For the past few nights the heat wave has been the top story on network news. Anchors describe most of the nation trapped in a meteorological dome bearing down on us, raising temperatures to ungodly heights. Metaphorically speaking, I feel the same way, oppressed and sapped of energy. Summer is great when you're a kid: out of school with freedom to slack off for three months. For the rest of us, it may seem like a steady sinking into malaise, eager for fall to lift us out of our lethargy. The hot and humid days are long and draining. There's no mojo to get working.
Traffic slows, people drift off in mid-sentence, and everyone sweats their way through another day. I usually walk in the morning but even at 9 AM it's muggy. The beach beckons, but all I can think of are the latest studies that show most sunscreens don't protect you from evil UVA rays. I lost a friend this year to melanoma. Shark attacks are up. For me, that nixes the sand and surf. The neighborhood pool is teeming with splashing preschoolers and bored adolescents. Who wants to don a swimsuit in the midst of all those nubile teenage girls?
So I spend most of my time in my air-conditioned abode, flipping through magazines, while Netflix streams old episodes of Battlestar Galactica. I read, try to write, cross errands off my list. I wish I had a dynamic job pushing paper in some high rise on Peachtree Street. I drink lots of iced coffee. I'm still in re-entry mode from having done a play last month, immersed in the art, away from home. Sluggish in the suburbs, I trudge through the week, anxious for autumn leaves, pumpkins and football season. There's another reason I'm not fond of summer--it's the prelude to my birthday in September; I dread the impending hash mark of the calendar's cruel tally.
I guess the solution is to imagine all those January commercials enticing you to Cancun and Aruba while you shiver. Atlanta's six-inch snowfall early this year was no picnic. Come to think of it, that hibernation was as bad or worse than this sweltering summer. In the dreary gray winter I crave sunshine, suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Now we have solar overload. I'm counting the days till school starts, pouring myself another glass of sweet tea.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Readers
Please excuse my typo in the post below. I wrote it, groggily, at 5 AM. The congressman who is the subject of the column is Anthony WEiner, not WIener. Next time I'll be more careful.
Wiener is as Wiener Does
My last post lambasted lame and lascivious men. Less than a month later, Washington has yet another powerful man worthy of pillorying--the willful, woeful Wiener, representative from New York. Now exposed (pun intended) as a titillated tweeter and foul Facebooker, Wiener refuses to resign, despite his admission of guilt and tearful apologies. At the current count, as many as six different women have claimed online exchanges with the politician, whose prurient predilection for sexting and sending "studly" photos of himself is an unmitigated disaster for the Democrat. This from a forty-six year old married less than a year ago. If Wiener was a horny high schooler caught in the internet act he would be sent to the principal's office. Instead we have a middle-aged man with compromised principles desperately clinging to his office.
It's hard to imagine what lunacy and stupidity possesses a smart guy like Wiener to engage in such juvenile behavior. Maybe being a Jewish Brooklyn boy, he was channeling his inner Alexander Portnoy, a' la Philip Roth. Whatever his motivation, it's clear he exercised precious little restraint, gallivanting through virtual escapades with college students, single moms and blackjack dealers, none of whom he knew personally. The evidence reveals Wiener was a compulsive attention-seeker, eager for any cyber coital contact he could find. It would have been less creepy if he'd had a garden-variety fling with an intern. The congressman posits his real world fidelity as a defense, hoping the public will forgive his computer habits. Memo to Wiener: sending pictures of your bulging boxer shorts to strangers is tantamount to violating your marital vows, as well as betraying your constituent's faith in you.
The worst aspect of all the shenanigans is Wiener's repeated lying about the incidents, fumbling through a prevaricating news conference last week and, one assumes, initially assuring colleagues it was all a prank. How is it that a grown-up doesn't comprehend the transparency of the worldwide web, where much of our personal histories are documented and dispensed at the click of a mouse? Wiener's ship is sinking fast; Republicans, naturally, are calling for his resignation and Democrats are distancing themselves from him. Wiener's digital delusions of grandeur as a "hot," popular politico have been replaced with reality-- he's the nerdy, gross classroom kid with cooties we don't want to catch.
It's hard to imagine what lunacy and stupidity possesses a smart guy like Wiener to engage in such juvenile behavior. Maybe being a Jewish Brooklyn boy, he was channeling his inner Alexander Portnoy, a' la Philip Roth. Whatever his motivation, it's clear he exercised precious little restraint, gallivanting through virtual escapades with college students, single moms and blackjack dealers, none of whom he knew personally. The evidence reveals Wiener was a compulsive attention-seeker, eager for any cyber coital contact he could find. It would have been less creepy if he'd had a garden-variety fling with an intern. The congressman posits his real world fidelity as a defense, hoping the public will forgive his computer habits. Memo to Wiener: sending pictures of your bulging boxer shorts to strangers is tantamount to violating your marital vows, as well as betraying your constituent's faith in you.
The worst aspect of all the shenanigans is Wiener's repeated lying about the incidents, fumbling through a prevaricating news conference last week and, one assumes, initially assuring colleagues it was all a prank. How is it that a grown-up doesn't comprehend the transparency of the worldwide web, where much of our personal histories are documented and dispensed at the click of a mouse? Wiener's ship is sinking fast; Republicans, naturally, are calling for his resignation and Democrats are distancing themselves from him. Wiener's digital delusions of grandeur as a "hot," popular politico have been replaced with reality-- he's the nerdy, gross classroom kid with cooties we don't want to catch.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Libidinous and Licentious
The lusty month of May has brought us two textbook examples of libido run amok--Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the former International Monetary Fund head's alleged sexual attack, and former California governor and so-called actor Arnold Schwarzenegger's fling with a member of his household staff, resulting in a love child. Freud asked What Do Women Want? I'm wondering Why Can't Men Stop? In the first case we have a sixtyish Frenchman emerging from the shower buck naked purportedly trying to live out a fantasy of sex with the maid. The second affair was consensual but resulted in more visible collateral damage: noble Maria Shriver exiting the mansion and the couple's four children's discovery of a half-sibling they didn't know existed. As their seventeen-year-old son tweeted, "some days you want to quit and just be normal for a bit."
Supposedly, testosterone is to blame in both instances, along with the aphrodisiacal effect of power and entitlement both men enjoyed in their respective professional lives. A New York Times reporter based in France was seen on MSNBC's Martin Bashir show yesterday, informing us that the French expect their politicians to be "sexually vigorous," while Arnold's 2003 gubernatorial bid unearthed several women claiming he'd groped or otherwise sexually harassed them. Both men acted in direct opposition to their own self-interests. Strauss-Kahn was widely believed to be making a run against Sarkozy for president of his country. Arnold jeopardized his 25-year marriage and the relationships with his four, uh, I mean five kids. All because of unbridled libido and colossal errors in judgment. What is it with men?
Leaving aside the issue of the Frenchman's presumed innocence, news of his previous sexual exploits surfaced as soon as the current charges appeared. He's a.k.a. "the great seducer," yet his American-born wife, Anne Sinclair, is standing by her man, coughing up a million in bail money. As for Arnold, his pending plans to return to movies and show biz are alive and well. It would seem that in a post-Charlie Sheen world, knocking up the family housekeeper is no big deal. Have we really grown so accustomed to grown men acting like hormone-crazed teenage boys that we give them a free pass on attempted rape and flagrant infidelity? Not from where I'm standing. Both scumbags deserve to be booted to the curb. In the case of the French Flasher we'll have to see what the trial brings and hope that justice for an immigrant hotel maid is served. But Maria should terminate Conan the Barbarian, revive her career as a journalist and focus on helping her brood heal their shattered lives. Even though she hardly needs the money, she should sue for the heftiest sum possible. With the Kennedy name and friends like Oprah she can bounce back, leaving that sorry slimeball in the dust.
In the meantime, I hope male movers and shakers will heed these cautionary tales and keep their pants zipped. Is it too much to ask for men to be faithful to their wives, behave like gentlemen, refrain from pawing and humiliating every female in their midst? I hope not. My husband and I have been married as long as Maria and Arnold. I trust my hubby 100% but I can't help thinking it's a good thing we've never been able to afford domestic help.
Supposedly, testosterone is to blame in both instances, along with the aphrodisiacal effect of power and entitlement both men enjoyed in their respective professional lives. A New York Times reporter based in France was seen on MSNBC's Martin Bashir show yesterday, informing us that the French expect their politicians to be "sexually vigorous," while Arnold's 2003 gubernatorial bid unearthed several women claiming he'd groped or otherwise sexually harassed them. Both men acted in direct opposition to their own self-interests. Strauss-Kahn was widely believed to be making a run against Sarkozy for president of his country. Arnold jeopardized his 25-year marriage and the relationships with his four, uh, I mean five kids. All because of unbridled libido and colossal errors in judgment. What is it with men?
Leaving aside the issue of the Frenchman's presumed innocence, news of his previous sexual exploits surfaced as soon as the current charges appeared. He's a.k.a. "the great seducer," yet his American-born wife, Anne Sinclair, is standing by her man, coughing up a million in bail money. As for Arnold, his pending plans to return to movies and show biz are alive and well. It would seem that in a post-Charlie Sheen world, knocking up the family housekeeper is no big deal. Have we really grown so accustomed to grown men acting like hormone-crazed teenage boys that we give them a free pass on attempted rape and flagrant infidelity? Not from where I'm standing. Both scumbags deserve to be booted to the curb. In the case of the French Flasher we'll have to see what the trial brings and hope that justice for an immigrant hotel maid is served. But Maria should terminate Conan the Barbarian, revive her career as a journalist and focus on helping her brood heal their shattered lives. Even though she hardly needs the money, she should sue for the heftiest sum possible. With the Kennedy name and friends like Oprah she can bounce back, leaving that sorry slimeball in the dust.
In the meantime, I hope male movers and shakers will heed these cautionary tales and keep their pants zipped. Is it too much to ask for men to be faithful to their wives, behave like gentlemen, refrain from pawing and humiliating every female in their midst? I hope not. My husband and I have been married as long as Maria and Arnold. I trust my hubby 100% but I can't help thinking it's a good thing we've never been able to afford domestic help.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Old Boyfriends
I was working on my novel today and got distracted. This is nothing new. It's my modus operandi. I often listen to YouTube clips while writing. Stuff from the 60's and 70's usually. Or 80's New Wave and punk. The years before I turned thirty. Everything recorded after that lost a bit of charm. I surfed through solo John Lennon and Paul McCartney, circa '73, early Elvis Costello and vintage Otis Redding. Then I decided to indulge myself and watch a few musicians I've known personally. This can be a dangerous exercise, depending on the quality of the video. There's the garage band rocker who was a fellow actor in the ensemble cast of Hamlet. A long-haired folkie covering James Taylor and Cat Stevens in some coffeehouse. A wired performance artist heavily influenced by David Byrne. Eventually, I took a peek at the oldest in a long line of old boyfriends who's in an active, in demand quartet. Their music is a kitchen sink of styles and the man in question plays lead guitar. I send a link to my sister, sigh and return to the page.
Like a faded, frayed pair of jeans that feels like a second skin, old boyfriends are unavoidable. They don't often show up in Real Life, but they exist forever in the imagination. They co-authored the romance novel you can't put down. They turned you on to music you hadn't thought to listen to, or to Boone's Farm or recreational drugs. They turned you on. Joni Mitchell sang, "songs are like tattoos," and with her history she should know: old boyfriends are indelible graffiti. Whether or not they dumped you or you dumped them, their epilogues occupy an inordinate number of pages in your journals. Admit it: you still have traces of them, tucked into books, mementos buried under bad poetry you wrote your freshman year in college. You have pictures where you are eternally eighteen or twenty-three. An arm flung around your shoulder, the knowing glance, a kiss snapped by someone's Instamatic. Yeah, we're talking pre-digital days.
The best part about old flames is that the fire is out. That painful longing is over, the obsessive-compulsive disorder of the heart has healed. Sure, you still have the photo albums, but the prints have aged so much they stick to the backing under plastic. They're cardboard cut-outs who no longer haunt your every move or dictate your wardrobe choices. Now you have a longtime companion called a husband. Unlike most ex-boyfriends he's seen you with unwashed hair and the stomach flu. You wear a shabby pair of sweatpants and the same shirt three days in a row, around the house where the two of you live. If he doesn't return your phone calls you don't lose sleep. You have a normal appetite and can snarf down half a dozen cookies in front of him. You don't attach deep significance to every offhand remark he makes. He's seen your crow's feet multiply and has watched you give birth.
There are times when I'd like to take a lover. Board a jet and fly abroad to meet some clandestine suitor in Paris. Sometimes old boyfriends look promising during Facebook chats and in those quickly deleted emails. But invariably, like the hubby, they're twenty pounds heavier and/or have gone bald. I count my blessings--mine looks reasonably close to the original version. The trick with former flings is to use their staying power to your advantage. Like I said, I was working on my novel today...
Like a faded, frayed pair of jeans that feels like a second skin, old boyfriends are unavoidable. They don't often show up in Real Life, but they exist forever in the imagination. They co-authored the romance novel you can't put down. They turned you on to music you hadn't thought to listen to, or to Boone's Farm or recreational drugs. They turned you on. Joni Mitchell sang, "songs are like tattoos," and with her history she should know: old boyfriends are indelible graffiti. Whether or not they dumped you or you dumped them, their epilogues occupy an inordinate number of pages in your journals. Admit it: you still have traces of them, tucked into books, mementos buried under bad poetry you wrote your freshman year in college. You have pictures where you are eternally eighteen or twenty-three. An arm flung around your shoulder, the knowing glance, a kiss snapped by someone's Instamatic. Yeah, we're talking pre-digital days.
The best part about old flames is that the fire is out. That painful longing is over, the obsessive-compulsive disorder of the heart has healed. Sure, you still have the photo albums, but the prints have aged so much they stick to the backing under plastic. They're cardboard cut-outs who no longer haunt your every move or dictate your wardrobe choices. Now you have a longtime companion called a husband. Unlike most ex-boyfriends he's seen you with unwashed hair and the stomach flu. You wear a shabby pair of sweatpants and the same shirt three days in a row, around the house where the two of you live. If he doesn't return your phone calls you don't lose sleep. You have a normal appetite and can snarf down half a dozen cookies in front of him. You don't attach deep significance to every offhand remark he makes. He's seen your crow's feet multiply and has watched you give birth.
There are times when I'd like to take a lover. Board a jet and fly abroad to meet some clandestine suitor in Paris. Sometimes old boyfriends look promising during Facebook chats and in those quickly deleted emails. But invariably, like the hubby, they're twenty pounds heavier and/or have gone bald. I count my blessings--mine looks reasonably close to the original version. The trick with former flings is to use their staying power to your advantage. Like I said, I was working on my novel today...
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The King's Speech
My mother used to complain about people who butchered the "king's English." Proper use of language was of paramount importance to Mom, and her daughters were roundly chastised for poor elocution. I remember slaps on the wrist when I committed grammatical errors. Like any child, I detested such corrections and wondered why she made a federal case out of every slip. Years later, I'm grateful for her high standards. Everywhere we turn in today's media-saturated, info-overload world we see and hear unforgivable fracturing of our native tongue. From print to broadcast to the average Joe's daily dish, we sound like blithering ignoramuses. The atmosphere is replete with examples but I'll focus on just a few linguistic sins.
It really chaps my butt to hear people misuse "I" and "me." How many times must we endure guests on talk shows say "It was really painful for my wife and I to put our son in rehab." Omitting the spouse from the sentence it reads, "It was really painful for I to put my son in rehab." It's like music: you hear a flat note, it stands out, it doesn't ring, it's obvious. Not to scores of interview subjects, who would routinely add, "Me and my husband wanted to kick Junior to the curb." News anchors, clergymen, sports commentators--they're all guilty.
Another glaring pet peeve: "is" versus "are." The politician will opine, "This is just the facts the American people are dealing with." Memo to members of Congress: These are the facts, etc. or It's just a fact Americans are dealing with every day. Invented words are an odious verbal assault we're subjected to in current discourse. Words that your grandfather wouldn't recognize. I'm talking about relatable. One can relate to the aggrieved parent who had to confiscate Johnny's twelve-pack and knock some sense into him. But I don't find said parent relatable because it just doesn't sound right. In fact, as I'm typing this, relatable is highlighted in red by the spell check feature. Yes, the online dictionary claims incentivize is a word but I'd just as soon hear the comment "we need to provide incentives." The spell checker lit up on that one too. Also, technically speaking, impacts should not be used as a verb. It's what happens when you're rear-ended in rush hour traffic. Or "my stickler of a mother had an impact on my blog post today."
So what are we to do with a nation of grammatically-challenged nincompoops? Good conversation, like charity, begins at home. If we want our children to retain any vestige of the king's speech we need to converse ably ourselves. To wit, my youngest son once reported to me that a friend of his didn't like being in our house "because [we] used big words." My answer? Book a different playdate. The bar has been substantially lowered, folks. Let's try some old Henry Higgins-style education. The next time you hear a talking head on TV screw up his syntax, fire off an email. Text or Twitter about it. Arrest the prevailing downward trend in the world of letters, lest we be left in tatters. Bring back the Noel Coward bon mot! Dare to dust up your diction! That way we can all be as pithy as Colin Firth accepting his Oscar.
It really chaps my butt to hear people misuse "I" and "me." How many times must we endure guests on talk shows say "It was really painful for my wife and I to put our son in rehab." Omitting the spouse from the sentence it reads, "It was really painful for I to put my son in rehab." It's like music: you hear a flat note, it stands out, it doesn't ring, it's obvious. Not to scores of interview subjects, who would routinely add, "Me and my husband wanted to kick Junior to the curb." News anchors, clergymen, sports commentators--they're all guilty.
Another glaring pet peeve: "is" versus "are." The politician will opine, "This is just the facts the American people are dealing with." Memo to members of Congress: These are the facts, etc. or It's just a fact Americans are dealing with every day. Invented words are an odious verbal assault we're subjected to in current discourse. Words that your grandfather wouldn't recognize. I'm talking about relatable. One can relate to the aggrieved parent who had to confiscate Johnny's twelve-pack and knock some sense into him. But I don't find said parent relatable because it just doesn't sound right. In fact, as I'm typing this, relatable is highlighted in red by the spell check feature. Yes, the online dictionary claims incentivize is a word but I'd just as soon hear the comment "we need to provide incentives." The spell checker lit up on that one too. Also, technically speaking, impacts should not be used as a verb. It's what happens when you're rear-ended in rush hour traffic. Or "my stickler of a mother had an impact on my blog post today."
So what are we to do with a nation of grammatically-challenged nincompoops? Good conversation, like charity, begins at home. If we want our children to retain any vestige of the king's speech we need to converse ably ourselves. To wit, my youngest son once reported to me that a friend of his didn't like being in our house "because [we] used big words." My answer? Book a different playdate. The bar has been substantially lowered, folks. Let's try some old Henry Higgins-style education. The next time you hear a talking head on TV screw up his syntax, fire off an email. Text or Twitter about it. Arrest the prevailing downward trend in the world of letters, lest we be left in tatters. Bring back the Noel Coward bon mot! Dare to dust up your diction! That way we can all be as pithy as Colin Firth accepting his Oscar.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Loose Ends
"Graduation Day is tough for adults. They go to the ceremony as parents. They come home as contemporaries. After twenty-two years of child-raising they are unemployed." Erma Bombeck
My child-rearing days are numbered. My oldest is in a doctoral program in the Northeast, my middle son turns twenty-one this week, and my youngest will be a high school senior next year. I'm not an empty-nester yet, but the chicks have definitely begun to fly the coop. I'm left stranded, my job description reduced from commanding officer to part-time consultant. Once my days and nights were dictated by sports, music lessons, parent-teacher conferences, PTA meetings and endless hours spent in a pediatrician's office. Now, I'm nearly a lone wolf, without the pack. This transition does not sit well with me. I'm accustomed to presiding over a trio of loud, overactive boys charging through my house like a herd of buffalo. The hours tick by relatively quietly, with only an occasional skirmish when all three happen to be home simultaneously.
It's become, dare I say it, far too predictable and sedate. The opportunity to jump-start my previously sidelined projects has arrived and I'm ill-equipped to exercise it. What, no last-minute science projects? No cupcakes for tomorrow's preschool holiday party? Batting bags are hanging on hooks in the basement, the baseball gloves nowhere in sight. Swim team bathing suits and goggles are packed away. Runs to Walgreens for poster board are nonexistent. Two decades of constant supervision has come to an end, and I still imagine someone needs a batch of cookies, some play-doh or a homemade Halloween costume. I'm no longer fully operational. My brood is on auto-pilot.
Now there's no excuse not to finish my novel, fine-tune my poetry, go to more auditions. I suddenly have all this time, in charge of me, not the crew. They've mutinied. The ship has sailed into another port and I'm left standing on the dock, waving. I have at least one of those books for middle-aged women in mid-life crisis, a Reinvent Yourself, How-To book. But I'm having trouble getting a fix on who I want to be now, if not "just" Somebody's Mom. Sure, I'm still an actor, writer and sometime-singer, but at the moment I find myself wandering around an empty house, waiting for a biological imperative or a fire to put out. I suppose it's getting closer to the time when grandchildren will enter the picture. Ouch.
Perhaps it's the very notion of freedom that's vexing me. Freedom to pursue my goals, to travel, take a class in faux painting decor, garden. Hell, I have to start all over again from scratch, not unlike the feeling I once had gazing at a helpless infant in a crib, knowing I was his primary source of safety and sustenance. This is the moment where the camera zooms in as I sail into the locker room with the Superbowl win under my belt and say, "I'm going to Disney World!" Which feels like a highly ironic contradiction in terms. Oh, well, it must be "Eat, Pray, Love" time, minus the divorce. Bring on the pasta, meditation beads and yoga mat. And while we're at it God, can I have Elizabeth Glibert's career?
My child-rearing days are numbered. My oldest is in a doctoral program in the Northeast, my middle son turns twenty-one this week, and my youngest will be a high school senior next year. I'm not an empty-nester yet, but the chicks have definitely begun to fly the coop. I'm left stranded, my job description reduced from commanding officer to part-time consultant. Once my days and nights were dictated by sports, music lessons, parent-teacher conferences, PTA meetings and endless hours spent in a pediatrician's office. Now, I'm nearly a lone wolf, without the pack. This transition does not sit well with me. I'm accustomed to presiding over a trio of loud, overactive boys charging through my house like a herd of buffalo. The hours tick by relatively quietly, with only an occasional skirmish when all three happen to be home simultaneously.
It's become, dare I say it, far too predictable and sedate. The opportunity to jump-start my previously sidelined projects has arrived and I'm ill-equipped to exercise it. What, no last-minute science projects? No cupcakes for tomorrow's preschool holiday party? Batting bags are hanging on hooks in the basement, the baseball gloves nowhere in sight. Swim team bathing suits and goggles are packed away. Runs to Walgreens for poster board are nonexistent. Two decades of constant supervision has come to an end, and I still imagine someone needs a batch of cookies, some play-doh or a homemade Halloween costume. I'm no longer fully operational. My brood is on auto-pilot.
Now there's no excuse not to finish my novel, fine-tune my poetry, go to more auditions. I suddenly have all this time, in charge of me, not the crew. They've mutinied. The ship has sailed into another port and I'm left standing on the dock, waving. I have at least one of those books for middle-aged women in mid-life crisis, a Reinvent Yourself, How-To book. But I'm having trouble getting a fix on who I want to be now, if not "just" Somebody's Mom. Sure, I'm still an actor, writer and sometime-singer, but at the moment I find myself wandering around an empty house, waiting for a biological imperative or a fire to put out. I suppose it's getting closer to the time when grandchildren will enter the picture. Ouch.
Perhaps it's the very notion of freedom that's vexing me. Freedom to pursue my goals, to travel, take a class in faux painting decor, garden. Hell, I have to start all over again from scratch, not unlike the feeling I once had gazing at a helpless infant in a crib, knowing I was his primary source of safety and sustenance. This is the moment where the camera zooms in as I sail into the locker room with the Superbowl win under my belt and say, "I'm going to Disney World!" Which feels like a highly ironic contradiction in terms. Oh, well, it must be "Eat, Pray, Love" time, minus the divorce. Bring on the pasta, meditation beads and yoga mat. And while we're at it God, can I have Elizabeth Glibert's career?
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