It was not how I had intended to spend my Easter (AKA Zombie Jesus Day). I had not particularly desired or planned to spend it on the couch, wheezing hacking gagging snotting my life away and reading the Buffy Season 8 graphic novel series. I didn't intend to be left behind as Himself went roving through the wilds of the high desert. And I sure as heck didn't intend to be preparing myself to kiss my ass goodbye and readying myself to potentially depart this plane of existence.
Okay, yes, in hindsight, that statement is a tad melodramatic. I tell you what, my people, it wasn't so over-the-top of a statement yesterday when I found myself realizing, "Hey, that's NOT a delivery truck..." It was, in fact, an earthquake. A big one. The Big One? I didn't know. All I knew was that, each time in the past, these little rumblers have been over within seconds, before I had time to react. And I had grown complacent as a result. And yesterday, when the floor started bouncing and the walls and ceiling began to shift, I thought "Earthquake! Don't move, it'll be over soon...now...now...now?" And it kept not being over. The shaking kept on, and the shaking got worse, the rumbling grew louder, and may I re-iterate that the floor was bouncing. Things that are unmovable shouldn't...well...move. I finally felt my limbs begin to unfreeze, and I got off the couch and went to an inner doorway like they always say (I'm pretty sure "they" were never in an earthquake) you're supposed to do, and that's when the shaking got to be the worst. The beautiful old antique grandfather clock that Himself has had for many years, and has not worked of its own accord in the same time, was swaying back and forth so violently that it was gonging as though it were high noon.
And then it ended.
I was choking on my own fear (as opposed to the nasty phlegm which has taken up residence in my body since I got sick), breathing in short, tense gasps. I didn't know where it was, or how big it was, but my instincts told me that it was BIG. (The longer the earthquake goes on for, the bigger it is, usually). I called Big Sissy in New Jersey to let her know I was 0kay. And then I bought two one-way, non-refundable plane tickets to the Midwest.
Okay, not really, not that last bit. In fact, being on the phone with Big Sissy helped calm me down. And we didn't lose power, and nothing broke, and frankly, we got off very very lucky. But still? I'd rather have ham and chocolate easter bunnies than this s*^t.
Balls McCarthy, though, I'd take a tornado any day!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
Wives in Books: Julia and Julia; Cleaving
March--otherwise known as the Month of the Thousand Library Programs--has passed, thank god. I survived, more or less, but it appears that I did so only on the strength of an unholy pact between me and my body--a pact that was made without my conscious knowledge. My body agreed to get me through March, only on the condition that it would be allowed to collapse come April 1.
And so, despite my responsible and vigilant ingestion of many vitamins and minerals (I smell like an herb garden right now, I think), I am now at home, buried under a pile of unwashed quilts, nursing a sore throat and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The cats look askance at me, as if they are wondering why I am home in the middle of the day and not feeding them.
Life is hard.
______________________________________________________________
So. Book review time.
And so, despite my responsible and vigilant ingestion of many vitamins and minerals (I smell like an herb garden right now, I think), I am now at home, buried under a pile of unwashed quilts, nursing a sore throat and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The cats look askance at me, as if they are wondering why I am home in the middle of the day and not feeding them.
Life is hard.
______________________________________________________________
So. Book review time.
Two books, one author: Julie Powell, known in some uncharitable circles as "a soiled and narcissistic whore." I'll refrain from such judgments, mainly because A.) Hey, we've all been there, and B.) It just takes way too much energy at present. And plus, there's an absolutely adorable egg whisk on the cover--which I actually registered for! Heh.
Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. If for some reason you've been living under a rock for the past few years (or, the other alternative that can explain a disconnect from pop culture, have been attending grad school), and haven't heard, it's a book based on the blog of a woman who, on the eve of turning 30, decided that she had done very little worthy in her life and so proceeded to spend the next year cooking up every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Powell documents her experiences in her blog, expands upon them in her book, eats a lot of butter, and drives her sainted husband crazy. Defying all odds, she gets noticed, her book gets published, and a movie is made out of it.
Both the book and the blog have a refreshingly honest--and caustic--tone and text, to say nothing of a supremely quirky wit. As well, Powell offers up a more than a few domestic details which I find utterly beguiling. As an almost-30 almost-wife, I understand career frustrations and the feeling of abject terror that comes when I realize that the only thing standing between me and middle age are ten tenuous, flimsy, easy-come-easy-go years. Julie Powell's been there, and her book is a good companion to light the way.
Her husband, Eric, is along for the ride, and he certainly benefits--and suffers--from the project. He practically gave her the idea for it, and he certainly provides her with a great deal of support (and manpower) as she cooks her way through the year. More than once, I found myself thinking, "That is a marriage I'd like to aspire to."
That is, until I read Cleaving.
Powell is taking a lot of flak for this book, perhaps not unjustly. It's a very different kind of book from J&J...it's more specialized (meathooks and butchery, anyone?), it's not as funny, and in fact, parts of it are pretty darned sad.
You see, Julie ends up cheating on her husband. Not just for a one-night stand, but for a long time. A couple of years' worth of time. And her husband knows. And they stay together, the whole time pretty much, and eventually Julie and her lover (who's a real toad of a guy, btw) part and Julie's devastated. And so she goes off and learns butchery.
Here's the real departure--butchery. Because once you get past the screamingly obvious metaphor (Helen Keller couldn't have missed it) of Powell butchering her marriage, the meat stuff is pretty boring. I actually skipped over most of that, because to me, the redeeming parts of the book were Powell's reflections on her marriage, her husband, her affair. She pondered Eric, the strange, secret language of their relationship, the past and the future of their marriage. She tried to come to terms with the sick nature of her obsession. I'm still not sure if she succeeds at any of it. The final lesson--in fact the only lesson--about marriage that I can take away from this book is that there is no happy ending, ever. Each marriage is a story in progress, without end until the ultimate end--death or separation. Each day the marriage evolves, and the only way to evolve with it is through vigilance.
And fidelity. I'm just sayin'.
Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. If for some reason you've been living under a rock for the past few years (or, the other alternative that can explain a disconnect from pop culture, have been attending grad school), and haven't heard, it's a book based on the blog of a woman who, on the eve of turning 30, decided that she had done very little worthy in her life and so proceeded to spend the next year cooking up every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Powell documents her experiences in her blog, expands upon them in her book, eats a lot of butter, and drives her sainted husband crazy. Defying all odds, she gets noticed, her book gets published, and a movie is made out of it.
Both the book and the blog have a refreshingly honest--and caustic--tone and text, to say nothing of a supremely quirky wit. As well, Powell offers up a more than a few domestic details which I find utterly beguiling. As an almost-30 almost-wife, I understand career frustrations and the feeling of abject terror that comes when I realize that the only thing standing between me and middle age are ten tenuous, flimsy, easy-come-easy-go years. Julie Powell's been there, and her book is a good companion to light the way.
Her husband, Eric, is along for the ride, and he certainly benefits--and suffers--from the project. He practically gave her the idea for it, and he certainly provides her with a great deal of support (and manpower) as she cooks her way through the year. More than once, I found myself thinking, "That is a marriage I'd like to aspire to."
That is, until I read Cleaving.
Powell is taking a lot of flak for this book, perhaps not unjustly. It's a very different kind of book from J&J...it's more specialized (meathooks and butchery, anyone?), it's not as funny, and in fact, parts of it are pretty darned sad.
You see, Julie ends up cheating on her husband. Not just for a one-night stand, but for a long time. A couple of years' worth of time. And her husband knows. And they stay together, the whole time pretty much, and eventually Julie and her lover (who's a real toad of a guy, btw) part and Julie's devastated. And so she goes off and learns butchery.
Here's the real departure--butchery. Because once you get past the screamingly obvious metaphor (Helen Keller couldn't have missed it) of Powell butchering her marriage, the meat stuff is pretty boring. I actually skipped over most of that, because to me, the redeeming parts of the book were Powell's reflections on her marriage, her husband, her affair. She pondered Eric, the strange, secret language of their relationship, the past and the future of their marriage. She tried to come to terms with the sick nature of her obsession. I'm still not sure if she succeeds at any of it. The final lesson--in fact the only lesson--about marriage that I can take away from this book is that there is no happy ending, ever. Each marriage is a story in progress, without end until the ultimate end--death or separation. Each day the marriage evolves, and the only way to evolve with it is through vigilance.
And fidelity. I'm just sayin'.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
For better for worse (but which is Indiana?)
Lest I depict Himself to be nothing but a lazy slob (okay, I haven't done that yet, but god knows I've been tempted), let me just add that there is a deep and insidious flaw in my own character, as well...
I love Indiana.
I dream about it. I fantasize about it. I wax sentimental about it. I have been known to spend at least 10 valuable vacation days there every year. But most dreadfully of all, I don't shut up about it. As Himself so eloquently phrased it to his friend Brian, "With Melissa, someone forgot to install the 'off' button when it came to Indiana."
It's awful, it really is, how much I natter on about that place, how much I can't shut up about it, about Indy, about Booth Tarkington, about Ernie Pyle and Michael Jackson and Larry Bird and whoever else (who is famous) had the wonderful fortune to be born in that state, about IU, about my halcyon days of grad school. I know my colleagues and supervisors roll their eyes whenever I start spewing out that nonsense. But them? They can just fire me. With Himself, he has to endure the reminiscing, the vacation days, the hints about how I would love to retire there, the comparisons, the whining about how much I would love seasons and weather and clouds and the color green, and worst of all, my constant reminders of the many ways of how California consistently falls short--he's stuck with it. For better and for worse, and all that crap. I know I'm a right pain in the arse when it comes to this, and I said as much to Himself last night.
But as Himself pointed out, it's better than the alternative. The alternative is what happens when I have an extra strong gin gimlet, or I start listening to songs from that period of my life, or start looking at pictures from my IU years, or else my vacations back: it gets worse, and I start to get quiet. Then I get little stabs of pain in my heart (I'd like to think that it's not the cholesterol) and I get melancholy and I wonder how the hell I got from the solid, quiet, sensible Midwest to this nonsensical Wonderland known as the West Coast.
On nights like these, I know I am exiled--banished far from my Indiana, most likely never to return to live, and certainly never to go back to those long ago, problematic days. On nights like these, when I am somber (but not sober) and blogging, Himself looks over at me and worries. But that is what our vows are for.
And that's why it's "for better or for worse." Himself loves me despite my love for Indiana, and I love Himself despite his aversion to Indiana. But on nights like these, I mourn. But...as Alice Hoffman points out, "on nights like these, it's better not to think about the past, and all that's been won and lost. On nights like these, just slipping into bed, between the cool white sheets, is a relief."
I love Indiana.
I dream about it. I fantasize about it. I wax sentimental about it. I have been known to spend at least 10 valuable vacation days there every year. But most dreadfully of all, I don't shut up about it. As Himself so eloquently phrased it to his friend Brian, "With Melissa, someone forgot to install the 'off' button when it came to Indiana."
It's awful, it really is, how much I natter on about that place, how much I can't shut up about it, about Indy, about Booth Tarkington, about Ernie Pyle and Michael Jackson and Larry Bird and whoever else (who is famous) had the wonderful fortune to be born in that state, about IU, about my halcyon days of grad school. I know my colleagues and supervisors roll their eyes whenever I start spewing out that nonsense. But them? They can just fire me. With Himself, he has to endure the reminiscing, the vacation days, the hints about how I would love to retire there, the comparisons, the whining about how much I would love seasons and weather and clouds and the color green, and worst of all, my constant reminders of the many ways of how California consistently falls short--he's stuck with it. For better and for worse, and all that crap. I know I'm a right pain in the arse when it comes to this, and I said as much to Himself last night.
But as Himself pointed out, it's better than the alternative. The alternative is what happens when I have an extra strong gin gimlet, or I start listening to songs from that period of my life, or start looking at pictures from my IU years, or else my vacations back: it gets worse, and I start to get quiet. Then I get little stabs of pain in my heart (I'd like to think that it's not the cholesterol) and I get melancholy and I wonder how the hell I got from the solid, quiet, sensible Midwest to this nonsensical Wonderland known as the West Coast.
On nights like these, I know I am exiled--banished far from my Indiana, most likely never to return to live, and certainly never to go back to those long ago, problematic days. On nights like these, when I am somber (but not sober) and blogging, Himself looks over at me and worries. But that is what our vows are for.
And that's why it's "for better or for worse." Himself loves me despite my love for Indiana, and I love Himself despite his aversion to Indiana. But on nights like these, I mourn. But...as Alice Hoffman points out, "on nights like these, it's better not to think about the past, and all that's been won and lost. On nights like these, just slipping into bed, between the cool white sheets, is a relief."
Monday, March 29, 2010
What Am I Doing Wrong?
I made dinner tonight.
This is a momentous--huge--occasion in our household, as I am kitchen-handicapped. But for any number of reasons, I feel compelled to at least get a grip on some rudimentary culinary skills. I made a really simple dish--brown rice, steamed asparagus, and herb-roasted chicken cutlets. Someday, some other post, when I am feeling less dispirited and disgusted with the lot of women, I'll post the results. Also, when I find my camera cable.
But for now...
...WTF?
How do women do it? How do they have careers, marriages, and children, to say nothing of alone-time and social time? Something's gonna get shorted, and ten bucks says it ain't the job, the husband, or the kids cryin' the blues. (Except when they feel neglected because Mom went off and did something for herself).
I get off work at 6:15. It takes 15 minutes to get to the store, another 15 minutes to run through the store and pick up items for dinner, and all in all I'm home by 7 PM. After five or ten minutes of prep-work (hand washing, digging out ingredients and utensils), I start prepping the food and cooking. Dinner is prepared by 7:50, and I'm lucky (lucky! Can you believe it! Lucky!) to have a few minutes while the meal is cooking to clean up a little in the kitchen, start a load of laundry, scoop the litterbox), and I am done eating by 8:15. And there's still more kitchen clean-up to do.
It's now 8:45 PM. and ideally I should be in bed by 11. Forget hopping on the exercise bike, forget scrubbing out the bathtub. Forget all sorts of things I had on the to-do list. I'll be lucky if I sort through some of the mail and get some writing done. This is insane. How do women who are wives and mothers as well as workers manage to do all of this and run their lives?
Or am I doing something wrong?
This is a momentous--huge--occasion in our household, as I am kitchen-handicapped. But for any number of reasons, I feel compelled to at least get a grip on some rudimentary culinary skills. I made a really simple dish--brown rice, steamed asparagus, and herb-roasted chicken cutlets. Someday, some other post, when I am feeling less dispirited and disgusted with the lot of women, I'll post the results. Also, when I find my camera cable.
But for now...
...WTF?
How do women do it? How do they have careers, marriages, and children, to say nothing of alone-time and social time? Something's gonna get shorted, and ten bucks says it ain't the job, the husband, or the kids cryin' the blues. (Except when they feel neglected because Mom went off and did something for herself).
I get off work at 6:15. It takes 15 minutes to get to the store, another 15 minutes to run through the store and pick up items for dinner, and all in all I'm home by 7 PM. After five or ten minutes of prep-work (hand washing, digging out ingredients and utensils), I start prepping the food and cooking. Dinner is prepared by 7:50, and I'm lucky (lucky! Can you believe it! Lucky!) to have a few minutes while the meal is cooking to clean up a little in the kitchen, start a load of laundry, scoop the litterbox), and I am done eating by 8:15. And there's still more kitchen clean-up to do.
It's now 8:45 PM. and ideally I should be in bed by 11. Forget hopping on the exercise bike, forget scrubbing out the bathtub. Forget all sorts of things I had on the to-do list. I'll be lucky if I sort through some of the mail and get some writing done. This is insane. How do women who are wives and mothers as well as workers manage to do all of this and run their lives?
Or am I doing something wrong?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Meaning of Wife: An Interview
Last night we had a couple of our friends over...Ken and Gail, two of the smartest and funniest people I've met since moving to California. They're like Himself and I...fairly liberal, lovers of cats, eschewers of child-bearing...and they make really good dinner party companions. Of course, that might just be because they appeared to enjoy the gin gimlets which I promptly foisted upon them. (One of the reasons I love Ken and Gail was because when I offered to make them a gin gimlet, Ken's response was, "Who drinks gimlets? Are you channeling Julie Powell?")
Anyway, I was quite eager to grill them on their views of "the meaning of wife" and the burning question of, "Can one be both a career woman and a housewife?"
Gail's decided response was "No." With the addition of "Not as I view the term 'housewife'."
We talked about that for a few moments, and then debated the definition of the term "housewife." (Now I'm wishing I had not had that second gimlet, otherwise perhaps I could remember more of the exchange). And then, like the good liberals we are, we conceded that we guessed "it depends on how one defines the term "housewife".
Ken's response was a little more ambiguous, and provoked even more liberal ponderings on social views and expectations and their evolutions. The end result of this impromptu and decidedly un-scholarly study was...well...darn those gimlets, anyway.
One thing, however, does stand out in my mind. We decided that, if one were to be both of those things, they would have to be neither a high-powered career chick (and let's face it, as an L-I with approximately several gabillion bosses--three at the library, one or ten or so above them, to say nothing of the taxpayers of Sunnydale II-- there is no way in Zeus's holy scrotum I could possibly be described as "high-powered") nor a particularly competent housewife. Which is comforting on many, many levels.
So, maybe I'm no closer to establishing the answer to this burning question...or maybe I am on the way to defining the meaning of wife for me.
Anyway, I was quite eager to grill them on their views of "the meaning of wife" and the burning question of, "Can one be both a career woman and a housewife?"
Gail's decided response was "No." With the addition of "Not as I view the term 'housewife'."
We talked about that for a few moments, and then debated the definition of the term "housewife." (Now I'm wishing I had not had that second gimlet, otherwise perhaps I could remember more of the exchange). And then, like the good liberals we are, we conceded that we guessed "it depends on how one defines the term "housewife".
Ken's response was a little more ambiguous, and provoked even more liberal ponderings on social views and expectations and their evolutions. The end result of this impromptu and decidedly un-scholarly study was...well...darn those gimlets, anyway.
One thing, however, does stand out in my mind. We decided that, if one were to be both of those things, they would have to be neither a high-powered career chick (and let's face it, as an L-I with approximately several gabillion bosses--three at the library, one or ten or so above them, to say nothing of the taxpayers of Sunnydale II-- there is no way in Zeus's holy scrotum I could possibly be described as "high-powered") nor a particularly competent housewife. Which is comforting on many, many levels.
So, maybe I'm no closer to establishing the answer to this burning question...or maybe I am on the way to defining the meaning of wife for me.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Coping Mechanisms (Otherwise Known as Misdirection)
If Himself is the cook, perhaps I should be the bartender in the family.
So. Ever since watching and reading Julie and Julia (which, I might add, was what prompted this nonsensical bit of meaning-of-wife identity crisis), I have been rather obsessed with Julie Powell's lifestyle, prior to "hitting it big". (And yes, I am TOTALLY aware that her life was sucky before she became fab and famous. But hey, at least she could cook. It's more than I can say.) Anyway...rather than being psycho (AKA Gemini about it) I decided that, rather than fixating upon this poor wench and stalking her (although I admit to reading her blog--avidly), I'd simply try to follow her example.
Namely, through gimlets.
Gin gimlets, to be exact. None of this vodka nonsense--I am a gin girl, through and through. (Must be the anglophile in me). If I can't cook a decent meal, well, at least I can mix a mean drink, right?
So, last night, Himself and I found ourselves with an unexpected night in--no errands, no programs to work, no friends to entertain. After taking a constitutional (okay, there's no way to say, blog, or write that without sounding like a pretentious, wanna-be poofster) in the evening, in which the desert winds picked up and rustled through the palm beards, we came back home and plunked ourselves down and proceeded to debate what we would do with the evening.
The verdict? Pizza, from the Valley's only (any desert readers here? speak up if you beg to differ) New York pizza place, and...gimlets. And I have to say, I did a damned good job with them. And with Himself passed out on the bed...well, the proof is in the pudding. Or at the bottom of the martini glass, as the case may be.
So. Ever since watching and reading Julie and Julia (which, I might add, was what prompted this nonsensical bit of meaning-of-wife identity crisis), I have been rather obsessed with Julie Powell's lifestyle, prior to "hitting it big". (And yes, I am TOTALLY aware that her life was sucky before she became fab and famous. But hey, at least she could cook. It's more than I can say.) Anyway...rather than being psycho (AKA Gemini about it) I decided that, rather than fixating upon this poor wench and stalking her (although I admit to reading her blog--avidly), I'd simply try to follow her example.
Namely, through gimlets.
Gin gimlets, to be exact. None of this vodka nonsense--I am a gin girl, through and through. (Must be the anglophile in me). If I can't cook a decent meal, well, at least I can mix a mean drink, right?
So, last night, Himself and I found ourselves with an unexpected night in--no errands, no programs to work, no friends to entertain. After taking a constitutional (okay, there's no way to say, blog, or write that without sounding like a pretentious, wanna-be poofster) in the evening, in which the desert winds picked up and rustled through the palm beards, we came back home and plunked ourselves down and proceeded to debate what we would do with the evening.
The verdict? Pizza, from the Valley's only (any desert readers here? speak up if you beg to differ) New York pizza place, and...gimlets. And I have to say, I did a damned good job with them. And with Himself passed out on the bed...well, the proof is in the pudding. Or at the bottom of the martini glass, as the case may be.
Gin Gimlet Recipe
2 oz. Gin
1/2 oz. Lime Juice
Combine in a shaker with ice.
Shake like mad and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.
Serve with a lime squeeze.
The drink was a success! Actually perfect--except for the fact that, to me, it doesn't yield quite enough for one drink. I could be doing something wrong, of course. I'll have to experiment with a couple of other recipes, perhaps. I also didn't use a lime squeeze--an omission I intend to remedy tonight! Before I even served the first round, I had wised up and put a couple of martini glasses in the freezer for the second round. They taste MUCH better with chilled glasses.
The drink was, in fact, so good that Himself actually flopped down on the living room floor with me and watched a goodly chunk of the new BBC production of Sense and Sensibility. He was pretending to read his Kindle, but WE know the truth.
So...at least if I suck as a housewife, I have at least one drink in my arsenal to employ the solution to this: Get Himself so drunk he doesn't care!
The drink was, in fact, so good that Himself actually flopped down on the living room floor with me and watched a goodly chunk of the new BBC production of Sense and Sensibility. He was pretending to read his Kindle, but WE know the truth.
So...at least if I suck as a housewife, I have at least one drink in my arsenal to employ the solution to this: Get Himself so drunk he doesn't care!
Saturday, March 20, 2010
TGIF
Today--hell, this whole week--has not been a time when I have felt comfortable in my own skin. In fact, I've felt completely alien, at sea...not very good. At all.
Jason says he does not want me to change. He doesn't want to marry one person down in Mexico, only to come home and learn he has married someone else. But what if I don't like who I am?
In completely unrelated observations...
Sign of Adulthood #109: Replacing the empty roll of toilet paper`
Jason says he does not want me to change. He doesn't want to marry one person down in Mexico, only to come home and learn he has married someone else. But what if I don't like who I am?
In completely unrelated observations...
Sign of Adulthood #109: Replacing the empty roll of toilet paper`
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