SuspendedAnimation

adieu, adieu, to yieu and yieu and yieu

So, to be a bit less laconic:
I did take that job, yes! and it's on Wall Street—you know: the one with the journal. How this happened, I don't know. Yes, it is a job that is appropriate to a librarian, or an Information Professional anyway. When I've been in the job for a month or two, I might be able to intelligently explain what the job is and what the company does. At the moment, when people ask me that, I sort of do this thing where the muscles of my jaw demonstrate an almost supernatural level of slackness and I salivate profusely.

So that's a big change. It's a full-time job, and I still have schoolwork to finish. You see what's coming, don't you? I have to concentrate on Other Things right now. If I do any writing, it'll be work on The Fiction Idea, which is alive and well.

Soooooooo ... I'd like to say that anyone who reads this blog frequently and has never de-lurked: thank you for the compliment of coming by. And the rest of you with whom I am more familiar: I am very grateful for your reading my words over the past sixteen months.

I'm not closing up shop because ... who knows? I may change my mind. But I am definitely on hiatus. See ya when I see ya. xoxoxox Jill

Wanted: Raving Lunatic

I got that job ...

Sheeesh.

pause

I realize I'm overdue for a post, but current events leave me unwilling to talk about myself for the moment.

Life is precious. Let's extend our hearts to those who have just lost so much. I wish for peace and an end to suffering for all ...

Gosh, I'm having so much fun, whitewashing this fence!

Strolling through my back pages. I was so much older then. I found a fairly early post—okay, so it was a meme: sue me! But it was one of my favorite memes ever:

Invent a memory of me and post it in the comments. It can be anything you want, so long as it's something that's never happened.

So I've been a bit preoccupied lately, and still don't feel like posting about Chicago and probably won't ... and I figured, let's re-run that meme and I know I'm a lazy-ass weblog writer, kicking back and asking the readers to do the heavy lifting. But you're all so good at it! heeeeeee.

What have I been up to all these years? Let me know. xoxox

why you love me in spite of everything

• Because you're very likely to get at least one good meal out of it, eventually.
• Because I will reward your patience, occasionally, with something surprising and not unpleasant.
• Because of that rocket thing I can do with the foil-lined gum wrapper paper
• Because for every annoying trait I possess, I compensate with 2.2 adorable ones
• Because though you take a loss on every sale, you make up for it in volume
• Because what the world needs now is love, sweet love
• Because you know that my heart is true
• Because that's just the kind of person you are
• Because—just because
• Because, though I don't have the energy to post about Chicago right now, at least I posted something
• Because you don't want to be h8n
• Because if not you, who?
• Because I love you

aloha

interview went well enough that they scheduled a second one before I left. Can't really add anything to that except: a lot to think about. Excited, uncertain, cognitive mayhem.

And! off to Chicago for annual Big Library Meeting—leaving the house in 2.5 hours and haven't packed yet. Because that's the kind of devil-may-care life I lead. Nothing new to see here until mid-next week at the earliest, duckies.

How to be a raving lunatic, and other bits of practical advice

So you say you want to be a raving lunatic.

Here's one way to start: phone the contact person for a job that looks intriguing, intimidating, and ... well ... on the basis of its description, either challenging or perhaps just impossible. Tell the contact person that you phoned because the position announcement, while quite detailed regarding the range and scope of the job responsibilities, provided very little specific information in what they were looking for in a candidate. Chat about the position(s) available and your specific experience for a while. Find yourself agreeing to come in for a job interview in two days' time.

Then: freak the fuck out.

Shop for something to wear on this interview, which is in an environment utterly alien to that which you've been hiding in for the past forty years.

Stop eating.

Wring your hands a bit.

Collect yet another diagnosis from your psychiatrist. Ask if they will be coming out with a bobble-head for that.

Congratulations! You are an authentic, first edition, ISO-compliant raving lunatic!

Now on to another topic I've been thinking about: Evil.

I've decided that I don't like evil. Evil sucks. I don't get what's up with the evil thing.

What's so wrong about good and kind? I'll have you know that good and kind are not as insipid and monochromatic as they might seem. Good and kind can be intricate, complicated, exciting, inspiring.

This is all Julie's fault. Ever since I was foolish enough to google 'K4rl4 H0m0lk4',* whom that twisted ho dear girl mentioned in passing, I've been perseverating on evil. "That one can smile and smile and be a ... seri4l r4pist/ki11er."

Of course what's bugging me is not merely that evil doesn't always wear the face of evil. That is, if 'the face of evil' means 'ugly.' It used to be explicitly outlined in dogma, didn't it, that the good Lord painted our faces into a clear advertisement of our moral state? This could be regarded as a great gift: allowing us, if we are observant enough, to steer clear of the wicked. It would be comforting to think that one could learn how to look and, by looking, know.

So, sure, the apparent truth—that evil can reside quite comfortably in a purty vessel—that's a little bit disturbing; that makes my world just a tidge less predictable. But that's not really why I don't like evil.

What I don't like about evil is that I don't really know what it is. We see its fruits in murder, mayhem, reality television programming. But how does it catch hold on the human mind—what makes some people capable of perpetrating what others pale in even briefly contemplating? I once worked in the cubicle across from a woman who cataloged the UN's documentary collection on the effects of war on children. And she once cornered me and coersively narrated one—just one—horrific episode, a synopsis of the testimony of one child on the slaughter of his family, occurring in his home, before his eyes. I forbade her to ever tell me anything like that again.

But if it happened, why shouldn't I know about it? I don't know, when I shrink from knowledge of evil, whether it's because I fear its visitation on my own doorstep, or if it's because I wonder whether what seems to alien to me is rooted within me, unrecognized.

Something else I'd like to figure out: is shrinking from evil a form of cowardice? Does it do harm, not to look with clear eyes on every truth no matter how repellant? Is it a way of withholding compassion, a way of refusing to know oneself by refusing to know another?

And should I take a Xanax before the job interview, you know, just to be on the safe side?

*Don't be an ass. If you don't know who she is, avoid my mistake. She did a bad, bad thing—there: now you know enough.

father's day

These are the cinnamon rolls beside which all other cinnamon rolls are not cinnamon rolls but rather insipid slices of supermarket white bread. We have been making them for special occasions for ten years. The only quibble I have with this recipe is the icing. The icing is kinda pointless, isn't it? We expect to see icing. It has no particular flavor; doesn't add much texturally, either. Eh. I make the icing, and the ones we're eating on the spot, I drizzle a modest amount of icing on them. But the real gift-that-keeps-on-giving aspect of making something like this for someone for breakfast is, the honored one is entitled to the leftovers for the next few days. We freeze them. I don't think the icing does well for re-heating the buns, so the leftovers are naked.

Why does it seem as though I work the word 'naked' into virtually every post?

This particular Father's Day I am doing a lot of cooking. Howie is smoking a big rack of ribs, and he has also taken responsibility for the greens. The menu:

Smoked pork ribs
Coleslaw
Mustardy potato salad
Collard greens

Strawberry-rhubarb shortcake

So a few words about the rest of the menu:
Coleslaw: traditionalist. I like the shred fairly fine, and always like the slaw best when it's a mixture of green and red cabbage with a good amount of carrot, for that confetti color effect. Nothing else but a bit of onion or scallion and a a thin dressing of vinegar, sugar, mayonnaise, salt and pepper.

Potato salad: what I've come to is a variation on a mustard-dressed potato salad some friends made for us once. the dressing is mostly oil, vinegar, lots of stone-ground brown mustard and a very modest amount of mayonnaise—just enough to mellow the sharpness of the mustard a bit—and nothing else in the potato salad but the boiled potatoes and a little scallion, though parsley can be good in it too (the little girl loathes parsley, so we try not to harrass her with it if we can do without it). I know some people like to cook whole potatoes and then chop them, but I prefer to cut them into 1" to 1.5" pieces, skin on, and boil them in well-salted water with a quartered onion in it.

Um, and I love sweet pickles, but their presence in potato salad drives me to a murderous rage.

Strawberry rhubarb shortcake: I've already posted my shortcake recipe elsewhere on this blog. The rhubarb part is from a recipe in one of Deborah Madison's cookbooks for 'rhubarb fool' (rhubarb puree mixed with creme anglaise, folded with whipped cream. very nice). Sliced rhubarb cooked down to a puree with sugar, a few strips of orange rind, the juice of the orange, and vanilla bean. Sliced strawberries stirred into the chilled puree, spooned in a split shortcake, topped with whipped cream. Rhubarb is one of those foods that people seem to love or hate. Greenish, big rhubarb is not worth anyone's time, I think, but gorgeously red, small rhubarb really does justify its existence, and it can be a lot better than strawberries when the strawberries themselves are not superior ones.

Okay, back to the kitchen with me. Neither barefoot nor pregnant but today: highly domestic.

double-dog daring me?

of course I remember it! every word of it! you think I can't remember 250-500 words for a measly fifty hours? Ha hahaha. I laugh lightly at your sorry skepticism. Here ya go.

Within the last year or so, I've come to understand that choosing a garment that can optimally showcase one's incandescent beauty requires, principally, addressing two factors: 1. appropriate cut/fit for one's shape; and (here's what I now better appreciate:) 2. felicitous choice of color and pattern.

By 'felicitous' I don't really mean 'pretty' or 'a color I like.' I mean something in proximity of which one's complexion looks neither apoplectic, nor in imminent danger of accidental horizontal storage in a refrigerated drawer. A color that does not cause one to disappear behind it entirely, such that the wedding guests cry out: Why is that frock suspended in mid-air? It is an annoyance and a hindrance on the dance floor! Remove it—dispose of it—shove it in a broom closet! A color that offsets the shining, dark, deep glory of brunette tresses, rather than giving the impression that said tresses have been dressed with cow manure.

You know: felicitous.

No one could be more surprised than I to discover that subtle changes in my complexion and haircolor have resulted in a marked alteration in which colors suit me best. Or perhaps I've been dazzling assorted viewers with my radiance in spite of a lifelong ignorance in this area. In any case: I've discovered that my new best colors are corally pinks and soft, peachy orange tones; claret reds; mossy greens; and the humble, earthy brown.

Consequently, for the wedding I bought a beautiful halter neck dress, tea-length or slightly shorter, with a tulle-lined hem to keep the skirt full ... a lovely cotton retro Paris print (think Bemelmans), two shades of brown (reddish and chocolate) and an accent of golden tan on a bright white ground. Somehow, one can't make a dress in brown sound pretty; I assure you, however: this dress was devastatingly pretty. On me, it was irresponsibly pretty—recklessly pretty. Chunky white slide-on sandals, bead bracelets, smallish coordinating Robert Rose chandelier earrings, pearly coral toenail polish, and rosy brown fingernail polish that I'd thought never would come back into style but lo and behold.

I was so very pretty that even my husband gasped.

But as I finished getting ready (in a bit of a hurry as you remember from two-posts-down), once I'd slipped the dress on and was just getting the few items stowed in the perfect linen clutch and putting on lipstick, I kept hearing a small mysterious *clunk* as I passed through doorways ... finally ready to rush out the door and head off to Brooklyn—literally in my driveway—I found the source of the clunk: the perfect accessory to my look, in a subtle ecru plastic: the security tag, not removed at purchase, fastened firmly to the left side of the skirt of my dress.

Nine a.m. on a Sunday; no chance of finding a store that could remove it for me.

I did not dance. When I couldn't cover the tag with the clutch bag, I tucked it under my left thigh. Still had lots of fun, got corruscatingly drunk. The bride was lovely, of course. The end.

one wedding and a funeral

I was writing to you in the wee hours about a wedding, when the streaming archived radio show I was listening to caused me to crash mid-post. Had I saved? It is to laugh.

When Typepad asked me to offer the eulogy for my dead post, I immediately accepted. No one knew or loved that post as I did. In fact, none of you had ever read that post (I can fairly assume). Ah, she was special: funny; astute; lovely, in parts; and unfinished. Much like myself.

They say it's unwise to try to replace the loss of something you love. Nevertheless, if you come back later today I'm going to try to reproduce some of what I'd written.

And take it from me: save—save—save. Early and often; lavishly, repetitively and compulsively. I refer to computer files, of course. Spend everything else. If you can't think of anything to spend it on, email me for suggestions and a postal address.