TheNew30

There's No Day Like a Snow Day.

I've been gone awhile. But now I'm back, and I promise, possums, Mama won't desert you again. Things are tough all over - I won't even go into the grisly details. Let's just say I've been getting a look firsthand at how America's doing.

This morning, as I drove to Aston to a specialty petshop that sells kitty litter which is no longer carried by regular stores, the radio smoothly announced the fact that we would be enjoying "snow showers". Well, duh. The white stuff was coming down fast and furious!

I used to love driving at night in L.A. during the rainy season, and have missed that sense of danger/adventure here in the Yeasty Easty. But today I was rewarded with that thrumming sensation along the spinal cord that announces to the rest of my body that something exciting is afoot. By the time I'd gotten my purchase (at 8:15am), we'd progressed from flurries to the real deal. I came home, poured  a cup of hot coffee and settled at the kitchen table to stare out the french doors at the action.

Now it's an hour later, and the snow has virtually disappeared; only little ashen bits are floating and circling before landing on something and then melting. I can't help but think it's kind of like life these days. Things start looking worrisome, then dire, and you either prep for the worst or resignedly enjoy a cuppa while watching the inevitable.Then, suddenly: poof. What worried you disappears. Well, that's not exactly the case with our economy. What we feared most has happened. It's how we dig out that matters.

For twenty years, I enjoyed a level of success not many people in our country experience. And, for a living, I got to do something I truly loved. I bought a home, cars, nice clothes, vacations, fun nights out with friends. But during this time, I missed one important piece of information. I didn't realize that in everything, a pendulum is involved. Pendulums swing, my friends. I'm here to tell you, after the past three years, I can only hope my pendulum has swung to the farthest reaches of bad. But I know for a fact things could always be worse. That's why I fall asleep counting my blessings. I have health, I have a daughter, I have family, I have a roof over my head and food in the refrigerator. Maybe that doesn't sound like much to you, but if you were in my shoes, you'd know it's everything.

While I work hard to help that pendulum swing back, I do things ilke bake casseroles to take to St John's Hospice in Philadelphia. I reach out to people who need more help than I do. I listen, I touch, I pay attention. It gets to be exhausting at times, especially given that I'm dealing with a preposterous amount of wreckage in my own life. That's why when it snows, I get little shivers of joy.

Remember when snow days meant having the day off from school? Yes, parents weren't too crazy about them. But we lived for them. They were the pause button; if homework hadn't been completed, we had a stay of execution. Front yards filling with piles upon piles of snowy goodness seemed to say, "Hey, look kid, just for you: no consequences today!" It seemed like magic - like just about anything could happen. It's funny that all these years later, I think to myself, on a day just like today, that magic is underway. And maybe, just maybe, anything can happen.

Girl Raised by Wolf.

Girl Raised From Birth By Wolf Blitzer Taken Into Protective Custody 

But, seriously.

 

I used to work with a German art director named Claudia. I amused her, probably. Made her laugh. But whenever we'd get a little out in the weeds with distraction (something I have a great talent for), she would utter one line and everything would change.

"Back to Verk."

I would blink rapidly, page through my notes, glance up at the whiteboard, and realize we didn't have anything solid for the project we were assigned to (at the time it was the pre-launch of the Lexus New IS ... which I guess at this writing is now the Lexus Old IS).

My burning question(s) is (are): why is it such a hard job sometimes? How do I stay on track? Why do I forget to be grateful? How do I remember more readily? Who do you have to bleep in this town to get some comfort? What does it take to ORGANIZE ONE'S LIFE without it turning into some deep, weary muck??

Awright, okay. Today's gratitude goes out to Marc Bolan's incredible voice belting out number after number on T Rex's Electric Warrior. Bang a Gong. Planet Queen. Hot Love. RIP OFF.

What else am I grateful for? "Never Let Me Go" by Kazuo Isiguro. Seriously, it's amazing and if you haven't read it yet, do. Also: my coach at KW. Missing my daughter. And other stuff.  As Marc sang it so well, "Life's a gas. I hope it's gonna last."

But in the meantime, back to verk.

Listening to the Voice of Reason. Blechhh.

 

There is something rather wonderful about a sick day. I know, I know. I have been unemployed for so long, shouldn't I cling to each day of work as if it is the straw offered to the drowning man? Don't get me started - what I've been doing has indeed the strength of a lone straw. But yesterday, as I spoke with one stranger after another, I felt the telltale tightness in my throat, the heat in my forehead and some zippy chills that ran up and down my arms, regardless of the sweater that clothed them.

Right away, I began thinking of what I could do with a sick day. I could stay in bed and sleep all day. I could watch tv - real CRAP tv - without guilt. I could eat popsicles to calm my scratchy throat. All the while, my pretty blue and white quilt would be tucked up tigthly beneath my chin. Ah, heaven!

After I left the office, I stopped at the GIANT market to pick up the aforementioned popsicles and some Nyquil gel caps. Then, the magazine aisle sent up its siren's song: I must have stood there, picking one issue up, skimming, reconsidering, putting back, and repeating, for at least fifteen minutes. Three magazines had me in their grip: Vogue, Real Simple and Country Life. Vogue featured Halle Berri wearing the Louise Brooks haircut I'd sported this time last year, Real Simple featured 100 Looks to Spruce Up Your Fall, and Country Living was The Makeover Issue - Easy Updates for Every Budget! I decided I would buy the Country Living magazine (after all, it was a full $.50 cheaper than Real Simple and Vogue cost a buck more. Also, Country Living had a big burst on it that screamed: "NEW! LARGER SIZE!" - what girl doesn't dream of that?)

But then, the small, not-so-still voice in my head spoke up: Put the magazine back. I remembered I had the Robert Ludlum novel from the library at home next to my bed. That would have to pass for my sick day entertainment. But then, I reasoned, I wouldn't be able to concentrate on reading a novel - my head was pounding. All my poor wittle cabesa could handle was pretty pictures - and maybe a few blurbs. This back-and-forthing continued for another five minutes, but I am happy to report that I left the store sans magazine. I have the inclination, and the time, but not the cash. You must have all three to swing the vote.

So here I am, waiting for Hurricane Earl to blow through - although I haven't watched the news since yesterday afternoon - and at that point, it looked like Earl was trending east away from landfall, so maybe there won't be any kind of weather drama. No magazines. No hurricanes. No fun. That's the thing about sick days. The reality vs. the perception is rather... disappointing.

However, there is the nap element. Which I'm about to partake in. Maybe I'll dream about making over my bedroom while wearing a big fat gemstone ring on the outside of a beautiful opera length maroon leather glove avec my pretty Louise Brooks haircut!

See? Being sick ain't all that bad...

Summer on a Plate.

Corn fresh off the roadside produce stand. Bacon. Freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Extra virgin olive oil. Garlic. Fresh basil. Pine nuts (or, in my version, walnuts). Tossed with tagliatelle (or, in my version because I couldn't find it, fettuccine). Little bit of salt and pepper. This dish is the height of my culinary adventures so far this season. So simple (except for the prep - and even that's pretty much a no-brainer), and the tastes are pure Tuscany-in-the-summertime. It rates 4 forks ("Exceptional") on Epicurious, and I can't recommend it enough, especially to fans of Carbonara. Cook up more pasta and bacon than the recipe calls for and don't forget to reserve that pasta cooking water - it helps extend the delicious sauce. My mom, who basically can't eat anything because of diverticulitis, insisted that she wasn't going to eat any when she heard the ingredients. But because you pulverize the corn, parmesan, garlic and walnuts with olive oil in the food processor, making what's essentially a pesto, there's nothing that gives sensitive tummies a hard time. So P.S. - she had seconds last night and she just scarfed down the leftovers. Seriously, it's that good.

Real Men of Genius.

It happened in 2004, but I only recently read that Roddy Doyle, Ireland's literary treasure, horrified a bookish audience by trashing James Joyce's Ulysses, accusing the tome that is many times voted the Greatest Piece of Literature of the Twentieth Century of being "Overlong and unmoving."

Finally, someone who gets it!

I have long held that Joyce was a poseur magnifico (of course, coming from me and not the modern voice of Ire, I admit I too sound rather poseur-ish). Doyle went on to claim that he'd attempted Finnegan's Wake, saying, "I only read three pages...and it was a tragic waste of time."

When I was a mere slip of a girl at 22, I sat down with Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and after about 30 pages, gave up. As a result, I always felt a bit like a literary dummkopf - and worse, since I'd not been properly initiated into the mysteries of Joyce's supposedly wondrous world, my own work wouldn't be worth shite.

For years, people would hear that I was a writer and inevitably steered the conversation toward an "appreciation" of the great man. In these instances, I adopted a glazed expression accompanied by deeply considered nods that gave the impression that I had read - and grasped - Joyce. It worked every time: when words can no longer express the purity of understanding on a visceral level, mere mortals must fall mute in adoration. What irony! I had become a poseur. Then I read what else Doyle had to say: "You know people are always putting Ulysses in the top 10 books ever written but I doubt that any of those people were really moved by it." RIGHTEOUS! I was only one member of a mighty poseur movement afoot!

But a few years back, I began admitting my blindspot. Hey, I'll hand it to "Dubliners." It contains "The Dead" - one of the greatest stories, short or otherwise, I've ever read. However, I didn't read it until after I'd  seen the movie of the same name, helmed by John Huston and starring his daughter Angelica, and the whole time I was picturing the corresponding scenes in the film. But when I finally 'fessed up and told people I hadn't the time nor inclination for Joyce, oh my, the looks of horror I got! And I called myself a writer. HAH!

I don't know. Perhaps I should take another whack at old Joycey-baby. But then I read one of his more (in)famous quotes: "A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery."

Okay. Wait. Huh? You mean - wha-? Ohhhh, cool! That means I myself am a man of genius. Many, many times over. Thank God the people in my life don't know that. What a relief. But, just between us, while I'm busy making no mistakes, I'll take the run-down vernacular of Doyle's The Van over the overblown gobsmackery of Ulysses any day.

I Could Just Squoooooosh You.

Hello.

It's been several days since the last terrifying entry. I thought about what it must look like from my ex-husband's POV. Like he's actually one of my readers. But still. I thought, How Pathetic Your Process Looks. You know? As my good friend Mick once intoned: To live in this town you must be tough tough tough tough tough tough TOUGH! You must be like the oak and stand strong. Be like the willow and bend. Not be like the Tennessee Williams heroine and shatter into a thousand neurotic little pieces. 

So what's up for gratitude this fine day? And it most assuredly is a fine day, now that that horrid heat wave is over. (We'll get a break for today and tomorrow, and then BLAMMO! Back to a heat wave by Wednesday)

1. 1.5 hrs at the gym translates into 950 calories I can laugh at.

2. A good 500 of them went into a MacDonald's Mocha Frappe - the most delicious version of a chocolate milkshake you'll ever suck through a straw.

3. The ladies meeting at Christ Church - small and intime and so good for one's soul.

4. The dinner I'm making tonight: Parmesan Chicken with Arugula from Ina Garten's Family Style - not your neighborhood Brooklyn-style Chicken Parmesan.

5. My cat, ornery as hell, continues purring while he gives me stink-eye. Maybe he should change his reading material. 

6. Feeling happy, even though I got a fever blister from eating pineapple yesterday.

7. Studying my ass off and actually learning something.

8. Oh oh oh! I went to the seashore over the weekend and didn't get a sunburn! I stayed wrapped up in all kinds of crazy Aunt-Clara-in-the-desert wrappings as I hid 'neath an umbrella and had a solid 2 hours of reading Antonia Frasier "Love and Louis XIV - The Women in the Life of the Sun King." Fascinating and such a naughty good time.

From the Neck Up.

Sp

Today, I am grateful for - although not entirely understanding - my REAL ESTATE MASTER IIIx Calculator. When I plug in the right numbers, magic happens. You can't say that about most things.

Speaking of plugging, I feel just plug awful (offal?) about my last entry. Not the Wanda Sykes part, but the slagging-down-the-affair-I-attended-on-Saturday part. I dunno. Am I bitter? I STILL don't think so. I guess, I'm just never really going to understand those human animals, and what my place is among them. What is it about a party that brings on such depression and general pissy-ness? I don't know, but I do know I try really super hard to act like I'm happy to be somewhere, and then my mind starts writing about the absurdity of trying to chat up some stranger you'd never have two words with elsewhere, and then later I come home and my blog cries out to me, "Tell it like it REALLY was!"

Yes I know, most people in the world seem to enjoy festivities. And so do I - when I'm the one giving the party. But when I'm a victim - er - invitee, there's something in my makeup that really just NEEDS mind-altering substances when time comes to social interaction. After all, isn't that what booze was created for?

But since I no longer partake (too long a story, with half of my readership knowing it so I won't bore y'all here), I absolut-ly require those around me to imbibe. Once they get all gooey and happy, then I get a contact high and we can set sail. It's like I'm one of those people who picks up a novel and wants to skip to the last page to get to the good stuff. I don't have time nor inclination for exposition, I'llshowyoumineifyoushowmeyours and the deadly "chit-chat." The reason the South has it all over Yankees for hospitality is, they've intrinsically understood and sought the right combination of fried food, cold drinks and tall-tale-telling. The thing I miss the most when engaging with Northerners is their incapacity for embellishment and what the Welsh call "fizzing." Damn, people! Don't you know it makes the story BETTER?? Grab on and fly with the ride, for God's sake!!!!

Whatever. Enough navel-gazing. What else am I grateful for?

Oh yeah - I got something! I sold my engagement ring today. I got about half what I was offered when I was in L.A. but then, the economy wasn't actually on its knees back then. It was stooping, with every intention of standing up straight and proud again. Awwww, let's all have a little moment of remembrance for the good old days. But I AM GRATEFUL that I got what I got so I can make my car payment, my health insurance got reinstated and I can pay the cable bill so I can still dance around here on the internets.

Okay. I also am grateful for the gym (oh, have I said that in past posts? Well, it's still true) and for digging out my Ina Garten Family Style Recipe Book. Gonna make the Buttermilk Oven Fried Chicken tomorrow night. And the Parmesan Chicken Atop Arugula Salad for Thursday. 

I wrote two pages of dialog in my new novel. And I got a lot (though not nearly all) of the questions on my exam prep test (I take one a day) correct.

I just read this entry, and I'm beginning to wonder if I'm documenting a nervous breakdown. Wouldn't that just be so Franny? Not for nothing, it's my favorite book of all time so... let's raise a glass (mine's Diet Coke) to the Family Glass. Love you Jerry. You knew how to weave a great story out of just plain psycho blah blah blah.

Once you've downed your cocktail, ask yourself where's your gratitude? And share, for the love of God.

OMG Are You EFFING KIDDING??

What'm I grateful for today? I was driving down State Street and hadda do a double-take. Wait, what, is that - could it be? My favorite comic of, like, all time? It WAS! Wanda Sykes! And I also love Google cuz I came straight home and looked up "Wanda Sykes Media PA" and holy SHITE - she LIVES here!!! Well, part time anyhow. OH, man, I can't wait for the next time I see her; I'll have to do a brazen "love you Wanda" shout out...

I also am grateful that I now fit into my Banana Republic party dress, and I'm going to wear it to an afternoon soirée. My confidence is not at its tippy-top best, so it's a bold move to wear something this dramatic. About an hour ago, I decided I would play it safe in a black top and taupe trousers, but a tiny voice whispered in my ear, "Don't be a weeny. Wear the damn dress."

I'll let you know how it goes.

Okay, the party was 7 hrs ago and about 10 minutes before leaving, i was trying to fix the only red FMP's that would go with that dress (the strap had broken), and apparently "flashed" my 80 Y-O stepfather the goods as I attempted to cross my legs. Alright, it wasn't Sharon Stone in whatever that icky movie was. Come ON. You couldn't see pubs! But Maman still rang out with, "You have to be more ladylike in dresses, Lucia. You could embarrass yourself, and of course, Nick and my self."

I answered with "No problem uptight white woman! First of all, I am 55 years old, so I know a thing or two about crossing my legs in person. But since my shoes are being all uncooperative and all, I'll go change into the plunging V-neck and trousers. Happy now?"

Ugh. I wish I had someone like Wanda to go slap some sense into my family at times (and yes, I am a member of that family - why should they get all the fun??) But I did love the effect on the peeps at the party - I still dress like I'm fresh off the boat from L.A. so... Good to have an education and all that big fat life experience. I'm feeling full-on gratitude at its finest! Not a single woman at this party today had red lipstick on. I mean the hostess (obviously money comin' out every orifice) WORE A MULLET. No, not just any mullet: a crimped mullet. Yeah, thought you'd like that touch. But they put together a great party for this family friend, and much work and cooking and prepping and running around were clearly done, and compliments must be paid. Lovely party. Lots of money. Which was offset by this stunning piece of ...furniture?...accessory?...home alarm system?  No, it was an Infinity Grandfather clock in their foyer. Here it is:

I mean, need I say more? Does that mean that once the clock begins to chime, it never ever stops for eternity (especially when you've done a tab of acid)? But they had a really nice pool and the land was gorgeous. So "walk it off you big crybaby" as the shitmydadusedtosay. Be nice. Not everyone in the world has this much money (house was genteel and huge from the outside). And it takes more than a deep-fried turkey to get a preview of good taste.  At the same time, my close friends will feel compelled to point out that these people OWNED THAT HOME no matter how hideous on the inside. Conversely, I have taste, but no home. See what I mean? Oh life's so unfair- wah - but I just thought about my "Sykes Siting" today and that lifts my mood immeasurably.    

Forever hence, I name thee, July 17, Wanda Sykes day. Whooo hoo!

It's Raining, It's Pouring...

...and, um, er...you know the rest.

If he were awake, I think he'd say: "Dude - I still have my teeth and access to the internetz. What worry I?" Now, that's some damn gratitude.

More from the thankee division: okay, the weather, we already covered that.

1.Gonna go see Father Dan this afternoon, b/c I'm sure he's got something cheery to say.

2. After the gym this AM, went to a Notary to get my Title Replacement Form, well, notarized. The guy wanted $10 - I was gonna write a check cuz all I had on me was a fiver and a one, but he chuckled and said, "Hey, just gimme the six and get outta here!" You know, there are angels out there like CA-RAZY these days!

3. Speaking of angels, someone I love is threatening to sell her domicile for a fraction of its worth (Can't criticize, I'm doing the same thing with my wast widdle bits of jewelry). I want to talk her into keeping it - at least til i get my license - but she seems pretty adamant.

4. Hey! You see that? I just realized adamant  spells "Adam Ant!" Don't you love when something's just staring you in the face the whole time?  I do. (This is the part where I THANK GOD I'M SO REEDONCULOUSLY EASY TO PLEASE.)

Thus concludes our broadcast day, possums. Please feel free to add to the rather abbreviated gratitude list for today. Buen dia, and big besos!