Elinor Dashwood

All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy

Clay and I watched the Shining this past weekend. Unsurprisingly, I had never seen it before-I usually curl into the fetal position at the mere mention of a scary movie. But I put on my big girl pants and twisted myself into the space between clay's torso and his arm, and found myself  genuinely enjoying the experience. It was beautifuly shot and haunting and moody and just really cool. I especially loved Danny, the kid. So everything was going great until I see this one scene...

Some background for those who haven't seen the movie: Jack is a writer, and needs time to write. So he takes a job as an off-season caretaker for a beautiful old hotel in Colorado that closes from October to March.  He brings his wife, Wendy, and his son, Danny along for the lonely and isolated winter months. Lots of creepy shit happens in the hotel, and the whole family is starting to go a little mad, especially Jack (In fact, while watching, you're never really sure if there are real ghosts or everyone is just losing their shit. I digress...) One day early in their stay, Jack freaks out at Wendy for interupting him while he is working. You see, he is getting a lot done, he explains, and everytime she comes into the room to ask an inane question, he loses his concentration. This complaint of being interrupted and the fact that he is typing a lot throughout the movie, makes it seem like he is getting a lot done on his book.

Well, towards the end of the movie, after more creepy and moody stuff happens, Wendy comes into the room while Jack is not there. She looks down at the typewriter and the stack of writing that he has done and sees this....

 

The same phrase is written over and over again, with different indentations, sometimes in bold, sometimes italics. Wendy frantically flips through the large stack of papers which looks like part of a finished manuscript, its all the same: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"

I understand that this is supposed to be a super tense moment for Wendy. She suddenly realizes that Jack is officially crazy and has been since they got there. He is not working, he is just insane! He then comes up behind her and does more threatening stuff. But I think I found this scary for different reasons.

You guys...this is kind of like my dissertation! I have funding from my school and from an external grant, and the idea is that they give me this money so that I can make ends meet and sit down at a desk and write write write...get all my research out into a form that other people can, you know, read.

But here is what actually happens: Clay leaves for work each day, and I get up and sit at my desk. I check some regular internet sites. I read a little. I pay bills or any other innane thing I can think of. And  then I finally manage to write a little.

Well that's good, you may say. What do you write? Well, I have more than 50 documents on my computer labeled things like "writing effort #4," "chapter 3 ideas," "blahblahblah," "ideas about 'movement' and 'identity'" (what?!), "Intro chapter outline," "ideas for young adult novels." Each of these documents have some substantitive things in it, for sure (maybe not the young adult novel ideas). But there is also a whole lot of repetitive shit that is no way suitable for anyone else to read, and nothing in a finished form.

What I am trying to get at here is that I sympathize with this character that is supposed to be terrifyingly crazy. This scene was not scary to me because the wife realizes she is married to a crazy man, this scene was scary to me because it made me think of how awful it will be when people actually read what I should have been working on for almost a year now! Sometimes I have nightmare-like visions of my advisor or even Clay going through these documents and turning to stone because of their horror: "this is what you've been working on all this time?" I might as well have typed "All work and no play make jack a dull boy" over and over on two reems of paper- at least that would have made me a candidate for some sort of mental health care rather than just a  person who just can't manage to get their shit together.

 

 

Lady Vacation # 2

As if Lady Vacation # 1 wasn't good enough, I had a lady vacation #2 all lined up for when I returned. My two life-long friends came out to San Francisco to visit- and I used that as an excuse to avoid work for another week.

I don't have biological sisters, but these two fill that gap. Except we don't really ever fight, which I heard is common place in sisterhood.

We did a few toursity things, but balanced it out with mandatory cocktail hour (or mocktails and fauxhito's for the one among us who is expecting). We also partook in viewings of harry potter, NBC thursday night line up, and Easy A. There was much relaxing and chatting, and a hike or two thrown in. If it weren't inherently creepy, I wish we could all be sisterwives.

 

One of our hikes at Half Moon Bay

 

Now, after two beautiful lady vacations, it is back to work for me. I have another conference paper to finish, and I have to, like, really start getting more work done on this fucking dissertation.

Lady Vacation # 1

This past April has been a doozy- in the best possibly way.

The month started out with preparations for a conference.  I spent a week  writing and rewriting my paper while breaking into cold sweats and convincing myself that everyone at the conference will soon discover my deep secret...that  I am an idiot and the university and granting institution should immediately revoke my funding. But despite terrible dreams, cuticle biting of legend, and innumerous hastily prepared snack concoctions, the paper went well. I also had a good and productive dicussion with my advisor who was on the same panel, and who I haven't seen for months. Then the conference was over. ah. It is good that I got this work stuff done at the beginning of the month. It made me feel less bad about enjoying the next few weeks...

The morning after I returned from the conference, I jetted off to Hawaii with my friend- because you know, I am so fucking fancy like that, la-di-da. It was an all-expenses paid vacation courtesy of my friend's company (My poor friend's husband could not attend in the guest/spouse slot due to his work,  so I happily filled in)

It was a pretty fancy vacation- with lots of upgrades and amenities. In our first-class seats on our way there, the flight attendant kept referring to us as "her ladies." Examples: "How are my ladies doing over here?" "Can I get my lovely ladies some more warm nuts?" "Would my ladies care for a top-off on their wine?" Answers: "We are doing great!" " Yes, please!"  "Don't mind if I do!" It is really nice having a kind and courteous woman refer to you as "her ladies."

In Maui, and then over on the Big Island, we swam, we lounged, we sipped wine and cocktails, we ate delicious food, we paddleboarded, we shopped, we saw some historic sites. But we also (and I am very proud of this) went running, hiking, golfing and even spent an hour in the gym when it rained one afternoon. We were active and sporty, and didn't once feel fat, lazy or hungover. This is a big step for me- I was able to really really enjoy a vacation like a responsible and active adult! (activiaaaaaa)

Outside Mama's Fish House in Maui

The Banyan Tree in Lahaina. All those "trunks" are really roots of the same tree.

Beach at our resort in Hawaii (The Fairmont Orchid)

Us being active and sporty

 

The coolest experience was our out-rigger canoe ride one morning in Maui. We left the beach at six. The "beach boys" were sort of pissed that we were going out early. One kept making passive agressive comments about having to get up early-this was weird and annoying. It would have made me feel bad if it weren't so obvious and rude. But then, almost as if to spite this annoying guide, a baby whale came to play with us (see, you would have missed this if you slept in, asshole). I mean, the baby came really really close, a few feet. The baby was HUGE. And then, the mother surfaced shortly after, also about 6 feet from our boat. I was something like scared, but not quite scared- more just in total awe of these giant creatures, and very aware of how little I was in comparison to these guys. 

These were with my friend's small digital camera. There is no zoom, by the way...





We also got to just spend time together to chat and bitch about random things. One night, during one of these chat/bitch sessions, we ate dinner of salads and onion rings on our lanai (porch) in our robes and drank a bottle of wine. It was amazing. I am lucky to have a friend that has hookups to cool vacations like this, of course. But we could have had almost as good of a time in SF together if just given time to ourselves, is what I am trying to say without being too cheese.

Just like the flight attendant, many thought it quaint and kind of cute that we were two grown ladies vacationing together.  And they were right, it was quaint and cute. And relaxing and fun. At times, I think we both were a little sad not to be able to share some of the more amazing and romantic moments with our respective husbands (the company gala slow dances just weren't the same), and we were both very excited to go home and see our spouses again, but lady vacation # 1 was pretty much amazing.

Cheesemonger: Bench memorials

Have you seen the movie Notting Hill? Well, I wasn't crazy about it the first time I saw it, but it has grown on me  after repeated cable viewings. The dearth of quality post-1990s romantic comedies makes it look even better in hindsight. The sister with the "peacock feathers for hair" who busts into Anna in the loo is pretty great, so are all the other friends, come to think of it. And I would love to see a real version of the Henry James movie-within-a-movie that Anna stars in towards the end.  But my favorite cheese part is when Julia Roberts/Anna-wearing her hair in very flattering braids and a slightly dated but pretty embroidered jacket-reads aloud the inscription on the bench inside the private park (just after the annoying oopsie daisy bit):

"For June, who loved this garden. From Joseph, who always sat beside her."

tear.

I have always loved benches (probably because my dad is a bit of a bench connoisseur; according to him, the benches in Pt. Pleasant NJ are the best in the world, close second is Williamsburg, Va. San Francisco benches are just okay). And in recent years, besides just loving benches, I have really come to appreciate bench memorials.

My favorite bench inscription is on the Cornell campus, on top of Libe slope. It overlooks the rest of West campus, with a phenomenal view of the surrounding countryside and Cayuga Lake. It's a great place for sunsets. It was always a treat when i walked past and the bench was empty. I could sit for a while and spend my time reading the inscription a few times:

"To those who shall sit here rejoicing

  To those who shall sit here mourning

        Sympathy and Greetings

    So have we done in our time

           -Class of 1892"

 

God! I love this inscription. It elegantly sums up exactly why I love bench memorials in the first place: a connection with these past people who also loved this spot.  It makes my problems feel less oppressive, yet still important and meaninful. All my happiness seems linked to those who were happy before me.  I love the idea that whoever wrote this inscription was thinking about us in the future. And I love that tons of people will sit on that bench, maybe imagining that crazy class of 1892. It is just so generationally interactive. And how great is it it that there can be a  form of memorial that has very little to do with death. There is no body underneath, and no lingering cloud of grief,  profound sadness or pain. I find bench memorials are often hopeful, and encouraging- past generations telling us to go on and enjoy ourselves just like they did.

Yesterday on my walk through the park (see below), I walked by a section of benches that I don't normally see. There were some really good ones...

I like that Mildred was a history buff. I am too! Who wrote the inscription on the plaque? Was it her husband? Or a dear friend? Or a "lover" (I can't use that term without some sort of qualification such as quotation marks). Whoever did, and for different reasons, I loved that they chose the wording "dear friend." It is also amazing to think that she was born in 1900, and lived for 99 years. I wish I had the courage and social talents to strike up conversations with more people of different generations- including the older people in my own family-and get stories out of them. What was SF like in the 1920s, Mildred?!

These Kennedy sisters sound so awesome to me. Have you ever noticed what funny stories sisters have about each other and their families? Some of my favorite sets of sisters always seem to get into such wild antics with each other. And these Kennedy sisters, who loved San Francisco, must have been doing some crazy things around the city. I'm assuming Bliss was the youngest. I bet she was also the craziest- getting tanked on martini's at Tadich's and cutting a rug with various boyfriends at the St. Francis. I bet Edith sometimes scolded her. I mean,  Edith was the oldest, and probably had to take care of her younger siblings for most of  her teens, so of course she was less carefree and more conscientious than the others. Don't hate on Edith.  I bet Anne was a quiet bookish type. And Agnes and Flo were twins, I think. You know how mischevous twins can be. Did they have any brothers? 

 


"Maff"!!!!!!

This one is really sweet, I think. Betty, like me, is probably so grateful to live in SF. And she is so grateful for her parents for making that move. Maybe it was a really challenging one? Where were they coming from?

This one is so simple and to the point, and yet so evocative. The image of these two walking through the park with Fox (I am assuming fox was a dog, and not their son), it is just really...  nice. No better word for it.

So those were some of my favorites from Golden Gate park. I love that they all are so cognizant of place. All these people loved San Francisco, and probably loved the very spot between the ocean and the park where these benches all sit. I bet they would all get a kick of hipsters sloppily making out with each other on those benches (maybe not Joseph and Fania, they were probably pretty conservative).

 

Walk in the Park

I went out to a bar last night with Clay and his two college friends. I had a few drinks- not too many. But these days, "not too many" is more than enough to still feel like shit the next morning.

I woke up with a vague headache, which is expected and easily treatable. But then, the weird depression/shame feeling started to sink in- this is a relatively newish phenomenom. I am 99% positive that there was no shameful behavior. I did not throw up, I did not pee my pants, I did not sing and dance wildly at a half-empty bar, I did not make out with anyone innapropriately, I did not insist on ordering food at 1am and then pass out before it got there, I did not lose any jewelry or accessories, I did not black out. Not even a little bit.

And yet, I am still vaguely unsure about my behavoir...was I an asshole to the friend of a friend that was there? Did I rudely eat far more than my fair share of the spicy cashews that were on the table? Was I talking too loudly about nonsense that no one cared about? Clay assures me that I did none of these things.  But I still have a feeling of nebulous regret.

I think there might be a chemical reaction to alchohol that is setting in on the eve of my 30's. For the first time, i am noticing that it is literally a "depressent" in that I feel noticably depressed and ashamed after I drink. 

Today, In order to shake the feeling, and stop acting so needy and sad over NOTHING while Clay was trying to get some work done, I went for a long walk through the park. And I brought my camera.

This made me feel a lot better. I noticed things in the park that I normally don't. And I felt like I was blending in with the other tourists on vacation. I am so lucky to live in this city, and a year from now, who knows if we will be heading somewhere else. Better appreciate it instead of wallowing in my hangover.

Some of my favorites from the day...

 

I love Eucalyptus trees. They make the park smell like a spa. And I think they are so pretty, in kind of a shabby-chic way, as if they are in the process of being stripped and repurposed for a trendy furniture store. 

 

I'm not sure what kind of trees these are, but there are a lot of them, and I think they are enchanted.

A half-hidden birdhouse (or perhaps a gnome cottage)

 

More trees

 

Lil guy and his bubble-gun at the windmill. The tulips are still there, and now joined by whatever those blue flowers are.

 

A note on geography for anyone who has not been to SF or Golden Gate Park: The park ends right at the ocean, and gives way to a beautiful (though ever so slightly seedy) beach.  Hipsters and hippies abound.

 

   

 

I felt sort of better after my walk. The ocean is a weird thing though. It can be great for perspective, calm, and optimism. But sometimes, in the late afternoon especially, it can be just a little bit sad and lonely. But in a kind of good way?

 

I am irritated by...(part I)

I was born and bred in New Jersey, and have yet to adopt the generally sunny and positive disposition of the people of my new state (California). I have a soft spot for people who complain or are generally assholes. For instance,  I feel a deep connection to the characters on Seinfeld. In that spirit, and since I am tired of writing about late-eighteenth-century Tuscarora villages in New York State, here is a small list of things that annoy the shit out of me...

-Leaky take-out coffee cup lids, especially when you can't locate where the leak is originating. At one point, I was convinced that I could avoid this if I simply made sure that the hole was not aligned with the cup seam. But even with this trick, I still get a leaker once in a while, usually when I am wearing a nice outfit in a light color.

-Leaning over to pick up something off the ground while wearing a shoulder bag or purse. It swings around and gets in your way, and sometimes, the bag contents will even pour out and roll all over. Infuriating.

-Unsecured objects that move violently through the car during simple traffic procedures such as stopping or turning. Special mention goes to papers and other pieces of detritus that are left on top of the dashboard.

-the color pinwheel that sometimes possesses my cursor for upwards of 5 minutes (on my 7 year old mac laptop)

-having to reach into the back seat for something while I'm driving (even worse if that something weighs more than two pouds)....negotiating that angle with my shoulder and arm makes me want to weep in frustration and rage (like one of those really emotional yoga poses).

-Unnecessary dish dirtying (e.g when someone takes out a cutting board to cut a sandwhich)

-Those checks that my credit card sends me three times a month despite multiple requests for them to cease this type of mailing. Does anyone actually use these?

-the word "supper." Disgusting

To be continued...

 

Our Clean and Clutter-Free Apartment

 

While procrastinating, I love looking at decorating and home improvement blogs. I usually leave these blogs with an odd mixture of inspiration, jealousy, and defeat. I start with ideas like "Wow, that is great what they did there...we could totally do that in our apartment."

But then reality sets in and I remember that: we can't paint our walls; I wouldn't want to bother painting even if we could paint our walls... after a brutal run-in with bedbugs three years ago, I am terrified of buying things from flea markets and garage sales to "reclaim" with funky blue paint or new stain...we don't have a lot of spare income to devote to svelt mid-century low-back couches and other such "pieces"... while I can be crafty, I am terrible at attending to minute details that seem to be essential in these job-well-done-makeovers.  And so, I go back to the work at hand, slightly depressed.

Sometimes though, when in a better mood, I am so happy with our apartment. Clay and I have both done such a good job in recent years of getting rid of clutter and junk. Our walls are clean, our tables and flat surfaces are mostly empty, ready to be used for organized and non-cluttered work. Our closets are not bulging with unwearable capri pants and oversized felt gauchos bought for a 1999 fraternity costume party. I have become pretty good at making sure that the orchids last for at least three months (which means not overwatering and keeping them out of direct light). When we do finally have the time and energy to add some style, we will be starting with a clean and organized empty slate. As a former pack-rat, I am really proud of this.

Who is at my door?

  



This is the little speakeasy hatch in the front door of my apartment. It is the most curious little architectural detail. When I swing the lil guy shut, there is a small lever to lock it in place (useful should a burgler try to invade the apartment with his finger). When it comes open by accident, the apartment get's noticably colder. Sometimes, I open it to make sure the hall light is off. 

I have not once had the chance to use it for its intended purpose...to check the identity of the genteman caller outside my door. Opening the door for the food delivery person would be a golden opportunity: "Hello, are you from Sri Thai?" I could whisper through the portal before opening the door. "Yes? Okay, great, just a sec, see you on the flip side," I would respond as I shut the baby door, unlocked the big door, and signed the credit card receipt.  I never have the courage to do this- it seems rude for some reason.

The weirdest part about this little door is that it is just big enough for both the caller and the apartment resident to see each others' faces- the fancy brass bars are not intricate enough to prevent eye-contact. What if it were someone I did not want to let in?! "Yes, sir, I see you there, looking back at me, but you seem strange and I will not let you in." (not sure why all the visitors are male in my imagination?) Very awkward. This must have been why the peephole was invented!

Pairings

Last night, Clay and I went to one of his coworker's house for a dinner party. The "dinner" portion of the party turned out to be an 8 course tasting menu, with a wine pairing for each course. The food was delicious, as were the wines, and the scotch tasting after desert wasn't too shabby (aren't we the fanciest fucking couple!)

I don't think there is anything better than a good food-n-wine pairing. But I am not capable of maintaining that level of fabulousness on a long-term basis.  Luckily, I am able to seriously enjoy food-n-food pairings, and food-n-drink pairings that are more pedestrian, and yet still give me the special joy of finding accompanying flavors so that when you go from one item to the next, and back again, pure magic occurs. Some of my favorites that I have learned over my years of distinguised eating experience...

-Rootbeer and New England Clam Chowder

-Coke and Pizza (obvi)

-Shortbread cookies and chedder cheese

-Caramel and milk

-Hot Tea and butter cookies with jelly (like a lindsor tart, or random bakery cookie w/Jelly in it)

-Honey and hard cheese (parmasean, romano, manchego, pecorino are all good ones)

-Vanilla Ice cream and club soda

-McDonalds Chicken nuggets and their sweet and sour sauce

-Coffee and White Cake with white icing (obvi)

-Steak with blue cheese (and red wine- of course)

-Fetticini alfredo with marinara on the side

-Gummy bears and naturally tart frozen yogurt

-Orange soda and pretzels

-dill pickles and tuna fish salad

-lemonade and strawberries

-champagne and swiss cheese

 -bbq beans and macaroni & cheese

Awful, helpless feeling (warning: grim)

http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/meast/11/02/iran.woman.execution/index.html?hpt=P1

This story has gotten under my skin, in the same way that all executions sort of haunt me. I find them horrifying.  After reading news or even a fictional story about an execution, I carry around  a sick, uneasy feeling for days. The crime that led to the punishment doesn't seem to matter too much, though the idea of an innocent being put to death is of course even more profoundly disturbing to me. I don't have a clear moral or even logical reason for objecting to any form of capital punishment- it is entirely visceral, it makes me feel ill.

Ashtiani's story is espeically horrific for me to think about. I think it is the sense of doom that really gets to me. Her grim death is inevitable in the next few days, and there is a sense of helplessness. She, and her lawyers and family, are at the mercy of a completely opaque process. Attempts at questioning or protest can, and have been, met with incarceration. Sorry for the downer to anyone reading this- I just feel so ... I don't even know! sad? It is really at times like these that I wish I were a more practiced prayer. I usually can't stomoach people who talk about the power of prayer. yuck. I certainly don't like it when someone I don't know tells me that they are praying for me; I usually want to tell them to mind their own business (though when it happens, I simply smile, tightly). But when something seems so awful and helpless, I sometimes wish I could be more effective at sending my energy and thoughts towards someone else.