People who do account for their time in increments of, as it often turns out, 6-minutes, take that reporting pretty seriously. In my previous post, I mentioned not having to report my minute-by-minute productivity, and used 7 minutes as an example. Why does it matter, I asked one of the pointer-outers? After all, 6 is no more neatly divisible into 100. But apparently a lot of American companies are still using the non-metric hour, so the math is based on divisibility into 60. Happy Labor Day.
wildcard
Misspent Youth, Pour-a-Quiche, Introducing Rosamunde Portsmouth
When I was busy misspending my youth–by which I mean everything from the day I quit piano lessons, through the summer I lived in the “International House” in Freiburg learning [card games] instead of German, up until I realized all my options had become limited–I often heard myself telling people I thought maybe I would write a book one day. I can’t imagine now when I supposed I’d accomplish it–while my children were playing out of doors or building dioramas out of found objects? It turns out what I tend to do, after I have finished doing their chores, while they are definitely not watching Austin and Ally, is an elaborate cooking project. Recently, however, like all responsible husbands, mine has set some limits for me—among them, a three-hour time limit for preparing dinner. “Not every meal is Thanksgiving,” adds a cheeky eleven year-old.
In the plus column, now that I’m limited to potted meats and Pour-a-Quiche, I’ll have plenty of time for Rosamunde Portsmouth, the heroine of my forthcoming series of novels. I haven’t decided what she does, besides a lot of unapologetic staying out late and then working in an office, where she often arrives rumpled. Very glam. She does NOT like to be called Roz!
Your Microbiome, Yusuf Islam, Not Learning
I try not to worry about all the antibiotics I’ve taken over the years having killed off my microbiome. After all, what can I do about it now, except take lots of probiotics, and, of course, eat very little, because the antibiotics have also killed off my metabolism. Don’t take my word for this–I have a terrible memory, and even if that is exactly what I read, heard or saw somewhere, you probably shouldn’t listen to me, particularly about eating lightly, because the latest recipe I tried for homemade marshmallows—it’s from Epicurious, so you can look it up–is very manageable, and, especially roasted, they melt beautifully in full cream hot chocolate. (¼ c Dutch processed cocoa, ½ c sugar, 1 c cream, 3 c whole milk; then if you have any leftover shards of Callebaut from your Christmas cookies, stir that in, and ¼ c of spirits to make Downton more fun, or a candy cane for Christine).
I was right to review The Accursed when I did. If I had waited until I knew the ending, it might have taken some of the joy out of, well, let’s say the journey of reading the book. If there is a parallel here to life, or to running, or to attempting a croquembouche, I hope you will ignore it. I try not to deal in morals. Do you hear me J.C.O.? In fact, I’m guessing it will be even better if I review the book I’m about to start, before it has been soured for me in any way.
Besides my indifference, at age five, to the Booker Prize, I can only explain never having read Midnight’s Children by admitting that back when I had nothing but time to read, and complain to my parents that I didn’t want to leave the car to look at paintings or state parks, I didn’t realize Salman Rushdie was interesting, and I was confused about whether he wanted to kill Cat Stevens, or was it the other way around? I understood Natalie Merchant had an opinion since she took “Peace Train” off In My Tribe, but my young adult life was full of so many preoccupations* that I didn’t give Salman Rushdie another thought until two of my favorite female role models, Padma Lakshmi and Terry Gross, rediscovered him—each in her own way. Review: I expect a bit of playfulness out of Midnight’s Children, because in his Fresh Air interview, Rushdie admitted an addiction to Angry Birds. Padma can’t have put up with much of that, though, so what was the attraction during their three-year marriage? I can only surmise that I am also in for a richly detailed history of post-colonial India, with a touch of Kaffir lime juice for balance.
*e.g. Garp got a fish hook stuck in his mouth, outside of normal vet hours, and was returned in a cardboard box (alive).
I Advise, Bitters, Spritz Optional
A recipe: Take all the citrus you have leftover from the holidays—lemons, limes, and darlin’ clementines that would otherwise get lost under something in your crisper while you were “cooking” apologetic non-meals on the coattails of your holiday labors—and add them to the leftover tart cherry juice you bought because you read it would help you sleep, or run faster, or remember things. Then pour those things into a much larger vessel and add as much bourbon as you have left after eggnog season, and/or fill the vessel to capacity. Serve over crushed ice. Add a spritzer, if you have the energy. Oh! Bitters would also be good. Add these to the mix before you stir, and certainly before you spritz. Did I say to stir it? For this preparation, I’m sure it won’t matter what kind of bitters you use, but if anyone is watching, do use the sort that come in a mysterious-looking bottle.
Lie, Lay, EYE-lah?
When my children correct me about something from the as-I-say-not-as-I-do category, I like to talk to them about building intellectual authority, and then I prescribe continuing their music lessons and not ignoring grammar. “Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’, I was layin’ in bed,” sings Bob Dylan, but I don’t turn that part down. Instead I explain that Bob Dylan is a poet, and he knows all the rules, and the characters in his songs may “lay” in, or across, beds sometimes, but that doesn’t mean that either of my children should do that. I mean, say that. I mean—they may certainly lie in their own beds, but only by themselves, for now, in the present tense. By contrast, Barry Manilow, whose song I use only for the sake of comparison—or when I feel like someone is really hogging the mic and I need to monopolize a 17-bar interlude—could have asked “who shot whom?” at the Copacabana without breaking character. So, children, when I say “like” too frequently, remember that it’s with a wink—not, like, when Ariana Grande says it on Sam & Cat.
Gosh, intellectual authority—authority of all flavors—is so easy to fake within the parent-child relationship. It’s not as easy elsewhere, but I would like to point you towards some of my scholarly work, if you have a few hours, and read German: http://www.beckyloomis.com/Ichbinsehrsehrintelligent. The link has been a little fussy lately, but I hope you will get a chance to read at least a portion of this at some point, because I’m concerned you’re starting to believe me when I tell you I’m an airhead. Or maybe you’ve even witnessed that sort of behavior. Last night, I was trying, as always, to be subtle! But the hills of [more in a moment] were calling me, because I’ve been on a rare bourbon streak recently. Bourbon, it turns out, pairs nicely with the campfire smell lingering (permanently?) from the fire I made recently without opening the flue. So I needed to restore balance, and warm up, with a Lagavulin, before the Mary Chapin Carpenter concert. (Christine, she’s a folk singer.) The bartender told me they didn’t have Lagavulin. I believed her, but she also looked puzzled when I asked for Laphroaig. So I got up—not in a huff—and walked down to the end of the bar to point it out, and the other bartender said “Oh! you mean [something I didn’t understand]?” and held up the bottle of Laphroaig. “I’ve always pronounced it [same sound]”. “Maybe,” I said. “I’ve never been to Ireland.” I have also never been to Scotland, but I know where Islay is, more or less. At any rate, neither of them was disarmed by my mistake, and my white bean chili showed up with the cheese I had asked them to omit. I started to compliment the one bartender’s fishnets, or tell her I had a pair just like them, but that would have been a lie. Mine have the line in back.
Curiosity, Politics, Shhh…
The daughter I mentioned having in another post, who was, in that one–for narrative purposes–almost eleven, is, as it turns out, actually eleven now and has started acting more–yawn–socially aware. The other day she asked me if there is a difference between Democrats and Republicans. I have no idea where this came from, unless it’s that darn Montessori again. At home, we make a point never to discuss politics, calories, or Jon Snow’s parentage, but children develop curiosities all the same. You are likely not eleven, and I don’t want to be patronizing, so here’s an abridgment of what I told her:
Federalists, Abraham Lincoln, some of my best friends, blood on the steps of the U.S. Capitol, Religion, things that frighten people.
I voted, you know, but I did not discuss it. I don’t think it’s fair to assume that because I’m an airhead who falls down a lot that I’ve completely checked out.
Hey, can I get sentimental for a moment? Because I’m just remembering another time my daughter asked me about the differences between people. We were living in Vermont, so she couldn’t have been two yet, and she and her little friend [boy] were playing in the river. When his mother was changing him out of his wet swimsuit, my daughter observed that [N.] “has a different bottom”. I was sure I was out of earshot of my grandmother in Virginia, so I decided it would be all right to be kind of Vermonty and open, and not just change the subject and offer her a maple candy. “Yes he does,” I said. Not an easy conversation, to be sure, but, I mean–now that I have an eleven year-old, I’m feeling pretty smug that I got it out of the way when I did!
Dream Animals, Chris Farley, I Lie
My teenage whininess forced my mother to join a Jungian women’s group, where she learned her Dream Animal is a giraffe. Maybe it was a book group and a Jungian analyst? It’s possible I’m conflating some things. When it comes to personal minutiae, the responsibility for keeping track flows more from parent to child than the other way around, eh?
Anyway, this blog, which I started as an assignment for a class I’m taking, got leaked a little bit because of @kplawson9’s enthusiasm for social media, and I was reminded why I have always liked to write a once-a-year Christmas letter on a typewriter, glue a Polaroid or a candy cane to it, and mail it via USPS to anyone whose address I might still have in my little red planner from the Coach outlet, Senior Skip Day, Norfolk Academy, 1994. Remember when Chris Farley used to interview celebrities on SNL and then immediately berate himself for whatever he said? I think it’s kind of obvious that I live like Chris Farley: balls out, immediately regretting almost everything I say.
So I wanted to make it clear that in my previous post I meant “Dream Animal” in a Jungian sense, to the extent I remember, or ever knew what that means. I don’t dream of owning a German Shepherd in the same way I dream of being able to kitesurf, or being a bartender/ski bum in Aspen with no children. Though I do seem to do a lot of daydreaming about it, and to friends who’ve apparently heard a little much about the potential unrecommended dog, it’s become known as my direwolf, and I don’t even know if those exist outside of Game of Thrones. Don’t tell me, because I enjoy imagining myself as Daenerys, with my big loyal direwolf following me to Whole Foods and Montessori. I know–Daenerys has dragons. But that’s not very likely to happen is it? The last thing I want is to end up with an unruly, un-furry dragon, and the whole de-clawing issue again. All I meant was, when I’ve taken the right combination of sleep medications, or performed my yoga fire breaths–this second thing is an aspirational lie, ugh, and an unintentional pun, which I hate but now I’ve said it and can’t un-type–to dream vividly, the animal most likely to appear is a wolf-like dog. But I will do my best to remember not to get one, even though I’m sure they are available online.
I lied about the babies, too. I’m not going to talk about babies.
Next time: I explain my first post, about Austin, which was really more of a Tweet, or a Tumbl? Fingers crossed the topic will be covered in my next class.
extra strong opinions 