Maybe Next Year, Genius

This image is from this blog.

So, yesterday, I have to say,  was a bit of a disappointment.  The list of MacArthur genius grants came out, and again, I wasn't on it.  In case you were left off this list too, the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation(familiar names if you watch much PBS programming) awards money, known as "Genius Grants" to talented and creative people every year to invest in their work and productivity.  "Well, lots of people didn't get such a grant," you might say. And yes, only a handful of people a year have a qualified representative of a quietly filthy rich foundation tap them on the shoulder and say, "Hey you, you're lookin' smart.  I mean really smart, so how's about we give you a little dough-re-mi so that you can go off and work on something. Don't worry about expenses or anything, because you just won the smartypants lottery..." I know, I know, but still, it would have been nice, just this once.

This year's winners were especially lucky, because the stipend has gone from half a million dollars to $625,000, which is paid out in quarterly installments over five years. Somehow the words "half a million dollars" still sound like more than $625,000.  I guess the real geniuses say two thirds of a million dollars, which sounds like plenty to me.  Just the word "million" linked with the word "dollars" sounds like a lot more than any number of thousands.   I think this sort of meandering nonsense might be a sign of why the MacArthur people didn't grace me with one of their grants.

The genius grants are draped, if not shrouded, in some secrecy.  The recipients don't apply, but are nominated by an anonymous committee and then chosen by an anonymous selection panel.  The word genius makes it sound like this grant is only given to geeky nerds holed up in laboratories at the top of some university's ivory tower-- and it is given to those people, but it's given to real people too. Real talented people.  Writers, artists, dancers, poets, even philosophers get these things.  I was just reading that Jonathan Lethem, an excellent author from Brooklyn, got the call about his grant five years ago while he was at the car wash.  This is the kind of tidbit that gives me hope-- even people with dirty cars are eligible for the MacArthur grant.  Not only do you not have to do mind-boggling work in utterly unintelligible fields like theoretical physics, you can live in Brooklyn, and have a dirty car.

This image is from here.

This years winners range in age from 32 to 60, and the oldest person to ever receive the grant was 82, meaning I am still in the running, with several good, productive years to go.  This eases the sting of the recent realization that all those lists of "20 under 30" and "30 under 40" and in just half a year, even "40 under 50" are no longer something I can aspire to.  This lifts my spirits as I swill my generic vitamin water and apply for yet another hardship deferment for my student loans.  Another oddly comforting thought:  the awards began the year I graduated high school.  Coincidence?  I prefer to think not.

The idea of the grants, as I understand it, is to give creative, talented people the opportunity to concentrate on their art/science/vocation free from the strain of having to make a living.  Yep, that's right, it's the chance to "quit your day job" if you want to.  One of this year's lucky winners, the very fine author Karen Russell, mentioned that she was happy that she would be able to stop moving from one place to another to take teaching jobs to make a living.  This is a woman who has won literary awards and spent time on the New York Times Bestseller List.  She also mentioned that she might use the money to pay for an emergency root canal, as she hadn't known how she would cover it before she got the call.  Not only is she a literary giant, she really knows how to live it up! Other recipients mention paying rent, paying student loans and paying other artists who work with them.  It seems that recognizing talent might just be good for the economy.  Maybe some other foundations will get the giving bug...

I think the only thing really standing in my way here is lack of achievement, but hey, that's still possible, right? Knowing that some MacArthur Foundation scout is out there, looking for someone to bless with this recognition can be the inspiration I need to write every day.  I've got to get to work now, so I can be ready to get the call...

The Lovely Sounds of Thank You and You're Welcome

Last week, I spent the last three dollars and sixty-six cents of our nutritional assistance-- also known as Foodstamps. We have been in the program for a year, after multiple weeks of spending hours on hold for multiple telephone interviews which qualified us for a no-expenses-paid  trip to the DES office where my husband and I and our two little girls waited five and a half hours to be asked for I.D., photographed, and fingerprinted, so that we could solemnly swear that we were poor enough to receive family nutritional assistance and federally subsidized health insurance for the girls.  Not that we had been singled out for such treatment.  We waited those hours in a large holding pen, er, waiting room, crowded with other similarly eligible Arizonans.  Then, until last month, we got a couple of hundred dollars a month  loaded on a debit card which could only be used for food. It had a distinctive Arizona sunset skyline on the front that was instantly recognizable in the store, so there could be no mistake about the person using it and how they got it.   But, it helped to keep us from starving, so in retrospect, I guess the wait, and the way I felt when I used the card, was worth it.  

When I got my current job, which is part time, at the state's minimum wage, we submitted the changes in our income, by mail, not in person, (though there was a twenty minute telephone interview which came after  I stayed on hold for an hour and 57 minutes, hearing over and over again how important my call was) and were found to be $1.71 over the eligibility limit for assistance.  And so, I spent my last $3.66 on milk and bread and put the card away in my underwear drawer when I got home, just in case we ever need it again. Because really, I never thought I would need it at all, until I did.  

During all the years I worked, I never thought that I would need help buying food.  But when I realized that we could not manage without help, I told myself that all that work had also included those  mysterious "FICA" deductions that seem to take such a bite out of our paychecks.  I told myself that I had "paid in" for a long time, and now for a while, I was going to have to use those benefits... kind of like paying for insurance and then having a medical bill paid.  

I just wrote that like I didn't wrestle with myself and feel inadequate and guilty and shamefully over-educated and foolish about every transaction I made with that desert sunset debit card.  Clearly, I still can't quite get over that:  being the worn-out woman with the hungry kids hanging off the side of the grocery cart, making sure that we weren't buying anything that looked like a treat and feeling like I needed to somehow justify my very existence.  I'm working on it, though.

To say that we lived frugally is an understatement.  We had recently been living the working graduate student life, then the working graduate student life with little children, so we were used to a relatively low standard of living. This last year though, keeping food on the table has been the priority and other things, like haircuts and clothing and shoes and doctor's visits for grown-ups fell completely off the radar.  We got a lot of help from family and friends.  A lot. Of. Help.  If you bought us dinner or groceries, or gave us a ride, or brought us a pizza, or gave things to the girls, or made sure we had gifts at the holidays or took us for coffee, a bagel, and a much needed laugh this year, you know who you are.  I love you all the more for that help and for giving that help without making it obvious that needing help meant we were kinda dumb.  I really love you for that last part.

My mom has said that one of my first sentences was "I can do it myself!" I have never been comfortable asking for help, because I am not someone who feels comfortable needing help.  I love to be able to offer help-- to be helpful-- but I have never been graceful about being the one who is in need. This year, especially, has been about learning to take help gracefully and gratefully.  About learning to say thank you without apologizing at the same time, without feeling like I was just kinda dumb because I didn't have a job and money to manage without the help.  I've been reminded over and over again that people don't help you to make you feel bad, they help you to, you know, help you.

We still struggle, but I'm looking forward to the time when I will be able to offer help again, and offer it the way it was offered to us, casually and openly, and with no strings attached.  Our friends and family have been such wonderful examples, and I've learned from them.  I have learned to say thank you, and really mean it, then let it go when someone says "You're Welcome."  Those are lovely words.  

Image from here 

Happy 5774 Everybody!

From Tablet magazine

So, you know you're one of the chosen people when you get not just one new year, but two.  That's right, Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, is tucked into September every year to give us the chance to reflect and reform and to get a free pass on sweets, especially those made with apples and honey, the customary foods symbolizing the wish for a sweet and happy year to come.  The year (5774) is considered to be the anniversary of man's creation.  The recollection of the ending year that inevitably accompanies the new year is built neatly into the Jewish program, as Rosh Hashanah is ten days before The Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur, the day that G-d inscribes the names of those deemed worthy into the Book of Life for the coming year. Since none of us are theology scholars here-- well, I'm not, anyway-- and because I will surely make mistakes, I'm not going to delve any deeper into the religious roots and themes of the holiday, but if you are so inclined, and your new year's program for improvement includes study, you can read more here, on this site, and here.  As regular readers know, this blog is only peripherally about events and people and stuff in the world, so now we'll get to the heart of the matter:  what does Rosh Hashanah mean for me? 

The days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are meant to be a time of reflection, repentance, and forgiveness, to clear the slate for the year ahead.  Of course, as a compulsive reflector who doesn't need a holiday set aside to feel like there are things I could do better, I've already got a list of ways to try to improve 5774.  Here's a small sample:

1.  Let It Go. 
Not just say I'm letting it go, or simply know that letting it go is the right thing to do, but really Let It Go.  What is It?  Well, that depends, but for me, there are kind of a lot of things that seem to cause a sudden swell of bitterness or envy or regret.  Usually these things have to do with the past, or other people, or stuff I can't fix or control.  This year, I'm going to try to recognize them before that bitter taste or ugly word comes into my mouth.  Then I'm going to, you know, Let It Go. 

2.  Remember that the good fortune of others doesn't somehow subtract from my life. 
Sometimes it seems like there is a finite amount of good stuff that can happen, and it all seems to happen to other people.  I have actually heard myself tell other people that envy isn't logical because what someone else has wouldn't have necessarily been mine.  I am hereby telling that to myself:  someone else's money or free time or awesome vacation of which they Face booked several pictures every hour, doesn't take anything away from me.  I need to remember that when I start to feel twitchy about my own situation, wondering what I ever did to get shut out of the good stuff that someone else is getting. 

Next year, maybe I'll try to start working on the idea that the good fortune of others increases the good in the world, so I should be happy about the happiness of others.  Look for more about that in 5775...

3.  Take Responsibility.
Often, I think about things in terms of cause and effect.  When I'm thinking about the causes of difficulties in my life, it is pretty common for me to think about situations or circumstances or people (actually, I especially think of people) that I can blame as the cause of my unhappiness.  This year, I want to try to take responsibility for difficulties when I can, so that I can feel like I can make changes for myself.  To paraphrase, If not me, who?  After all, I can only change my behavior.  I know this, because for years, I have been utterly unsuccessful at changing or controlling how other people act, and frankly, I'm ready to give that right up.  That should leave me some time and energy to work on my own self.  Everything isn't my fault either-- I know that-- but only I can take responsibility for my actions and change them to make me happier. 

These are just the major issues for me.  There are a lot of sub-topics and side issues too convoluted and annoying and painful to go into here.  Not to mention, I'd like to be a little svelter, a little healthier, by 5775.  So there's plenty for me to work on while I try to cut back on the salt, fat and sugar.  And no one is saying I have to be perfect.  We're only human, after all, and this is not the religion in which people are expecting to be nominated for sainthood.  That's why Rosh Hashanah is celebrated every year.  There's always a slate to be cleaned. 

The days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur give us the chance to set up a good new year by Yom Kippur, when the new year's rituals come to a close.  Yom Kippur is a day of fasting and prayer, ending at sundown with a light feast to bring us back into every day life.  Unfortunately there is no mention of champagne, noisemakers, funny hats or other such New Year's revelry in the Torah, but, as long as you don't overdo it or give yourself something you'll need to repent next September, what could it hurt to have a little fun?  Here's to a rockin' 5774!

My Job, the TV Show

I know I alluded to my new job in my last post, and since I'm here, you know, "working," as I write this now, I thought I'd tell you a little bit about it.  But because the job is actually rather mundane, and some days, offers me lots of free mental time and space, I've begun to think of it as something with real possibilities-- at least in my own mind. Today is one of the slower days, so I have already obsessively checked my e-mail, Facebook and Etsy pages, played several rounds of Words with Friends, and destroyed countless gems in another mindless game.  It's almost noon. If I eat my lunch now, I will have nothing to get me through the eternal two to three o'clock hour which somehow stretches longer than any other in a 9 to 5 day.  Normally, I would say that 4 to 5 is the longest work hour, but I work in a little post office which closes at five so, that last hour is full of people rushing in to make sure their mail goes out before I do. Compared to the rest of the day, it often flies by.  

Picture from here 

The post office is a contracted sub-station inside a bicycle shop next to a supermarket about a block from my house.  Right there, I think we have the makings of a zany workplace sitcom of the sort that has not existed since the heyday of late 1970's-early 1980's television.  I'm thinking of something like Taxi here, but with bikes instead of cabs.  I see myself as an over-educated, under-employed (sarcastic, but humble) clerk reacting to the people who work here and the people who come in to mail things. 

There is the owner of the bike shop, a cute as a button, yet tough as nails, Canadienne who has recently purchased the bike shop from the man she used to work for.  She is a human Energizer bunny, the heart and soul of the place, darting here and bustling there, painting, tiling, wielding a wrench, assessing the damage to bikes brought in to be fixed, ordering, accounting, you know, doing everything it takes to run a bike shop. ( Maybe there's a multi-episode arc in here somewhere about how she falls for a customer who brings in a badly damaged sprocket... something to think about.)  She employs two mechanics, who are utter physical opposites (you know, one tall and thin, one shorter and round, like a perfect pair of Disney sidekicks) who are each good with the bikes and good for some snappy commentary and smart remarks as they shake a wrench at the sky, muttering about how awesome bikes are wasted on people who can't figure out how to shift the gears properly.   There is one more clerk/mechanic who works part time in the store and part time as a personal trainer.  He is a heart-of-gold used-car salesman of a man who has never met anyone with whom he could not strike up an enjoyable 45 minute conversation.  Oh, and I share the job with a woman named Lou, a postal sub-station veteran, though we work opposite days, so after the pilot episode, where she shows me the ropes (certainly replete with goofy postage mishaps) she would only drop in for "very special episodes."

Image from here

The customers fall into two main categories, though there are outliers all over lot.  The first group, which won't surprise anyone I'm sure, is the oldsters. The post office seems to be a magnet for everyone in my neighborhood over the age of 70. There are quite a few packages going to far flung relatives, especially grandchildren, and the chance to mail a package is also a chance to reminisce about when the mail didn't cost an arm and a leg. These people remember when a first class stamp could get a nice fat letter half way around the world. Good talk!  Good times!  

Usually, though, with just a single piece of mail in hand, a nattily dressed man or thoroughly coiffed woman walks slowly, very slowly, through the entire bike shop, sometimes with the aid of a cane or a home health worker and either a) asks me to make sure they don't need more than one stamp--"It felt a little heavy dear, just check, I don't want the phone company to return it and shut off my.... Oy my phone," or b) hobbles an extra four feet past me and my outstretched hand to forcefully shove their envelope through the after hours mail slot in the door next to the post office counter.  Just to mix it up, I sometimes get both with one customer, who asks me to weigh the letter, then grabs it from me before I can drop it in the box so that they can forcefully shove it through the slot in the door.   I see this as an opportunity for lots of fun guest spots with sit-com stars of bygone days to add a self-referential pop culture twist.  Or maybe someone like Betty White or Doris Roberts could appear every other episode or so, and pull the "weigh the envelope and grab it out of my hand" bit to peals of pre-recorded laughter.  

Children, also, don't seem to think some thing's been mailed unless they get to push it through a slot, but I don't want any pesky child stars gifted with an unexpectedly popular catch-phrase like "Did I do that?" or "Whatchyou talkin' about Willis?" to draw attention from the ensemble feeling of the show.

Picture from here

The other main category of customers is the growing group of Internet entrepreneurs  selling "handmade," "vintage,"and "found"  items on e-bay and Etsy.  They either bring in bushel baskets full of pre-paid packages and dump them unceremoniously all over the tiny counter, or try to bargain with me about postage for individual parcels, as in: "If I take this to the Main post office, this will be less, for sure, so what can you do for me?" or "You don't have to charge me extra for a tracking number, I come in here all the time..."  They like to disregard the fact that postage costs are set as federal rates and cannot be tampered with, even for the small business owner.  As a group, they are more assorted but less colorful than the oldsters, though their stories could bring the elements of sweet pathos that a successful show must have to go the distance.  And their creative recycling of packing elements and duct-style tape is always good for a visual joke. 

Another way this could go of course, is gritty (sub)urban drama. By taking a little license with the neighborhood I live in and moving it South and West about 10 miles, we have a whole new cast of characters with heart-wrenching stories-- purloined letters, snarled bicycle chain, a West Side Story-ish crossed stars romance:  "Baby, I told you not hang out with that boy from the bike shop!"   

But that's something for me to write on another shift....

*To be clear, I have lots of nice customers and good people to work with-- no disrespect meant to anyone here, of course.  I am thankful to have a job.

**Just another note-- I always try to carefully link credits to the random images I include.  If I make an error, I apologize to the original poster of the images.  

No Excuses Here, Just Explanations and Apologies

So here is how I picture the blog right now, readers:  it is a less than picturesque ghost town, extremely dusty, with a tumbleweed or two rolling aimlessly down the dismal, empty street of what was once a bustling gold rush town with a saloon and a general store, maybe a livery stable... Whoa Nellie! I'm getting farther off the track than ever.  (I'm such a geek-- I just went off and virtually checked whether I should say further, instead of farther, only to spend 15 minutes reading about how they are just about equivalent...)

"Really?" you might ask," is that kind of word-nerd lollygagging why it's taken so long to write a simple blog post?" And I might be tempted to tell you about the nasty summer cold I've had, or that I've been busy writing a couple of pieces for one of my favorite sites, The Equals Record, or that Delia is starting second grade and Fiona is going to start kindergarten, or the fact that I started a part time job about six weeks ago. (A job really does take up a lot of a girl's free time.)  All of these circumstances might have impacted my blogging productivity-- and indeed they have.  But because of the weird way my brain works (thanks to years of studying philosophy-- oh yeah, and law school didn't make me want to stop over-thinking this kind of thing either) I can offer these as explanations for why I haven't blogged, but not as excuses for failing to post.

...or not.  This image from here.

"What's the difference?" you might ask.  (Yeah, I have you pegged as pretty inquisitive.)  Or maybe you don't really care and maybe it doesn't really matter in this one-sided conversation I'm having with you. But there is an important difference between an explanation and an excuse, which I suppose is pretty obvious, but which I find is often skipped over in every day conversations.  An explanation gives just a reason for something, but an excuse is some kind of mitigating circumstance that somehow gives the offerer a pass for some undesirable behavior.  Like neglecting to blog.  To me, and to some other philosophers, an excuse also comes with an implied and valid request for forgiveness, or as we real people like to call it, an apology.  I don't know about you, but I get a lot of explanations offered to me as though they were excuses, and it doesn't make me feel too kindly toward the offerers.  Especially when the apology that might have been implied with a genuine excuse is never actually offered.

We tend to think that circumstances beyond our control are valid excuses, because, well, we couldn't control them, so they don't count against our valiant effort to do whatever it is we are supposed to do. So, a traffic tie-up on the interstate can be offered as an excuse for being late to a meeting, but stopping to have coffee and a chocolate cheese danish really can't, because, while I had no control over the traffic situation,  I could have easily built time into my commute for a delectable snack, to avoid being late and inconveniencing whoever I am meeting. Likewise, illness is usually counted as a genuine excuse, because, really, who would choose to be sick? On the other hand, even illness can fall out of the excuse category if someone is believed to be responsible for their sickened state (hello, hung over much?) Just to let you know, I have saved you whole philosophy books' worth of discussion about the difference here, but I think I've still gotten the salient point across, so, you're welcome.  And I'm not saying the philosophy is air-tight here, either, so I reserve the right to apologize in the future if I've been unclear or if I figure out a better way to explain this.  

I know, right?  From here.

Anyway, all I'm really trying to say here is that, while we can explain or offer reasons for some things, like I can for not blogging, we can't always offer excuses. And when we can't, maybe we shouldn't try.  Because people who do things like neglect their blogs, or come in late to meetings with chocolate on their faces and lattes in their hands, or step on your foot, or whatever people do to neglect, or inconvenience, or hurt you, should really understand that when they're only offering an explanation, it should come with a clearly stated apology.  And maybe a promise to do better next time, because, after all, they're asking you to forgive them, and still like them and read their blog and stuff.

So, I am really sorry if I let you down, because I really like you and hope you'll still read my blog. I know this is just a small thing in a big hectic world, but I'm going to double my efforts to blog now and heck, yeah, for avoiding other stuff that I really should do to be a good person.

Even though you're thinking, "Wait, what, she didn't blog-- who knew?  I was busy... but that's no excuse for not reading someone's blog, right?  I should do better..."  

That's why we're friends.  

Tumbleweed pic from here.

Not Some One's French Mother

Pictue of french chic from here

I wasn't thinking about clothing, or even about getting dressed, for that matter, when I stumbled on this article during my morning email reading/link clicking/ web-surfing, er I mean, my "pre-writing ritual." Yeah-- see, I do get ideas to write about during this "creative" morning period.  Just because I will not be posting about George Clooney's latest break-up (no surprise, she wanted to settle down?!) or Kim and Kanye's baby-naming antics (really, North West?  At least the poor little girl will have money for therapy and lawyers...) doesn't mean that I'm not revving up to write my next essay/rant/post. 

Anyway, the article outlines the differences between the ways typical American and French women dress, coming down firmly on the side of the tres chic French style.  Quelle Suprise!   I know it's silly, but I do pay attention to this kind of thing, and as you may know, there are whole books-- yeah books, plural-- comparing the cultural qualities of American and French womanhood, in clothing, attitude, diet and mothering skills, and they universally pronounce the French way superior.  I am always suckered  by these books and articles nevertheless, because they are almost always accompanied by a photo or illustration of a busy but chic thin woman looking fabulously put together, even though it is clear that she doesn't have to think about how she looks because really, she is just dropping off the tots at the ecole and picking up a baguette and some cheese for the evening meal, which she will whip together effortlessly by adding a bit of butter, something green, and an egg or two.  And she will never get fat (per this book), and she will never raise her voice to her children (per this book), because she has trained them since they were enfants, and an arched eyebrow or a raised palm will bring silence from the gallery d' peanut...

The truth is, I have looked approximately the same, dressed, since I had children.  I had my first at 18, so I guess  didn't look middle aged then, as I certainly do now, but I have looked like some one's mother since that first child was born.  Would it be better to look like some one's French mother?  Maybe, but even if I put on the trim jeans and the striped fisherman's tee, I won't look more put together, because something about me seems to be naturally rumpled.  

I could fit in with these gals...picture from here

It's not that I haven't experimented with different styles.  I went a year or so during grad school sporting the woman's academic look-- loose neutral or black layers, sensible European shoes and big Global jewelry, all topped off by wild, curly frizzy hair, or alternatively, close cropped angular hair-- The Eileen Fisher/ J Jill woman, comfy, yet brainy, with too much going on in her head to worry about being fashionable, yet too professional to actually teach class in her pajamas. 

This is kinda what I was going for
Picture found here

When I was going to lectures at universities in Boston, I tried out the academic preppy version, with the cords and scuffed leather boots and the big wool sweater with the tiny moth hole at the neckline to show that it was real wool, that my boyfriend had owned it since prep school, and that I was too intellectually preoccupied to do more than throw on some clean clothes and grab my books before heading out the door.  Still, no matter who I tried to be, I always looked like some one's mother. Possibly wearing a costume.   But I digress...

Back to the whole Franco-American thing.  First of all, I take issue with the notion of "typical" French and American women as they are usually portrayed, because we're actually comparing a pretty non-specific American mom demographic,  to some French group of women that aren't likely to be from the same slice of life.  Since I fall into a (lower) middle class (but way too over educated for my own good)  mom demographic, I have the feeling that  we are really dealing with some kind of cultural inferiority complex here.  This woman we aspire to be doesn't have to be French, but since so many people are extolling madam's virtues, we've got this idea stuck in our heads.*  I think we look to the French for examples because we-- and I really mean I, but come along with me here-- equate looking more put together, healthier, and like a calmer mommy, with being all of those things.  All of us-- and here I know I sometimes I totally forget, but stay with me-- know that isn't the case.  We all know a woman or two who seems to have everything together until we find out she doesn't.  I won't accuse the rest of you, but I know I'm always envious of the sleek, chill appearance and always more than a tiny bit glad when I find out her dark secret-- her kids get lice because she hasn't vacuumed in years, or her husband is leaving her for a slightly frumpier, but definitely warmer and younger version of herself. 

I guess what I'm getting to here is that I'm going to try to stop comparing myself to ideals, French or otherwise, and try to just be happy with my own rumpled self.  You'll see me at school drop off, or at the grocery store.  I'll be the one in the faded yoga pants and husband's college T-shirt with the washed and butterfly-clipped  hair.  I might be eating something fattening while I yell at my kids to stop whatever they are doing right this minute.  Say hi, because we ordinary moms need to stick together instead of trying to look like-- or feel bad that we aren't-- something else. 

*I have a theory that this goes back to at least Jackie Kennedy because her calm coolness somehow got conflated with her love of the French culture, but I don't teach cultural studies here on the blog, do I, so, really, who cares... 

Me TV

 I know I always talk about how I waste my time, but do I really talk about how I waste my time?  I know this will shock you, but sometimes I do it the same way everyone else does, just watching TV.  (You thought figuring out cold fusion, maybe?  Nah!)
Of course, I'm not usually in charge of viewing choices, so there's a lot of PBS Kids on at my house.  Curious George, Sid the Science Kid, Arthur & his gang are all regulars.  I know the theme song to Wordgirl by heart.  (Well, she is kinda my hero.  I think I would be totally at home on the planet Lexicon!) And of course, there is the process of introducing the girls to the shows I watched as a kid. Well, I was doing that, until they asked if the shows looked so weird because technology hadn't been invented when I was a little girl.  They did like the Vitameatavegimin episode of I Love Lucy, and they get Bewitched, which was my favorite at their ages. (They haven't caught up to the confusion of new Darrin yet.) We might go for Get Smart in a few years, just to make sure they know that Steve Carrell and Anne Hathaway are not the real Smart and 99.

Lately, they've developed a weird fascination with Full House, which was somehow anachronistic even when it was new.  And really, you try explaining the fact that little Michelle, that roly-poly baby ball of blond wisecracks, was actually played by the Olsen twins.  I showed the girls the Vogue magazine featuring the now skeletal Mary Kate and Ashley and their ready-to-wear empire, but I was met with utter disbelief.  "First, mama, there is only one Michelle, so two girls could not be her," said Fiona, the existential philosopher, and from Delia, the pragmatist, "Those girls don't even look like Michelle, because they have pointy bones." She diplomatically added,  "I think you might be making a mistake about this because the show was a really long time ago."  Since I'm really not equipped to explicate child labor laws as they relate to 1980's television production, and can't possibly explain how the baby fat melted off of the skeletal clothes hangers Mary Kate and Ashley are today, I've let it go.  Maybe they never were Michelle.  It was a long time ago. 

So I don't often get to pick what we watch, but when I do, (and here, I can't help but think of the Dos Equis guy, because, really, I watch plenty of TV) I confess that I am now a binge watcher. Since we gave up cable at the beginning of the year, we've used the much cheaper option of streaming TV to supplement the four channels (including PBS, thank goodness) that we can get with our modern day "rabbit ears."  And, like most everyone else who has such access, I can't stop myself from watching one episode after another.  Somehow, watching three so-so movies in a row doesn't do it for me, but I'll hit "watch next episode" over and over, given the opportunity. 

The Gg's at Luke's Diner, of course... from here

I usually pick shows I've seen, but never really gotten to watch attentively, because, you know, I have kids.  If I could, I would just watch the entire run of Gilmore girls over and over for the snappy repartee. Sadly, it is only available a few episodes at a time, because it still runs on some real TV channels somewhere in cable land.  But enough about strong female characters like Wordgirl and the Gilmores. What I've been watching lately is pretty much all British guys-- solving crimes, pretending to be Americans, sometimes doing both in the same show. 

Lately, there has been DI Lewis and his laconic partner Sgt. Hathaway on Inspector Lewis, the contemporary Oxford-set crime procedural. And before that, Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle, on Foyle's War, which is set in a coastal English town during World War II.    Both have new episodes on PBS this season, so I have been catching up by watching old episodes.  I see you yawning over there, but really, there is plenty of blood and sexual intrigue in these shows and the best thing about them is that the characters have an amazing way of shutting down bullshit with a quick phrase.  The writers of these shows have the  characters say the clever stuff that most mortals only think of long after the appropriate moment has passed.  Plus, I would argue that Lewis and Hathaway have dialogue almost as snappy as Lorelai and Rory, but in that bitten-off British guy way that sounds so much smarter than most of what's on our side of the pond. 

Three of the other shows I've been watching lately were cancelled long ago, but live on in the twilight of Netflix and Hulu, even though they have yet to achieve anything like cult status.   Strangely, though I'm not a fan of the season-ending cliff hanger, I can make peace with a show that will stay unfinished forever.  My taste clearly runs toward quirky antiheroes, men who are challenged by the system and by personal demons.  Yeah, I like my main characters complex and smarter than everyone else in the room... And all of them are English guys playing tormented American everymen?  Is that more than a little weird?

The first show is Life, which stars Londoner Damien Lewis, lately of the uber-popular Homeland, as Charlie Crews, a Los Angeles detective back on the homicide squad after serving twelve years in maximum security prison for a set of murders he did not commit.  While in the joint, he calmed down by reading Buddhist philosophy and getting into fierce fighting shape in solitary confinement.

His fantasy settlement with the city for his erroneous incarceration includes a truckload of money. Some of this he has used to buy a gigantic house which is set on a ranch where he grows all kinds of fruit, because it was the food he missed most while he was in prison. In addition, he got a promotion to detective, so he is solving murders and covertly investigating the crime for which he took the fall.  There are only a season and a half of episodes, and the first series unfolds like an origami swan as he pieces together who set him up and who the real killer was.  Adam Arkin plays his housemate and financial manager with a practical hangdog sincerity that balances Charlie's zen-spouting fruit-eating at home the same way his cynical, sarcastic detective partner Reese, played by Sarah Sahi, balances it on the job.  The second season, which we are watching now, is not quite as evenly paced, and is missing Reese, because Sahi took time off while she was pregnant. From what I've read, the last episode wraps up Charlie's saga because the show runners knew the axe was going to fall.  I'm almost up to that final episode, and I've enjoyed the ride.

Awake features another Englishman, Jason Isaacs, as Michael Britten, another LAPD detective with issues. (Are there no Americans to play LA cops anymore?) After a horrible car accident, Britten lives in two realities, never sure which one, if either, is a dream.  There are subtle differences in lighting and obvious differences in the cast in each part of his life, as in one reality his wife died in the accident and in the other, his son was killed. 

In each reality, he sees a therapist who is trying to convince him to let go of the other life because it can't possibly exist.  Incredibly, he manages to help his detective partner in each life solve a murder every week, using clues from both realities to piece the puzzles together.  It is a pretty complicated set-up, which is certainly why it only lasted one season, and it requires real attention, which is something unexpectedly diverting in a TV show.  The cancellation of this show was also certain, so the story line was wrapped up in a twisty last episode.  Isaacs did a good job conveying the torment and confusion of his character, expressing grief for his family and fear that he was somehow responsible for the whole thing.  There were also bits of humor punctuating the darkness and keeping viewers on track with the multi-layered plots.



Finally, I have to mention Eli Stone, which is found on HULU, because it is yet another British actor, Jonny Lee Miller (who is currently doing a modern day Sherlock Holmes on CBS, also good) as another American guy in a weird situation.  And because I love it irrationally.  Stone is a thirty-something big law attorney in San Fransisco who suffers from a series of hallucinations which often erupt into full blown musical numbers staged in offices, courtrooms, and Golden Gate Park.

Stone's visions cause him to stop the cut-throat corporate litigation that made him an asset to his national law firm and take up pro bono work which he believes will better the world.  While his visions are eventually explained as the product of an inoperable brain aneurysm, he interprets them as signs he should follow and declines medical intervention (except for the occasional acupuncture session which clarifies the visions somehow) because he prefers the purpose this shift in his life has given him.  The show is silly and philosophical and I'm sure that I was attracted to it when it came out because I was going to graduate from law school soon and wanted to see someone buck the billable hours trap and do some justice.  I have yet to see the wrap up of this show, but I know it did not get the neat finish of Life and Awake.  Still, I don't know of other shows where lawyers jump up on their desks and sing George Michael songs, so I will keep hitting next episode... until the kids want to watch Full House.