More fun with Netflix

So, I'm sick today, and watching a lot more TV than reading. I begin to think that the descriptions of episodes of Family Ties available from Netflix are maybe not written by native English speakers.

A few examples:

While Alex is in the shop where Mallory works, they catch Jessie Blake shoplifting. Dad Steven points out Milford home where Jessie lives is not an orphanage but specialized in problem children, often abused.

Alex is in charge of this year's Leland parents students day. His girlfriend Ellen is angry because Alex personally invited her father, corporate lawyer Franklin Reed, whom she rejected as 'foul materialist' years ago.

Ma and Jen hardly notice the mustache Alex grows for the homecoming speech as former valedictorian in Harding High-school. Skippy hopes Mal just uses Nick to make him jealous, but of course she refuses to go with him to the homecoming dance.

and my personal favorite....

Alex committed the surprising error to vent his conviction so he gets stuck following the same elementary car mechanics course as ma Elyse, the architect, who proves more gifted at it.

What I Read on My Winter Vacation: Gather Together in My Name

Once again, your guide to pretending you've read books when people ask.

Angelou, Maya. Gather Together in My Name. Toronto: Bantam, 1975. Print.

I got this book many years ago, when I was a teacher and it was one of the options I had for teaching to my juniors. I neither read it nor taught it then.

Summary with spoilers (highlight to read): Maya Angelou had a really ridiculous late adolescence, apparently, including kind of a lot of criminal activity and a lot of moving around. She works as a cook, a pimp, a waitress, a prostitute, a chauffeurette, and a couple other things. She falls in love with a few real jerks. And when she thinks of it, she cares for her young child.

If you tell people you read this book, they'll think you're: Smart and interesting enough to get past I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. If you then tell them you haven't actually read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, they may or may not be intrigued by your choosing to read just part of the middle of a memoir.

Your informed opinion of this book is that it's: Not all that Christmassy. And beautifully written, though it reads like what it is — the middle of a memoir. Angelou's writing is magnificent — her imagery is flawless and her honest self-appraisal ranges from hilarious to sobering — but the book ends and you wonder, "And then?!"

And while we're talking about it, you know what's similar but better or worse? I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, probably, but like I said, I haven't read it. Honestly, though, I'm not sure it's like anything else I've read.

What I Read on My Winter Vacation: Maudie and Me and the Dirty Book

Here we go, folks. Your guide to pretending you've read books when people ask.

Miles, Betty. Maudie and Me and the Dirty Book. New York: Avon, 1981. Print.

 

This is one of those re-reads I was talking about; in this case, a kids' book I haven't read since I was a kid. It's OK, but not as good as I remembered.

 

Summary with spoilers (highlight to read): An eleven-year-old girl struggles with the pressures of middle school, befriends a fat girl, and reads a book about puppies to first-graders. The children improbably launch into a not-very-graphic conversation about sex. The townfolk are scandalized. Except, as it turns out, not very many of them. In the end, everyone is popular, the narrator gets her first babysitting job, and every apparent catastrophe is really not a very big deal.

If you tell people you read this book, they'll think you're: Eleven. Or in touch with your inner smut-reading child.

Your informed opinion of this book is that it's: Fine. Worth reading if you're exactly like I was in the sixth grade — a good enough reader that it won't take that long, worried about popularity and fatness, eager to babysit.

And while we're talking about it, you know what's similar but better or worse? The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, by Paula Danziger, is like this book but better. Yadda yadda misfit, yadda yadda cool teacher, yadda yadda censorship — but the stakes feel higher and more significant. Plus, the kids are older and therefore cooler, obviously.

Discuss.

Book me, Dano

I've been thinking about this book thing. I had a few extra minutes between things I was rushing between, so I came home and started pulling books off the shelf that:

• I haven't read yet, and
• look vaguely interesting.

And as I started observing:

• the size of the pile
• the size of the books in the pile
• the themes that emerge

... I decided we need some rules.

Here are the rules:

• I won't buy any books. I can read what I own, borrow them from friends and family, borrow them from the library, whatever, but there's no need for me to buy more books.
• I don't have to finish any books I'm not enjoying. Life's too short, babe, time is flyin'.
• I do have to write up every book I start, finished or not, for your edification, ideally in some way that will enable you to pretend you've read it, when your cousin corners you and wants to know whether you've read anything good lately.
• I can re-read books I've read before, but there has to be at least one new book to each re-read.

I'll start reading when my vacation starts tomorrow night. The comments are yours. What do you want covered in the reviews? What rules do I need to add?

Unofficial results

Driving the half-hour home from my parents' house to my own, 23 days before the NH primary, I saw yard signs for:

• Newt Gingrich
• Rick Santorum
• Ron Paul (just one sign, but it was enormous)
• Mitt Romney 
• Jon Huntsman

Sorry, Michele Bachmann, Rick Perry, and Gary Johnson. It's not your year.

Feeling good

You know what feeling is better than when you find something important that was lost that you'd been searching for increasingly desperately for weeks?

The feeling when you finally fall asleep for an accidental nap in front of Murder, She Wrote after the relief of finding it, panic out of your mind because you think the finding it was just a dream and what the hell are you doing sleeping at a time like this, and then realize that it was not a dream, and that the very important thing is, in fact, still found. That, my friends, is the most elated feeling in the universe.

Reading is Fundamental

On Thanksgiving, my cousin-in-law asked me if I'd read any good books lately.

That seems like reasonable conversation, doesn't it? Especially if, like her, you love to read and are always on the lookout for the next good book. Or if, as she's heard about me, you started reading about six minutes after you started talking and never stopped, losing yourself in book after book, flopping down around the house next to whatever bookshelf caught your eye (including the one in the hallway by the bathroom), eventually working in the town library and reading your way through a sizable chunk of the collection there, too. It's totally reasonable Thanksgiving conversation. She and I are both readers, for sure.

So I was embarrassed to have no answer for her. I stumbled around a little but ultimately offered her nothing. She tried to have the same conversation the next day, with similar results.

Here is the truth that I did not say: I read all day for work, and when I am not reading for work, I read online. Books? Lately? I read picture books to my niece sometimes, and every now and then, I pull out something from my collection of favorite young adult novels and re-read that. Sometimes the 1974 Readers Digests in my room at my parents' house. ANd, um, I watch a lot of Murder, She Wrote, which is about a lady who writes books. No, not so much with the "any good books lately." But I have read a seriously startlingly large sample of The Internet.

When I told this story to my sister, she suggested that I should change that, that reading books is good for me. I tried to get her to explain how reading books, specifically, is better for me than all the thousands and thousands of words I read every day for work and pleasure, and before she could make the only reasonable answer to that there is (attention span), her two-year-old distracted her and so I am victorious!

Unless she's right, that is, in which case I lose and don't even know it. So, just in case, I'm giving it a shot. I'm on vacation from December 24 through January 2, and I am going to read a bunch of books and tell you about them.

Don't bother to recommend books to me — or rather, go ahead, but it won't do you a lot of good; I rarely read books on recommendation from other people. But please use the comments to tell me what you want to be sure I include in my (very brief) reviews of books I read on my winter vacation.

Rest

[Here's Part 1 of The Plattsburgh Saga.
Here's Part 2.
Here's Part 3.
This is Part 4.]

The above, in case you were wondering, was mine and my dad's approximate route. "A" is where I live. "B" is Plattsburgh, where the garage was (see how close to Canada!). "C" is Lake Placid, where we had to return the rental car. "D" is Ludlow, where the car broke down. See how not close to "A" it is?

Anyway, back to our story...

Obviously, I called AAA and sent my dad to a sandwich shop to get us some dinner, and then called about half a dozen friends to explain how this thing that could not have happened had, in fact, happened. While I waited, Lee called. Yup.

"Hey, I just wanted to be sure you got home OK," he said.
"You have got some bad timing, buddy," I said.

Eventually, the tow truck came. Here is the difference between Lee (or me, for that matter) and someone who knows something about cars: This guy asked if my car would drive in any other gear. I had no idea. I'd only tried it in drive. Turns out, in second, it worked just fine, and just think how much easier that made hooking it up to the (completely real) tow truck this time. Wonder if that might have worked the first time. I guess we'll never know.

I got home, eventually, thanks to a long drive and a shortish walk. My father and I parted ways, and in the morning, the garage I like here in town checked out my car. The problem was definitely the transmission, they told me, and they don't do transmissions, so they referred me back to the person I'd called a now more than a week before. He was glad to take my car, but it'd be a while before he could get to it now, because he was backed up. I drove my car on over (in second) and expected to be carless for about a week and a half.

A week or so later, I got a call from the local transmission guy. My car was ready! The work had actually been excellent on my car! The problem was an issue with a part! I could come get it immediately!

Which, obviously, I did. And in my conversations with the local transmission guy, he wanted to be very careful to emphasize what a good job the guys in Plattsburgh had done. Top-notch work, the likes of which he'd rarely seen. They had not ripped me off. If I'd left with any bad feelings, I might want to call and let them know I knew how great they were.

I told him I thought I'd been pretty even-tempered, but I was sure they felt bad that I'd broken down three-quarters of the way home, so maybe I'd call anyway. He said he thought John did feel bad about that.

"John?" I said. "Was he the guy who actually did the work on my car?"
"Yes."
"Oh," I said. "I only ever talked to the shop manager."
"Oh," said the local transmission guy, in the same mild, even tone he'd been using. "Since you were up there, he cleaned them out and left town."
"Since I was there?" I said. "I just left a week ago."
"Yup."

Day 30 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful that my car goes like a breeze again. And I am thankful for confirmation of what I am trying harder to believe: Gut feelings are to be trusted.

Penultimate

[Here's Part 1 of The Plattsburgh Saga.
Here's Part 2.
This is Part 3.
Here's Part 4.]


You're probably wondering what happened with my car. Or you wonder how anyone can make a story last so damn long. If so, sorry, because we've miles to go on that tale.

(If you haven't yet read about the car, the story begins here and continues here.)

So, yeah, my car was to be done early the week after Thanksgiving. I'd already asked for the Tuesday after Thanksgiving off for a morning engagement, so a plan formed over Thanksgiving weekend. My father and I would drive in the rental up to Plattsburgh that Tuesday afternoon, then he'd drive my car and I'd drive the rental over to Lake Placid to drop off the rental car, then we'd drive back to my house together in my car. It's a nine-hour trip, and it'd be a late night, but we have a pretty good time together.

Sunday night, the shop manager at the garage in Plattsburgh (let's call him, "Lee") called me from his cell phone. I am not sure I've mentioned yet that he seemed to think, after our interactions in the car and on the phone, that we were buddies — at least. His status as a single (well, divorced) guy had come up more than once. Anyway, he called Sunday night to let me know the car would not be ready until late in the day Tuesday. I was so pleased I'd padded the schedule. We weren't going to arrive in Plattsburgh until late in the day Tuesday, so we were fine.

My mother, who is often skeptical, was skeptical. She suggested I call before we left.

Tuesday morning, I called before we left. The car would be ready, Lee said. We discussed again whether I might pay in cash in exchange for a sizeable discount. I actually lost it at him briefly in the phone when he seemed to be unable to actually explain this "cash discount" to me in terms that made any sense. I told him I thought I'd be paying with a card, instead. (Word to the wise: If you have prevented a person from calling AAA and then shown up incapable of moving her car without her own brute strength, do not later suggest that part of your "discount" is that you are not charging her a "towing fee.")

And then my father and I embarked on a pretty jovial road trip. We called Lee a few times from the road and we reassured the car would be ready. We stopped for lunch. We joked around a lot and told stories.

About 20 minutes outside Plattsburgh, we had a call from Lee. Would it be possible, he asked, for us to maybe spend the night in town?

Some questions are not so much questions.

We went to the shop and he assured us he'd be happy to put us up in the local EconoLodge, but he wanted to be sure the work was really done well. He also launched into a weird diatribe about how much he is trying to do for the community, between the homeless shelter he's trying to build (Note: Plattsburgh does not, in fact, have a million people in it, whatever Lee thinks.).

Luckily, my father is retired and didn't need to get back for anything urgent, so we agreed (as if we had a choice) and headed to Kmart for toothbrushes and toys for Toys for Tots. We had a lovely dinner surrounded by Francophones (because, you know, pretty much Canada). We watched a movie at the hotel yadda yadda amnesia something something January Jones. We slept in until 7:30 and enjoyed the waffles at the continental breakfast, went to the AAA office to satisfy my father's desperate need for paper maps even when I have a GPS. And then we explored Plattsburgh. As we wandered along the shore of Lake Champlain, we got another call from Lee.

"Hey, you," he said as my skin creeped. He was just wondering if it might be possible for me to pay most of the bill on the card, of course, but $300 in cash, possibly — you know, because of the homeless shelter. My father and I talked about it, decided it was clearly shady, but whatever. Sure. We could do that.

And there began several hours of Lee telling us the car was almost ready and then calling us back to say that it was not. At least twice, I was literally a block or less away from the garage when he called to ask for more time. Eventually, he called to ask if we could put the cash in an envelope and label it "Toys for Tots" because "not everyone in the shop needs to know everything that goes on." Seriously.

But through it all, we had a pretty good time. We walked around downtown, looking at the war monument and taking pictures with our cell phones. Although I do not recommend a trip to Plattsburgh just for the Museum of the War of 1812, I do recommend stopping in if you're in town. We went to Radio Shack and TJ Maxx and Staples (naturally, we needed envelopes). My father wrote "Toys for Tots" (complete with quotation marks), which gave us no end of mirth.

And finally, my car was ready, at nearly 3:30 Wednesday — just enough time to get the rental car back to Lake Placid. Lee warned us that it might need a "breaking in period." The car might have a little trouble upshifting. After one more weird joke in which he suggested he might move in with me and my father could start calling him "son," he gave us our warranty, we gave him a credit card and an envelope with cash inside and quotation marks outside, and we hit the road.

When we got to Lake Placid, I asked my dad how my car had handled. He said it was about like Lee had suggested, and otherwise fine. As soon as I got back behind the wheel, I was worried. It felt like it had before it broke down. My father tried to reassure me, and I tried to allow myself to be reassured. We were making good time; we decided not to stop for dinner and power through to Keene.

And then.

And then the transmission died, about an hour from my destination.

When the car stopped accelerating and then slowed nearly to a stop, I pulled over.


Day 29 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for the kind of father-daughter relationship that makes a semi-catastrophe into a fun(ish) adventure, rather than a real catastrophe. I am thankful for stupid, stupid little jokes, for support and apparently limitless willingness to help. I am thankful not to feel like "Daddy's Little Girl" because I have always felt as respected, smart, and strong as any adult in the room, even when he dotes. And I'm thankful he's finally started reading the blog. :)

Conversation

Tonight, I went to the first of four holiday parties (that I know of so far) I'll attend. It was a good one — it always is. As I always do, I talked with some people I knew well, caught up with some casual acquaintances, and had some riveting conversation with brand-new friends*. It sets a really pretty nice tone for the rest of the month and the rest of the season.

And I think I picked up three new readers of this blog — maybe more. Goodness. That never happens.

Day 28 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for readers. And even more thankful for commenters. Speaking of setting tones, you know. Welcome aboard, new folks.

*The phrase "brand-new friend" invariably makes me think "walking with Jesus and Jane." Super-special extra points to you if you also get the reference without googling.

Quitting

I am not quite ready to admit all my moral failings to everyone yet, but I want to post about them nonetheless. Let's see how that goes.

So, for a long time, I've been engaging in a pleasant but harmless activity. Let's say it's about the equivalent of writing this blog (it's not actually writing this blog). But I figured out how to do this activity in a sort of morally harmful way. Let's say it's the approximate equivalent of "writing" this blog, but plagiarizing every entry, almost without exception (it's not plagiarism, either).

And for the whole time I've been engaged in this activity, I have felt crappy about myself, every time. I like to think I'm pretty ethical, and this was strictly nonethical behavior. And it made me feel crummy, often. Also, I have never admitted to anyone that I've been doing it — until recently.

Recently, I told a close friend that I was doing the moral equivalent of plagiarizing this blog, and that I hated it, and that I didn't like myself for it, but that I didn't seem able to stop — I'd go to write a blog post, and then before I even gave myself a chance to do it right, I'd plagiarize it. I'd wanted to tell her about it for a while, but I was sure it would make her think less of me.

And it seems like it didn't. In fact, she pointed out to me that the easiest solution was to do the equivalent of not blogging anymore. And it had honestly never occurred to me before that there was a way out that was that easy. It was so simple, and I just quit the pleasant harmless activity cold turkey. And if I hadn't admitted it, I might not have stumbled on that very easy solution, maybe ever.

Day 27 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful there are easy answers to moral crises, sometimes, and I am thankful for the strength to seek the help I need to find them, sometimes.

Bzzzzkill

I just called my dad.

"Guess who got a MacBook Air today?!" I said.
"Well," he said, "I know your sister did."

Um.

I meant me.

Guess it, er, runs in the family?

(Hey, I know I owe you a bunch of posts. They should be much easier to complete now.)

Things that would not happen in Washington (but would happen in a movie)

We haven't done one of these lately, but I couldn't resist. (See previous incarnations here, here and here.)

This e-mail just received from a cabinet-level administrator at the college:

Hi, all: If anyone is interested in having some, I have a cooler full of fresh venison here today. We have WAY more than we can use (and I mean WAY), and are very interested in sharing with anyone who would like some. If you want to take some, please, please take as much as you want, either for yourself or for others. For those unfamiliar with venison that has been properly prepared, it does not have any strong taste; it’s more like eating filet mignon, but without any fat whatsoever.

I’m only here until noon, as I am headed to a professional seminar this afternoon, so let me know before then. If you can’t do it today, let me know any time, as we always have more than enough to share. I can always bring some in.

Love

Lots of work to do today, and lots of stories to tell you going forward, but I'm hoping to wrap up this month of gratitude, however belatedly.

A Facebook friend shared this blog post today, and this is a largely preaching-to-the-choir situation here, but I thought it was an interesting one.

Here is what I commented there:

I agree with your bigger, grander points, absolutely. Without question. And while I am not perfect in this, I do strive to live a life in which I accept people as they come (though it is harder with mean people. I mean, right?).

That said, I'm more worried about your friend than about your bigger point, because I know how deeply that hurts. "Jacob," if you're reading: I'm queer, and Christian, and I have found supportive, loving people in my life, in places I wouldn't have imagined. I'm sorry people have abandoned you (as some have abandoned me). Those people suck. You deserve better, and I hope you find better. If you friended me on Facebook, I'd keep you.

Belated Day 26 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful to have supportive, loving people in my life, and I am thankful for the ones who can handle it. I am also thankful for those who can't quite handle it, but try. And I am very thankful for those who went before me, both out queers and loving non-queers, who prepped the world to love me a little more easily.



P.S.: The discussion in the comments on that post has gotten largely bogged down in "IS IT A CHOICE?!" Here, in case you are wondering, are the basic arguments in that conversation, always:

• It's a choice and you are damned to hell for it.
• It is not a choice; who would choose such a miserable life?!
• It is not a choice, just like you didn't choose to be straight!!
• Love the sinner, hate the sin.

And here, in case you are wondering, are my responses to those arguments:

• If it is a choice, someone else will be deciding about the whole hell thing; back off.
• I would. I'm not all that miserable. If it's a choice, I would totally choose it; this life has given me far more blessings than misery.
• People totally choose to be straight. See: Every creepy closet case politician.
• You don't have to know whether it's a sin. You don't need this line anymore. You can just love everyone.
• And a bonus: I suspect that orientation is more of a choice for some than for others, and either way, I think it's not a great basis for denying people their civil rights. "Choice" is a red herring.

Update because not everyone reads the comments, though they should: Commenter icanhasyarn, who shared the original post with me in the first place, observes that everyone should also read the follow-up post. So, so, true. For my money, even better than the first one. Go read it. All of it.