Sunday, January 16, 2022

Retirement Begins

 I've now officially retired. My husband isn't quite sure, because even though I formally retired last month, I was still going into the office a couple of times a week to clean it out. We're looking at over thirty years of paper, a dead mouse that had actually mummified, and a collection of old computer equipment that could populate a small planet. It was daunting, not to mention terrifying, because my thoughts immediately went to contracting hanta virus when I saw that critter, stiff behind a server that had been sitting in the same spot for twenty years. Fortunately, I always wear a mask these days.

As I worked my way through ALL THAT PAPER, checks I'd written for conferences I'd put on, government contracts, and bank statements for the last twenty years, my initial thought was, goddamn, why did I do this for all these years? It felt trivial, not to mention very grimy, and, oh, I don't know, sad that I could have, should have, been doing something else. But I had kids to raise and parents to eventually take care of, and I had unparalleled freedom to come and go when I needed to. Like when my son smacked his head against pipe in middle school and cut his forehead open, or when my mother couldn't turn off her bathtub tap and the water was filling her tub, and she couldn't bail fast enough and the water was threatening to flood her bathroom. Those sorts of things happen, and when they did, I could shut my door and walk out. The convenience and ability to come and go as I pleased (and benefits!) outweighed any other considerations. I wrote in my spare time so that my brain wouldn't atrophy, and I worked with some cool people. Not cool in the sense, wow, they should have a podcast type of cool, but people who make the difference in our general lives without people noticing the difference.

I worked as a technical editor and general dogs body for a number of professors at U.C. Berkeley. I worked with a guy who you can blame or applaud for not being able to smoke on airline seats, and others who probably will, due to their research, make it very likely that when the Hayward fault erupts, you will walk out of the building you work in, shaken but not crushed to death. And I worked for another guy who's working on creating green concrete. Did you know that concrete production is a major factor in global warming?  Think about that the next time you walk down the sidewalk.

One day I was grumbling about my job and my upcoming retirement to a friend, and how I felt I'd skated through most of my life, while others racked up the applause, and that I thought my window for success as a writer had passed because I was filing and typing in between the kid duties and parental obligations. And, although I do think my window for success as a writer HAS passed, she pointed out to me that the achievements of these guys (yes, they were all men) hadn't been done in a vacuum. She was right. I was an important cog in that general wheel. And while all of these achievements would have happened more or less, maybe one research project wouldn't have become funded because I didn't edit it before it went to contracts, and that research spawned other research that spawned... Science and research builds on its self. It's a series of stepping stones, moving forward for the greater good.

As I was sweeping up the debris from hours and hours of shredding (those little squares get everywhere), I wondered about all those admin people like myself, who aided those researchers in coming up with vaccines to save people's lives in the time of COVID. People like myself, behind the scenes, probably not paid very well, and whose name will never appear in newspapers.

I closed the door to my office for the last time and put my keys in an envelope for a fellow admin, who I think is invaluable to the organization. Someone who is/was like me, not newspaper worthy, but who can also claim some secret glory for making this planet a better place to live.

Wednesday, December 29, 2021

John Madden: 1936-2021

 I am not a football fan. At all, as in I pretty much loathe professional sports (with the exception of tennis—yes, I am a total sports snob). And yet I listened to John Madden every day on my drive to work when he had his morning show on the local radio channel. Why, you ask? Because this was a man who loved what he did. He was honest, blunt, funny as hell, and had a turn of phrase that was impossible to mimic or even mock. He LOVED football. That came through on every single show. He was that unbelievable combination of being the everyday guy and being unique. His analysis wasn’t fussy or hyperbolic, it was said in plain language that you might hear in someone’s living room on a Sunday afternoon, except you wouldn’t because your brother-in-law isn’t John Madden. I so enjoyed listening to someone who’s take on a game and life was completely bereft of any cynicism. It was about the game. Pure and simple. I can’t say I understand football any better, but I can also say that to start the day with John Madden’s humor and all around bad ass-ish-ness is nothing to sneeze at. John, God’s put together your team. Now get out on that field.

Wednesday, December 15, 2021

Movie Review: Spencer

 I haven’t been here in a while. Life. People dying. Enough said.

I went to the movies last week and saw Spencer, which isn’t quite a dramatization or a biography or whatever you may call it. If you know even the smallest tidbit about Diana, Princess of Wales, then you will find yourself stretched between trying to match her history and this “fable,” which is what I believe the director called it.  Unfortunately, he choose to include enough about Diana’s history that fit in with his narrative and jettison huge hunks of that which don’t, and we have a jumble of fact and fantasy, and therefore it doesn’t hold together as either fact OR fantasy.

The acting is superb, which makes it even more maddening. Stewart pulls it off, regardless of the disconnect. She does exactly what the director intends, which means that she has down pat many of Diana’s mannerisms, which also means that we are, again, leaping back and forth between the “real” Diana and the Diana of the fable. 

Aside from the acting (the entire ensemble is great, no gripes there), there is the issue of HOW this victim of both fantasy and/or fact is betrayed. I didn’t come away feeling sorry for her at all. I thought, wow, you are petulant, petty, whiny, and a royal pain in the ass. We are meant to feel pity for this character. We are meant to believe she is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and all these meanie royals just don’t care. Pout pout pout. As my sister said, Gee, she’s in tears 75% of the movie. We are meant to believe that a history of Anne Boleyn is going to push her into some sort of psychosis, and it’s not even a subtle hint that the royal family will, five years later, orchestrate her demise, akin to Henry murdering Anne because he wanted a son to carry on his line. Historically speaking, had Anne Boleyn had sons, Henry never would have had her executed. 

It takes the ghostly specter of Anne Boleyn to prompt Diana to have her “Come to Jesus” moment where she tugs on the pearls (a symbol of her husband’s affair with Camilla Parker-Bowles) and lets them cascade onto the floor. Of course she could have told Charles when she opened the pearls that she had no intention of wearing them. And this is what is missing. Diana has no anger. 

Why didn’t she tell that factotum that she refuses to be weighed because it’s silly and demeaning, and then just walk away. She’s a goddamn princess and he’s a secretary! And the fact is that most of us have traditions around the holidays. I do. How hard would it be to show up on time for dinner? The director makes this seems like the most unholy of demands when you have to show up for dinner on time at my house. 

It’s difficult to believe that this character is a woman of thirty-one. She acts like she’s sixteen. She is cowed by everyone. She gets advice from the head chef (oh, please, why did you go there? AS IF) and her maid confesses her love for Diana (AS IF SQUARED), and these two actions plus the ghost (can’t forget the frigging ghost), prompt her to finally find her spine. 

I truly hate this word, hate, hate, hate it, but this woman has NO agency. Instead of appearing late for dinner in some outfit selected for her, what if she appeared on time in jeans and a tee shirt. And let’s make it even more interesting: no bra. Instead of mooning around the grounds in the dead of winter trying to gain entrance to her old house, why not starting talking through dinner about land mines and AIDS patients. THESE were the causes that made Diana so brave. It wasn’t that she turned her back on royalty that made her such an interesting woman; it’s that she humanized it. This movie gets is all wrong. WRONG! Driving away in a Porsche, singing to a CD at the top of her lungs and thinking this is freedom, only confirms in the British Royal Family’s eyes and mine, that she’s a superficial airhead.

Finally, near the end of this movie, there is a dance montage with her in a series of her iconic outfits, which not only emphasizes that she was nothing more than a mannequin for the British Royal Family, but also for the director.




Sunday, April 4, 2021

And now for this...

This has been an unsettling few weeks. My aunt, my namesake, died. She was ninety-five, and was in congestive heart failure and, boy, was she ready. Imagine trying to breathe night and day. Just breathing was exhausting. So while her death is sad, I'm glad she's at rest.

My aunt was a force of nature. And if I'm accused of refusing to suffer fools gladly, that woman put a patent on it. She was a woman born before her time. Had she been born a couple of generations later, she's have been the CEO of apple. But history isn't very kind to woman like that, trapped in their history because of their DNA. Conversely, I could see her being a chatelain of a castle, managing all and sundry with a deft hand while her lord was off trying to conquer the French. Believe me, that castle would have run like clockwork.

Both my mother and my aunt emigrated to the U.S. in the 1950s. Both were educated by the British government for free because they needed nurses. I've known scores of Irish women their age who became nurses under this program and who fled Ireland or Britain for the warmer climes of California. I will say that although my mother had lived here for sixty years, Ireland was still "home" on her lips. I would venture that my aunt was the same.

I know my aunt's kitchen as well as my own. That's how close the families were. There were some rocky years when the sisters didn't speak--and I will say that my mother was completely justified in cutting off my aunt--but they reconciled for several years before my mother died, and I'm glad they did. I think it must have been very lonely for my aunt (who was older than my mother) when my mother died a couple of years ago, and not for the reasons you may think. My aunt had two children and a gaggle of grandchildren and an ever-increasing brood of great-grands. I just mean that her history couldn't be shared anymore with someone who'd been there. Who could finish her sentences when she said, "Marth, do you remember..." And my mother would finish her sentences for her. 

And because of their relationship and our proximity to her house (I can only think of once when we didn't live within twenty minutes of my aunt's house) and just all that history, in some ways it's like reliving my mother's death again. Because I could say to my aunt, "Remember when Mom..." And now there's one less person I can revisit to bring my mother alive for just a few seconds.

Tuesday, March 16, 2021

And a Little Controversy, Please

 So, I am slightly drunk but that only makes me much braver and possibly unwise in what I’m going to type.

I believe Dylan Farrow. I believed her when she was seven years old. I believed her in 2014 when her op-ed was posted in the New York Times, and I believe her in the recent documentary that just aired on HBO. I have been on Team Dylan from the very beginning.

Clearly , this is more than just he said, she said, but the larger meta (and I’m always about the larger meta) is how do you separate art from the artist? I find I can't.

I have endured scorn from my own family members and friends about my vocal condemnation of people like Polanski and Allen. I did have a private moment of gratification when my son, who initially thought I was being hysterical about these sexual abusers early on in the PR game, had the stones to say to me at some point when MeToo was at its height, Yeah, Mom, you nailed it. Yeah, I did. 

I cannot disenfranchise the artists from the art. I can’t. Plain and simple. You watch a veritable bouquet of Woody Allen films and a theme emerges: the nebbish nerd as the object of desire by a young woman. Not all his films, but enough to give you a sense that this is a troubled individual. I remember seeing Husband’s and Wives and remarking to my husband, Wow, he must hate Mia Farrow. Did you see how he filmed her? 

Anyway, I cannot distinguish an artist and their art. I was never a Picasso fan, so his legendary behavior as a beater of women didn’t cause much cause and effect with me. Yes, I have seen Guernica, and it’s a masterpiece. Do I see the bruised faces of the women he routinely beat? You’re damn straight I do. Same with Roman Polanski, He’s a rapist. People who have defended him, yes, Johnny Depp, I’m looking at you, asshole, are now part of my list. I adored Johnny Depp for many years,  Now? Persona non grata. And all those actresses gushing about Allen as they waved their Oscars in the air. Say good bye to any money from me.

I won’t die if I never see another Woody Allen film in my life. Or a Polanski film. Or a Depp film. I won’t. It’s a line that I have drawn for myself. If your line is different, well, it’s different. But don’t try to change my mind or defend them, because I will rip you to effing shreds.



Saturday, March 6, 2021

Mystery Writing Tip #6

 This brings us to—insert organ music of doom—The Stakes. Every book must have stakes. Something to gain and something to lose. Something to prove, something to disprove. Rehabilitation at the cost of humiliation. Donald Maas, the guru of books about the craft of writing, stresses this over and over again. I would strongly recommend checking out his books. What are “stakes?” These can be large stakes on a national level, like a Senate majority leader being a total hypocrite in terms of rushing through a judicial appointment that only four years earlier he repudiated on record because he’s a lying dirtbag, but he is desperate to get a conservative on the Supreme Court. Said Senate Majority Leader is willing to sacrifice his integrity for that judicial appointment. Or stakes on a very personal level, where the abused wife who turned her husband into the police is abandoned by her children because her husband is now serving his sentence on Death Row. Make sure that the outcome matters to someone important in the book. I firmly believe that there is no free lunch. Like the woman who lost her children because she fingered her husband. Morals are emotionally expensive. They are hard. That is why the struggle to do the right thing is so fraught with tension. Or it should be.

Monday, March 1, 2021

Mystery Writing Tip Number 5

 If you find your novel bogging down, make them move. I am serious. Make them walk, run, vacuum the house, or climb a tree to look into a window. In the movie, Sex, Lies, and Videotapes, the protagonist discovers her husband is have an affair with her sister when she vacuums up an earring. That’s some VERY angry vacuuming. These mundane tasks that affect a story’s trajectory are simple events that can have a profound effect on the storyline and yet one that we can all relate to. Most of us own vacuums. Can you relate to the anger in finding evidence of your husband’s affair in YOUR bedroom with your SISTER as YOU vacuum? I sure can.

Physical action will immediately pick up the pace. Different scenario. What about the physically abused wife who runs around the block because the thought that her husband might be a murderer is creating such mental chaos, she needs to outrun those thoughts. Or our protagonist nearly falls out of a tree because he’s spying on his neighbor who he thinks killed his wife, and, bob’s your uncle, tension on a platter. Of course, this movement should pertain to either the plot or character development; see earring above. Remember our star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet? Shakespeare throws in some awesome sword fights, and the death of Mercutio at sword-point seals our lovers’ fates. The tragedy of that play hinges on a sword fight. Another example is the Harry Potter series. Every book in the series spans a school year. The strength of this series is in the world-building. We don’t really have a ton of plot movement over the breadth of the series—Voldemort is trying to kill Harry—and yet we have those AWESOME Quidditch matches where several supporting plot points to the main plot arc are introduced.

Brooms flying through the air!!! Is there anything more exciting?