Almost missed posting for today. It's been a bit hectic. The new year doesn't seem to be cooperating any more than the old one did, but so far there is still much promise. A couple of days ago, I answered a Facebook challenge from my friend Filippa to post a couple of favorite pictures by an artist she would assign, and to say a few words about the artist. Filippa is gifted with immense insight and so I was unsurprised when I found my artist was Mary Cassatt. Cassatt was an American artist of the late 19th and early 20th centuries who found intellectual and artistic acceptance among the developing Impressionist school in Paris. My meager contribution for today is to share two of her paintings with you here.
The upper picture is called "Breakfast in Bed" and I love it because it so clearly shows the casual intimacy of mother and child-- there is something in the look on the mother's face that keeps the picture from being too sentimental-- something real and questioning that is more than just a loving motherly gaze. The painting is rather simple, but the feelings captured are complex. The lower picture is "Girl in a Blue Armchair" and I love it because it showcases the spectacular ease and boredom of being a child, and yet, it too, shows something more in the girl's expression and body language. I wish I knew how to analyze art more cleverly, but alas... I only know what I like. More tomorrow.
This is the second day that the girls are binge-watching DC Cupcakes. The show is about a pair of sisters in their late twenties or early thirties who still call their mother "Mommy." They own a cupcake shop in Georgetown. At least one of them has a husband with a job that pays well enough for them to open a shop without apparent regard for making a living. The binge started yesterday afternoon, when it was the only show they could both agree to watch on Netflix, on the computer, while Mike watched some obligatory New Year's Day football. We had already vetoed more episodes of Shake It Up. Thatthird season binge watch already happened between Christmas and New Year, but at least it gave them some exercise as they danced through the routines in every episode. We also said no to Wizards of Waverly Place, and anything else that originally appeared on the Disney Channel. Don't even get me started on what's wrong with Good Luck Charlie and Jessie, two shows that were apparently developed for the sole purpose of making complete fools of adults recklessly left in charge of precociously sarcastic children. It just makes me thankful that my kids haven't had a stable of comedy writers crafting their comebacks and zingers. Fiona's "Mom, you're just so squishy!" sounds bad enough without the polish of professional gag writing. But I digress.
The girls have always liked cooking shows. It started with the Pioneer Woman, Ree Drummond, who I find to be a little precious, even though I always like her recipes. I might be precious too if I was married to a cowboy and had abandoned the legal profession for a big Oklahoma ranch with my own cooking "lodge," instead of a tiny bike shop post office where I sneak the opportunity to write on my laptop. Now they like Trisha Yearwood, Giada, and strangely, Mary Ann Esposito of Ciao Italia.
(Not to take anything away from Ms. Esposito, who apparently has the longest running cooking show on TV, according to her website, but really, she's not exactly, you know, dazzling in her presentation.) When we had cable, we also used to watch some of the quirkier Cooking Channel shoes likeExtra Virgin (Imagine a contemporary I Love Lucy, with recipes, where Lucille Ball is played by Debi Mazar and her Tuscan chef husband takes on the role of the put-upon but fiery spouse. Add a gay bff standing in for both Fred and Ethel and sit back as high jinks ensue!) and my favorite, Bitchin' Kitchen with Nadia G. Nadia G. rocked five inch heels, knuckle rings, and ridiculously long fingernails while spouting philosophy and prepping three course meals, always clustered around a theme, such as "getting that Shmuck to finally propose" and "what to serve to your parents to prove you're really a grown-up." But I digress again. The DC Cupcakes phenomenon was a bit of a mystery to me, so I asked the girls what they liked about it. Delia said that she watches it because now she wants to be a cupcake shop owner and because they help a charity in every episode. I didn't even catch that, probably because of the constant whining on the show, but when I clicked back through the episodes, she was right, there was the Boys and Girls Club, the Susan G. Komen foundation, the ASPCA, and a couple of local Georgetown organizations that got big cupcake displays crafted by the sisters who alternately bake and squabble about who is bossier, who is smarter and who is really the important one in the operation. The cupcakes look delicious, and people seem to love them-- Fiona pointed this out as one of the show's virtues. But in every episode, they court disaster with over-ambitious projects which are always barely finished just as the cupcakes need to be presented for serving. Along the way, they routinely disagree about how to execute these projects which inevitably involve chicken wire, dowels and blow torches, not to mention hundreds of cupcakes precariously affixed to themed sculptural displays such as gigantic bras and diamond rings. "They are really life sisters," says Fiona, when I point out how much they argue, "of course they fight." "Yeah," says Delia, "they're together 24/7 and their mom drives them crazy. They get on each others nerves. Who wouldn't?" And yet, she wants to own a cupcake shop. She says she might let Fiona work for her. Maybe. All I know is that they've watched four episodes while I've written this, and they are still smitten. I find the sisters to be ridiculously neurotic and self-absorbed, but I guess that seeing grown-ups act that way must be as entertaining to children as seeing grown-ups consistently outwitted by sarcastic children. Hey, call Disney-- they may want to add frosting to their usual formula. They could have a real hit on their hands...
Cupcake image from here. Images of Mary Ann Esposito and Nadia G. are from their respective homepages.
Today was a quiet day. The girls are still pretty well amused with the things Santa and their wonderful extended family brought them, and the gaps between sessions with the Barbie Glam Vacation house and the still-new art supplies are filled with some time spent with Hulu and Netflix. I read the whole New York Times from this past Sunday and a few sections from the previous week. I even got partway through the crossword puzzle. And, of course, I cooked and baked a little and cleaned a little-- more like tidying I guess, but still... I won't get up tomorrow and reel in horror when I walk out of my bedroom. Starting the year with reasonable expectations is the name of my game.
That's right. New year: January 1st, 2014. Am I the only one asking where the hell December 2013 went? I know I spent more time than usual at work, and the little post office was crazy-busy, so the days flew by as the packages piled themselves into what looked like gigantic forts and the Christmas cards filled bins and boxes at my feet. By the time I looked up, my oldest son had graduated from college-- no really, he did. We went and watched the ceremony in a gigantic crowd with his wonderful partner and her family. We all saw him get his diploma on the Jumbotron usually reserved for awkward wedding proposals and instant replays of questionable basketball shots. I just have to say that my son has four syllables in his full name, and two of them were mispronounced. But hey, who am I to quibble with the venerable degree-granting university? As long as his name is spelled correctly on the diploma. My younger son turned twenty nine, and spent the holiday week with his girlfriend's family across the country. That week I rushed along myself, I am sure, because I am always happier knowing he's back home. There are plans for an engagement next fall. All of this means that, by this time next year, I will have two sons over thirty... but that's not the point is it? Both of them have college degrees and long term relationships. The Jewish mother sighs gently, but is not crying...really. And then there are the little girls. Last night, to ring out the old year, we replaced dinner with a family cocktail party, feasting around the coffee table on appetizers like layered bean dip and pigs in blankets which we washed down with sparkling wine (grown-ups) and "kid champagne" (sparkling cider) for the young ladies. Today Delia, the seven year old, slept late and stayed in her pajamas all day, giving us a sneak preview of what it will be like to have a teen-aged girl around the place. The five year old Fiona annoyed the crap out of her all day, in all the little ways that little sisters do, giving us confirmation of what the next 10 or 12 years will be like. Every. Day. But as I work on this, I can hear the girls giggling in their beds. They have been shushed and bribed and threatened, but still, they are not sleeping. Delia is reading to Fiona, and I can make out every other word or so at first, but then Fee gets quiet as she gets into the story. "...and then the sisters were finally friends. The end," drifts toward me in Dee's small, clear voice, and then "now go to sleep." And it's quiet for a minute, and maybe they finally are friends, at least until morning. You weren't stellar, 2013, but you didn't break me, either. Here's to 2014 and all it brings-- may it be a good year for all of us. Image from here
I ran across this little video today, on Facebook, where I often worry that I am wasting my time. Finding things like this lets me know that I am not always wasting time.
The video is an animated snippet of a talk by Dr. Brene Brown, a TED talk phenomenon and, for want of a better term, a motivational speaker (though I hate the term, as it always conjures up a van down by the river) who is an expert on shame and empathy. The idea so delightfully expressed here is that what we say to those around us, especially those who are struggling, isn't as important as our connections with them. To make a real connection, we have to offer genuine understanding. We do this, according to Dr. Brown, by linking our own experiences to those of the person in front of us. Sometimes though, all we can do is let someone know that we care about how they feel, and that we are willing to listen without making judgments about their situation. Now you see why this has been so cleverly illustrated above-- it's cumbersome to explain how to be empathetic. What really caught my attention, though, is the contrast drawn between empathy and sympathy: empathy gets into the muddle with you, while sympathy offers to fix you a sandwich. I tend to go into problem solving mode when people share their troubles with me, and I realize how much this is like offering a sandwich, rather than a lifeline, to someone who is drowning. As a pretty analytic person, my first response is to identify the cause of a problem then formulate a solution to alleviate it-- see, that doesn't even sound like being a good friend, it sounds like being an auto mechanic. (Not that auto mechanics can't be great friends.) This reminds me of a time, about 25 years ago that a friend called to tell me about something awful that had happened to her. She related her story and I immediately started to throw out ideas for her next steps. She cut me off in mid-sentence, and said, "I didn't call you to solve the problems, I just wanted you to listen and let me know you understand how much this sucks." I don't think I got the lesson at the time, but this video brought that back and reminded me of how much I don't know. I'm gonna keep working on that.
*This video was brought to my attention by Brain Pickings, which I have mentioned here previously. Can't say how much I really love this website, even though I remain less than lukewarm on the name...
I was very happy to have spent last month posting every day on the blog, for the reasons I've already mentioned. There was, however, one issue that detracted from the overall personal success. I had to be at the computer for some part of every day. And even though the NaBloPoMo was taken up to help me build writing habits, it did nothing to improve my Internet gluttony and the Internet meandering that comes with it.
During the summer, I decided to try to spend one day, usually Sunday, without using the computer at all. I picked Sunday, not for the holy, "Sabbathy" connotations, but because it is a day there is no business to do that can't wait until Monday. I was doing pretty well too, because not doing something seems easier than actually doing anything. I read the Sunday paper to get information, but never sat down at the computer all day. And it was good. I started the Internet fasting idea after realizing that I spend a lot of time just noodling around on the net, and even though I find really interesting things to read and look at and cook and try to DIY and put on the blog, etc., there is something about the browsing that is always unsatisfying.
When I find something cool, there is always a nagging thought that I must also be missing something, possibly many somethings, even cooler. You follow a link, it leads to an article, which contains a link to a video on a site you've never visited before. There is that "Aha" moment of finding something new, but for me there is also a reminder that there is a ton of other stuff I'll never link to, just because I don't know it's there. I would have to multiply my computer time by ten to even get half of it, and that would, I'm sure, also increase the feeling that there was more that I hadn't seen, and so on, and so on, like the old Faberge shampoo commercials where the model with silky hair keep multiplying, and so on, and so on.
On a related note: I had totally forgotten that Heather Locklear did this commercial, and I just lost almost twenty eight minutes reading about her illustrious career. I forgot all of the shows she'd been in. Spin City? TJ Hooker? Dallas... Wow. I mainly remembered that she was married to Richie Sambora and that she was rumored to have dated David Spade. Then I had to look him up-- and how is he related to Kate Spade, superstar handbag designer? (brother in- law) and how long was he on SNL? I was only thrown free of that Internet twister when I stopped to wonder how I ended up watching a clip from Tommy Boy-- hey, when did Chris Farley pass? How long was he on SNL? Did he ever date Heather Locklear?)
You can see that I need help. Or I could end up living in a van down by the river. Yeah, I followed the Chris Farley thread. I hang my head in shame...
This is why I have to cut the fat out of my Internet program. I spent what I think was a productive forty five minutes "unsubscribing" (take a moment to shudder at the made up tech word, then let it go) from a few dozen email lists for things like stores and surveys and alumni groups. That cuts down on some of the meandering and on the sheer bulk of email checking. There is something almost depressing about seeing that your inbox is overflowing with the electronic equivalent of auto glass ads and coupons for free bikini waxes when all you want to do is get some information. I also just have to go back to limiting the time I spend at the computer. I can write on-- get this-- paper, or at the computer without having to open the Internet browser. But it's so seductive. You know... I'll just play some music... I'll open Spotify and oh, wait, I just need to Google something real quick... Oh look, something sparkly! Yeah, once I turn it on, it's all down hill, so I have to have more will power. More? I mean some. Some will power.
That's the ticket-- will power. I'll just totally control all my impulses to distract myself on-line. Yeah, right. Then, for my next trick, I will lose fifty pounds by "eating right" and avoiding chocolate and other tempting treats.
Maybe I'll just work on the Internet thing first...
This post is my thirtieth in a row, marking the end of November and NaBloPoMo-- National Blog Posting Month. I have managed to post something every one of the last thirty days, though I will own the fact that a few days contained much less original writing than others. In my own defense, I want to say that the fine print on this post a day thing excluded weekends, but I posted seven days a week. This is mostly because I didn't figure out that weekends were exempt until after I had done weekend posts, but also because of my dedication to my craft. Yeah, that's it... dedication....craft. Yeah. I am glad I was able to exert some self-discipline. I am chronically helpless in that area, what with the procrastination and the rationalization and all of the other things I have to stop doing to sit down and write. That was one of the reasons I did this. I wanted to get myself to my desk more, and this exercise did really help. I also found that the more I wrote, the more subjects suggested themselves to me as good possibilities for the blog. The more subjects there were, the more I wrote and the more... I think you get my drift here. So, good times, good talk. Thank you to everyone who has read the blog and commented on it and shared it. The encouragement means a lot to me and I think of you all when I am writing. I don't know if I can commit to continuing to post daily, but I'm hoping to manage five days a week, just to keep in shape. Now if I could only find a way to make myself exercise as often as I write....
This is the second year in a row that I have not worked in a store on the day after Thanksgiving. Before that, I worked twenty four straight. That's twenty four Black Fridays. That's twenty four years of working a retail holiday season. Do I have to tell you that I didn't miss it? That I won't miss working in a store on Christmas Eve, when the fabric of polite customer relations has worn thin and frayed at the edges and the holiday gift desperation is so thick you could cut it with a knife? I don't think I have to tell you.
This year, inside my little post office at the back of the bike store, people are strangely gleeful as they express their "sympathy" for the fact that the next few weeks are going to be "really crazy busy." What is that about? Why are people I don't even know so smugly happy that I will be ridiculously busy trying to assist postal customers with their holiday mailing needs? I can see the smirks, the "glad I'm not you" giggles, that are barely concealed as they inquire about how I'm going to handle it all. "Oh, you know," I say, "one day at a time," and smile angelically before I look over their shoulders and call out, "Next!" Well, let me say, there are only about three weeks of mailing mayhem to get through before it's too late to get a package to your loved ones in time to tuck it under the tree. Anyone can get through three weeks of being stressed out and busy for eight hours a day. I mean, I was pregnant four times, that's 160 weeks, all together, at forty weeks each time. If I can get through that, especially those last eight weeks every time when it feels like someone is standing on your bladder, (thirty two weeks all together) then I can get through a three week holiday postal season. And I've done it before-- twenty four years in a row, as I said. I don't see how people waiting to mail packages can be ruder or less cooperative than the guys who got into a fistfight when one of them tried to take cuts in the line while I worked for a well-known retail bookseller. Or the women who had a shouting match in the dressing room over the last black sequined tank top (they both wanted the petite medium.) In the meantime, today was a gift. Mike and I spent a quiet day together, and we each got a turn to pick what we wanted to watch on TV without someone crying or shouting, "NNNOOOO! This is soooooo booorrring!" We ate leftovers and made turkey sandwiches and had a chance to catch up, like we need to do once in a while. The girls went with their cousins and Uncle Matt and Aunt Sheli to do some Black Friday shopping at the mall, and then to the movies. I know they're already looking forward to next year, and so am I.
