Watch Your Step

Don't be such a  ______  nazi! Insert word of your choice. Or not.

I'm taking a stand against the lowercase nazi. 

According to Dictionary.com  a Nazi is:
1: a member of the National Socialist German Workers' party of Germany ...officially abolished in 1945 at the conclusion of WorldWar II.
2. A person elsewhere who holds similar views
3. Sometimes Offensive (often lowercase ) a person who is fanatically dedicated to or seeks to control a specified activity, practice, etc.: a jazz nazi who disdains other forms of music; tobacco nazis trying to ban smoking.

I excerpt from Urban Dictionary their definition of grammar nazi:
b – One who attempts to persuade or force others to use proper grammar and spelling.
d – One who advocates linguistic clarity; 
e – One who corrects others' grammar; the spelling police. 

Linguistic clarity. I think that means using the best word to convey your meaning. Also using a word correctly. I don't need to list examples. I like it when auto-correct adds apostrophes fro me. We'll leave it at that. 

Sometimes Offensive (often lowercase ) Many people are easily offended. People who consider themselves pretty open minded are usually are easily offended by something. For myself I give comedy a pretty free rein. Jokes or comments that are crass and unfunny to me are still free to roam in my world. People are free to have all the hateful attitudes they want. If they have a newspaper, or blog or tv show about something that offends me, that's fine. I can choose not to read it or watch it.

But here's the thing. The ubiquitously casual use of the word nazi has been bugging me lately.  A lot. I winced the other day when I heard a probably very nice economist on NPR refer to himself as a "numbers nazi", or a "statistics nazi". Something of the kind. He used the word so casually, yet he would likely be horrified at Ann Coulter's recent use of the word "retard" (I consider myself fortunate that I had not heard of her prior to this incident.) She went on to insist that "retard" is in common usage to mean idiot, or something similar. She did not bow to the PC police. Personally I am offended by her idiocy. I've heard whining about the PC police for years. But I've been ignoring it.

If you are a person without any sensitivity to, or acceptance of any person who is different from you, and your limited experience, then I'm sure you are not reading this. But even those who consider themselves well-regarded by the PC police can slip. The PC police—and I use the term loosely—are a good thing. It is hard to keep up. When I was young the Civil Rights movement was in full swing, and I remember distinctly when "Colored People" became Black. At the time I found myself wondering when the N.A.A.C.P. was going to catch up. Then it seemed like the only socially acceptable thing to say was African American. Unless I am talking to someone who has already said African American to me I've stuck with Black. (I've checked and been told its ok.) Likewise with Latino and Hispanic. My most recent intelligence is that either is acceptable. I've also heard that many Native Americans prefer to be called Indians. Native American feels more respectful and I think Indians are people from India. But its not up to me. I don't actually know if anyone from India wants to be referred to as Indian, or something else. Currently I have heard "Asians" used to include anyone between the Middle East and Hawaii.

The line keeps moving, and it will keep moving. I have been corrected many times and I am never defensive about being corrected.  I always appreciate the update. When I was 20 I was told I should not say "girls" I should say "women". But women who were young in the '30s and '40s like calling themselves girls. And "gals". It makes them feel youthful. I remember when "bums" became "homeless people". I remember when mentally retarded meant a person with a mental handicap. Not an insult. But "retard" always was . People used "cripple"to refer to those who are physically handicapped. That word truly makes me wince. I think the line has moved past handicapped to disabled or person with a disability.  But everything with that wheelchair symbol still says handicapped. People of color is a useful umbrella term. But I have heard people say "Persons of Color" with such emphasis that it feels like they are correcting you in advance. I used to say third world country. I've been corrected to say "developing nation". People outside the "developed" world used to be referred to as "primitives".  Now they are "indigenous peoples". The word primitive is itself very useful. But not when you apply it to people. Especially when it makes it easier to believe that you are doing them a great favour by "civilising" them.

We all know that many taboo words or stereotypes are acceptable within that group—I can insult my mother, but you can't. Queer was vigorously taken  taken back. Fag. Don't you dare use that word. You will not ever call something faggy. I have been close to many gay men and used a word loosely in that context, but that was a while ago. You will not use faggy when you mean un-manly. Now I hear "wussy" used a lot. A whole lot. I recently noticed that I use it too, and when I stopped to think about it I was horrified. It is too easy to pick up the speech habits of people around you. Wussy. I believe its meant to be a slightly less offensive way of calling someone a pussy. Shit. I have probably used it on myself when I admit to backing off something challenging. "I was such a wuss about that".

I have never and would never call someone a pussy. That implies being weak, unmanly, timid, girly. We know this. We know when we imply a male person is exhibiting any female characteristics we mean that as an insult. We know that men in a group do this as good natured ribbing all the time. We know they will continue to. But I should know better. 

Today I am here to ask the PC police—where are you when I need you?—to move that line again. Why is it okay bandy nazi around so lightly? Do we all need to remind ourselves about the six million Jews? And the Gypsies, homosexuals, and anyone else they didn't like. When you say soup nazi or grammar nazi, what you really mean is "martinet". Look it up. Ok, I'll save you the time. Here Merriam-Webster.com is a model of clarity.Martinet

1: a strict disciplinarian
2: a person who stresses a rigid adherence to the details of forms and methods


Shall I say it again? Martinet. You have been using the word nazi when you mean strict and rigid. It's not ok. I realize martinet doesn't roll of the tongue as easily. Nazi is an easy verbal shorthand. Just because Seinfeld is Jewish and he stared the whole soup nazi thing doesn't make it ok. I'm sure he got plenty of flack, but it was comedy. And it was funny. Soup martinet is not funny. And there is no joke left if you have to stop and explain what martinet means. Is it funny to call someone a slave-driver? Your boss is so mean, he's such a slave-driver. Ha, ha, ha. I'm sure your African American friend thinks that's just hilarious. I haven't heard anyone say that in a very long time. I hope that's because the PC police have pushed it out of bounds. Using a reference to our shameful and horrific history of slavery is not ok. Outside of the S&M/B&D world calling someone a slave is off limits.


Be a tyrant, be a dictator, be a bully. All of these are despicable, but are also non-specific. There is no capitol g geek. I can call myself a diamond geek, and you can tell me how geeky you are about anything to are devotedly interested in. No one minds. The geek flags proudly fly. 

Nazi is not generic. In a very specific place and time there were people who called themselves Nazis. Capitol N. Lowercase n doesn't belong in our everyday vernacular. Because being strict or rigid about something doesn't make you a Nazi. Being a Nazi makes you a Nazi. And there aren't any more left. Neo-Nazis are not relevant here.  And I prefer not to think about them.

A little while ago one of the monkeys was whining about something. I told him not to be so lame. What I should have said was, be a mensch.

Angry white guys aren't enough anymore

Republican strategists are admitting that they need to figure how how to get more Latino and Asian votes. Republicans Review Election Results For Insight : NPR

After sifting through the rubble the republicans have had to face cold reality. There aren't quite enough angry white voters to elect an uber-rich white guy who panders to extremists. The demographics are changing and all those nice racist people who think Obama is a muslim socialist out to destroy their way of life are terrified of being in the minority. The aren't the minority yet, but they are shrinking significantly. Bill O'Reilly said, "It's not traditional America anymore." Remind me please Bill, when was that?

Is the problem that everyone who used to be treated like dirt isn't fair game anymore? From the beginning the French had their own colonies in North America, and they weren't going to be pushed out like the Native Americans. Your "traditional Americans" were stuck with the French, so you looked the other way and they kept to themselves. But still you got to marginalize and despise the ex-slaves and the Chinese who worked like slaves. The Germans weren't so bad because they made beer. Then the Irish came and they were for a time considered lower than Blacks. Yes. Let me repeat that. There was a time in American history when Blacks were held in higher regard than the Irish. (Amazing right? Those are your people Bill. I'm sure you remember when JFK got elected it was a huge deal that he was the first Catholic to become president.)  But at first the big crime of the Irish was being dirt poor and Catholic. One could be any kind of protestant, but Catholicism might as well have been voodoo.

And if the Irish weren't bad enough, then came those pushy Italians. More weird, freaky Catholics and they smelled like garlic! By the beginning of the last century most of Europe started pouring in. That was a mess because they were all white. You couldn't tell them apart anymore!  They could change their names and act like everyone else. Jews were here from the very beginning, but they kept a pretty low profile until a ton of them arrived with all those other Europeans.

You thought it was bad then, but as long all those weird foreigners mostly kept to themselves—and did the jobs nobody else wanted— it was tolerable. In Brooklyn, and everywhere in New York City there are still Italian neighborhoods, Irish, Polish, Latvian, Hungarian, Jewish, Russian neighborhoods, and just about anyone else you can think of. But they are okay now, because at least they are all white.

I'm not going to get into the Civil Rights movement here, but even after they won the right to use the same water fountains, you still didn't have to let Blacks live on your block. You still had your whites only country clubs even though you weren't supposed to admit it, and we all knew that also meant no Jews.

But now it's the 21st century, and not enough people are white anymore. Its not that there aren't enough white people, its that not enough people are white. While some of you were getting richer and richer—and climbing on the backs of any white people unfortunate enough to be poor—something else happened. The Latinos started to vote. It was fine when they were just doing the grunt work. They took the lowest paying jobs that even the poorest white people wouldn't do. You could pay them as little as you wanted, because they had no green cards, and therefore no rights. But those people, instead of just being grateful you let them work here, did something under-handed. They made babies. That's right, all those Latinos started out-breeding you. And guess what? All those babies born here were legal US citizens, and they all grew up with the right to vote. Uh oh.

At first it wasn't critical. Many Latinos are very religious. You got their vote with your anti-abortion hook. But you can only treat people like shit for so long. Some people can see the bigger picture, and won't vote just on one issue. Maybe some of you noticed, it's pretty tricky to get the scared white vote and the Latino vote too. You can't kid yourselves. Even Romney couldn't dance around enough to pull that off.

If you haven't figured it out already, you've got another problem with non-whites. More people of color have arrived, and they are still coming. It's plain they aren't white, but its so confusing because they aren't all starting at the bottom anymore. This lot came to join the middle class, and they are jumping right in. You weren't concerned with the "Asian" vote when it was just some East and West coast Chinatowns. But more and more well educated people are coming here from Asia and the Middle East. Their numbers are growing and you are screwed because a lot of them are bringing religions you've never even heard of.

True, some of the newest wave of American immigrants are rich enough to vote with you. Ironically, I think you can take credit for that. When you moved all those blue collar jobs over to India and China, some of them got stinking rich just like you. But no matter how much you suck up to your new rich friends, you are still the one percent.

We can outnumber you. And we can out vote you. We just have to get enough of us to pay attention. You have been brilliant at the slight of hand. I've watched you win for years by riling up white fear. You will continue to succeed in the white states and cities and towns where your magical powers are most effective. The most passionate members of the tea party are the most frightened about their imminent loss of control.

On November 6 you got all the white votes you could. One of you even admitted that. You have that strong base of white males, but they aren't enough. You let the extremists take over your party. You scared off too many of the centrist republicans. Once upon a time there were nice republicans, and mean Democrats. That is to say fiscally conservative/socially liberal republicans AND fiscally liberal/socially conservative Democrats. Those guys could jiggle things around a bit and compromise enough to get stuff done now and then.

Too bad that's not what you meant when you said "Traditional America". I'd like that one back please.

Where Was I?

After openimg at least three or four links to interesting nytimes articles, my link-hopping lands me on Gothamist. I read the quintessential NYC fantasy-rent-controlled-apartment story. Soon I am  buried in Google maps, winding deeper and deeper into the web that is the West Village. I am an East Village girl, and I have zero sense of direction in the West Village. Even sitting here with the map right in front of me on my iPad, I am still getting lost. And I am under the spell again.

Only a short walk to your holistic eating counselor

The consistent sense of bewilderment is part of the adventure. This neighborhood wields a trance inducing power. Even if you never find your way out, you won't mind. You wander around looking for a place that you think is here, but isn't there either. Instead you find yourself somewhere nearly identical, but not quite right. Then there is the sensation of surprise when you arrive at a corner you know very well. "Oh!" you say to yourself, "I didn't know Pleasure Chest was just around the corner from Elephant & Castle" or that the Village Vanguard is so near the place where you bought your precious leather jacket so long ago.

But every familiar place exists in it's own orbit. Naturally—or not—these orbits have no consistency. They are more like bubbles floating aimlessly, sometimes they intersect, but mostly they pass in a whisper. At night the shifts are stealthier. Move your eyes in the wrong direction and you will miss the link. You might walk two blocks in any direction. You will be in a different bubble, or not. If the orbits shift you will not be able to walk back the way you came. Your previous location is no longer where you thought you left it.


Your map lists all the cheese shops and bakeries, cafes, restaurants, yoga studios, book stores. The names that grab you are the ones that held you fast in your former life. Wandering around from above you find yourself drifting back in time. You are on Greenwich Ave., stopping at the places you once haunted. You feel the giddy ripples lift you up and drop you down on the streets you wandered with good friends and better lovers. The drunken kisses in crusty doorways swirl through you teasingly. There is the dimly lit den where you talked and drank for hours. Here is the bright peppery taste of the arugula in your 3am omelette. The cafe that used to be here still makes best toast ever.

Does it help you to find your way if you know that W.4th and W.10th intersect between Bleecker and & 7th Ave South? Hmmm ... Does it help you to know that from Sheridan Sq. your choices are Christopher St., Washington Place, Grove St., Barrow St., 7th ave, or W.4th? Well really, how? Some of these streets don't even exist on the other side of the square. Nearly within reach is the legendary Stonewall Inn. Its less than a block from here, But only if you are heading toward Waverly ... Oh look, here is Waverly, but it's not Waverly anymore ... Now it's Washington Sq. North. That's where 5th Ave. ends. If you find yourself in Washington Sq., you are back in your zone. Back to where you are on a mostly navigable grid. But save the grid for another time, when you want a firmer grip on the illusion that you know where you are.

Jumped ship

While poised to jump on a five, was unable to leave Google maps behind. Have landed in a strange new galaxy. Must find new paths to my old friends.

Back button is brilliant.

Heart Racing

So much more than chrome. My heart is still fluttering. It's not just my heart. The feeling grips my core, my center, my soul. Intensity. Swooning excitement. The frisson when the person you've been aching to kiss is only inches away. The longing that builds until the merest touch of a fingertip makes sparks.

The Noise and the Smell

I hear they are planning adult only flights. Not the naughty kind of adult flight--as far as I know--just the option for adults to enjoy relaxing on a plane without babies screaming and kids shrieking. I believe there has been some outrage--naturally-- but it sounds good to me. When I am fortunate to enjoy some adult time, the last thing I want is to hear someone else's kids making a racket. When the monkeys were babies I was constantly jumping whenever I heard a kid that sounded like one of mine. Back then it was rare to shop without them, so it was especially intrusive. (That said I still say hello to every cute little I see.)

So how about no perfume next? When are people going to stop walking around in a gagingly thick cloud of stinky chemicals that give me a headache?

Here is the personal scent rule people: Smell like anything you want, but no one, and I mean NO ONE should smell your scent unless they are close enough to hug you, or whisper in your ear. No exceptions.

Biology and Civics

8:30am. On our way to art camp it dawns on me that rather than dreading the big schlep across town, this 20 minute drive is excellent monkey conversation time.

We begin with biology. Every sentence starts the same way. "Mama, what would happen if ...?" This morning Sam wants to know what would happen if he drank a whole swimming pool full of water. This leads to hydration vs. dehydration. I'm a little obsessed with the benefits of keeping one's body well hydrated. So I explain that the best way to know if they are drinking enough water is by the color of their pee. Pale, almost invisible mixed with toilet water is ideal. That means your body has plenty of fluid to flush the toxins out. So conversely, really dark pee means your body should have much more water. Since we have done several projects recently involving food coloring, I asked them to think about how one drop of dye in a huge bowl of water would tint the water just a little bit, while a drop in a tiny cup of water would make a much darker color.


Then they wanted to know how long Obama gets to be president. I explained term limits. I explained that if it goes really well, then the vice president might get the next turn. Sam put it together quickly. He said that if the president has a lot of stuff to do, if he needs to go out and has a bunch of errands and he doesn't have enough time, then the vice president would go out and do those errands and bring back whatever stuff the president needs. I love that Sam thinks about how people can be helpful to each other. And I love --having just watched the first season of Veep, which was hilarious--the image of the VP going out to pick up the president's dry cleaning surrounded by the fleet of secret service cars.

35 forever

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?


Heard this yesterday and I can't stop thinking about it. At my advanced age of 45 I've been unwittingly collecting quotes about aging. Oh that it a typo. I just looked up and saw the number and realized it was wrong. As of April I am 48. How's that for denial?

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

I'm pretty sure I am just about 35.

As women we are always ripping someone famous who has messed up their face. I have not seen the photos myself, but I am told Goldie Hawn still dresses like she did when she was 17. I've seen Laugh In, I know what she looked like in 1967. I just found a more recent photo of her that was much too close to be flattering.  (grrrr, why can I no longer pinch photos from IMDB??)  She could possibly pass for my age. But she was born in 1945. Meryl Streep was born in 1949. They are both in "Death Becomes Her"—a bizarre send-up of the lengths women will go to for maintaining their youthful beauty. That movie was made in 1992, and Meryl Streep was quite, quite stunning. Truly stunning. I love the way she's let herself get cozily plump and maternal looking. She's relaxed about knowing she has nothing to prove. If I were Meryl's daughter I would not be embarrassed to be seen with her in public. If I were Goldie's daughter I most certainly would. I have heard Madonna's daughter is mortified by her mother's public attire. Mutton dressed as lamb.

Mutton dressed as lamb. Goldie is doing it. Madonna does it. Joanna Lumley does it for laughs, and is hilarious as Patsy on AbFab. She always looks like she's about to topple over and— when she does there'll be nothing left but a pile of broken toothpicks. Krysten Ritter does a delightfully heartless version of the younger Patsy on "Don't Trust the B in Apartment 23". It's a damn shame the rest of the show is such puerile rubbish.

I probably don't need to make a list of all the Goldies and Melanie Griffiths out there. We've all got our favorites who've turned themselves into a horror show. Mary Tyler More broke my heart. But she started aging before modern technology. I just got lost looking up before and after photos—it really slows me down—but it was worth it. I idolized Mary in her "Dick Van Dyke" show days and it has been painful to watch her age so badly. Likewise Marlo Thomas, who I couldn't get enough of on "That Girl". A smokin' hottie.  Of course I will never forget Katherine Helmond's deeply disturbing mockery of the desperate vanity of the aging beauty in Terry Gilliam's "Brazil".

At around age 40 I became slightly obsessed with looking up the ages of every actress I liked in a movie or on TV. Am I comparing my aging process to theirs? Sort of. Mostly I am scrutinizing them for signs of the work they've had done. At one point in the early '90s I began to suspect that a number of actresses had seen the same artful surgeon who had given them a very similar, yet beautifully sculpted look.  Daryl Hannah was the first one I noticed. Then Michelle Pfeiffer, Jodi Foster, and especially Helen Hunt. The guy who did them is a master craftsman, an amazing artist. It's a shame Meg Ryan didn't go to him. Michelle Pfeiffer is 53 and beyond beautiful. She says  "I'm all for a little something here and there - fine. It doesn't matter to me if people have plastic surgery or they don't, or if they do Botox. But when people don't look like themselves anymore, that's when you kind of go, 'Oooh,' and it's kind of sad." Well said Michelle. And she can say it, because she's pulled it off better than anybody. Except we all know that no matter how beautiful you are, no matter how perfect your bones are,  no one can possibly look that good at fifty three. I respect her though, because even though her looks are slightly frozen in time, her face is not frozen. She deliberately plays older women, and does it with a sense of humour. Photos of Michelle: I like the first one because she just has a natural smile, and it doesn't look so much like a pose.  The next one is your perfect head shot. Glamorous, yet natural. 

And here is Michelle at a party for "Dark Shadows". Holding up pretty well. But, just for a moment can we talk about that hair?? So many actresses have worn this awful do for quite some time now. I don't get it.  The whole scruffy, messy thing with the dark roots showing. Who decided that women who don't want to look old should all have visible dark roots? This what your stylist does for those "candid" shots of you with that "oh I don't fuss with myself" look. The "I just stumbled out of bed and oh no there's the paparazzi" look. I could do a whole other  rant on stars with that same hair.

Who besides Meryl has relaxed the most gracefully into old age? Diane Keaton of course. Annette Benning, Helen Mirren is one of the best. But British actors are a whole other thing. Off the top of my head, for unattractive actors who get great parts we have Oliver Platt, Paul Giamatti, Philip Seymore Hoffman, Billy Crystal, Kathy Bates. I'll think of more. (That would be a fun list for people to add to.) Not very many survive Hollywood. I'm devoted to Colin Firth, but he had to learn to smile with his mouth closed before he became a famous actor.

Okay. So there is a whole other rant about how in the UK they make brilliant movies with actors who aren't particularly good looking.  I am trying so hard to stay on topic and not get completely sidetracked. It's nearly impossible. I'm hopeless.


Aging in fairy tales. I need to look into how many tales don't involve a scary old hag of some sort. Now that I think of it, that is the plot of so many of them. Another whole rant. As a child we don't think twice about the hag in our fairy tales. But now it starts to make sense. The most marginalized person in Western culture has to be the old, old, lady. Go ahead and argue with me. Why are there so many stories about witches? And so much persecution in real life? Because witchcraft is all an old lady's got to get any respect. The old crone punishes those who don't treat her with respect. Sometimes she's a witch taking testing people to see if if they are pure-hearted enough to be kind to an old hag. Beauty and the Beast. Often she's a witch who steals something from the young and beautiful so she can be beautiful too. That one comes up a lot. Rapunzel. Snow White. Cinderella. Michelle Pfeiffer has played a witch superbly.

The next time I break my arm

He already has it planned. He wants an orange cast this time--last one was black because they don't make them in orange. He said I'll do it after my birthday this year. Before turning four he broke his clavicle. He broke his wrist last year just before his sixth birthday. But it hurts doesn't it? Oh no, I don't care. I reminded him that we postponed the party last year until the cast was off. He said he'd do it after his birthday this time. But remember how frustrated you were, trying to keep water and sand out at the beach? You missed a lot of boogie boarding. Barely a pause. I'll wait and do it in the fall. I'll break my arm jumping into a pile of leaves. Lots of kids do that. But why? Because everybody talks to me. Everybody wants to know what happened and they all ask me about it.

Parades: They're Not Just For Candy Anymore

Memorial Day. We always said memorial day weekend. It was always about the weekend. Yooo hooo! Three day weekend! Three day weekend! Three day weekend! The holiday was always just a day off. An extra day to play, to escape. Memorial Day. I never even thought about the what or the why. Honoring the dead soldiers. The dead soldiers. The dead soldiers.

It doesn't matter how we feel about the war, it has nothing to do with the people who come back, and the people who don't.

Memorial Day is for the people who don't come back.

It didn't fully register in my frame of consciousness until this one. When some people convinced themselves that because of 9/11 we had to go mess with Iraq and Afghanistan. Can't have the rest of the world thinking we're all a bunch of pussies over here if we get hit and just lie there and take it.

Memorial Day is for the soldiers who didn't come back.

I have to keep saying it/writing it—the soldiers who didn't come back—it's the tape loop in my brain all day. Their families will never be the same without them. Mothers fathers, daughters and sons. In families who have always served they might be more slightly more prepared. But it doesn't ache any less. The hole they leave isn't smaller.

For Garrison Keillor

I.

My very good friend writes to tell me about her joy
in finding an iced tea pitcher just like mine.
Can an iced tea pitcher be life changing? she asks
Why not? I say life changes every day anyway
so why is an iced tea pitcher any less entitled
to be a force for good than anything else?

II.

I live by William Morris' rule “Have nothing in your house
that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”
It is as simple as that.
I choose each item that enters so carefully
The things I am put upon to tolerate itch like that spot
on my back that I can never quite reach
Very often when I ask for help, the other person misses it entirely.

III.

Genuine physical discomfort must be contained

when the Disney character sleeping bags from Walmart arrive, 

made of nasty slippery poly-something or other
I judge them toxic, both aesthetically and corporeally 

But after repeated attempts to roll them up and hide them away
countered by my boys' delighted retrieval, and incessant cozy snuggling 

I admit defeat. 

Despite their hideousness they remain firmly, almost willfully 

in the "useful" category.

And the Eyes Are Waiting

New glasses are coming. And with them more babble from the girl with long brown hair and glasses.

Caught By The Past

Ahhh, the golden years of the Hollywood studio system. I can't imagine ever tiring of it. And so I get diverted almost daily. I confess I am caught in a web of my own making. I am loathe to confess my guily pleasure, but I have committed myself to unfailing honesty where my faults are concerned. On the mornings when time permits, I often plan to catch up on one or two of the shows I've taped. Obviously I'm hooked on Mad Men, and I'm crazy about Nurse Jackie and The Big C. And I'm still amazed that a show as seductive as The Good Wife exists on broadcast television. But the default channel on my TV is set to TCM, and lately there always seems to be something really good on. Just now it's Bette Davis and Charles Boyer in All This and Heaven Too. Now, that's a title that positively screams "Ladies, bring your hankies!" Of course in 1940 everyone always carried a handkerchief anyway, but never mind about that. Even though I really shouldn't spare the time to watch the rest of the movie, I've had to pause it so I can type. And now I find myself pulled in three directions. I must keep writing, I must attend to countless chores, and I simply must watch the rest of this movie goddammit!! It's Bette and Charles! Who could look away? It occurs to me that the peak--the best of the best were produced between 1938 and 1942. Plenty of my favorites came before or after, but I think those four years were something amazing. So here I sit, caught in the mid nineteenth century, as told by the mid twentieth, and I can't walk away. Mr. Boyer had a good reputation as a romantic lead, but to me he will always be the villain in Gaslight (1944). Such a delicious role-I must look in to how and why he went against type and took it.

The view from up there

As told by one myopic, short Jewish girl. As an adolescent I aspired to 5'6". It seemed the ideal height. I believe my younger half-sister (with the 6'+ father) achieved 5'6", but of course she wanted to be taller. I am, and always have been listed on my driver's license as 5'4". The only nice thing about the DMV is that they take your word for it. They might give you an eye test, but they don't measure you.

But am I really 5 feet and 4 inches tall? Not really. No. It hurts to admit my true height is five feet, three and three quarter inches. Does it sound taller writing it out? Even standing up as straight as I can, I've never hit that 64" mark. I've studied this, and people over six feet seem to only ever roughly know how tall they are. Unless they play for the NBA they'll say, "Oh, about 6'1" I guess". People under 5'6" always know exactly how tall they are, at least to the quarter inch.

My mother was tiny, maybe 5', and petite too, as her mother was before her. I think by the time we were 13, our shoes were too big for her to steal. She always told me that one day I would tower over her, always holding her hand high above her head. In later years I was indeed taller than her, but I never felt that I towered. Rather I felt like a bull standing next to a baby deer. But that is an entirely different subject.
So I find myself saying the same thing to the monkeys, although their father is 5'6", while mine was 5'9". They are shorter than most. Jon Stewart is also 5'6" and I always pay careful attention to how tall he is in relation to the guest he is greeting. Why? I cant help it.

If you stand up straight you can pass for taller. I think I've succeeded in that. Some people my height can't leave the house without an extra 2 or 3 inches added.  Personally I am incapable of wearing high heels or platform shoes. I've never wanted the height badly enough to suffer in uncomfortable shoes. My vanity expresses itself in other ways. We'll get to that another time.

Jimmy Stewart, Gary Cooper and  Joel McRae, are some of my favorite- and the best- classic Hollywood actors. They were very tall and very, very lean, which made them look even taller. Standing next to one of the great tiny actresses made the difference even look more extreme, yet somehow they don't look silly together. I tried to find a quick list of contemporary actor's heights, but found instead a number of sites devoted to the speculation and "outing" of the shoe lift wearing leading men of today.

Conan O'Brien is listed as 6'4" in the IMDB, yet I've always thought he was 6'5". I remember passing him on the street in Harvard Square, and feeling as if I'd suddenly turned into a hobbit, and slipped into a Tolkien novel. Loping down the street, he seemed not of this world.
Jimmy Stewart: 6'3"
Gary Cooper 6'3"
Joel McCrea 6'3"
Ray Milland: 6'2"
Clark Gable 6'1"
Cary Grant: 6'1& 1/2"
Robert Mitchum: 6'1"
Humphrey Bogart: 5'8"
~~~~~~~~~~
Many of the the famous starlets of yesteryear were 5'4" or less.
Elizabeth Taylor: 5'2"
Carole Lombard: 5'2"
Margaret Sullavan 5'2" & 1/2"
Jean Arthur: 5'3"
Bette Davis: 5'3"
Claudette Colbert: 5'4 & 1/2"
Ginger Rogers: 5'4 & 1/2"
If you don't know who all of these people are, then you shouldn't be reading this. Unless you look them up and watch their movies right away.

What about the O'Haras?

Why does Scarlett's father talk like a commoner who just came over on the boat? This has been bugging me for a while.
Dug into Wiki on this one. In the pre-war South the Irish were pretty low on the social hierarchy. In the description of the novel it is clear that Scarlett's mother was from upper class French lineage, so it follows that her grandfather wasn't pleased with the match. There is also a reference to O'Hara winning Tara in a poker game. The "better" local families would most certainly have looked down on them, but I can find no suggestion of that.

Time and place

So here I am walking around in a haze, late for nearly everything, ignoring so many of the simple daily tasks that would actually make me feel better. I'm pleased with myself when I get the dishwasher emptied first thing in the morning. Boiling noodles and slicing some veggies for monkey dinner feels like lugging firewood. Always on the verge of tears.

Just now I had a brief chat with the cashier at WF. It was a good connection. He loved it when I told him that I live with two six year old boys and my house mostly smells like pee all the time. I assured him that whatever the mysterious wet substance on his counter might be, it was highly unlikely to gross me out. He said how great it was to talk to someone real, not uptight like most of the people who shop there. Then he noticed my necklace, and grabbed a girl walking by to make sure she saw it too. I explained that it's a serotonin molecule. We talked about various art projects he could make with the image.

As I turned to leave I saw the perfectly packed paper bag in front of me. We laughed when I realized I'd been too distracted to give him the bag I'd brought. He asked if I could used the paper anyway, so I explained one of the endlessly amusing--to me anyway--ironies of my daily life: I need paper bags to put my paper recycling out in, and I need the plastic ones for all my plastic recycling. So if I had my shit together enough to always remember my reusable bags, then I'd have nothing to put all the stuff I recycle in.

I walked away with a happy spark. I felt alive again. My brain had been turned back on. And before I made it though the second set of doors I was about to cry again. When the spark ignites and the energy is firing I'm smiling and in motion. I realized how small a moment can make me feel that way. I felt the pain of the stark contrast between that and most of the other moments. I began to ache with the desire for more connection and energy, and to cry for the rest of my day without it.

I seem to have a very rich social life in my dreams lately.

More pancakes anyone?

I dreamt I was hosting the most amazing party...it went far into the night, and by the time I was serving pancakes at 4am I was planning the next one.

If I didn't have a really wild party last night, why did I wake up feeling so hungover?


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Faced with the blank page, I freeze

... two minutes ago there were at least three things in my head that wanted to get out. Why did they all run and hide?

One image that will never leave me comes from when I was about six. Coming in from upstate somewhere, dropping my mom's friend Paul off at his apartment. Walk in to the kitchen, flicking the lights on, and seeing thousands, thousands of cockroaches scurrying from the light. They covered every surface and almost before I could blink they were gone. But that one moment of frantic escape, of furious, focused fleeing is frozen in time.

Such a vivid contrast brown and white.


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