I liked this one, actually. And quite a bit.
First off, you have your standard-issue feisty heroine, Anne Beddington. Then you have stolen diamonds, murder attempts, a trip from England to South Africa, mistaken identity, bizarre military dudes and a wealthy lady of leisure.
Anne, our protagonist, gets involved in the intrigue when she is hanging out in a train station and thinks a man is looking at her in horror. He collapses, is checked on by another man, and pronounced dead. Anne realizes this other man was probably the one being looked at by the dead man, so she follows him and picks up a piece of paper he drops with a curious inscription. Being recently orphaned, nearly penniless and with an appetite for adventure, Anne decides she'll follow the clues (which lead her to the ship, which is on its way to South Africa, after a long digression into some other real estate matters of the dead man) and see just what is going on.
On the ship, Anne finagles her way into a particular cabin and, at a seemingly appointed time, a man knocks on her door. He's stabbed, and he's not particularly nice to her. Of course, this means they must eventually fall in love. He's not badly hurt, but reader, his head, his head is not right.
Anne also hooks up with Mrs. Suzanne Blair, who takes long vacations without Mr. Blair and, seemingly, with Colonel Race, who is a recurring Christie character. Blair is kind of hilarious, like the Samantha of South Africa, but without the affairs.
At any rate, there are a lot of twists and turns, my favorite being the one where Anne falls off a cliff and is knocked unconscious for "about a month" during which time the comely man and a "hideous" native woman attend her. Yes, this is Christie, yes, she's not one for the natives, yes yes and yes, it's racist. Somehow Anne doesn't die of starvation or feel embarrassed about having had bodily functions in a hut for this man to see (well, let's be honest, it's probably the local woman's job to deal with that).
The two naturally fall madly in love, find the diamonds, turn down a huge inheritance to live in the jungle forevermore, and end scene.
The most interesting thing about this book is that it reads kind of like a video game. There are set puzzles that must be solved (by the reader and characters) before the next puzzle, and then there's sort of a reveal of a puzzle you didn't expect at the end. Linear? Yes. But kind of fun and things click into place instead of being all confusing until the end.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Secret Adversary
Agatha Christie gets a lot of flack for the creation of Tommy and Tuppence, two young stand-ins for herself and her husband Archie (get it, Archie and Agatha? Alliteration?). Tommy was a wounded warrior in WWI, Tuppence was a nurse, which is basically the Christie life story. I suppose critics think T&T to be indulgent, or just silly, and no doubt they are. But they are a relief from dealing with Hercule Poirot and especially Hastings. Tommy is the "dumb one," but he's just dumb enough to solve the mystery. Tuppence is the intuitive one, but she's not so intuitive we can't follow her train of thought.
The story kicks off with the two meeting after the war, broke and a little depressed, deciding to form a "Young Adventurers" agency, no "unreasonable offer refused." Detecting! It's a lark! They get caught up in international intrigue when Tuppence is declined their first case because she falsely gives herself the name "Jane Finn," a name Tommy overheard at a restaurant and considers supremely ridiculous (really? THIS is a ridiculous name? Compared to, I dunno, Tuppence?). I suppose the ridiculousness of "Jane Finn" doesn't translate to today.
Curious, T&T advertise for more information about "Jane Finn" in "the papers." They are then contacted by a man from a British intelligence agency and an American millionaire (a jewish guy whose dad made a killing in the steel industry, and of whom Tommy ignorantly remarks on his "unfortunate ancestry." Apparently Christie was kind of a bigtime anti-semite, according to a recollection from a book in a letter to the New Yorker that I can't link to) who is Finn's cousin. Finn was on the Lusitania, and was apparently asked to take a packet from an American that contained some sort of treaty that now, five years later, will have major negative impacts on the British government. Which is why they suspect that a certain "Mr. Brown," head of some kind of Commie group, wants it. So he can bring down the government with an overly-kind-to-Germany treaty that was never enacted. How touchy were people back then? "You tried to avoid war with Germany? That's it! I'm going communist!"
And yes, Christie hates commies.
I suppose what is so interesting about this book, besides the fact that T&T get a millionaire to give them money to do detective work that they've never done in their life, is that in spite of the fact that the government is on the precipice of failure, the parlor aspect of this thriller keeps it claustrophobic. It's like Christie has this sense of space that is collapsed. Very little happens outdoors, and when the treaty is apparently hidden outside it is in a tiny crevice that is easily identified along an easily-found path. T&T are always meeting the millionaire at the Ritz, eating in a deli called the Picadilly, and going to Marguerite Vandemeyer's apartment. Even a co-conspirator of T&T's, a little lift boy named Albert, works in an elevator. Even when Tuppence is shepherding Jane Finn to safety along a street, when Christie is finally dealing with a kind of open space, it is supposed to be menacing because they are surrounded by bolshevists.
When Mr. Brown is finally revealed, yeah, it's a surprise. I got fooled, I'll admit it.
But I can't really read a 300-page book waiting for the surprise ending. I need a little more than that, and the scope is both claustrophobic and yet not much psychologically is going on. Christie has been given a lot of benefit of the doubt for knowing "how people work" with their murderous impulses in a quiet setting. But she's a racist, an anti-semite, her writing depends on caricatures and her "good" people are kind of boring. Maybe pessimists like what they see, but I'm wondering if I'll make it through another few books without giving up.
The story kicks off with the two meeting after the war, broke and a little depressed, deciding to form a "Young Adventurers" agency, no "unreasonable offer refused." Detecting! It's a lark! They get caught up in international intrigue when Tuppence is declined their first case because she falsely gives herself the name "Jane Finn," a name Tommy overheard at a restaurant and considers supremely ridiculous (really? THIS is a ridiculous name? Compared to, I dunno, Tuppence?). I suppose the ridiculousness of "Jane Finn" doesn't translate to today.
Curious, T&T advertise for more information about "Jane Finn" in "the papers." They are then contacted by a man from a British intelligence agency and an American millionaire (a jewish guy whose dad made a killing in the steel industry, and of whom Tommy ignorantly remarks on his "unfortunate ancestry." Apparently Christie was kind of a bigtime anti-semite, according to a recollection from a book in a letter to the New Yorker that I can't link to) who is Finn's cousin. Finn was on the Lusitania, and was apparently asked to take a packet from an American that contained some sort of treaty that now, five years later, will have major negative impacts on the British government. Which is why they suspect that a certain "Mr. Brown," head of some kind of Commie group, wants it. So he can bring down the government with an overly-kind-to-Germany treaty that was never enacted. How touchy were people back then? "You tried to avoid war with Germany? That's it! I'm going communist!"
And yes, Christie hates commies.
I suppose what is so interesting about this book, besides the fact that T&T get a millionaire to give them money to do detective work that they've never done in their life, is that in spite of the fact that the government is on the precipice of failure, the parlor aspect of this thriller keeps it claustrophobic. It's like Christie has this sense of space that is collapsed. Very little happens outdoors, and when the treaty is apparently hidden outside it is in a tiny crevice that is easily identified along an easily-found path. T&T are always meeting the millionaire at the Ritz, eating in a deli called the Picadilly, and going to Marguerite Vandemeyer's apartment. Even a co-conspirator of T&T's, a little lift boy named Albert, works in an elevator. Even when Tuppence is shepherding Jane Finn to safety along a street, when Christie is finally dealing with a kind of open space, it is supposed to be menacing because they are surrounded by bolshevists.
When Mr. Brown is finally revealed, yeah, it's a surprise. I got fooled, I'll admit it.
But I can't really read a 300-page book waiting for the surprise ending. I need a little more than that, and the scope is both claustrophobic and yet not much psychologically is going on. Christie has been given a lot of benefit of the doubt for knowing "how people work" with their murderous impulses in a quiet setting. But she's a racist, an anti-semite, her writing depends on caricatures and her "good" people are kind of boring. Maybe pessimists like what they see, but I'm wondering if I'll make it through another few books without giving up.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Big Four
A Chinese dude, a French lady, an American multi-millionaire and an English actor walk into a bar ....
No no no no no. This is not a joke. This is an Agatha Christie novel. Specifically, "The Big Four."
"The Big Four" kicks off in an odd way. Poirot announces to Hastings that through his amazing brainpower, he is certain that the whole world is controlled by four people (referenced above.) These people kill a bunch of little people who know their secret. Rather than having a long, novelized mystery, we get a kind of ... thriller? ... here. It's a fairly hilarious one, with a French lady scientist who allegedly dwarfs Marie Curie, a big-talking American with money to burn (literally), an inscrutable Chinaman (Christie's choice of words) who may be Number One in the Big Four, but doesn't seem to be too active, and the enforcer, who is an English actor so skilled he becomes whoever he acts as, except for retaining a murderous impulse. Other than that, I'm not quite sure what he's good for.
If the whole thing sounds a bit James Bond-y, at the end there is a fortress built into a mountainside with a labyrinth to its entrance.
I am going to have to give it up to Christie for the fact that this thriller is not only a piece of work of its time, what with its stereotypes and such, but it is ahead of its time with its sheer corn-pone thrills, chills and setups. Never before has Hastings knowingly walked into dangers, and never before has Hercule Poirot faked his own death (then pretended to be Achille Poirot, his "brother"). This is some stretching for her, and it shows her to be a master campiste before camp was a thing.
The only thing that is missing is sex. But hey, she's English. Breaks must be given.
No no no no no. This is not a joke. This is an Agatha Christie novel. Specifically, "The Big Four."
"The Big Four" kicks off in an odd way. Poirot announces to Hastings that through his amazing brainpower, he is certain that the whole world is controlled by four people (referenced above.) These people kill a bunch of little people who know their secret. Rather than having a long, novelized mystery, we get a kind of ... thriller? ... here. It's a fairly hilarious one, with a French lady scientist who allegedly dwarfs Marie Curie, a big-talking American with money to burn (literally), an inscrutable Chinaman (Christie's choice of words) who may be Number One in the Big Four, but doesn't seem to be too active, and the enforcer, who is an English actor so skilled he becomes whoever he acts as, except for retaining a murderous impulse. Other than that, I'm not quite sure what he's good for.
If the whole thing sounds a bit James Bond-y, at the end there is a fortress built into a mountainside with a labyrinth to its entrance.
I am going to have to give it up to Christie for the fact that this thriller is not only a piece of work of its time, what with its stereotypes and such, but it is ahead of its time with its sheer corn-pone thrills, chills and setups. Never before has Hastings knowingly walked into dangers, and never before has Hercule Poirot faked his own death (then pretended to be Achille Poirot, his "brother"). This is some stretching for her, and it shows her to be a master campiste before camp was a thing.
The only thing that is missing is sex. But hey, she's English. Breaks must be given.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Murder of Roger Ackroyd
I can't believe I've gotten this far! Four books in!
Okay, so this is so far the best of the books I've read, and no doubt it is in part because Hastings is taking a break from Hercule Poirot's confusing methods of solving mysteries. Instead, we get a mild-mannered country doctor telling the tale. This was also the only time I've called the murderer early on in the book (is it because Dr. Sheppard is a better narrator? Mmmmmaaayyyyybbeee).
The characters are still total cliches, but act less cliched than in previous books. We've got a tart-tongued gossip, Dr. Sheppard's sister. We've also got a strange undercurrent of English upperclass interbreeding, in that the nephew and ward? Stepsomething? of the murdered man are expected to announce their engagement any day as the book opens. These are way more interesting than a "girl with nervous eyes" to my mind.
At any rate, the good doctor describes his last night seeing his great friend, Roger Ackroyd, as the book kicks off. Roger's wife has killed herself, and revealed in a letter who it is that has been blackmailing her over an old secret she's been carrying, but Roger, darn it, just won't finish the letter in front of the doctor. In fact, he puts the letter in his desk before he even sees the name. The next morning, he is found dead, stabbed with a piece of unnecessarily dagger-like cutlery from the silver chest.
Who killed him? Could it be his prodigal nephew who could use a few quid? His efficient and handsome secretary who has debts to pay off? His sister, who is generally intolerable? Her gorgeous daughter, who hates her dependency on her uncle? One of the creepy, secretive servants who haunt the house?
Or someone else entirely?
But I want to get across that this was so far the most readable, the most enjoyable and most subtle of the books of Agatha's I've read so far. Hercule Poirot's frenchisms are kept to a minimum (sort of), and while Agatha uses characteristically broad strokes to create her characters, she's wielding her paint brush a little more carefully than in past books. It was almost a pleasure! And it reminded me of the good time I had reading her books at my grandmommy's house on summer vacations.
In memory of my grandmommy Ruth, I just leaned back in my chair, put my arms on the arm rests, clasped my hands and rocked a little using my feet on the ottoman. That's just how she rolled. I think she and I shared the attitude that, while we were reading, we'd develop theories about whodunnit, but ultimately, the story was going where it was going to go and we just enjoyed the ride. And with "Ackroyd," I was able to do that instead of get caught up in the clunkerishness of Christie.
This, I have to say, was the first mystery where all the clues ultimately made sense at the end, at least for me. And it was nice having a non-Hastings narrator, even if he (spoiler alert!) dies at the end.
Up next: The Big Four.
Okay, so this is so far the best of the books I've read, and no doubt it is in part because Hastings is taking a break from Hercule Poirot's confusing methods of solving mysteries. Instead, we get a mild-mannered country doctor telling the tale. This was also the only time I've called the murderer early on in the book (is it because Dr. Sheppard is a better narrator? Mmmmmaaayyyyybbeee).
The characters are still total cliches, but act less cliched than in previous books. We've got a tart-tongued gossip, Dr. Sheppard's sister. We've also got a strange undercurrent of English upperclass interbreeding, in that the nephew and ward? Stepsomething? of the murdered man are expected to announce their engagement any day as the book opens. These are way more interesting than a "girl with nervous eyes" to my mind.
At any rate, the good doctor describes his last night seeing his great friend, Roger Ackroyd, as the book kicks off. Roger's wife has killed herself, and revealed in a letter who it is that has been blackmailing her over an old secret she's been carrying, but Roger, darn it, just won't finish the letter in front of the doctor. In fact, he puts the letter in his desk before he even sees the name. The next morning, he is found dead, stabbed with a piece of unnecessarily dagger-like cutlery from the silver chest.
Who killed him? Could it be his prodigal nephew who could use a few quid? His efficient and handsome secretary who has debts to pay off? His sister, who is generally intolerable? Her gorgeous daughter, who hates her dependency on her uncle? One of the creepy, secretive servants who haunt the house?
Or someone else entirely?
But I want to get across that this was so far the most readable, the most enjoyable and most subtle of the books of Agatha's I've read so far. Hercule Poirot's frenchisms are kept to a minimum (sort of), and while Agatha uses characteristically broad strokes to create her characters, she's wielding her paint brush a little more carefully than in past books. It was almost a pleasure! And it reminded me of the good time I had reading her books at my grandmommy's house on summer vacations.
In memory of my grandmommy Ruth, I just leaned back in my chair, put my arms on the arm rests, clasped my hands and rocked a little using my feet on the ottoman. That's just how she rolled. I think she and I shared the attitude that, while we were reading, we'd develop theories about whodunnit, but ultimately, the story was going where it was going to go and we just enjoyed the ride. And with "Ackroyd," I was able to do that instead of get caught up in the clunkerishness of Christie.
This, I have to say, was the first mystery where all the clues ultimately made sense at the end, at least for me. And it was nice having a non-Hastings narrator, even if he (spoiler alert!) dies at the end.
Up next: The Big Four.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
short bits
So a while back Slate ran a story about how Agatha Christie used multiple (and I mean a lot) notebooks through which she scattered notes about various plots and characters and wrote multiple variations of each mystery (so there might be different endings). The article acts totally shocked that she might not have known who the murderer is when she started writing each book. I think it's an intricate writer who can set out multiple possibilities and, as they are weaving their plots, pick the ending they believe fits best.
However, we are talking about novels here. Apparently Christie had such a bounty of ideas that even before she wrote novel #3 she published a book of short stories, "Poirot Investigates." Many of these stories don't involve murder and, let's face it, jewel thievery is just not as compelling as cold blooded murder. So I'll give her credit for dumping them into a book of short stories. And I would imagine she used a method of just scratching out her stories based on her ideas that she couldn't stretch out into a novel, with characters who don't stretch out much, either.
And there's the key, right there. The things that make Christie's books problematic are all in each of the stories -- the thin characters, the elaborate set-up, this actual quote: " 'Well isn't that most queer,' I ejaculated" -- without the things that redeem her novels in such great measure -- the twisted psychology and the meditation on place.
I have to admit that I couldn't finish "Poirot Investigates." Too much Hastings (which book #4, "The Murder of Roger Ackroyd" keeps in London while Poirot heads to the country. A kindly elderly doctor plays the Hastings role, and it is his sister, who is very into the town gossip, who provides any sense of depth of place that the narrator, well, lacks. But more on that later), too much surface flash.
I feel a little dejected in not finishing it, but it was putting me to sleep. I am really hoping I will get a break with some Miss Marple. I remember her as being awesome. I hope Christie comes up with her relatively soon in my journey.
However, we are talking about novels here. Apparently Christie had such a bounty of ideas that even before she wrote novel #3 she published a book of short stories, "Poirot Investigates." Many of these stories don't involve murder and, let's face it, jewel thievery is just not as compelling as cold blooded murder. So I'll give her credit for dumping them into a book of short stories. And I would imagine she used a method of just scratching out her stories based on her ideas that she couldn't stretch out into a novel, with characters who don't stretch out much, either.
And there's the key, right there. The things that make Christie's books problematic are all in each of the stories -- the thin characters, the elaborate set-up, this actual quote: " 'Well isn't that most queer,' I ejaculated" -- without the things that redeem her novels in such great measure -- the twisted psychology and the meditation on place.
I have to admit that I couldn't finish "Poirot Investigates." Too much Hastings (which book #4, "The Murder of Roger Ackroyd" keeps in London while Poirot heads to the country. A kindly elderly doctor plays the Hastings role, and it is his sister, who is very into the town gossip, who provides any sense of depth of place that the narrator, well, lacks. But more on that later), too much surface flash.
I feel a little dejected in not finishing it, but it was putting me to sleep. I am really hoping I will get a break with some Miss Marple. I remember her as being awesome. I hope Christie comes up with her relatively soon in my journey.
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Golf, the deadliest game
Not.
"The Murder on the Links" is Agatha Christie's second published book. Now, a million years ago in the 90s when I was a college student I spent a summer working in a bookstore. An enormous one in a former Wal-Mart in Little Rock. I thought it would be rough because there would be so many amazing, awesome books inside that I'd want to read them. HA! Guess again! We had about a million copies of "Who Moved My Cheese," and they were displayed in these elaborate pinwheels that rose from the floor. We did this with basically all the bestsellers. The genre sections were also quite large. And as I was an uptight, snooty college student, I did not then care too much to read completely brain-dead books, so I was basically out of luck when it came to inspiring reading material there.
What I'm getting around to saying is this: There was a whole corner of the store dedicated to golfing junk. "A Good Walk Spoiled" was another floor-based pinwheel of a book, but there were clearly a lot of golf-based titles that had been rushed to press and tons of golfy knick-knacks in this area, which was almost as big as the Bible and flanker Bible section, which in Arkansas is saying something. There are entire mystery series dedicated to golf (tired of those links yet?).
And Agatha Christie seems to have figured this out as early as 1923, which is when "TMOTL" was first published. Christie also seems to realize how deadly golf actually is, in the sense that it will kill you of boredom, so besides the dead man being found on a golf course that is going up next door to his house, golf does not figure into this mystery. Indeed, of the construction of a golf course in smalltown France, one would think would make a kind of development-based mystery, because those things are expensive and often their cost is offset by building expensive, tacky homes (of the sort the French would revile) around the course. And what rich guy (like M. Renauld, the dead man) wants to live next to a bunch of nouveau riches! Incitement to murder, yes, I can see the motive now! But Christie was probably not used to that sort of development, the second half of the 20th Century not having happened at that time.
So Christie sets us up with a meet-cute on a train to Calais between Hastings and "Cinderella," a cute girl who is a tad too tart for Hastings. And by that I mean she's basically not going to faint into a dead swoon when he looks at her. Also, she's a stage performer -- the kind who sings and dances and (horrors!) does acrobatics in performances with her twin sister (raunchy!). And I believe this is still an age where copping to being a woman who performs onstage also basically means copping to taking money for sex.
Because if a woman enjoys attention that much, she must be a prostitute, right? Yeah, I don't follow the logic either.
But don't worry -- Hastings follows this "logic" completely because he is not about questioning the dominant paradigm. So when he gets back to the London apartment he is sharing with Hercule Poirot (like THAT doesn't sound suggestive, even though Hastings is very quick to mention he has a whole separate room, he's probably only doing it so he sounds rich, not like he's in love with Poirot), he believes a note that Poirot has received, begging the help of this famous detective by a rich man saying he needs help, is totally legit. But Poirot assures him that no, the handwritten, "For God's sake, come!" at the bottom is a calculated ploy. And calculation always gets Poirot's juices flowing.
So it is back to France for Hastings. On a rich man's dime. Lucky, silly Hastings.
Well, immediately on arrival Poirot and Hastings learn that the Renauld son (as they say in France, Renauld fils) has been cut out of the will because it looks like he wants to marry the penniless girl next door, whose mother might be Renauld's lover. Already, I can think of some "Lone Star"-y, "Chinatown"-y reasons this union might not be so eagerly desired, but to her credit (or something) Christie is not going to go there.
Dang it.
Okay, again, she gets in some nice twists, and even has Hastings kind of figuring out stuff a little (but not all the way, that is for Hercule to do), and underestimating women like mad. As I recall from childhood, Hastings' constant undervaluation of women's capacity to be smart, conniving and athletic leads him to not solving mysteries.
Before the book ends, marriages will be saved, others will be thwarted, identities will be revealed, the French police will look like fools and, of course, the golf is completely irrelevant.
But if Hercule Poirot is supposed to be so smart, why did he spend the 500 francs he wagered with the French policeman on a statue of a dog for his mantlepiece?
The mystery never ends. Ever.
"The Murder on the Links" is Agatha Christie's second published book. Now, a million years ago in the 90s when I was a college student I spent a summer working in a bookstore. An enormous one in a former Wal-Mart in Little Rock. I thought it would be rough because there would be so many amazing, awesome books inside that I'd want to read them. HA! Guess again! We had about a million copies of "Who Moved My Cheese," and they were displayed in these elaborate pinwheels that rose from the floor. We did this with basically all the bestsellers. The genre sections were also quite large. And as I was an uptight, snooty college student, I did not then care too much to read completely brain-dead books, so I was basically out of luck when it came to inspiring reading material there.
What I'm getting around to saying is this: There was a whole corner of the store dedicated to golfing junk. "A Good Walk Spoiled" was another floor-based pinwheel of a book, but there were clearly a lot of golf-based titles that had been rushed to press and tons of golfy knick-knacks in this area, which was almost as big as the Bible and flanker Bible section, which in Arkansas is saying something. There are entire mystery series dedicated to golf (tired of those links yet?).
And Agatha Christie seems to have figured this out as early as 1923, which is when "TMOTL" was first published. Christie also seems to realize how deadly golf actually is, in the sense that it will kill you of boredom, so besides the dead man being found on a golf course that is going up next door to his house, golf does not figure into this mystery. Indeed, of the construction of a golf course in smalltown France, one would think would make a kind of development-based mystery, because those things are expensive and often their cost is offset by building expensive, tacky homes (of the sort the French would revile) around the course. And what rich guy (like M. Renauld, the dead man) wants to live next to a bunch of nouveau riches! Incitement to murder, yes, I can see the motive now! But Christie was probably not used to that sort of development, the second half of the 20th Century not having happened at that time.
So Christie sets us up with a meet-cute on a train to Calais between Hastings and "Cinderella," a cute girl who is a tad too tart for Hastings. And by that I mean she's basically not going to faint into a dead swoon when he looks at her. Also, she's a stage performer -- the kind who sings and dances and (horrors!) does acrobatics in performances with her twin sister (raunchy!). And I believe this is still an age where copping to being a woman who performs onstage also basically means copping to taking money for sex.
Because if a woman enjoys attention that much, she must be a prostitute, right? Yeah, I don't follow the logic either.
But don't worry -- Hastings follows this "logic" completely because he is not about questioning the dominant paradigm. So when he gets back to the London apartment he is sharing with Hercule Poirot (like THAT doesn't sound suggestive, even though Hastings is very quick to mention he has a whole separate room, he's probably only doing it so he sounds rich, not like he's in love with Poirot), he believes a note that Poirot has received, begging the help of this famous detective by a rich man saying he needs help, is totally legit. But Poirot assures him that no, the handwritten, "For God's sake, come!" at the bottom is a calculated ploy. And calculation always gets Poirot's juices flowing.
So it is back to France for Hastings. On a rich man's dime. Lucky, silly Hastings.
Well, immediately on arrival Poirot and Hastings learn that the Renauld son (as they say in France, Renauld fils) has been cut out of the will because it looks like he wants to marry the penniless girl next door, whose mother might be Renauld's lover. Already, I can think of some "Lone Star"-y, "Chinatown"-y reasons this union might not be so eagerly desired, but to her credit (or something) Christie is not going to go there.
Dang it.
Okay, again, she gets in some nice twists, and even has Hastings kind of figuring out stuff a little (but not all the way, that is for Hercule to do), and underestimating women like mad. As I recall from childhood, Hastings' constant undervaluation of women's capacity to be smart, conniving and athletic leads him to not solving mysteries.
Before the book ends, marriages will be saved, others will be thwarted, identities will be revealed, the French police will look like fools and, of course, the golf is completely irrelevant.
But if Hercule Poirot is supposed to be so smart, why did he spend the 500 francs he wagered with the French policeman on a statue of a dog for his mantlepiece?
The mystery never ends. Ever.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
More Teeth, more mystery
Got a temporary crown, and I can't even chew on the right side of my mouth. It's been over a week, and I am pretty sure that I should say something to the dentist before I get the permacrown. But there is a part of me that thinks, "Gosh, maybe he'll want to do a root canal, and wouldn't it just be best to chew on the left side of your mouth forever instead?" Logic fail, I know.
Okay, so I have taken on a new project. I'm reading Agatha Christie. Because I need the escapism, and because her books are basically the very first parlor mysteries and are the first to incorporate the reader knowing all the clues the detective knows. Allegedly. And also because I'm a prospective genre author (two chapters and ... not counting at the moment) and why not take a page from one of the greats? Two billion books in print, she must know something, right?
And so, the first Agatha Christie mystery, "The Mysterious Affair at Styles." Which sounds less like a mystery than a creaky noise from the attic that only can be heard when one is alone at the full moon ... yeah. No, it's a mystery.
Here's how Agatha gets right down to business: In Chapter One you not only get a full exposition of how the woman who is about to lose her life has gone and married some much younger weirdo and alienated her stepchildren, you get her "factotem" storming off in a huff warning that the husband will be the death of the dead woman, a somewhat dependent and annoying child of a family friend who works in a medical dispensary and the full-on bearded poison expert from Germany. I know, a likelier crowd of killers could not be assembled if you tried.
You also get Hastings for the first time. Hastings! He's so dumb! Even you, on the ride of detection with him, are like, "Dude, you are so dumb!" Possibly for his time ("Styles" was written in 1916 and published in 1920) he was not so dumb, because Hastings makes a lot of assumptions based on gender, ethnicity, social class and it's not like he's alone in old-timey land there. The n-word makes an appearance in this book, which I presume was anachronistically preserved, as though in amber, for readers who will be like, "Wow, times sure have changed." Readers will say the same thing when learning Christie used the word "ejaculate" as something men do verbally. Tee hee hee and all that, right?
So, Hastings is dumb. But enter Hercule Poirot! The brilliant Belgian! He's so deviously clever you'll never guess what he's thinking, and frankly, he rather likes to lay down misdirection and I don't see why because honestly, Hastings may be too dumb to understand his direction. Okay, so Hastings might give away the game inadvertently, I see. This is, in all probability, to be a pattern in future Poirot novels (at least as I recall from childhood readings of Christie).
I suppose that a true critique of the novel would be to say that it doesn't really have much of say about the greater say. It really is all about the parlor, and not even Hastings' military service, which was apparently somewhat traumatic, can change that. The drama of a cougar marrying a younger man is only important in its relation to the property that is at stake, for example. Heck, the suspects' (and Hastings') relationships don't extend out beyond the folds of the lawn. Hastings makes eyes both at Mary Cavendish, the stepdaughter-in-law to the victim, and Cynthia Murdoch, the "sister" (a term British hospitals stopped using recently) at the hospital who is attractive enough to get the other Cavendish brother (who has some cash coming his way and won't give her a semi-pity-proposal like Hastings does. Oh, dumb, dumb Hastings!)
In all, the structure is pretty complicated but solid. Nice twist at the end. And the only clue we readers do not see is the one where the murderer basically confesses the entire plan in a written attempt to make sure an accomplice knows where everything stands. No code words, even. Come on, murderers. Step it up a notch, will you? That was possibly the clunkiest part of the whole book. Who is that dumb?
Not even Hastings. Not even Hastings.
Up next: "Murder on the Links."
Okay, so I have taken on a new project. I'm reading Agatha Christie. Because I need the escapism, and because her books are basically the very first parlor mysteries and are the first to incorporate the reader knowing all the clues the detective knows. Allegedly. And also because I'm a prospective genre author (two chapters and ... not counting at the moment) and why not take a page from one of the greats? Two billion books in print, she must know something, right?
And so, the first Agatha Christie mystery, "The Mysterious Affair at Styles." Which sounds less like a mystery than a creaky noise from the attic that only can be heard when one is alone at the full moon ... yeah. No, it's a mystery.
Here's how Agatha gets right down to business: In Chapter One you not only get a full exposition of how the woman who is about to lose her life has gone and married some much younger weirdo and alienated her stepchildren, you get her "factotem" storming off in a huff warning that the husband will be the death of the dead woman, a somewhat dependent and annoying child of a family friend who works in a medical dispensary and the full-on bearded poison expert from Germany. I know, a likelier crowd of killers could not be assembled if you tried.
You also get Hastings for the first time. Hastings! He's so dumb! Even you, on the ride of detection with him, are like, "Dude, you are so dumb!" Possibly for his time ("Styles" was written in 1916 and published in 1920) he was not so dumb, because Hastings makes a lot of assumptions based on gender, ethnicity, social class and it's not like he's alone in old-timey land there. The n-word makes an appearance in this book, which I presume was anachronistically preserved, as though in amber, for readers who will be like, "Wow, times sure have changed." Readers will say the same thing when learning Christie used the word "ejaculate" as something men do verbally. Tee hee hee and all that, right?
So, Hastings is dumb. But enter Hercule Poirot! The brilliant Belgian! He's so deviously clever you'll never guess what he's thinking, and frankly, he rather likes to lay down misdirection and I don't see why because honestly, Hastings may be too dumb to understand his direction. Okay, so Hastings might give away the game inadvertently, I see. This is, in all probability, to be a pattern in future Poirot novels (at least as I recall from childhood readings of Christie).
I suppose that a true critique of the novel would be to say that it doesn't really have much of say about the greater say. It really is all about the parlor, and not even Hastings' military service, which was apparently somewhat traumatic, can change that. The drama of a cougar marrying a younger man is only important in its relation to the property that is at stake, for example. Heck, the suspects' (and Hastings') relationships don't extend out beyond the folds of the lawn. Hastings makes eyes both at Mary Cavendish, the stepdaughter-in-law to the victim, and Cynthia Murdoch, the "sister" (a term British hospitals stopped using recently) at the hospital who is attractive enough to get the other Cavendish brother (who has some cash coming his way and won't give her a semi-pity-proposal like Hastings does. Oh, dumb, dumb Hastings!)
In all, the structure is pretty complicated but solid. Nice twist at the end. And the only clue we readers do not see is the one where the murderer basically confesses the entire plan in a written attempt to make sure an accomplice knows where everything stands. No code words, even. Come on, murderers. Step it up a notch, will you? That was possibly the clunkiest part of the whole book. Who is that dumb?
Not even Hastings. Not even Hastings.
Up next: "Murder on the Links."
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Blog post with teeth
So I got my teefies cleaned today. My hygienist, Terri, told me they are great, barely scraped me with her poky metal wand of unbearable screech-making and sent me on my way. AFTER the dentist told me I need a crown to replace a big old filling. I am putting it off till May. Then I will have to make the AWFUL choice about whether I want to get the sweet, sweet embrace of Morpheus' gas OR watch a movie during the 1.5 hours of "shaving down" my tooth.
I want every distraction I can get, frankly.
So in May I'll have to come up with the perfect movie for getting a crown to. It will need to be involving (obvs) without being too scary (duh) or too emotionally fraught/talky. I am up for suggestions.
In the meantime, I have posted some preliminary France pics from the honeymoon on my Flickr page with commentary.
I learned to like pink wine in France, BTW.
I also learned that the French like it when buskers play music like I play in the banjo band:
(You can't see all the people clapping from this pic, but believe me, there was a crowd!)
I also learned about 3/4 through the trip that Ray understands and speaks French a lot better than he was letting on. When I asked him why he'd been letting me take the lead, he explained that he thought I was "cute" and liked the way I gesticulated with my hands while talking.
Another cute thing about Ray: At the Louvre, when we saw the Venus De Milo, he told me he thought her body looked exactly like mine. He appended, "not like skinny, but strong." He gets a lot of brownie points for those observations. What woman wouldn't want to be compared to Venus???
Yeah, this marriage just may last out the year. ;)
I want every distraction I can get, frankly.
So in May I'll have to come up with the perfect movie for getting a crown to. It will need to be involving (obvs) without being too scary (duh) or too emotionally fraught/talky. I am up for suggestions.
In the meantime, I have posted some preliminary France pics from the honeymoon on my Flickr page with commentary.
I learned to like pink wine in France, BTW.
I also learned that the French like it when buskers play music like I play in the banjo band:
(You can't see all the people clapping from this pic, but believe me, there was a crowd!)
I also learned about 3/4 through the trip that Ray understands and speaks French a lot better than he was letting on. When I asked him why he'd been letting me take the lead, he explained that he thought I was "cute" and liked the way I gesticulated with my hands while talking.
Another cute thing about Ray: At the Louvre, when we saw the Venus De Milo, he told me he thought her body looked exactly like mine. He appended, "not like skinny, but strong." He gets a lot of brownie points for those observations. What woman wouldn't want to be compared to Venus???
Yeah, this marriage just may last out the year. ;)
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Newlywed bliss
"Hey baby ...
You having fun yet? We've been married less than a week and so far we have had an exciting visit from our families ...
A night's stay at a Pacific Beach motel, where we ate yummy food and partook of the hot tub...
... and you finally got the sleep that would take that haunted look (above) out of your eyes.
"We frolicked in the cold ocean (well, I did, as you can see in this picture):
... saw clam shows that blew your mind ...
and even took time to pet the wildlife (in this case, anemones)
and do a little rockhounding for providential and precipitous rocks
But this is our first weekend as a married couple, and we can't waste it with frivolities anymore.
Time to seal the asphalt! The weather is perfect and it really takes two people to do a good job.
You really have to work the stuff in with the broom, babe. Oh, what is it? I dunno. It says a blend of water, silica sand and asphalt. I'm sure it's totally safe.
Could you mix this bucket up for me?
Love that get-up. If only you could do this in rollerskates."
"Now that we're done with that, let's head out to the hinterlands for U-Pick blueberries and follow up on that tip your boss gave you.
Keep pickin', babe. What, we have nine pounds of berries? Right on."
"Hopefully the rest of our married life will be as fruitful as this weekend."
-- Ray (as imagined by his wife)
You having fun yet? We've been married less than a week and so far we have had an exciting visit from our families ...
A night's stay at a Pacific Beach motel, where we ate yummy food and partook of the hot tub...
... and you finally got the sleep that would take that haunted look (above) out of your eyes.
"We frolicked in the cold ocean (well, I did, as you can see in this picture):
... saw clam shows that blew your mind ...
and even took time to pet the wildlife (in this case, anemones)
and do a little rockhounding for providential and precipitous rocks
But this is our first weekend as a married couple, and we can't waste it with frivolities anymore.
Time to seal the asphalt! The weather is perfect and it really takes two people to do a good job.
You really have to work the stuff in with the broom, babe. Oh, what is it? I dunno. It says a blend of water, silica sand and asphalt. I'm sure it's totally safe.
Could you mix this bucket up for me?
Love that get-up. If only you could do this in rollerskates."
"Now that we're done with that, let's head out to the hinterlands for U-Pick blueberries and follow up on that tip your boss gave you.
Keep pickin', babe. What, we have nine pounds of berries? Right on."
"Hopefully the rest of our married life will be as fruitful as this weekend."
-- Ray (as imagined by his wife)
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Happiest Day Of My Life.
Seriously. I thought I was too jaded and ironic for this sort of thing. About a week before the wedding I read through the vows. They didn't move me. I was sure I was too cold, too detached, or something.
Little did I know the weekend would have me all crazy before it was over.
(Side note: I didn't take a lot of pics, and haven't heard yet from Sara. I will post pics when I have some good ones. Promise.)
The drama started Wednesday, when mom, dad and Doug came up. I got them at the airport and took them to Indochine, which was delicious (I didn't get anything, just picked off their plates). Thursday we hit Westport for crab. Ray took the day off. I heard him socializing downstairs while I was Facebooking upstairs. It was cute, since he's so reserved and my family is so outgoing. We played the banjo and clarinet for Doug and Dad. Although Doug is Joe Cool, he actually smiled while we were getting down on tunes like, "Sleepy Time Gal" and "Five Foot Two."
Friday the drama had a bit or foreboding culmination when we were getting ready to leave and Ray took my banjo out to the car. It made it through three rooms and a flight of stairs before falling out on the pavement and breaking at the neck. Ray showed me and I cried. Oh my Lord how I cried. This banjo survived the Depression, people. I taught myself to play on it. There is a lot of sentimental value there. When my car was stolen I didn't shed a tear for it, it was strictly transportation. But this was different, even though my parents kept telling me it could be replaced.
I knew Ray felt terrible, but I couldn't stop crying. I called Andy, who sold me the banjo and restores them, but the line was busy. We headed out to his house, and I left the banjo with his wife, who assured me the banjo would be fine and so would I. Apparently it is now getting back to normal. I kept crying almost until we left Central Park, then I perked up. Janet really soothed me. She also gave me a loaner banjo, so we could play for the family.
And that was sort of the end of any trauma. I was worried this was foreshadowing Something Bad happening. It didn't help when Ray sliced two fingers open on different occasions the next day, one of those times being by breaking Jonathan's shower head (Ray put in a replacement. We are conscientious house guests). But that was the end of the bad juju.
We made it to the chapel for the rehearsal almost on time, but Dave, our minister, wasn't there. He got there in plenty of time to walk us through our rehearsal, though. The chapel was lovely. But I worried it would get too hot in the impending 90-degree weather that was forecast. (It didn't)
So my whole family practically showed up. We got pizza and alcohol Friday night and the first arrivals started hanging out. Ray learned some of the depth of the nerdiness of his family when Meegan criticized Charles' World of Warcraft mount as "too slow." Later, he would tell me, "It's amazing how your cousins are all familiar with D&D." Yeah, babe, you will fit right in, I told him.
Saturday I took it fairly easy. Beth took me for a mani-pedi, my first ever, and it was not half bad. "I think you like!" said the pedicurist who attended to my feet. I had another Asian lady working my hands. It felt a little awkward, but I may have to do it again in the next five years or so. We also got my dress steamed and picked up Beth's, which had been altered. It was the night of the rehearsal dinner, which (and this will be a theme here) did not go off quite as planned because my million relatives got to put in mixed drink orders instead of having to go to the bar and pay for them themselves, thanks to a kind of mess up on the part of the restaurant, which was otherwise delightful. And as I learned over Friday and Saturday nights, my peeps can drink. Like a lot.
Luckily, everyone seemed to get along fine. The Wilmoths and Whites didn't all know each other, and everyone seemed to make time to talk to Ray Elgin. Bonnie commented that I had a happy, social family. Yessiree, Bob. That I do. Although my mom and aunts had concerns about my 87-y-o Pa coming, he seemed thoroughly delighted to be there, surrounded by his family. He talked everyone's ear off and had three beers, which he doesn't do that much anymore. "I love Pa because he's so sentimental," Andrew (now Andy) said. Yes, he is.
Kris showed a slideshow of pics of me and Ray from birth to about now. It was a hit. She found a lot of pics of me with guns, though. I've only been shooting the once. I guess it was very well documented.
The afterparty was mostly my cousins talking about the dorkiest things they do. Bryan watches "So You Think You Can Dance." Andy said something in Math language that I don't follow. Stephen's girlfriend Nicky, who lives in a notoriously hipster section of NYC, kept trying to prove her dorkiness but we weren't having any of it. She posts on message boards about music groups, she said. Erin, Bryan's gf, is a tax nerd, which comes of her job at a bigtime CPA firm, even though she is not an accountant.
Then Ray and I did the dorkiest thing we do — duets of old-timey music. We played "The Codfish Ball" and "I'm Looking Over a Four Leafed Clover," for starters. I hadn't tuned the banjo, so it sounded pretty bad, and Ray had to transpose, so he had issues too. But in all, we shocked people with our competence and extreme dorkitude.
So with all this partying it might be becoming apparent that I did not get a lot of sleep? Yeah, like four hours max. I was one strung-out little puppy. It was hard to eat a regular sized meal.
So Sunday everything gets insane. Kris comes over to make the CAKE. Actually, just to frost it. She brought over the flowers from her garden to decorate it at the Varsity, which I feel I must at this point distinguish from the catering company The Vault, which was the company catering our wedding. Because we are finding it quite hard to say nice things about this catering company at this point. There were some issues with setting up the room. And we had some conflict over drinks. Some disingenuous stuff was pulled on us, partly due to sheer disorganization but also what could only have been flat-out untruths on their part. We are dealing with it. But the catering was the major portion of our budget, so that's a disheartening thing. Luckily we're never marrying again, and we're able to separate our dealings with the caterer from the intense joy we felt from our ceremony and party.
Beth comes over to get me into my dress. After I put on makeup, I prepare to put on this hot, heavy thing for a day forecast to be 90 degrees. Bleah. I have to wear Spanx and a bustier, both of which kind of press into me in funny ways. As she's zipping me up, I say in my best Vivien Leigh impression, "I have to have a 16 1/2 inch waist! Ashley Wilkes is going to be at Twelve Oaks today!"
Sara comes over to start taking pics, and as we're preparing to go outside to do location shots, Ray gets a call from the caterer. It was more drama, but it was handily resolved by a) my decision to throw my mom and aunt Sandy a bone and have them craft the centerpieces so they were on their way to the reception venue, b) Beth offering to stay at said venue until the caterer returned to give her back the one key. I told Ray later that if she was late we'd delay the wedding as long as it took. Beth was the trouper who helped save the day there.
We head out to the Museum of Glass and Sara managed to get nice pics even though I'm feeling ragged and Ray's a bit agitated.
Then it's off to the Murano to see where Sara's staying and get some shots in front of its cool green glass sculpture.
Then we got cokes at the Mickey D's drive through. Ray said, "Mmmm. I can see this being an anniversary tradition, going to McDonald's." Hardy Har Har. I basically associate their food with poison, so I don't think that'll happen. But the symbolism is what it is.
At the chapel, I lay down on some seats in the back and Kris takes photos. Thanks for preserving my dignity, sister in law. Eventually we go downstairs to wait because people are about to show up and we have entrances to make. The organist starts playing the piano. He plays the "Star Hustler" theme song, which makes this former Astronomy TA's heart warm. His name is Jeff Orr, and he's very good, BTW.
Then Ray gets a call on his cell from Mickey. She is shocked it is on! We all are! She said the 7th Street peeps are late! They are in traffic! So we naturally decide to delay until they get there. Plus, they are not the only Harborites who might be stuck. The last people to make it in seem to be the Jacksons. We just chill in the basement while dad goes to check who might be in the house.
So finally it is go time.
You know how I was saying I was all jaded? Well, apparently not. As the prelude is winding down I feel a crack in my dam of fortitude. As the doors to the chapel open, and "Thaxted"/"Jupiter" (from Gustav Holst's "The Planets" suite) plays, I lose it. People later told me they couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying. Mostly the latter. Out of happiness. The dam burst and I got my face red and my eyes puffy, just as Sara is taking pics of me. She said, "Liquid joy," that's what tears are. I still feel kind of weenie about it all. But damn, people, I was SO OVERCOME.
I mean, there I was, about to proclaim in front of virtually everyone I hold dear my love for my absolute and most amazing best friend. I was about to be joined in holy matrimony to the one person I care for most in this world. And how much I love him never stops astounding me, as does the fact that we went through a lot of coincidences in our lives on the path to meeting each other. What ifs? abound. But, as Ray's friend Jim said, it seems God preserved us for one another.
Seriously, you get married for the first time at 35 and up, and it isn't just another ceremony. I seriously think our ages have an impact on how you take a wedding. We had waited a long time to get to that point. We have had a lot of life experiences.
So the vows go by fairly quickly. Ray was sweating like crazy and his lower lip was trembling. He was clearly working to hold it together. We chose some fairly awesome readings, including one from one of the books of John that says, in part, "be slow to anger," which I liked because it reminded me of Ray, and also speaks of how one's "righteousness" is baloney, which reminds me of my attitude towards self-important people.
Finally, we kiss and work our way down and out, before Dave can say he would like to introduce us as husband and wife. We went to the basement again and I lose it all over again. We had a moment.
So the family took some pics afterwards. I, with my makeup totally gone below my nose and in a streak across my cheeks. Well, so what. Zach was cute, yelling, "WEDDING!" instead of cheese. It works, people!
We made our way to the reception, and we started off the buffet. We were a little surprised to discover so many people at the bar when we had so much wine for them to drink, but it had not yet been set out on the table. For some reason, habit, I guess, I got broccoli at the buffet even though it was technically my day and if all I wanted was to eat cake and prime rib that was my right.
I hardly ended up eating anyway, I was so busy talking to people.
So Dave kicked off the open mic wedding slam with Betsy and, yes, her raffle for our license witnesses. Ray's cousin Brian and 7th Street hardcore volunteer Lane won. Also, Lane is a deputy coroner, so the symbolism, I told the crowd, was appropriate. The raffle raised over $400 for the theater.
We had toasts, Hugh started, and pointed out that we both disliked a past boss as I waved my hands in the classic, "STOP!" gesture. "I'm being inappropriate," he said. "When you're 83, you get to be inappropriate!" Applause ensued. Jeff told everyone how Ray liked the WWF back in the day and about their wrestling nicknames, "True Cod," (Jeff) and "Parakeet" (Ray). Beth said she was glad I finally found someone smart, with my values, and gave me what she said, which she had written down, which was awesome. Jim said he was so glad Ray was not alone anymore and that he is a great guy, which is the gospel truth, and that he liked Def Leppard and Metallica, which surprised me. Ray later said he had them confused with Iron Maiden, which he had told me about. Weird Al, Tom T. Hall and Iron Maiden. Some taste he's got there. Doug warned Ray that I would steal his GI Joes and take away the remote while he's watching cartoons so I can watch General Hospital, but also that I will stick up for him. He made me cry. Dad told a story about how I told him I'd smoked my first cigarette (I just wanted him and mom to know that I was developmentally appropriate, which is kind of weird), then talked about my tracheotomy. I'm not sure how that fit in, but I do know it traumatized him and mom for a while. Finally, Paul got up and testified to Ray's good character, excellent taste and brilliant mind. (Later, when Jim asked if I had ever played "Facts in Five" with Ray, he was surprised to learn that I almost always win. Ray can beat me at air hockey more consistently than any board game.)
My mom and dad worked the room. I think it helped them understand Ray more, since he's so reserved, to talk to people who love him so much, to understand what I was getting into and why I was doing it so willingly. (When I told my mom I was dating Ray, she said, "What does he do?" I said, "He's a lawyer," and she replied, "Is he DIVORCED???")
Then the DJ started and we danced to U2's "One," which is a little sad but also has the social justice themes we were going for. We DO have to all carry each other, carry each other. We served the cake, none of it ended up smeared on the other's face because we are classy and besides, that was homemade stuff! No wasting it allowed! Riley Jackson, so totally cute, played photog. He asked if I had his dad's email (LOL, yes, he's my boss) and I could get some pics that way. I said I'd like the first cut, and when Riley seemed confused, told him his dad would know what I meant.
Finally the DJ cranked up the jams and my entire family came out to boogie. Enduring images include my uncle Phil getting busy, even doing the "make a splits and pull self up by collar" maneuver, Klaus just shaking it like he's braking it, mom dancing with her pink reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and (while this isn't a visual) my hair being soaked through with sweat, same with my legs under that superhot taffeta skirt. Also the family doing the Cha Cha Slide. Which is about as explicit in directions as my family needs. We are desperately honkified here. "Two hops! Left stomp! Slide to the left!" Seriously, we needed that help.
My cousin Maddie, who will be going to college after next year, told me she loved that I picked "Poker Face." You know, the one that futzes the "po" sound to be more like "fuh." I also danced with Joey, who married my cousin Melanie. The next day I saw them at the hotel and Melanie was rubbing her strangely pokey-out and taut belly while Joey asked if she felt okay. I was all, "What is this thing you're doing with the rubbing? Either you have an impacted colon or you're pregnant." She was pregnant. With TWINS!!! They didn't tell me earlier b/c it was "my day," but holy cats, I was so freaking happy for them. Also, Meegan and Nathan sold their house, which they had just put on the market days earlier. Lots of good news.
I couldn't believe how many people danced for a seriously long time. I danced with, I think, everybody. Some of them made me gasp for breath since I was squashed in my foundation garments. My legs were killing me for two days after. Not Pa, though. Even though he was afraid of falling and breaking his hip he came out to dance with me a little. "All it took was saying, 'Please,' " aunt Carol said.
I took a break to hitch up my skirt and ventilate. Sara sat down next to me. She said it was the best wedding she'd been to in a long while (her own, probably). She pointed to the dance floor, where almost everyone was slowdancing to some old song. "Look at that. That is love. You made that happen. That is really something," she said. What an encouraging thing to hear.
I did make Ray dance the last dance with me, "Over the Rainbow" by Bruddah Iz. Cute song, and I have such positive associations with Hawaii that it made me very happy, and I was already over the moon.
Anyway, we got out of there at about 10:30 or so, and we were so keyed up from adrenaline we couldn't sleep. We just kept talking about how awesome our wedding was, how lucky we both were, and how promising our future is.
We are really, really lucky people. I feel an immense sense of gratitude every day for having Ray in my life. He is the best, and I am so, so happy he feels the same way about me.
Little did I know the weekend would have me all crazy before it was over.
(Side note: I didn't take a lot of pics, and haven't heard yet from Sara. I will post pics when I have some good ones. Promise.)
The drama started Wednesday, when mom, dad and Doug came up. I got them at the airport and took them to Indochine, which was delicious (I didn't get anything, just picked off their plates). Thursday we hit Westport for crab. Ray took the day off. I heard him socializing downstairs while I was Facebooking upstairs. It was cute, since he's so reserved and my family is so outgoing. We played the banjo and clarinet for Doug and Dad. Although Doug is Joe Cool, he actually smiled while we were getting down on tunes like, "Sleepy Time Gal" and "Five Foot Two."
Friday the drama had a bit or foreboding culmination when we were getting ready to leave and Ray took my banjo out to the car. It made it through three rooms and a flight of stairs before falling out on the pavement and breaking at the neck. Ray showed me and I cried. Oh my Lord how I cried. This banjo survived the Depression, people. I taught myself to play on it. There is a lot of sentimental value there. When my car was stolen I didn't shed a tear for it, it was strictly transportation. But this was different, even though my parents kept telling me it could be replaced.
I knew Ray felt terrible, but I couldn't stop crying. I called Andy, who sold me the banjo and restores them, but the line was busy. We headed out to his house, and I left the banjo with his wife, who assured me the banjo would be fine and so would I. Apparently it is now getting back to normal. I kept crying almost until we left Central Park, then I perked up. Janet really soothed me. She also gave me a loaner banjo, so we could play for the family.
And that was sort of the end of any trauma. I was worried this was foreshadowing Something Bad happening. It didn't help when Ray sliced two fingers open on different occasions the next day, one of those times being by breaking Jonathan's shower head (Ray put in a replacement. We are conscientious house guests). But that was the end of the bad juju.
We made it to the chapel for the rehearsal almost on time, but Dave, our minister, wasn't there. He got there in plenty of time to walk us through our rehearsal, though. The chapel was lovely. But I worried it would get too hot in the impending 90-degree weather that was forecast. (It didn't)
So my whole family practically showed up. We got pizza and alcohol Friday night and the first arrivals started hanging out. Ray learned some of the depth of the nerdiness of his family when Meegan criticized Charles' World of Warcraft mount as "too slow." Later, he would tell me, "It's amazing how your cousins are all familiar with D&D." Yeah, babe, you will fit right in, I told him.
Saturday I took it fairly easy. Beth took me for a mani-pedi, my first ever, and it was not half bad. "I think you like!" said the pedicurist who attended to my feet. I had another Asian lady working my hands. It felt a little awkward, but I may have to do it again in the next five years or so. We also got my dress steamed and picked up Beth's, which had been altered. It was the night of the rehearsal dinner, which (and this will be a theme here) did not go off quite as planned because my million relatives got to put in mixed drink orders instead of having to go to the bar and pay for them themselves, thanks to a kind of mess up on the part of the restaurant, which was otherwise delightful. And as I learned over Friday and Saturday nights, my peeps can drink. Like a lot.
Luckily, everyone seemed to get along fine. The Wilmoths and Whites didn't all know each other, and everyone seemed to make time to talk to Ray Elgin. Bonnie commented that I had a happy, social family. Yessiree, Bob. That I do. Although my mom and aunts had concerns about my 87-y-o Pa coming, he seemed thoroughly delighted to be there, surrounded by his family. He talked everyone's ear off and had three beers, which he doesn't do that much anymore. "I love Pa because he's so sentimental," Andrew (now Andy) said. Yes, he is.
Kris showed a slideshow of pics of me and Ray from birth to about now. It was a hit. She found a lot of pics of me with guns, though. I've only been shooting the once. I guess it was very well documented.
The afterparty was mostly my cousins talking about the dorkiest things they do. Bryan watches "So You Think You Can Dance." Andy said something in Math language that I don't follow. Stephen's girlfriend Nicky, who lives in a notoriously hipster section of NYC, kept trying to prove her dorkiness but we weren't having any of it. She posts on message boards about music groups, she said. Erin, Bryan's gf, is a tax nerd, which comes of her job at a bigtime CPA firm, even though she is not an accountant.
Then Ray and I did the dorkiest thing we do — duets of old-timey music. We played "The Codfish Ball" and "I'm Looking Over a Four Leafed Clover," for starters. I hadn't tuned the banjo, so it sounded pretty bad, and Ray had to transpose, so he had issues too. But in all, we shocked people with our competence and extreme dorkitude.
So with all this partying it might be becoming apparent that I did not get a lot of sleep? Yeah, like four hours max. I was one strung-out little puppy. It was hard to eat a regular sized meal.
So Sunday everything gets insane. Kris comes over to make the CAKE. Actually, just to frost it. She brought over the flowers from her garden to decorate it at the Varsity, which I feel I must at this point distinguish from the catering company The Vault, which was the company catering our wedding. Because we are finding it quite hard to say nice things about this catering company at this point. There were some issues with setting up the room. And we had some conflict over drinks. Some disingenuous stuff was pulled on us, partly due to sheer disorganization but also what could only have been flat-out untruths on their part. We are dealing with it. But the catering was the major portion of our budget, so that's a disheartening thing. Luckily we're never marrying again, and we're able to separate our dealings with the caterer from the intense joy we felt from our ceremony and party.
Beth comes over to get me into my dress. After I put on makeup, I prepare to put on this hot, heavy thing for a day forecast to be 90 degrees. Bleah. I have to wear Spanx and a bustier, both of which kind of press into me in funny ways. As she's zipping me up, I say in my best Vivien Leigh impression, "I have to have a 16 1/2 inch waist! Ashley Wilkes is going to be at Twelve Oaks today!"
Sara comes over to start taking pics, and as we're preparing to go outside to do location shots, Ray gets a call from the caterer. It was more drama, but it was handily resolved by a) my decision to throw my mom and aunt Sandy a bone and have them craft the centerpieces so they were on their way to the reception venue, b) Beth offering to stay at said venue until the caterer returned to give her back the one key. I told Ray later that if she was late we'd delay the wedding as long as it took. Beth was the trouper who helped save the day there.
We head out to the Museum of Glass and Sara managed to get nice pics even though I'm feeling ragged and Ray's a bit agitated.
Then it's off to the Murano to see where Sara's staying and get some shots in front of its cool green glass sculpture.
Then we got cokes at the Mickey D's drive through. Ray said, "Mmmm. I can see this being an anniversary tradition, going to McDonald's." Hardy Har Har. I basically associate their food with poison, so I don't think that'll happen. But the symbolism is what it is.
At the chapel, I lay down on some seats in the back and Kris takes photos. Thanks for preserving my dignity, sister in law. Eventually we go downstairs to wait because people are about to show up and we have entrances to make. The organist starts playing the piano. He plays the "Star Hustler" theme song, which makes this former Astronomy TA's heart warm. His name is Jeff Orr, and he's very good, BTW.
Then Ray gets a call on his cell from Mickey. She is shocked it is on! We all are! She said the 7th Street peeps are late! They are in traffic! So we naturally decide to delay until they get there. Plus, they are not the only Harborites who might be stuck. The last people to make it in seem to be the Jacksons. We just chill in the basement while dad goes to check who might be in the house.
So finally it is go time.
You know how I was saying I was all jaded? Well, apparently not. As the prelude is winding down I feel a crack in my dam of fortitude. As the doors to the chapel open, and "Thaxted"/"Jupiter" (from Gustav Holst's "The Planets" suite) plays, I lose it. People later told me they couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying. Mostly the latter. Out of happiness. The dam burst and I got my face red and my eyes puffy, just as Sara is taking pics of me. She said, "Liquid joy," that's what tears are. I still feel kind of weenie about it all. But damn, people, I was SO OVERCOME.
I mean, there I was, about to proclaim in front of virtually everyone I hold dear my love for my absolute and most amazing best friend. I was about to be joined in holy matrimony to the one person I care for most in this world. And how much I love him never stops astounding me, as does the fact that we went through a lot of coincidences in our lives on the path to meeting each other. What ifs? abound. But, as Ray's friend Jim said, it seems God preserved us for one another.
Seriously, you get married for the first time at 35 and up, and it isn't just another ceremony. I seriously think our ages have an impact on how you take a wedding. We had waited a long time to get to that point. We have had a lot of life experiences.
So the vows go by fairly quickly. Ray was sweating like crazy and his lower lip was trembling. He was clearly working to hold it together. We chose some fairly awesome readings, including one from one of the books of John that says, in part, "be slow to anger," which I liked because it reminded me of Ray, and also speaks of how one's "righteousness" is baloney, which reminds me of my attitude towards self-important people.
Finally, we kiss and work our way down and out, before Dave can say he would like to introduce us as husband and wife. We went to the basement again and I lose it all over again. We had a moment.
So the family took some pics afterwards. I, with my makeup totally gone below my nose and in a streak across my cheeks. Well, so what. Zach was cute, yelling, "WEDDING!" instead of cheese. It works, people!
We made our way to the reception, and we started off the buffet. We were a little surprised to discover so many people at the bar when we had so much wine for them to drink, but it had not yet been set out on the table. For some reason, habit, I guess, I got broccoli at the buffet even though it was technically my day and if all I wanted was to eat cake and prime rib that was my right.
I hardly ended up eating anyway, I was so busy talking to people.
So Dave kicked off the open mic wedding slam with Betsy and, yes, her raffle for our license witnesses. Ray's cousin Brian and 7th Street hardcore volunteer Lane won. Also, Lane is a deputy coroner, so the symbolism, I told the crowd, was appropriate. The raffle raised over $400 for the theater.
We had toasts, Hugh started, and pointed out that we both disliked a past boss as I waved my hands in the classic, "STOP!" gesture. "I'm being inappropriate," he said. "When you're 83, you get to be inappropriate!" Applause ensued. Jeff told everyone how Ray liked the WWF back in the day and about their wrestling nicknames, "True Cod," (Jeff) and "Parakeet" (Ray). Beth said she was glad I finally found someone smart, with my values, and gave me what she said, which she had written down, which was awesome. Jim said he was so glad Ray was not alone anymore and that he is a great guy, which is the gospel truth, and that he liked Def Leppard and Metallica, which surprised me. Ray later said he had them confused with Iron Maiden, which he had told me about. Weird Al, Tom T. Hall and Iron Maiden. Some taste he's got there. Doug warned Ray that I would steal his GI Joes and take away the remote while he's watching cartoons so I can watch General Hospital, but also that I will stick up for him. He made me cry. Dad told a story about how I told him I'd smoked my first cigarette (I just wanted him and mom to know that I was developmentally appropriate, which is kind of weird), then talked about my tracheotomy. I'm not sure how that fit in, but I do know it traumatized him and mom for a while. Finally, Paul got up and testified to Ray's good character, excellent taste and brilliant mind. (Later, when Jim asked if I had ever played "Facts in Five" with Ray, he was surprised to learn that I almost always win. Ray can beat me at air hockey more consistently than any board game.)
My mom and dad worked the room. I think it helped them understand Ray more, since he's so reserved, to talk to people who love him so much, to understand what I was getting into and why I was doing it so willingly. (When I told my mom I was dating Ray, she said, "What does he do?" I said, "He's a lawyer," and she replied, "Is he DIVORCED???")
Then the DJ started and we danced to U2's "One," which is a little sad but also has the social justice themes we were going for. We DO have to all carry each other, carry each other. We served the cake, none of it ended up smeared on the other's face because we are classy and besides, that was homemade stuff! No wasting it allowed! Riley Jackson, so totally cute, played photog. He asked if I had his dad's email (LOL, yes, he's my boss) and I could get some pics that way. I said I'd like the first cut, and when Riley seemed confused, told him his dad would know what I meant.
Finally the DJ cranked up the jams and my entire family came out to boogie. Enduring images include my uncle Phil getting busy, even doing the "make a splits and pull self up by collar" maneuver, Klaus just shaking it like he's braking it, mom dancing with her pink reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and (while this isn't a visual) my hair being soaked through with sweat, same with my legs under that superhot taffeta skirt. Also the family doing the Cha Cha Slide. Which is about as explicit in directions as my family needs. We are desperately honkified here. "Two hops! Left stomp! Slide to the left!" Seriously, we needed that help.
My cousin Maddie, who will be going to college after next year, told me she loved that I picked "Poker Face." You know, the one that futzes the "po" sound to be more like "fuh." I also danced with Joey, who married my cousin Melanie. The next day I saw them at the hotel and Melanie was rubbing her strangely pokey-out and taut belly while Joey asked if she felt okay. I was all, "What is this thing you're doing with the rubbing? Either you have an impacted colon or you're pregnant." She was pregnant. With TWINS!!! They didn't tell me earlier b/c it was "my day," but holy cats, I was so freaking happy for them. Also, Meegan and Nathan sold their house, which they had just put on the market days earlier. Lots of good news.
I couldn't believe how many people danced for a seriously long time. I danced with, I think, everybody. Some of them made me gasp for breath since I was squashed in my foundation garments. My legs were killing me for two days after. Not Pa, though. Even though he was afraid of falling and breaking his hip he came out to dance with me a little. "All it took was saying, 'Please,' " aunt Carol said.
I took a break to hitch up my skirt and ventilate. Sara sat down next to me. She said it was the best wedding she'd been to in a long while (her own, probably). She pointed to the dance floor, where almost everyone was slowdancing to some old song. "Look at that. That is love. You made that happen. That is really something," she said. What an encouraging thing to hear.
I did make Ray dance the last dance with me, "Over the Rainbow" by Bruddah Iz. Cute song, and I have such positive associations with Hawaii that it made me very happy, and I was already over the moon.
Anyway, we got out of there at about 10:30 or so, and we were so keyed up from adrenaline we couldn't sleep. We just kept talking about how awesome our wedding was, how lucky we both were, and how promising our future is.
We are really, really lucky people. I feel an immense sense of gratitude every day for having Ray in my life. He is the best, and I am so, so happy he feels the same way about me.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Engagement photos
Got these taken like a MONTH ago and it has taken forever for me to get them up. Sheesh.
Anyway, we met with the lovely and talented Sara Gray last month in Seaside, Ore. She is our photographer and did her darndest to get me to smile with teeth showing. We wandered around in the quite-chilly town along the boardwalk and downtown while she took pics with her assistant, her husband Eric Hensley.
Here are the results:
That's the shot we used in the local papers. Love amongst the condos.
More of the same spot.
Laughing! Loving! That's us! On the boardwalk!
Sand dunes.
Sara Gray is very good at making people who are pasty, pudgy and not photogenic (like me) look like acceptable members of society. See more of her work at saragrayphotography.com.
Well, we got the marriage license today, so we're on top of the game. And with one month to go, that's a good thing.
Anyway, we met with the lovely and talented Sara Gray last month in Seaside, Ore. She is our photographer and did her darndest to get me to smile with teeth showing. We wandered around in the quite-chilly town along the boardwalk and downtown while she took pics with her assistant, her husband Eric Hensley.
Here are the results:
That's the shot we used in the local papers. Love amongst the condos.
More of the same spot.
Laughing! Loving! That's us! On the boardwalk!
Sand dunes.
Sara Gray is very good at making people who are pasty, pudgy and not photogenic (like me) look like acceptable members of society. See more of her work at saragrayphotography.com.
Well, we got the marriage license today, so we're on top of the game. And with one month to go, that's a good thing.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
I am officially an old fart
Sent to the NYT today when it was noticed that the acrostic is only availble online from, I presume, here on out.
Dear Editor,
I'm WAY too young to be writing a letter complaining about a redesign in the magazine, and especially in regards to a much-beloved feature moving online, but the acrostic. Seriously. This is my main motivator for buying the Sunday NYT. Everything else I can get online that I want (minus the crossword, which I like to do, but my real affection is reserved for the acrostic) on Sunday. But I spend the money (even the new extra dollar), and sometimes I have to drive way out of town to get the paper (I live in a small town). I hate what it does to my carbon footprint, but I also hate the Acrostic DTs.
Seriously. The Acrostic. I know the redesign has messed it up; I know you're straining at the news hole. I know T Magazine has had some issues and now its elements are being crunched into your newly-teensified space. I know all this. I knew I would eventually pay for the fact that Craigslist has decimated classifieds and free online content does not pay like the paper version, with its expensive display ads. I just didn't expect it would be the acrostic. I thought it would be my job as a reporter. THAT I was prepared to accept.
I suppose my only recourse is to get the games subscription and forgo the physical paper altogether. Heck, it may prevent me from feeling that little dopamine drop that comes with abstaining from reading the magazine preview articles as they become available online.
Well, I'm sure the Acrostic has become to you, poor clerk who has to sift through the letters, was to me when my old paper decided to change the TV listings from vertical to horizontal channels. Except maybe NYT readers are less likely to threaten physical violence (true story, and at least I hope they don't). I feel your pain, too.
Henry Rathvon, Emily Cox, I remain devotedly yours,
Callie White
(What I did not say is that I am sure HR and EC are real people who look like they belong in an early Agatha Christie mystery. If you know the truth about Rathvon and Cox, who I would like to think solve murder mysteries in their spare time, like a much cooler Tommy and Tuppence, don't let me know. Or do. I've already suffered so much disillusionment.)
Dear Editor,
I'm WAY too young to be writing a letter complaining about a redesign in the magazine, and especially in regards to a much-beloved feature moving online, but the acrostic. Seriously. This is my main motivator for buying the Sunday NYT. Everything else I can get online that I want (minus the crossword, which I like to do, but my real affection is reserved for the acrostic) on Sunday. But I spend the money (even the new extra dollar), and sometimes I have to drive way out of town to get the paper (I live in a small town). I hate what it does to my carbon footprint, but I also hate the Acrostic DTs.
Seriously. The Acrostic. I know the redesign has messed it up; I know you're straining at the news hole. I know T Magazine has had some issues and now its elements are being crunched into your newly-teensified space. I know all this. I knew I would eventually pay for the fact that Craigslist has decimated classifieds and free online content does not pay like the paper version, with its expensive display ads. I just didn't expect it would be the acrostic. I thought it would be my job as a reporter. THAT I was prepared to accept.
I suppose my only recourse is to get the games subscription and forgo the physical paper altogether. Heck, it may prevent me from feeling that little dopamine drop that comes with abstaining from reading the magazine preview articles as they become available online.
Well, I'm sure the Acrostic has become to you, poor clerk who has to sift through the letters, was to me when my old paper decided to change the TV listings from vertical to horizontal channels. Except maybe NYT readers are less likely to threaten physical violence (true story, and at least I hope they don't). I feel your pain, too.
Henry Rathvon, Emily Cox, I remain devotedly yours,
Callie White
(What I did not say is that I am sure HR and EC are real people who look like they belong in an early Agatha Christie mystery. If you know the truth about Rathvon and Cox, who I would like to think solve murder mysteries in their spare time, like a much cooler Tommy and Tuppence, don't let me know. Or do. I've already suffered so much disillusionment.)
Saturday, June 06, 2009
More Banjo Madness
Today was the big Second Annual Fretted Instrument Guild of Western Washington Four String Banjo Convention. A mouthful, no?
The GH Banjo Band rocked the house, needless to say, during the Round Robin when every band takes turns playing a song. A guy in the Orphan Banjo Band (so called because it was made up of people who were either not part of a regular band or their band was not represented in the Round Robin) turned to me and said, "You guys have got pizzazz!" Why thank you, sir!
We also have video, courtesy of Ray and a little Flip we got as part of a wedding registry that only had the Flip and a tripod on it. I am going to figure out how to use it momentarily and post video. We got Linda doing the Charleston and she is so precious! Oh, and Linda has apparently found my blog while googling her dad's name or maybe Grays Harbor Banjo Band. Hi Linda!
We had Dick Lewis with us. He performs under the monniker "Montana Red" and he is terrific. Ray said he overheard Montana Red asking Hank, the unofficial leader of the Orphan Band (aka "no-name band," but that's just all complicated) for a squirt of something from a can with a guitar on the front. Ray posited that it was for easier finger sliding on the strings. But since a little oil/anything can mess a string up I am curious about this substance.
Before we hit the convention, we went to the Olympia Farmers Market and got some Washington cherries of a variety I can't remember. Ray was impressed because they were so early, I was impressed because they were so sweet and flavorful, even though they were kind of soft. We also go a loaf of Wagner's cinnamon bread, and I don't care how much cinnamon bread you've had in your life you haven't truly had cinnamon bread until you have had the very thinly-rolled and generously-becinnamoned European style cinnamon bread Wagner's sells.
Then the convention was mostly organized by the Tacoma Banjo Club, and was held at the Little Creek Resort (it's really a casino, too, though). I noticed that the readerboard was advertising MMA fighting for tonight (6/6). Well, it was advertising, "Extreme Cage Fighting! Meets No Mercy! Carnage at the Creek! June 6 2009!" where an exclamation = screen switch. Too bad we couldn't stay.
There were us, the orphan and Tacoma bands, as well as the Seattle Banjo Club, the Kitsap Banjo Club and the 101 Band, which appeared to maybe be three people, one on banjo.
There's a lot of overlap in banjo band repetoire. I heard "Side By Side," a kind of Depression-era "we're poor but who cares if we have each other" song, and we all were expected to play "Bye Bye Blues," which I kind of vaguely remembered playing before and especially that tricky Aflat7 chord, and "God Bless America." God Bless Ernie for having the sheet music with him so I could read it!
After the Round Robin, I returned my self-busting busted sunglasses to Target (Ray had taken to calling them "Collette Reardons") and got new kicks for working out that I hope won't hurt my legs like my other sneaks did.
We had dinner at Lemongrass and it was delicious. Also we did more French CD learning. I find French a disheartening language full of words that all sound exactly alike and not nearly close to how they are written. I suppose this is how English learners must feel, only more often, so I should suck it up and continue.
Upon returning home I got a Friends of the Library newsletter and some devastating news: The Timberland Library will have to reduce the number of holds available to each person from 100 to 25, I assume in fall when the other Timberland changes as a result of the failed levy are going into effect (like charging for printing and overdue fines. Yeah, we're totally spoiled). I have a perpetual 80-odd items on hold, people! This will ruin me! This is my summer of (ahemming) or getting off the pot with some of those books! I will have to read like the wind! Why was this NOT IN THE PRESS RELEASE when I wrote about this a few weeks ago! I could have read harder and cleared some items off my plate!
In the meantime, I am freaking out. This is very new news to me. I will have to push my finishing of "The Egg and I" to the back burner, apologies to Kris.
(I recently read Big Box Reuse and Rethinking Thin (I recommend that review, for it has the same reaction I did to the book — i.e. yeah, but, Wha?) and am on P.D. James' The Private Patient. My God that woman is, in the first few chapters anyway, such an amazingly skilled and literary writer for her genre, and she keeps it up even though after 14 Dalgliesh novels alone she could rest on her laurels. Brava!)
The GH Banjo Band rocked the house, needless to say, during the Round Robin when every band takes turns playing a song. A guy in the Orphan Banjo Band (so called because it was made up of people who were either not part of a regular band or their band was not represented in the Round Robin) turned to me and said, "You guys have got pizzazz!" Why thank you, sir!
We also have video, courtesy of Ray and a little Flip we got as part of a wedding registry that only had the Flip and a tripod on it. I am going to figure out how to use it momentarily and post video. We got Linda doing the Charleston and she is so precious! Oh, and Linda has apparently found my blog while googling her dad's name or maybe Grays Harbor Banjo Band. Hi Linda!
We had Dick Lewis with us. He performs under the monniker "Montana Red" and he is terrific. Ray said he overheard Montana Red asking Hank, the unofficial leader of the Orphan Band (aka "no-name band," but that's just all complicated) for a squirt of something from a can with a guitar on the front. Ray posited that it was for easier finger sliding on the strings. But since a little oil/anything can mess a string up I am curious about this substance.
Before we hit the convention, we went to the Olympia Farmers Market and got some Washington cherries of a variety I can't remember. Ray was impressed because they were so early, I was impressed because they were so sweet and flavorful, even though they were kind of soft. We also go a loaf of Wagner's cinnamon bread, and I don't care how much cinnamon bread you've had in your life you haven't truly had cinnamon bread until you have had the very thinly-rolled and generously-becinnamoned European style cinnamon bread Wagner's sells.
Then the convention was mostly organized by the Tacoma Banjo Club, and was held at the Little Creek Resort (it's really a casino, too, though). I noticed that the readerboard was advertising MMA fighting for tonight (6/6). Well, it was advertising, "Extreme Cage Fighting! Meets No Mercy! Carnage at the Creek! June 6 2009!" where an exclamation = screen switch. Too bad we couldn't stay.
There were us, the orphan and Tacoma bands, as well as the Seattle Banjo Club, the Kitsap Banjo Club and the 101 Band, which appeared to maybe be three people, one on banjo.
There's a lot of overlap in banjo band repetoire. I heard "Side By Side," a kind of Depression-era "we're poor but who cares if we have each other" song, and we all were expected to play "Bye Bye Blues," which I kind of vaguely remembered playing before and especially that tricky Aflat7 chord, and "God Bless America." God Bless Ernie for having the sheet music with him so I could read it!
After the Round Robin, I returned my self-busting busted sunglasses to Target (Ray had taken to calling them "Collette Reardons") and got new kicks for working out that I hope won't hurt my legs like my other sneaks did.
We had dinner at Lemongrass and it was delicious. Also we did more French CD learning. I find French a disheartening language full of words that all sound exactly alike and not nearly close to how they are written. I suppose this is how English learners must feel, only more often, so I should suck it up and continue.
Upon returning home I got a Friends of the Library newsletter and some devastating news: The Timberland Library will have to reduce the number of holds available to each person from 100 to 25, I assume in fall when the other Timberland changes as a result of the failed levy are going into effect (like charging for printing and overdue fines. Yeah, we're totally spoiled). I have a perpetual 80-odd items on hold, people! This will ruin me! This is my summer of (ahemming) or getting off the pot with some of those books! I will have to read like the wind! Why was this NOT IN THE PRESS RELEASE when I wrote about this a few weeks ago! I could have read harder and cleared some items off my plate!
In the meantime, I am freaking out. This is very new news to me. I will have to push my finishing of "The Egg and I" to the back burner, apologies to Kris.
(I recently read Big Box Reuse and Rethinking Thin (I recommend that review, for it has the same reaction I did to the book — i.e. yeah, but, Wha?) and am on P.D. James' The Private Patient. My God that woman is, in the first few chapters anyway, such an amazingly skilled and literary writer for her genre, and she keeps it up even though after 14 Dalgliesh novels alone she could rest on her laurels. Brava!)
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Notes on a nearly-feral child
The Tulip Terrorist is beginning to leave his toys on our property. He left a dumptruck up by the rear door in the little enclosed space and a scooter back by the yard. Ray said I should go all Rita DelVecchio on his tuchus: "You leave it on my lawn, this is my dumptruck now!" I also worry it heralds an escalation of his invasion of the house area and specifically he's going to mess up my herb garden. So help him I will throttle his little neck if I catch him ...
Oh who am I kidding. Ray and I totally are disempowered talking to him. We're do-gooder non-confrontational types and the kid is basically without conscience. I can try having a conversation with him, but I know he won't take it seriously.
According to a neighbor his mother was "on meth when she had him." This, combined with his mullet, will just stigmatize him for life. Comfortingly, I guess, the little terror apparently knows right from wrong but doesn't care. I say comfortingly because at least he is aware there is a difference! When I told him those flowers weren't his to pick he may not have cared what I was saying, but he understood. He is not completely feral, then.
Oh, Sara Gray posted some engagement pics on her website so check out how matronly and old I look and how youthful and photogenic Ray is.
In other news: We finally tried razor clam sausage. We were told you had to like razor clams (we do) to eat it, but it tasted a lot like regular sausage. We ate it with sauerkraut.
Big banjo band playout on Saturday — the Four String Banjo convention. It's the Round Robin. Drama will ensue, I am sure!
Oh who am I kidding. Ray and I totally are disempowered talking to him. We're do-gooder non-confrontational types and the kid is basically without conscience. I can try having a conversation with him, but I know he won't take it seriously.
According to a neighbor his mother was "on meth when she had him." This, combined with his mullet, will just stigmatize him for life. Comfortingly, I guess, the little terror apparently knows right from wrong but doesn't care. I say comfortingly because at least he is aware there is a difference! When I told him those flowers weren't his to pick he may not have cared what I was saying, but he understood. He is not completely feral, then.
Oh, Sara Gray posted some engagement pics on her website so check out how matronly and old I look and how youthful and photogenic Ray is.
In other news: We finally tried razor clam sausage. We were told you had to like razor clams (we do) to eat it, but it tasted a lot like regular sausage. We ate it with sauerkraut.
Big banjo band playout on Saturday — the Four String Banjo convention. It's the Round Robin. Drama will ensue, I am sure!
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Bless their hearts.
Tuesday night, after a sweltering and long board meeting, I gave a moment's thought to just not showing up at banjo practice. But then I remembered Leona was keen on my attending and besides, I needed some practice for the upcoming Four String Banjo convention (though no dice, they'd played the six songs they were going to do already so I am kind of hosed). But I am glad I went after all. The ladies of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band had a special surprise for me: A mini-bridal shower.
The banjo band ladies are the unsung heroes of the band. They generally sit in the back with their knitting and crocheting, just going to town, but they also bring most of the food when there is a party.
It turned out they had been putting things together for me for the past few weeks — Leona made me a doily and some lovely potholders, Clydene made slippers and potholders, Blanche made a soft white shawl and some potholders, Betty gave me a lovely bouquet of roses from her garden and a recipe book with some recipes in it and Penney had some dishrags and scrubbers for me. All of the things were handmade. It was really overwhelming. Those women are so sweet to think of me, I am really blessed to know them.
The banjo band ladies are the unsung heroes of the band. They generally sit in the back with their knitting and crocheting, just going to town, but they also bring most of the food when there is a party.
It turned out they had been putting things together for me for the past few weeks — Leona made me a doily and some lovely potholders, Clydene made slippers and potholders, Blanche made a soft white shawl and some potholders, Betty gave me a lovely bouquet of roses from her garden and a recipe book with some recipes in it and Penney had some dishrags and scrubbers for me. All of the things were handmade. It was really overwhelming. Those women are so sweet to think of me, I am really blessed to know them.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea
Okay, so Google ads is churning out such losers as "Aberdeen mom cures wrinkle problem" and "Aberdeen mom whitens yellow teeth." In Aberdeen, the obvious solution to these problems is not to remove the wrinkles and yellowness as it appears but to take preventative measures by not smoking (meth). Since the Aberdonian solver is a mother, I can only assume she is inculcating anti-drug messages into her children. And since I don't smoke anything, I think I am ahead of the curve there, too. So Google ads, you can stop that.
So Ray and I headed out to Seaside for a weekend of relaxation and adventure and engagement pics, which I will post when Sara sends some my way but it was just last night people. We biked at Fort Stevens, did a hike there, walked the promenade and it was chilly and because it has been so nice here, I hadn't packed long sleeved anything. Still, there were plenty of people out in shorts/tanks/flip flops.
To get there, we headed through Astoria, where we ate at the Silver Salmon Grill, a really nice restaurant with the added bonus of having a magician performing at tables. His name was, no kidding, Dale Dvorak. A carpenter "up at the college," Dvorak's passion is magic, and although he has performed for 8,000 ppl at the Tacoma Dome (he says) he likes to keep the close-in stuff as part of his repetoire. That's the tough stuff, really. He did a mentalist trick with me, where he set out five cards with different symbols and he produced a card with the same symbol from a little wallet in his pocket. I have a pretty good idea how this trick is done, and the same with the card tricks he did.
Ray mentioned to DD that I am a former member of my high school magic club, so DD realized he had to step up his game. I apologized for being a tough audience, but knowing some of what to look for has spoiled me for magic. DD understood that, and said as a magician, he was onto other magicians all the time. So when he saw a magician do a trick that he couldn't draw a bead on, he would have his mind blown. And possibly because I mentioned I was bad at prestidigitation, he did such a trick for us, with an English penny and a half dollar that involved alternately dropping them into his pocket and making them reappear in his hand or vice versa. Very smooth. It was very impressive, especially when, apparently without moving his outstretched hand with a half-dollar in it, he made it disappear. Excellent misdirection and prestidigitation skills, Dale Dvorak. He is at the very least a 9th level mage with a dexterity score of 16.
We made it to Seaside in time for a walk on the chilly promenade.
The next morning at Fort Stevens we avoided making eye contact with some reenactors, who were waiting until 11 to set off a small cannon and were dressed in Civil War regalia. What, you ask, was Oregon's role in the Civil War? Small. Incredibly, incredibly small. A man filled with "sessecionist feeling" (i.e. booze and redneckery) walked down the street in Eugene, Ore. in 1865 saying "Praise Jefferson Davis, and damn the man who won't," and was arrested so as to quell pro-sessecionist feelings. It apparently worked.
While the Union worried about sessecionist feelings breaking out in Oregon territory, it must have been apparent from the start that it would not make a great slave state, so although there was Fort Stevens, the Civil War aspect is so small, that you can read this in the Oregon Blue Book: "For many of the soldiers the Civil War in Oregon was a monotonous, numbing assignment. In their monthly post returns, officers recorded desertions, suicides, and bouts in the brig because of drunkenness and misbehavior. The Indians were quiet on the Siletz and Grand Ronde Reservations. The rain was predictable and depressing. 'Nothing transpired of importance,' recorded Royal A. Bensell, a soldier at Fort Yamhill. Too many days brought that refrain in his Civil War diary."
Mostly the forts were used to quell Indians and do the Manifest Destiny thing. Fort Stevens was also set up in WWII to fight the Japanese.
At any rate, Fort Stevens is now a pretty big state park with a lot of bike trails, hiking spots and a beach with a shipwreck on it, which seemed more sunken into the sand than the last time we were there. It's a nice place. I highly recommend it. I saw a vole, too.
Back at Seaside, we did more promenade walking. While doing that, we saw three teens on skateboards, two of whom were having an argument while balancing. It went like this:
Girl: You don't ever contact me.
Boy: THAT'S NOT TRUE I text you like every second day!
Girl: THAT'S NOT TRUE I check my Yahoo every day!
Etc. while balancing. Jeez, what is with the texting? I wanted to applaud the young man for refraining from texting every hour on the hour, as some kids apparently do. Now that they've finally managed to hang out, why is this even an issue?
We also saw a guy who may have been busking or possibly hired by the ginormous condo complex to sing on the street backed up by CD. He was a very suave-looking older black guy in breezy cruisewear and his songs were jazz standards sung in the swing style. I heard him tell some dude he'd "love to sing at Branson." I don't think Jazz is a thing there, bro. A grungy emo kid with a guitar and a neck tattoo was set up far too close to the dude and he was playing his own crappy songs until he realized nobody cared, I guess, because when we came back he was playing along with Suavitay's CD. I appreciated his musicality in that he figured out the key and the chords he'd need. Cheers, emo kid.
Another guy who sounded neither suave nor emo was playing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" further down the promenade. Ray and I seriously need to consider busking next time we hit the shore.
Possibly the worst thing we overheard was a non-stop real estate conversation while eating lunch at the Pacific Way Cafe in Gearhart. It's a great place to eat, but these two phony-looking people were talking about waterfront property, investment properties, yard redos, inside redos, "Have you been in Jerome's place?" how much stuff costed ad nauseum. Because Ray and I were hungry, we basically were kind of forced to listen in. Ironically, the woman, who started off at the cafe ON HER CELLPHONE got all antsy with the waitress, telling her she wanted to move because she felt "confined" in that spot. Oh, please. WE were the ones who were confined. Like animals.
Gearhart is a precious little place. So precious, it must be on a hellmouth or something. Honestly, I defy you to travel through Gearhart and not feel that there must be something vile under all those pleasant shake facades and well-manicured yards and precious commercial corner (no center in Gearhart, it's that small). There simply must be a zombie problem there. I refuse to believe there is a place that idyllic without a dark underbelly on this earth. That said, I bet their city council meetings are fraught with tension and self-righteous entitlement. Which is as good as a dark side to me.
So Ray and I headed out to Seaside for a weekend of relaxation and adventure and engagement pics, which I will post when Sara sends some my way but it was just last night people. We biked at Fort Stevens, did a hike there, walked the promenade and it was chilly and because it has been so nice here, I hadn't packed long sleeved anything. Still, there were plenty of people out in shorts/tanks/flip flops.
To get there, we headed through Astoria, where we ate at the Silver Salmon Grill, a really nice restaurant with the added bonus of having a magician performing at tables. His name was, no kidding, Dale Dvorak. A carpenter "up at the college," Dvorak's passion is magic, and although he has performed for 8,000 ppl at the Tacoma Dome (he says) he likes to keep the close-in stuff as part of his repetoire. That's the tough stuff, really. He did a mentalist trick with me, where he set out five cards with different symbols and he produced a card with the same symbol from a little wallet in his pocket. I have a pretty good idea how this trick is done, and the same with the card tricks he did.
Ray mentioned to DD that I am a former member of my high school magic club, so DD realized he had to step up his game. I apologized for being a tough audience, but knowing some of what to look for has spoiled me for magic. DD understood that, and said as a magician, he was onto other magicians all the time. So when he saw a magician do a trick that he couldn't draw a bead on, he would have his mind blown. And possibly because I mentioned I was bad at prestidigitation, he did such a trick for us, with an English penny and a half dollar that involved alternately dropping them into his pocket and making them reappear in his hand or vice versa. Very smooth. It was very impressive, especially when, apparently without moving his outstretched hand with a half-dollar in it, he made it disappear. Excellent misdirection and prestidigitation skills, Dale Dvorak. He is at the very least a 9th level mage with a dexterity score of 16.
We made it to Seaside in time for a walk on the chilly promenade.
The next morning at Fort Stevens we avoided making eye contact with some reenactors, who were waiting until 11 to set off a small cannon and were dressed in Civil War regalia. What, you ask, was Oregon's role in the Civil War? Small. Incredibly, incredibly small. A man filled with "sessecionist feeling" (i.e. booze and redneckery) walked down the street in Eugene, Ore. in 1865 saying "Praise Jefferson Davis, and damn the man who won't," and was arrested so as to quell pro-sessecionist feelings. It apparently worked.
While the Union worried about sessecionist feelings breaking out in Oregon territory, it must have been apparent from the start that it would not make a great slave state, so although there was Fort Stevens, the Civil War aspect is so small, that you can read this in the Oregon Blue Book: "For many of the soldiers the Civil War in Oregon was a monotonous, numbing assignment. In their monthly post returns, officers recorded desertions, suicides, and bouts in the brig because of drunkenness and misbehavior. The Indians were quiet on the Siletz and Grand Ronde Reservations. The rain was predictable and depressing. 'Nothing transpired of importance,' recorded Royal A. Bensell, a soldier at Fort Yamhill. Too many days brought that refrain in his Civil War diary."
Mostly the forts were used to quell Indians and do the Manifest Destiny thing. Fort Stevens was also set up in WWII to fight the Japanese.
At any rate, Fort Stevens is now a pretty big state park with a lot of bike trails, hiking spots and a beach with a shipwreck on it, which seemed more sunken into the sand than the last time we were there. It's a nice place. I highly recommend it. I saw a vole, too.
Back at Seaside, we did more promenade walking. While doing that, we saw three teens on skateboards, two of whom were having an argument while balancing. It went like this:
Girl: You don't ever contact me.
Boy: THAT'S NOT TRUE I text you like every second day!
Girl: THAT'S NOT TRUE I check my Yahoo every day!
Etc. while balancing. Jeez, what is with the texting? I wanted to applaud the young man for refraining from texting every hour on the hour, as some kids apparently do. Now that they've finally managed to hang out, why is this even an issue?
We also saw a guy who may have been busking or possibly hired by the ginormous condo complex to sing on the street backed up by CD. He was a very suave-looking older black guy in breezy cruisewear and his songs were jazz standards sung in the swing style. I heard him tell some dude he'd "love to sing at Branson." I don't think Jazz is a thing there, bro. A grungy emo kid with a guitar and a neck tattoo was set up far too close to the dude and he was playing his own crappy songs until he realized nobody cared, I guess, because when we came back he was playing along with Suavitay's CD. I appreciated his musicality in that he figured out the key and the chords he'd need. Cheers, emo kid.
Another guy who sounded neither suave nor emo was playing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" further down the promenade. Ray and I seriously need to consider busking next time we hit the shore.
Possibly the worst thing we overheard was a non-stop real estate conversation while eating lunch at the Pacific Way Cafe in Gearhart. It's a great place to eat, but these two phony-looking people were talking about waterfront property, investment properties, yard redos, inside redos, "Have you been in Jerome's place?" how much stuff costed ad nauseum. Because Ray and I were hungry, we basically were kind of forced to listen in. Ironically, the woman, who started off at the cafe ON HER CELLPHONE got all antsy with the waitress, telling her she wanted to move because she felt "confined" in that spot. Oh, please. WE were the ones who were confined. Like animals.
Gearhart is a precious little place. So precious, it must be on a hellmouth or something. Honestly, I defy you to travel through Gearhart and not feel that there must be something vile under all those pleasant shake facades and well-manicured yards and precious commercial corner (no center in Gearhart, it's that small). There simply must be a zombie problem there. I refuse to believe there is a place that idyllic without a dark underbelly on this earth. That said, I bet their city council meetings are fraught with tension and self-righteous entitlement. Which is as good as a dark side to me.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Some Random Thoughts
1) Why trust makeup counter ladies with their knowledge of what foundation is the least cakey and most like your actual skin when they look like they've put their own foundation on with a trowel?
2) Does Weird Al know how much deep wisdom there is in "Whatever You Like?" It's about having an array of terrible, and terribly limited, choices. It describes the situation of millions of Americans who, like the character in "WYL," are working jobs with terrible pay. The narrator does not appear to have kids or really any responsibilities, but still, his fancy options are large fries. We laugh because we assume he has no taste, or that he is ignorant of what is out there, but in reality, there are millions of American children who have never eaten at a restaurant with tablecloths before.
3) I believe carbonated drinks are best from a fountain and not a plastic bottle for reasons that have to do with carbon footprints, portion control and also flavor (but they can taste bad when the syrup is low). Ray is surprised I have thought this deeply about sodas.
4) The nice day blues. Some days, when it is beautiful out, I have no desire to be outdoors after working. Because there are so few nice days to take advantage of, I wonder what is wrong with me. No one should feel like a punk because they want to do what they want to do.
5) Kelly and friends are providing garden protection. Ever since Ray got the Dumpster back for Kelly's family (their slumlord landlord forgot to pay for it) via phone call (he didn't do it alone, the real estate company that manages the building also called the guy), Kelly and her friends have been watching the Tulip Terrorist so he doesn't bang up the flowers or even ride on our macadam (which he does anyway in spite of their "Stay out of their yard!" screams, the kid is kind of sociopathic that way). Thanks, Kelly! Come and get a can of tuna for your cats any time!
6) Why did "Wanted" have to have a Loom of Destiny? That would have been my first clue, as an assassin in their employ, that the company's model was very, very stupid. And how did Morgan Freeman ever do that scene where he introduces said Loom without a) cracking up or b) crying that he was having to sell this dog's breakfast?
2) Does Weird Al know how much deep wisdom there is in "Whatever You Like?" It's about having an array of terrible, and terribly limited, choices. It describes the situation of millions of Americans who, like the character in "WYL," are working jobs with terrible pay. The narrator does not appear to have kids or really any responsibilities, but still, his fancy options are large fries. We laugh because we assume he has no taste, or that he is ignorant of what is out there, but in reality, there are millions of American children who have never eaten at a restaurant with tablecloths before.
3) I believe carbonated drinks are best from a fountain and not a plastic bottle for reasons that have to do with carbon footprints, portion control and also flavor (but they can taste bad when the syrup is low). Ray is surprised I have thought this deeply about sodas.
4) The nice day blues. Some days, when it is beautiful out, I have no desire to be outdoors after working. Because there are so few nice days to take advantage of, I wonder what is wrong with me. No one should feel like a punk because they want to do what they want to do.
5) Kelly and friends are providing garden protection. Ever since Ray got the Dumpster back for Kelly's family (their slumlord landlord forgot to pay for it) via phone call (he didn't do it alone, the real estate company that manages the building also called the guy), Kelly and her friends have been watching the Tulip Terrorist so he doesn't bang up the flowers or even ride on our macadam (which he does anyway in spite of their "Stay out of their yard!" screams, the kid is kind of sociopathic that way). Thanks, Kelly! Come and get a can of tuna for your cats any time!
6) Why did "Wanted" have to have a Loom of Destiny? That would have been my first clue, as an assassin in their employ, that the company's model was very, very stupid. And how did Morgan Freeman ever do that scene where he introduces said Loom without a) cracking up or b) crying that he was having to sell this dog's breakfast?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Remembering the dead through sales
So Beth and I went to the Supermall for Memorial Day because I looked like a hobo in my threadbare and dated clothes, and Beth needed some enabling in her life. We learned a special lesson in how old we are, too.
First we got our dresses from the dress shop. Surprisingly (or not), and in complete contrast to how well we were treated when we were buying, while picking up said dresses, the staff was kind of curt and "whatevs." Beth thought it was chintzy that they had a steamer but did not offer to steam our dresses, and especially my wedding dress. I kind of agree. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but it's really a fundamental value for retail.
Then we headed to the Supermall, a place designed to make minds go loose. We first hit Nordstrom Rack, where I bought a pair of $100 (discounted from $275) Cole Haan booties. And seriously, I kind of had to because they were Cole Haans, a detail in an old John Hughes column that made such a deep impression on Ray he once mentioned it and we managed to turn it into an inside joke. Obviously the hottest shoes are Cole Haan shoes, or something.
Anyway, those boots, though not necessary this time of year, replace the utterly useless stiletto-heeled black suede boots made by a white devil. The bottoms were made of cardboard, which in this weather soaks straight through. So although they were cute as hell (and did not have the name of that evil man emblazoned all over them) I had to give them up. The Cole Haans appear to be much better made.
Nordstrom Rack is a seriously disorganized mess of a store. I know it's by design, or buy design. But they could try a little harder because I got wore out the minute I left the shoe section. Also, their cashiers aren't uniformly bright. I pointed out three $7 eyeshadows I was getting to the chick checking me out and she still didn't ring them up. Oh well, they were getting shed of them anyway. I made a good faith effort, anyway.
Now, I can't talk about every item I got because we'd be here all day and even I can't do that. But suffice to say, Beth and I discovered how old we were when we went into the Liz Claiborne outlet. Beth was all, "We're too young," and I was like, "But that red polka-dot dress is cute," and she was all, "well, then let's see what we can find," and I was all, "This dress is $40? Maybe I should try it on?" and I found Beth and was like, "Is this totally boring for you?" and she was like, "I started a changing room already. The shirts are cute and $7.50."
Needless to say, I got the dress and we both got some cute shirts.
Beth tried to justify liking Liz Claiborne because Isaac Mizrahi designs for them now, and I'm pretty sure Tim Gunn was recently brought on to freshen up their look. But I've seen Isaac's stuff in Target and it's either for ironic skinny young women or non-ironic old women with no in betweens, so I'm not cutting him any breaks for being "youth oriented." No, I will give it all up to Tim Gunn.
Funny, I did not get the things I was looking for — cute shoes I can walk around in a lot while on the honeymoon and semi-technical capri-style pants for biking on said honeymoon. Because biking will happen, I swear.
I had a bubble tea and she had a pretzel. Auntie Anne's now puts calorie counts by all their pretzels and it scared Beth into only eating one. Me, I'm pretty sure the bubble tea was a nightmare of faux fats, sugar and tapioca starch. But it's all good because I am working out like a maniac. On Tuesday I did Levels 1 and a bit of 2 on the Jillian Michaels 30 day shred DVD after the Yoga mat I got off-gassed significantly (it reeked). I will give her props, she is motivating and the exercise is pretty good, even for a first level. Only problem is, I am straining something in my legs every time I work out, something between my ankle and mid-calf, and all the jumping jacks don't help. I was about to die in Zumba from the pain tonight. What, see a doctor, you say? Pfft. I don't trust doctors. They just want to take your money for your two-minute visit and can't solve your problem.
Besides, I probably just need new kicks, like I was going to get while shopping on Monday but didn't find.
Unfortunately, I may yet need to go shopping again within not just the year, but the next few months.
First we got our dresses from the dress shop. Surprisingly (or not), and in complete contrast to how well we were treated when we were buying, while picking up said dresses, the staff was kind of curt and "whatevs." Beth thought it was chintzy that they had a steamer but did not offer to steam our dresses, and especially my wedding dress. I kind of agree. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but it's really a fundamental value for retail.
Then we headed to the Supermall, a place designed to make minds go loose. We first hit Nordstrom Rack, where I bought a pair of $100 (discounted from $275) Cole Haan booties. And seriously, I kind of had to because they were Cole Haans, a detail in an old John Hughes column that made such a deep impression on Ray he once mentioned it and we managed to turn it into an inside joke. Obviously the hottest shoes are Cole Haan shoes, or something.
Anyway, those boots, though not necessary this time of year, replace the utterly useless stiletto-heeled black suede boots made by a white devil. The bottoms were made of cardboard, which in this weather soaks straight through. So although they were cute as hell (and did not have the name of that evil man emblazoned all over them) I had to give them up. The Cole Haans appear to be much better made.
Nordstrom Rack is a seriously disorganized mess of a store. I know it's by design, or buy design. But they could try a little harder because I got wore out the minute I left the shoe section. Also, their cashiers aren't uniformly bright. I pointed out three $7 eyeshadows I was getting to the chick checking me out and she still didn't ring them up. Oh well, they were getting shed of them anyway. I made a good faith effort, anyway.
Now, I can't talk about every item I got because we'd be here all day and even I can't do that. But suffice to say, Beth and I discovered how old we were when we went into the Liz Claiborne outlet. Beth was all, "We're too young," and I was like, "But that red polka-dot dress is cute," and she was all, "well, then let's see what we can find," and I was all, "This dress is $40? Maybe I should try it on?" and I found Beth and was like, "Is this totally boring for you?" and she was like, "I started a changing room already. The shirts are cute and $7.50."
Needless to say, I got the dress and we both got some cute shirts.
Beth tried to justify liking Liz Claiborne because Isaac Mizrahi designs for them now, and I'm pretty sure Tim Gunn was recently brought on to freshen up their look. But I've seen Isaac's stuff in Target and it's either for ironic skinny young women or non-ironic old women with no in betweens, so I'm not cutting him any breaks for being "youth oriented." No, I will give it all up to Tim Gunn.
Funny, I did not get the things I was looking for — cute shoes I can walk around in a lot while on the honeymoon and semi-technical capri-style pants for biking on said honeymoon. Because biking will happen, I swear.
I had a bubble tea and she had a pretzel. Auntie Anne's now puts calorie counts by all their pretzels and it scared Beth into only eating one. Me, I'm pretty sure the bubble tea was a nightmare of faux fats, sugar and tapioca starch. But it's all good because I am working out like a maniac. On Tuesday I did Levels 1 and a bit of 2 on the Jillian Michaels 30 day shred DVD after the Yoga mat I got off-gassed significantly (it reeked). I will give her props, she is motivating and the exercise is pretty good, even for a first level. Only problem is, I am straining something in my legs every time I work out, something between my ankle and mid-calf, and all the jumping jacks don't help. I was about to die in Zumba from the pain tonight. What, see a doctor, you say? Pfft. I don't trust doctors. They just want to take your money for your two-minute visit and can't solve your problem.
Besides, I probably just need new kicks, like I was going to get while shopping on Monday but didn't find.
Unfortunately, I may yet need to go shopping again within not just the year, but the next few months.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Survival of the Fittest
So the other weekend while visiting Ray's dad, we couldn't make it to see Ray's mom (the nursing home was on quarantine lockdown because someone had the flu — not swine, not like it really matters, all flu is bad for the compromised), so we went mountain biking. I had a hard time keeping up, in part because we were shooting straight uphill and in part because I had worked out for about two hours the previous day.
I would say I was in recovery mode, but Ray saw it differently. He thought I was getting my butt kicked because I don't work out hard enough with Zumba and whatever else it is I am doing at the Y. "I don't think you're keeping your heart rate elevated for a long enough time," he said, as my eyesight went purple and red with rage and disbelief.
True, Zumba does not have a consistent across-the-board high heartrate inducing situation happening. There is a warm-up and a cool-down and fast songs interspersed with slightly slower ones for about 35 minutes before the floor work starts, which lasts about 25 minutes and rounds out the hour. The amount your body works is pretty much dependent on A) knowing and following the steps and B) Pushing yourself on the faster workouts to kick your knees higher, bounce a little more and generally be as inefficient as possible. Why do you think aerobics instructors scream out, "SQUEEZE THOSE TUMMY MUSCLES!!!" all the time? They want you to think you're shrinking your abs, sure, but they also want people to push themselves a little harder. A tough workout — it is possible to get.
What Ray does is, however, incredibly consistent. It is so completely consistent that sometimes I wonder that he isn't overtrained in some muscles. To wit: Ray has the most jacked-up treadmill, set at an incline that could train an Everest climber. He gets on it about three or four times a week and walks for 30 mins at top speed (about 3 mph) and then takes 2.5 mins to "cool down," which does not seem significantly slower to me, then does some pushups and sit ups, always the same sort. Now, Ray is the best hiller on bike or foot that you have ever seen. He marched up Mt. Elinor like it was flat pavement. He bikes up hills that I'm walking up. He is like the Terminator or something on grueling hikes.
So I challenged Ray to come to Zumba with me. Now, Ray knew that Zumba is the kind of environment that may drain a man of all his masculinity for 30 minutes or so, but he bravely tagged along to a Saturday morning lesson, which was only sparsely attended. He had a hard time keeping up. I'm not saying he was floundering like a bottom feeder or anything, but Zumba is not as obvious as walking, after all. But he was very game and I was very proud of him. Also, one of the creepy hillbilly-type people that stare in the Zumba classroom from the house out back was out on the porch staring in. Ray got the full experience.
At the end, he thought his legs might be kind of sore from the floorwork — "Just the hamstrings though" — which was his concession to me that Zumba may have benefits. He has not changed his assessment of the inconsistency of the heartrate, however. Of course, Ray is all about the consistency.
In spite of his refusal to truly accept Zumba as a legitimate form of exercise, he did make me a really nice dinner Saturday night.
I would say I was in recovery mode, but Ray saw it differently. He thought I was getting my butt kicked because I don't work out hard enough with Zumba and whatever else it is I am doing at the Y. "I don't think you're keeping your heart rate elevated for a long enough time," he said, as my eyesight went purple and red with rage and disbelief.
True, Zumba does not have a consistent across-the-board high heartrate inducing situation happening. There is a warm-up and a cool-down and fast songs interspersed with slightly slower ones for about 35 minutes before the floor work starts, which lasts about 25 minutes and rounds out the hour. The amount your body works is pretty much dependent on A) knowing and following the steps and B) Pushing yourself on the faster workouts to kick your knees higher, bounce a little more and generally be as inefficient as possible. Why do you think aerobics instructors scream out, "SQUEEZE THOSE TUMMY MUSCLES!!!" all the time? They want you to think you're shrinking your abs, sure, but they also want people to push themselves a little harder. A tough workout — it is possible to get.
What Ray does is, however, incredibly consistent. It is so completely consistent that sometimes I wonder that he isn't overtrained in some muscles. To wit: Ray has the most jacked-up treadmill, set at an incline that could train an Everest climber. He gets on it about three or four times a week and walks for 30 mins at top speed (about 3 mph) and then takes 2.5 mins to "cool down," which does not seem significantly slower to me, then does some pushups and sit ups, always the same sort. Now, Ray is the best hiller on bike or foot that you have ever seen. He marched up Mt. Elinor like it was flat pavement. He bikes up hills that I'm walking up. He is like the Terminator or something on grueling hikes.
So I challenged Ray to come to Zumba with me. Now, Ray knew that Zumba is the kind of environment that may drain a man of all his masculinity for 30 minutes or so, but he bravely tagged along to a Saturday morning lesson, which was only sparsely attended. He had a hard time keeping up. I'm not saying he was floundering like a bottom feeder or anything, but Zumba is not as obvious as walking, after all. But he was very game and I was very proud of him. Also, one of the creepy hillbilly-type people that stare in the Zumba classroom from the house out back was out on the porch staring in. Ray got the full experience.
At the end, he thought his legs might be kind of sore from the floorwork — "Just the hamstrings though" — which was his concession to me that Zumba may have benefits. He has not changed his assessment of the inconsistency of the heartrate, however. Of course, Ray is all about the consistency.
In spite of his refusal to truly accept Zumba as a legitimate form of exercise, he did make me a really nice dinner Saturday night.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Say what?
So Ray and I are trying to teach ourselves some foreign language before we go on our honeymoon later this year, and that means CDs from the library. So far we listened to some on the way to Oly for the big banjo band playout at the First United Methodist Church (where we drew a record crowd for the Saturday afternoon "Potluck and a Program") from the Living Language series. They weren't that great. Maybe for review, since they're all in my iPod? So we moved on to the Instant Immersion series, which is an improvement.
Now, the Living Language series scores some points from me for its "cultural facts" portion. Because the cultural facts are so ridiculous it's hard to believe they aren't trying to get one over on us but then again, the French love Mickey Rourke and Jerry Lewis and only one of those cats has had a comeback. According to Living Language All-Audio French, the French are obsessed with graphology and if you apply for a job there they may send your handwriting off to a grafologiste who will divine your personality traits. When we heard that, Ray and I looked at each other and went, "Wha?" On the other hand, in Latin America they are really into astrology there, in a way people aren't up here.
Other news: Went to Longview, where Kris was assembling a mock 7th-street cake. She was going for a whole-building effect; I thought she would try to recreate the facade (un mot francais (perdonnez-moi, je escoute les CDs, non escrives pas). It was kind of a wash though as it looked funny, so she was on the verge of chucking it, but Ray and I took it home and had Mickey over to share the manifold delights of the 7th Street cake, which was from scratch yellow cake with an entire bottle of red food coloring in it and buttercream frosting tinted the fleshy tone of the theatre.
It looked like a fake-limb cake. Not sure which limb. It tasted good, though. Anyone ever read the Armistead Maupin books about San Francisco? Remember the guy who couldn't remember anything but hated roses? And it turned out he was part of a Catholic cult with the crazy ideas about transubstantiation? Well, this cake could stand in for that guy's cult — and much more deliciously and less repulsively.
The mountain biking was meh in Eufala Heights, which this weekend could be called "You Fail-a" heights. Trees were down, we got lost, my legs got all scratched to heck, Ray didn't feel he got a good enough workout (gee, we only pushed our bikes up a hill for a couple of miles). We had a forced march around Broadway hill and up 6th Street and then back down through the post office. Ray impugned the aerobic benefits of the Zumba, too, because I was dawdling and sweaty. Not everyone wants to pretend they're hauling it up Mt. Everest for 32.5 minutes (no warm-up, the extra 2.5 mins are the "cool down") on a treadmill set to "almost vertical" while watching Lil Kim and Derek the dancer jive to "Jailhouse Rock." Some of us like and need the sociality of Zumba.
OH! MAJOR NEWS! I BUSTED THE TULIP TERRORIST RED-HANDED!!!
Little boy was holding a tulip I'd had my eye on for a week in his hot little grimy hand while riding bike circles around me as I asked him, "Do I go into your yard and pick your tulips?" (shoulda used the word "flower," in retrospect). He was all cagey about where he got it — "I got it somewhere." But eventually he fessed up — "I got it there" (pointing to garden). Other tulips were missing. I was annoyed. I don't think TeeTee learned much, but one can hope.
TeeTee also played what appeared to be chicken with us when we were about to leave the driveway for the grocery store. With his bike. He came right at us on his bike, swerving almost at the last moment at our (stopped) car. What preschooler has thanatos? Does he feel some sort of existential angst — la nausee (is nausea masculin ou feminin? Je ne sais pas)? What is up with this kid?
I told Ray if we were to spawn our kid would probably get beat up by TeeTee while simultaneously worshipping him.
The temps this weekend was gloriouse. Notre premiere weekend de la ete. More, please!
We saw the Driftwood show, "Crimes of the Heart." Nice set! And it was really good. Debbie's daughter was in it and she was as precious as she could be, and so was Ray's distant cousin Julayne. Anyway, it was a really well-done show. Apparently, because I went in and sat down while Ray hit the bathroom, he couldn't find me and it took half of Livin' Harmony (the local barbershop quartet) to point me out to him. I was reading the program so I missed out.
This is such a small town. Sometimes it is hard for me to get over. Although there are a lot more social problems here than in Stars Hollow, there are a lot of similarities to that fictional community, too. Like when Hoquiam thought about banning chickens, pigeons, ducks and geese the other week. Small town governmental decision-making at its finest (it was voted down — let people have their poullets).
Now, the Living Language series scores some points from me for its "cultural facts" portion. Because the cultural facts are so ridiculous it's hard to believe they aren't trying to get one over on us but then again, the French love Mickey Rourke and Jerry Lewis and only one of those cats has had a comeback. According to Living Language All-Audio French, the French are obsessed with graphology and if you apply for a job there they may send your handwriting off to a grafologiste who will divine your personality traits. When we heard that, Ray and I looked at each other and went, "Wha?" On the other hand, in Latin America they are really into astrology there, in a way people aren't up here.
Other news: Went to Longview, where Kris was assembling a mock 7th-street cake. She was going for a whole-building effect; I thought she would try to recreate the facade (un mot francais (perdonnez-moi, je escoute les CDs, non escrives pas). It was kind of a wash though as it looked funny, so she was on the verge of chucking it, but Ray and I took it home and had Mickey over to share the manifold delights of the 7th Street cake, which was from scratch yellow cake with an entire bottle of red food coloring in it and buttercream frosting tinted the fleshy tone of the theatre.
It looked like a fake-limb cake. Not sure which limb. It tasted good, though. Anyone ever read the Armistead Maupin books about San Francisco? Remember the guy who couldn't remember anything but hated roses? And it turned out he was part of a Catholic cult with the crazy ideas about transubstantiation? Well, this cake could stand in for that guy's cult — and much more deliciously and less repulsively.
The mountain biking was meh in Eufala Heights, which this weekend could be called "You Fail-a" heights. Trees were down, we got lost, my legs got all scratched to heck, Ray didn't feel he got a good enough workout (gee, we only pushed our bikes up a hill for a couple of miles). We had a forced march around Broadway hill and up 6th Street and then back down through the post office. Ray impugned the aerobic benefits of the Zumba, too, because I was dawdling and sweaty. Not everyone wants to pretend they're hauling it up Mt. Everest for 32.5 minutes (no warm-up, the extra 2.5 mins are the "cool down") on a treadmill set to "almost vertical" while watching Lil Kim and Derek the dancer jive to "Jailhouse Rock." Some of us like and need the sociality of Zumba.
OH! MAJOR NEWS! I BUSTED THE TULIP TERRORIST RED-HANDED!!!
Little boy was holding a tulip I'd had my eye on for a week in his hot little grimy hand while riding bike circles around me as I asked him, "Do I go into your yard and pick your tulips?" (shoulda used the word "flower," in retrospect). He was all cagey about where he got it — "I got it somewhere." But eventually he fessed up — "I got it there" (pointing to garden). Other tulips were missing. I was annoyed. I don't think TeeTee learned much, but one can hope.
TeeTee also played what appeared to be chicken with us when we were about to leave the driveway for the grocery store. With his bike. He came right at us on his bike, swerving almost at the last moment at our (stopped) car. What preschooler has thanatos? Does he feel some sort of existential angst — la nausee (is nausea masculin ou feminin? Je ne sais pas)? What is up with this kid?
I told Ray if we were to spawn our kid would probably get beat up by TeeTee while simultaneously worshipping him.
The temps this weekend was gloriouse. Notre premiere weekend de la ete. More, please!
We saw the Driftwood show, "Crimes of the Heart." Nice set! And it was really good. Debbie's daughter was in it and she was as precious as she could be, and so was Ray's distant cousin Julayne. Anyway, it was a really well-done show. Apparently, because I went in and sat down while Ray hit the bathroom, he couldn't find me and it took half of Livin' Harmony (the local barbershop quartet) to point me out to him. I was reading the program so I missed out.
This is such a small town. Sometimes it is hard for me to get over. Although there are a lot more social problems here than in Stars Hollow, there are a lot of similarities to that fictional community, too. Like when Hoquiam thought about banning chickens, pigeons, ducks and geese the other week. Small town governmental decision-making at its finest (it was voted down — let people have their poullets).
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