the axle can be chewed up with roadway grit; with the sticker of Charlie Brown & Snoopy on a sled in the window so I can find it easily in a parking lot. It started overheating. I know better than to drive it like that, so I popped into my local repair shop, and they could find nothing wrong. I drove it home, and it overheated on the way. I drove it back. This time they found the thermostat (which they had replaced 3 months earlier) was toast, so they replaced it. Next day, it overheated again, so I took it back. They bled air out of the system, and then it was fine… for a week.

My life became a nightmare of taking my car in, them finding nothing wrong, picking it up, it overheating, and taking it back. I was reluctant to go anywhere else because so far I hadn't needed to pay for it since they were responsible for the initial repair job. But after 1 month of this, they exhausted their ideas of what to do, and I took it to the dealer. Turns out it was a head gasket which needed replacing - over $1000 to fix.

Perhaps I was really sick the day I dropped it off, (I had actually had a fever the night before) but as Elder Sister took me to work that morning, I fainted. My mom is convinced it was a panic attack, and in the weeks since I suspect she was right. There was something about having to deal with this ongoing nightmare of seemingly unfixable car repairs all on my own that just melted my independence away. I had to find rides to work and to pick up my car; and when you live alone it's going to be inconvenient for SOMEONE, no matter how willing they may seem to help.

Elder Sister and Elder Brother-in-law were sympathetic and helpful… but not always available. I live a half-hour from work - so practically no-one from work could drive me. But even having had loads of available assistance wouldn't have removed the essential worm in the heart of this apple - that I live alone, and have no boyfriend or husband for support. Roommates wouldn't have altered the picture much either - they may live with you, but they are not bound to you intimately; at least, none of mine have ever been. Both the financial and inconvenience issues were mine to deal with, with no help in sharing the burden. My mom ended up paying for the car repair (for which I am paying her back) but by her unseen shaking finger it's obvious that she thinks I should be more financially prepared to take care of problems like this.

Then the mice assaulted my citadel. A few days after the car debacle was finally concluded, mouse droppings appeared in my kitchen. Everywhere. The following evening as I was getting into bed, one skittered in front of me. Too freaked out to sleep in the same room as a mouse, I went to stay at Elder Sister's house. In the days that followed, a pattern emerged. Wake up, get ready for work, vacuum up the droppings, wipe down the counters with anti-bacterial spray, fix breakfast, go to work. Then upon arriving home, repeat the cycle, including vacuuming the furniture and floors.

I should mention that I am in a state of extreme ambivalence regarding mice. I think they are adorable, and when I wasn't screaming when they darted in front of me, I thought they were awfully cute, sticking their little heads out from under the dresser to see if it was safe to come out. All I wanted was for them to be GONE - I didn't want to have to deal with dead or alive mice. The thought of picking up a trap with a mouse in it makes my skin crawl. Even nudging the traps with my foot to see if they were "occupied" requires a herculean effort. But even more did I want them to stop littering my apartment!

It took my landlord 5 days to finally get pest control in, so in the meantime I went and got one of those ultra-sonic plug-in units that emits a high-pitched sound that makes the mice go away. It worked so well that the mice left more droppings than ever right under the socket where it was plugged in. Finally pest control came and put down a couple of glue traps. Having carefully checked the traps for several days now, I can confidently say that GLUE TRAPS ARE WORTHLESS. They've escaped every time so far. Apparently for glue traps to work, you need to 1) hear the mouse getting caught and flailing about, and then 2) press down on top of the trap to completely envelop them in glue. It should be obvious by now that I DON'T WANT TO GO ANYWHERE NEAR A TRAP WITH A MOUSE IN IT, DEAD OR ALIVE. Do you know what a mouse completely caught in a glue trap does? It has a heart attack - that's how it dies. I'm not sure an old-fashioned snap-trap isn't more humane than that.

In a state of extreme frustration, I went and bought mouse poison and put it down in my kitchen. I should start finding dead mice in 4-5 days, or so the box tells me. Pest control has returned and put down more pointless glue traps, I still vacuum and disinfect every day after work, and I think I smell mice in my ventilation system. This past weekend I stayed at Elder Sister's again, just so I could avoid 2 days of having cocky mice jump out from behind the microwave or Kleenex box, giving me heart palpitations.

It's amusing when related like this; but the essential fact remains that once again I have to take care of the problem by myself. I've made jokes before that everyone (especially women) should be single for a good long stretch at least once in their life so they can learn to "squish their own bugs." Well, I've graduated from bugs to mice, and I can assure you that the same saying does not apply here. I am thoroughly tired of independence and want to embrace my inner fragile Victorian woman who faints at the sight of mice.

The most recent attack on my independence came this past weekend. Either I read somewhere (or I dreamt it) that a mouse infestation means death is imminent. Well, my 2nd cousin Wallace and my friend Denise's aunt and uncle (not married) all died Saturday, my boss's good friend died Friday, and on Monday morning we found that a co-worker had had a stroke Friday night and lain unconscious all weekend long, until we called her son when she didn't show up at work. It's the quintessential single person's fear, as far as I'm concerned… to be hurt or incapacitated and no-one is aware you're in trouble until days have passed. Bridget Jones said it best "… and you're half-eaten by an Alsatian," or words to that effect. I told Elder Sister that she had better remember to make sure she'd spoken to me at least once each weekend, and my mom will be told the same.

I think I am quite ready to give up the citadel - I'd throw open the gates, but in peeking through the crenellations I can see that there is no army outside to accept my terms for surrender. This is the cruelest kind of war - where your strength and fighting ability are undermined, yet your foe cannot be seen or identified and you are given no opportunity to surrender and be given terms of peace.

A Trip to the Library

As a small child growing up in Nashville, my life was dull in many regards - my sisters and I didn't get to watch much TV, rarely went to movies, and lived a very quiet life. Going to our branch library in Green Hills was a weekly necessity; my sisters and I always checked out the maximum number of books allowed and usually had read them all in the first 48 hours. The Green Hills branch was, after our home, one of our more constant and comforting environments.

 

But the Ben West Library - the Main branch - that was our Disneyland; a treat for enduring a visit to the doctor, or finishing school for the summer. It had those Tichenor puppets that we saw on school field trips, and more books than Green Hills - books we couldn't find elsewhere. It had the thrill of novelty, and for fanatical readers like me and my older sister Amy, it was nirvana. Among the three of us girls (Greta wasn't an enthusiastic reader and would allot us her share), we could get 24 books, and we planned and contrived how to get the most out of that unreasonable (to us!) limitation: "I'll get The Secret Garden and you can read it when I'm done, if you'll let me read Anne of the Island when you're finished..."

 

25 years later, I am still going to the Main library, but more frequently than back in those days. In high school and college I researched countless papers there, I moved into the Adult Fiction area, and in recent years I have haunted the audio-visual department for books on tape for long commutes. I was delighted that it was moving into a bigger space. The last 2 months have been hard - waiting for the building to open, yet unwilling to approach the slowly emptying husk of the old building that had been my Disneyland.

 

I could not wait for the official opening ceremonies on Saturday - I left work early on Friday to see if I could sneak through in advance. Fortunately for me, the doors were open and I was able to walk in. All along, I had not envisioned what the space would look like, even though I had seen architectural sketches on display. I figured it would be a dull, functional civic space with linoleum floors.

 

I walked into the main lobby on white marble. I was in Heaven's Library. Three immense stories of books and materials and conference rooms and stages and computers and galleries. It was as though someone had asked me, "What would you like in your library?" and every single suggestion offered was met with a hearty "We'll do it!" My mouth stayed agape for most of my reconnaissance through the building. Nice things like this, where you're genuinely surprised and delighted, are so rare in this world that they should be commemorated with plaques.

 

I went into the Popular Materials section, and did my first acid test. In over 2 decades of visiting Metro libraries, I have noticed how many beloved but out-of-print books have slowly disappeared from the shelves, like old dogs sent to "live on a farm;" or stolen by highly literate thieves. I have gotten in the habit, in bookstores and libraries alike, of checking to see if these books still live on shelves somewhere. So I started checking... H.E. Bates? Check. Brent? Check. Bristow? Check. Alcott - the obscure works? Check. They were all there. It was painful to leave them on the shelves, but I could tell that the checkout stations weren't open.

 

I should mention that there were other people walking through like me, but many had tags on, and I instinctively knew I wasn't supposed to be there... which made wandering through the stacks even sweeter. I saw the immense children's section, with almost a half-dozen copies of each book on the shelves in some areas. Blyton? Check. I was finally captured on the third floor, looking out into the lovely courtyard. A very nice young man named Dallas politely informed me that the library wasn't open to the public yet, but offered to walk me through a few areas I hadn't seen yet on my way out.

 

The Grand Reading Room (magnificent - look at the ceiling!). The Nashville Room (spacious, after that tiny room in the old building). The Theater (even the stage lighting was hung!). The Art Gallery (an exhibit already in place)... and I was out in the street again. In a world where we usually expect so little, and usually get it, the new Main Library is a delight, exceeding my expectations in every respect. The media is fond of asking the question "Is the Internet making libraries obsolete?" to which this building, and the vision behind it, shout a resounding and defiant "NO!"

 

I'm going back on Monday during my lunch break. Let's see... Malvern? Streatfeild?

What's Wrong With Branagh's "Love's Labor's Lost"

Why a discussion of this movie, already released in the US and abroad (without, I might add, reaching Nashville) and just as speedily sent to video would be of interest to anyone but myself is apparent to me, even as I write this - but when it's 3:55 am, and you cannot get back to sleep for the myriad of details and inconceivable choices made by Kenneth Branagh flooding your mind - well, there's nothing for it but to purge it by writing it out. To say that this production is lamentable is a mildness which I employ because I respect Branagh's original intention when he conceived the piece. That the words "disappointing," "bizarre," "murderous," "pointless" and "stupid" might also be well used in such an analysis is inescapable.

 

Branagh has, in recent years, made a practice of mounting lavish productions of Shakespeare's works on film - and in an effort to make the final product more palatable to Americans audiences, he offers several pivotal roles in each production to a handful of deserving actors from the US. Like greedy children offered the contents of a candy store, they devour this rare opportunity, for as we all know, there's nothing like Shakespeare to validate one's career as an actor. Some actors have managed extremely well - Denzel Washington in Much Ado About Nothing, for example, and I suppose Billy Crystal as the gravedigger in Hamlet wasn't too bad - but as production follows production, his efforts to choose actors in hopes of appealing to the broadest common denominator become more obvious and ill-advised. Alicia Silverstone as The Princess of France, Matt Lillard as Longueville, Nathan Lane as Costard - teenage boys and girls, horror film fans, Disney fans! You can almost see Branagh crossing focus groups off a list.

 

And they aren't bad, precisely. There's a certain awkwardness in their delivery, but thanks to Branagh's lavish cuts, they never speak for long, except for one well-done section, which I will return to later. Their main crime is that of obviousness. To enjoy Shakespeare, it's almost better to be ignorant of the identity of the actors. Am I the only one who thought Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love was simply playing herself with a British accent? Gwyneth modelling a series of lovely Renaissance dresses, pretending to be an English lady? She was too big to be believable, and not good enough as an actress to transcend her own celebrity and hype.

 

But I digress. The point is that Alicia Silverstone and Matt Lillard are too tainted with celebrity and modernity to be believable in such a piece. Nathan Lane is actually pretty good. So the American actors go through their parts at top speed (have you noticed that Branagh adores having actors arrive in a scene at a run, possibly dressing or accessorizing as they dash in, all breathless... it gives such a sense of realism to the scene, don't you think? Ay, the first time I saw it. After about 4 productions the trick becomes obvious, especially when he employs it several times in the same film.) As I was saying before I was distracted, they "go through their parts at top speed," hoping their deficiencies in presentation will not be as evident if they whizz by us. Perhaps this is why the film clocked in at 90+ minutes.

 

We all raise a collective eyebrow here. Would someone please explain to me how, on God's green earth, could a Shakespeare play be reduced to an hour and a half and still be called Shakespeare? The cuts are so numerous, so Jack-the-Ripper-esque in their totality - the internal organs of the poor victim lie beside the gutted body. Um, that's a bit gross. Ok, it's like a pretty new dollhouse - beautifully detailed, nicely furnished - but there's no-one in it. Nary a doll. Nah, I like my Jack the Ripper analogy better.

 

Where was I? Oh, the play's been cut. A lot. And, to complete the confusion, many popular songs of the Gershwins and Cole Porter have been slotted in. The actors sing and dance. Adequately. But, why oh why? It's as though Branagh has lost all faith in Shakespeare; and as the self proclaimed producer of Shakespeare on film for our generation, he's determined to get a piece that no-one else would do (there's a reason why I've never even had the opportunity to see a production of it) and to keep up the current mode of modern settings such as Ian McKellan's Richard III, Baz Luhrman's Romeo + Juliet (emphasize the Plus, it's what makes it cool!) and Ethan Hawke's Hamlet (which doesn't even deserve to be mentioned, it's so hideous) he's grabbed desperately at the idea of turning Love's Labor's Lost into a musical set in an ersatz WWII era Europe a la Hollywood. I must credit Branagh on his efforts to make the characters clear and the plot (such as it is) discernable. The old-fashioned Movietone newsreels he created have a charming air of authenticity about them, and as the newsreels are done entirely in modern English, anyone who might have gotten lost in what remains of Shakespeare's language is set straight. Also, Branagh has kindly color-coordinated the 4 couples in red, orange, green and blue (as director/producer/actor, he chose the blue for himself and Natasha McElhone; it matches his eyes), just in case anyone was getting lost.

 

As I mentioned earlier, they sing and dance adequately, But that's not good enough. Yes, actors can be coached and skillfully choreographed to look good in a dance number, and I don't doubt some of them have had some dance training in their past. But dance professionals have a stillness, a nuance that amateurs can't duplicate - there's a shakiness to amateur dance. It reminds me of Circus of the Stars - yes that's Bernie Koppels from The Love Boat up there on that trapeze - but you know he just wasn't meant to be there. And most of these actors just can't pull off song and dance with the kind of skill that makes you want to watch them. Any voice can be processed in a studio to be on pitch and sound good, so there's no point belaboring that.

 

I think I'm almost done, so I'll return to the good part I mentioned before. After a highly confusing mishmash of songs, dance, feeble comedy and occasional speeches which make no real impression on the audience, circumstances force the 4 couples apart. In an almost miraculously intact series of farewells, all of these actors get a few moments to show that they do understand the language, and that they are credible actors. I was actually moved by the scenes between Alessandro Nivola as the King of Navarre and Silverstone as the Princess of France; likewise the scene between Branagh and McElhone. It was almost infuriating that these actors were denied the opportunity to really shine in a Shakespeare production, and instead were only offered this slipshod mess of a piece.

Singleton Day

As a single person in February, I am keenly aware of the impending depression and panic of Valentine's Day. It is ironic that the holiday that celebrates love has become the most vicious holiday of all to the single and unattached. More effectively than any other holiday, Valentine's Day manages to make a huge majority of the public miserable.

 

The independence and relative solitude that was enjoyable in January is dispelled the minute that red and pink heart-shaped items start to appear in store aisles; and unfortunately that is starting sooner and sooner each year. I was able to buy a little box of those chalky candy conversation hearts in mid-January. Great. Now we can count on feeling depressed for an entire MONTH.

 

No matter how brave a face you put on it; either wearing black in defiance or sending yourself flowers and buying a heart-shaped box of chocolates at 50% off on February 15th, you have still lost the game because you are single and unattached.

 

So I would propose a new holiday. In the bestseller Bridget Jones' Diary, author Helen Fielding refers to singles respectfully, with their own proper noun: Singletons. I would like to see the creation of Singleton Day, oh, some time in June since it is a relatively holiday-free month. And since people like to occasionally have a reason for a holiday, we can celebrate it on June 4th, the day the Nineteenth Amendment was passed granting women the right to vote. Nobody can complain about celebrating that. 

 

Now, since all holidays need a few criteria…

The Color: Blue, because no other holiday has it except for it being part of the tricolor of the 4th of July. And it's practical, because leftover chocolates can be brought out again on the 4th.

The Meal: Lunch, in a restaurant. Singletons do Lunch better than anyone else, probably because it's our chief form of socialization, and this should be recognized. Just think - no huge family feasts where the questions "So when are you getting married?" or "Are you dating anyone yet?" are asked… paradise!

 

The Gifts: Chocolate, of course, is universally accepted. For the under-21 crowd - videos. For the over-21 crowd - videos and kitchen implements. You can always use kitchen implements, especially the guys who generally never think of buying such things for themselves. We're not getting a wedding shower anytime soon - and we have apartments to furnish, dammit! No useless gifts, please.

 

I can't imagine why this wouldn't work - just look at the merchants with another major source of holiday income, the restaurant boom on that special day, the greeting card industries - M&M/Mars would LOVE it! So write to your local representatives or whoever it is that is responsible for legislating stuff like this, and talk about it amongst your friends, and maybe we can get a groundswell of support. On February 14th, as you look longingly at the bouquets arriving for other people in your office, think about how nice it would be to celebrate your personal independence and get some chocolate at the same time.