Comfortable Shoes

Having a baby upended me, existentially. I understood that having a child would change my life. I think I even understood that it would change my life in ways that I could not fully anticipate. What I didn’t expect was that becoming a mother would make me feel instantly old—actually, I kind of expected the opposite. I thought having a little kid around would be rejuvenating. Instead, it’s left me feeling pretty ragged, body and soul.

Part of it is just being exhausted all the time. In the early days, there was the prodigious lack of sleep, and now there’s the constant work of chasing after a toddler. The various physical changes wrought by pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding have left me a bit haggard, too. I am not, frankly, feeling especially hot these days. But the really difficult transition has been adjusting to my new place in the universe—a universe which is, itself, very different now that it has Frances in it. In the circle of life, motherhood is one step closer to crone than my previous position, and it’s kind of freaking me out.

Having a baby has also ruined my knees, and trying to address that physiological issue without exacerbating my mental, emotional, and spiritual wobbliness was something of a challenge.

Continue reading "Comfortable Shoes"

This Week’s Menu

MONDAY
Puerco a la Mexicana, arroz blanco, and refritos negros (from Mexican Everyday by Rick Bayless)

TUESDAY
Leftovers

WEDNESDAY
Spinach risotto (from Cook with Jamie by Jamie Oliver) with grilled chicken

THURSDAY
Pasta with tuna and lemon (from Off the Shelf by Donna Hay)

FRIDAY
Shrimp pad thai (from Everyday Food)

SATURDAY
Cheeseburgers and French fries

SUNDAY
Frozen ravioli, sauce from a jar, and spinach

Myface.com

So, at the last meeting of my class, Seminar in Critical Problems, we discussed an article about hypertext and its literary implications. While commenting on a related article, one decrying the electronic overexposure of today’s youth, the professor mentioned “Myface”. This spoonerism provoked smiles of delight on three faces. Mine was one of them.

After class, I approached one of the other amused students and said, “Hey, I keep meaning to send you a link to my Myface profile.”

He replied, “Cool. You should check out my Spacebook page.”

Myface. Spacebook. That really captures the essence of social networking sites, doesn’t it?

Ted’s Closing Comments in a Conversation about the Growing Ugliness of the Democratic Primary We Had as We Went to Pick Up Our Daughter at Daycare

“Well, nobody snatches defeat from the jaws of victory like the Democratic Party.”

Pause.

“It’s what makes them ‘relatable’ to people like me.”

Pause.

“They’re the Charlie Brown of political parties.”

Last night I dreamt that I was watching Barack Obama on Regis and Kelly.

Last night I dreamt that I was watching Barack Obama on Regis and Kelly. It was the morning after a Democratic primary, and he was providing commentary as the votes were tallied. He was smart, funny, utterly at ease. He gave no sign that he found Regis and Kelly—the show or the people—ludicrous. Such was his self-possession and grace. He was gracious to his hosts, and they were ennobled by his presence.

Obama’s comportment was impeccable and he was thoroughly charming, but the really remarkable thing about him was his suit. It was made from a buttery yellow and soft teal windowpane plaid. The fabric was slightly iridescent, casting an apricot shimmer whenever Obama moved. His suit looked like the sun rising over the ocean. His shirt was blue-green, a slightly deeper shade of the plaid’s teal, and his tie was broad and rust-colored, picking up the suit’s flickering glow. It was a truly amazing get-up.

Now that I’m awake, recollecting Obama’s magnificent suit, I realize that it reminds me of the outfits sometimes worn by old black men as they promenade on a Sunday afternoon. The only thing missing was the matching hat, and maybe a color-coordinated Lincoln Continental. I would love to have a president who dressed like that.

NOTE: I was reminded of this dream when I read a “Talk of the Town” piece this morning describing a blog set up to collect nocturnal fantasies about the Democratic presidential candidates. Apparently, I’m not alone.

My Favorite Books of 2007: Then We Came to the End

NOTE: I have, recently, been blogging some of my favorite books of 2006. Inspired by the paperback release of one of my favorites of 2007, I’m going to jump ahead a bit.

I didn’t really want to like Then We Came to the End. It’s set in an office much like the one in which I worked for five years, and it seemed like it would be the kind of book that, had I applied myself—or, like, had I had the idea—I could have written. Well, I was wrong: I could not have written this book. It’s brilliant, and my own baby steps into fiction (one story [ahem.] published in a magazine for girls, a tidy little pile of rejection letters with great potential for future growth) demonstrate a puny fraction of the skill and craft on display in Joshua Ferris’s debut.

You may have heard of this book. You may know that it was a finalist for the National Book Award, but, if you know anything at all about this book, you probably know that it’s narrated, mostly, in the second-person plural.* This is a bold move, an aesthetic maneuver at which it would have been so very easy to fail. Ferris not only pulls it off, he makes it sing. His “we” captures the sort of collective consciousness that grows among corporate wage slaves, but that doesn’t mean that his narrator moves through the novel as a lumpen mass. His narrator is more like a guardian angel of the cubicles, soaring above the oatmeal-colored carpet, possessing an awareness of its own but also able to zoom in and out of individual cubicles and the minds of their inhabitants. It’s kind of exhilarating, really.

And then it stops. The second part of the novel is rendered in traditional third-person omniscient. It’s hard for me to describe how upset I was about this transition. I felt betrayed. I thought that such a risky maneuver required total commitment to make it work, and I was disappointed that Ferris had lost his nerve. I also missed the collective narrator. It was funny and cannily observant and I liked it.

But I kept reading, and I am so glad I did. By the novel’s close, everything that Ferris has done makes sense. That middle section turns out to be the story of two characters, the one being written about and the one doing the writing. In restoring the possibility of individuality for these two characters, Ferris suggests that all his characters might regain their humanity—or, perhaps, that they never really lost it in the first place. This is a novel that will earn rueful laughs from office workers (and office veterans), but its appeal goes far beyond that demographic. This is a novel about people, and it’s wonderful.

* And at this point I can’t seem to help but mention that I just finished an advance readers’ copy of a strikingly similar book—set in an office, collective narrator—coming out this May. I’m not suggesting that the author of this forthcoming book copped his moves from Ferris. I would imagine that he was working on his manuscript well before Ferris’s book was published, and it’s impossible not to speculate about his state of mind when he first got wind of Then We Came to the End. Was it like seeing his doppelganger crossing the street? Did it fill him with dread? Did he call his editor immediately, or did he stop taking her calls for weeks? I don’t know, of course, but I do feel kind of sorry for the guy.

My Endorsement

I don’t like Hillary Clinton.

I don’t like Hillary Clinton, but I feel bad about not liking Hillary Clinton, and the reasons why are as follows:

First, I feel like I’m letting Bill down. Seriously, as soon as I realized that I just don’t like Hillary Clinton, I felt bad for Bill. This is, obviously, ridiculous. Fondness for an old president is no reason for choosing a new president. And, moreover: He let me down!

I also feel bad because her likeability has been a campaign issue. Nobody expects male candidates to be pleasant. Requiring that Clinton be likeable is like requiring that she have a sweet, girlish giggle and a nice rack—which would be absurd.

But my lack of liking for Clinton goes beyond the fact that if I was at a party at her house, I would much rather be drinking a beer and, say, watching a cowboy-movie marathon on AMC in the den with Bill than discussing single-payer insurance over chardonnay with Hillary in the living room. I don’t like her because I don’t trust her, for one thing. I think it’s a bit much to call her “Bush-Cheney lite”, but history does suggest that she has ruthless, secretive tendencies that are somewhat reminiscent of the current administration. I find that I am unwilling to endure a national campaign—not to mention at least four years—in which the first two Clinton administrations are rehashed by her many enemies. What she calls “experience”, I call “baggage”, and I get weary just thinking about it. On the whole, I find Hillary Clinton tremendously uninspiring. If she’s the Democratic candidate, I’ll vote for her (I’d vote for a ham sandwich if it was the Democratic candidate), but I won’t be excited about it.

I am, however, excited about Barack Obama. Like, honestly, unironically, seriously excited. And I’m not just excited because, as an Obama supporter, I might one day have the opportunity to chant, “We will, we will Barack you.” It’s not just because Barack Obama carries a picture of me in his wallet. It’s not even because I get to wear this awesome T-shirt.

I’m excited about Barack Obama because Barack Obama is exciting. I think Barbara Ehrenreich captures the pro-Obama mood pretty well in this post. The Bush years have been so tragically, unremittingly awful that I need something new. As a country, we don’t just need good policies: We need a little inspiration. Clinton can argue that “Speeches don’t put food on the table”, but I’m not sure that she’s right. I think that liberal wonkishness alone might not be enough to deliver the kind of real change we need. In yesterday’s New York Times, Representative David R. Obey, who has endorsed Obama, said, “You can’t make much headway on substance until you have somebody who can break through the rancorous atmosphere, build new alliances and cut through old barriers.” I’m not at all convinced that Clinton can do that, and I believe that Obama can. I don’t need a president who’s likeable, but I sure would like to have one who’s exciting.

[THANKS TO RUSTY FOR THE AWESOME LINKS. HE KNOWS WHICH ONES.]

Happy Valentine’s Day

So, on the syllabus for this literary theory class I’m taking, the professor included “Literary Valentines?” among our activities for tonight’s class. I considered this a challenge, so I created a reader-response Valentine to pass out to my colleagues in the Seminar in Critical Problems (doesn’t that just scream “graduate school”?). I am sure that it is going to induce eye-rolling in my fellow students, and it will no doubt be seen as a tangible manifestation of my unwillingness (inability?) to shut the fuck up—ever.* On the other hand, there may be, I don’t know, 17 people in the world who will find this amusing, and I post it here in the hopes that at least 1 or 2 of them visit this blog. Happy Valentine’s Day.

* Hey, Mawrters: Remember how we used to make fun of McBrides? Remember how they would dominate classes and ask questions towards the end of the hour that were absolutely, positively going to force us all to stay late? Well, as you may or may not know, I was a McBride myself when I finally finished my degree, and I totally remain one in spirit.