The Scene: Laura Wilner is helping her 14-year-old daughter, Sophie Wilner-Cohen, pack for summer camp.
Laura: I don't think you need a hairdryer, Sophie.
Sophie: Are you shaving my head before you drop me in Maine?
LW: No. But your hair will dry naturally. It's summer.
SW-C: Right. In Maine. Summer in Maine's like 59 °.
LW: That's the water temperature.
SW-C: Then I guess I won't need this bathing suit.
LW: Of course you will.
SW-C: (Appraising the bathing suit with extreme distaste/ borderline loathing) Where did you get this anyway?
LW: Bendel's. Remember, you were there.
SW-C: (Incredulous) A green bathing suit? Oh, my God.
LW: Sophie, don't start.
SW-C: I'll look like a pine tree.
LW: You'll look lovely. If you'll take the hair out of your eyes. Are you really packing these?
SW-C: Is there a law?
LW: I don't remember sitting around the campfire singing songs in a snug halter. Nor do I recall climbing trees in skin-tight leggings. You'll certainly be very popular.
SW-C: Popularity's bad?
LW: It can be.
SW-C: (With an edge) I'm really going to miss you.
LW: You certainly don't sound like it.
SW-C: What are these?
LW: Water bottles.
SW-C: Are they BPA-free?
LW: I don't know.
(Sophie sighs)
LW: And I don't care.
SW-C: Look. Stamped right on the bottom: BPA. The camp said "BPA-free plastic."
LW: They said two large-mouthed, one-quart plastic water bottles.
SW-C: Get the list.
LW: Sophie, it's 9:30 at night and we're flying to Logan at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. I will not get the list.
SW-C: It's funny.
LW: What?
SW-C: You worry about a hairdryer, but don't care if I'm ostracized.
LW: Ostracized for having BPA water bottles?
SW-C: And a green bathing suit.
LW: Would you like to pack alone?
(No response)
LW: Answer me. I don't consider eye-rolling an answer.
SW-C: This luggage label is so lame.
LW: No one's going to see it.
SW-C: The airline will.
LW: You'll unpack the first day, shove your suitcase under the bed, and that'll be that.
SW-C: (Makes a retching sound) Oh, my God, who bought these shorts: Helen Keller?
LW: Spare me the gagging. And don't pack that brush in your toilet kit.
SW-C: Why not?
LW: First, I bought you a brush. Second, you took that from my dressing table.
SW-C: The brush you bought me hurts. It's like what they use to comb your hair after you're waterboarded.
LW: You are not taking a Mason Pearson bristle brush up the slopes of Mount Katahdin.
SW-C: Then I'm not taking this.
LW: Now, Sophie, I thought we agreed.
SW-C: Why can't I just take a flashlight?
LW: I've read you the paragraph. Twice.
(Gagging sounds)
LW: A headlamp makes sense for the overnight trip. It'll free up your hands for chores.
SW-C: Chores? What chores?
LW: Setting up your tent, collecting firewood, peeling vegetables....
SW-C: Who am I: Cinderella?
LW: It's getting late.
SW-C: I will not attach a lamp to my head.
LW: You will be ostracized if you don't have a headlamp.
SW-C: Glasses, braces, and now a headlamp. I'll look like Frankenstein.
LW: Sophie, what a thing to say.
SW-C: It's true. You're trying to turn me into a monster.
LW: I'm trying to give you a good summer.
SW-C: Well try to be less giving.
LW: You could spend the summer in your room.
SW-C: I'd prefer it.
LW: Good. It can be arranged. Particularly for someone who's as large-mouthed as her water bottles.
SW-C: How?
LW: How what?
SW-C: How will it be arranged?
LW: By calling the camp and saying, "We're very sorry, but Sophie Wilner-Cohen will not be joining you this summer. We hope you'll give her spot to a child from the Fresh Air Fund or someone else more deserving and appreciative."
SW-C: Yeah. Like you'd do that. After you've already paid?
LW: We took out cancellation insurance.
(They stare at each other)
LW: I am getting very angry with you. Extremely angry. Stop rolling your eyes.
SW-C: I'm not.
LW: Whatever you're doing, stop it.
SW-C: How can I know what it is if you won't...
LW: (Interrupting) This is your last chance. You asked me in here to help you....
SW-C: No, I didn't.
LW: I'm sorry. I thought you did.
SW-C: You always say that.
LW: No I don't.
SW-C: "I'm sorry. I thought you wanted me to sign you up for Spanish lessons."
LW: (Angrily putting her hands on her hips) Don't mimic me, miss.
(Sophie puts her hands on her hips)
LW: You know what I am sorry for? That you're overtired and crabby and don't even know it.
(Laura storms out. Sophie stands alone. Laura re-enters and hands Sophie a flashlight)
LW: (Sighs) O.K., fine, take this. You'll live without a headlamp.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Spy vs. Spy
What happened last weekend (when you rigged a rope through a nylon webbing anchor, instead of a carabiner, and the rope split as you were rappelling down a cliff) has left you in four casts and a near-coma. My visit to your room this morning proved awkward. There was much left unsaid on my part (and obviously on yours) and much remains to be resolved. Nonetheless, I believe we can move forward. As a sage once remarked, "It's not how you fall down, but how you pick yourself up."
Issues of mutual doubt have swirled around our marriage since the honeymoon. You have always questioned my two-hour absence from the Temple of Karnak during our tour of Luxor. My reappearance, dishevelled, winded, and in the company of Sharif, a 23-year-old tour guide with limpid green eyes and a washboard stomach, has always been a sore point. You will believe what you want to believe, Ted, and batting your eyelids angrily at me this morning will bring us no closer to peace.
As a newlywed, I felt your suspicion as a palpable presence. I found you following me in the supermarket or sitting behind me in the darkened cinema when you were ostensibly at work. The resulting erosion of trust coupled with your loss of income hardened my heart.
The knowledge that you were routinely monitoring my phone calls and reading my SMS's was more than hurtful. You were vehement in your denials until I confronted you with a charge from "Mobile Phone Spy." Though I never found the actual device (you've always been good at hiding things (except American Express statements)), I continued to mistrust your mistrust in me.
While listening to the Ravi Shankar album you thoughtfully gave me for my 33rd birthday, I unearthed an ear-cam microcamera in the headphones you had less thoughtfully given me. I can only liken the revulsion and sense of violation I experienced upon that discovery to what I imagine you would feel if I sliced open your pet iguana, Igor, from end to end, surgically implanted a camcorder in his belly, and then sewed him back up. One word raced through my mind: "Why?"
I grew to dread birthday presents: the handsome pen set which contained an audio spy camera perfect for discreetly filming me; the stylish Bakelite, 30s-era radio housing a high-quality wireless color camera; the elegant bluetooth GSM wristwatch equipped with a micro earpiece.
When I came upon you reviewing surveillance footoge of me taking a shower, I was titillated and flattered. Less so when I realized your archives also included hundreds of hours of me baking, cleaning, and napping.
I began to spend my days roaming the house with a wireless camera hunter (scanning all commonly used video frequencies), and then graduated to a hand-held camera lens detector. I discovered cameras hidden in a photo frame, shower head, and, yes, even in an entirely unconvincing flower head.
I know you couldn't possibly afford what you were spending to monitor me and consequently became suspicious of you, installing my own cameras in air freshener, shower gel, toothpaste, foot ointment, and ultimately, Igor. In retrospect, I was unwise to make the incisions myself and regret his demise.
But you drove me to it, constantly phoning to verify my whereabouts. Yes, I countered with a CVX-II Voice Changer to mess with your head, but only after I learned from the mechanic that he'd unearthed a GPS spy bug in my car. The key ring bug detector I carried was insufficient so I upgraded to the cumbersome Sweepmaster used by professionals.
One day I mistakenly left this state-of-the-art spy device on the coffee table, but when you arrived home, you didn't even notice. You were too eager to don your headphones, put your ultrasensitive mic in place, and listen to me through the bedroom wall. Shouldn't you have been spying on me when I wasn't alone? Because that was the one fact you overlooked during your hundreds of thousands of hours of undercover work: my solitude.
Whereas my hunch proved true: your costly exploits were underwritten by a third party: a slag named Marian who holds an associate's degree and has no taste in clothes or (apparently) men. I did screw Sharif (twice), but according to the visual and audio evidence in my possession, that still leaves us several dozen times behind you and Marian.
If you emerge from your near-coma, I hope we can put the past behind us. Let's dispense with the cell phone downloads, covert filming, and gifts given for the wrong reason. Otherwise (like that carabiner you reached for last Saturday) when you really need me, you'll find I won't be there.
Issues of mutual doubt have swirled around our marriage since the honeymoon. You have always questioned my two-hour absence from the Temple of Karnak during our tour of Luxor. My reappearance, dishevelled, winded, and in the company of Sharif, a 23-year-old tour guide with limpid green eyes and a washboard stomach, has always been a sore point. You will believe what you want to believe, Ted, and batting your eyelids angrily at me this morning will bring us no closer to peace.
As a newlywed, I felt your suspicion as a palpable presence. I found you following me in the supermarket or sitting behind me in the darkened cinema when you were ostensibly at work. The resulting erosion of trust coupled with your loss of income hardened my heart.
The knowledge that you were routinely monitoring my phone calls and reading my SMS's was more than hurtful. You were vehement in your denials until I confronted you with a charge from "Mobile Phone Spy." Though I never found the actual device (you've always been good at hiding things (except American Express statements)), I continued to mistrust your mistrust in me.
While listening to the Ravi Shankar album you thoughtfully gave me for my 33rd birthday, I unearthed an ear-cam microcamera in the headphones you had less thoughtfully given me. I can only liken the revulsion and sense of violation I experienced upon that discovery to what I imagine you would feel if I sliced open your pet iguana, Igor, from end to end, surgically implanted a camcorder in his belly, and then sewed him back up. One word raced through my mind: "Why?"
I grew to dread birthday presents: the handsome pen set which contained an audio spy camera perfect for discreetly filming me; the stylish Bakelite, 30s-era radio housing a high-quality wireless color camera; the elegant bluetooth GSM wristwatch equipped with a micro earpiece.
When I came upon you reviewing surveillance footoge of me taking a shower, I was titillated and flattered. Less so when I realized your archives also included hundreds of hours of me baking, cleaning, and napping.
I began to spend my days roaming the house with a wireless camera hunter (scanning all commonly used video frequencies), and then graduated to a hand-held camera lens detector. I discovered cameras hidden in a photo frame, shower head, and, yes, even in an entirely unconvincing flower head.
I know you couldn't possibly afford what you were spending to monitor me and consequently became suspicious of you, installing my own cameras in air freshener, shower gel, toothpaste, foot ointment, and ultimately, Igor. In retrospect, I was unwise to make the incisions myself and regret his demise.
But you drove me to it, constantly phoning to verify my whereabouts. Yes, I countered with a CVX-II Voice Changer to mess with your head, but only after I learned from the mechanic that he'd unearthed a GPS spy bug in my car. The key ring bug detector I carried was insufficient so I upgraded to the cumbersome Sweepmaster used by professionals.
One day I mistakenly left this state-of-the-art spy device on the coffee table, but when you arrived home, you didn't even notice. You were too eager to don your headphones, put your ultrasensitive mic in place, and listen to me through the bedroom wall. Shouldn't you have been spying on me when I wasn't alone? Because that was the one fact you overlooked during your hundreds of thousands of hours of undercover work: my solitude.
Whereas my hunch proved true: your costly exploits were underwritten by a third party: a slag named Marian who holds an associate's degree and has no taste in clothes or (apparently) men. I did screw Sharif (twice), but according to the visual and audio evidence in my possession, that still leaves us several dozen times behind you and Marian.
If you emerge from your near-coma, I hope we can put the past behind us. Let's dispense with the cell phone downloads, covert filming, and gifts given for the wrong reason. Otherwise (like that carabiner you reached for last Saturday) when you really need me, you'll find I won't be there.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Trip Advisor
My husband Leo and I often confound people. We drive a Winnebago but love to stay in bed and breakfast inns. Proprietors often glance dubiously at our motor home and ask, "Are you intending to sleep in that?" "That" happens to be one of the sleekest, most comfortable units on the road today so we're not that surprised when folks think we're just searching for a parking place. "No, no," we reassure the B & B owners, "we have the money to stay inside." "Inside the inn?" they persist, eyeing Thor (the name of our Winnebago; Leo has Viking blood).
What a lot of people don't understand is that for us to sleep in their hostelry is frequently a come-down. Once we've compared shower stalls, the comfort and swivelability of living room chairs and the quality of hardwood surfaces, we opt for the Winnebago. "Maybe we'll come in tomorrow morning for breakfast" (Thor's kitchen is cramped), says Leo, letting them down gently.
Now one region of this country that has no appreciation of motor homes is northwest Connecticut. We've had some genuinely hair-raising experiences there. For those who've never been, it's crammed with stone walls. And behind those stone walls are either prep schools or homes that look like prep schools. And in those homes are alcohoòics and wife-beaters (often both) who "write."
A typical day for one of these types might be: Scotch, phoning and yelling at their agent, smacking a wife or kid (who's not enrolled at one of the local prep schools), "writing," more Scotch, and then calling the cops on Leo and me for driving Thor past their house. This actually happened to us four years ago. We received a summons for "parking within fifty feet of the Litchfield town green."
Leo put it best when he told the ticketing officer: "I don't know if you've heard, but this is still America." "No," said the cop, indicating the white clapboard buildings in our vicinity, "it's not." Can you imagine? They've actually got an ordinance against vehicles longer than 18 feet. Leo wanted to leave a whole bunch of Big Mac wrappers on their precious green but we couldn't find a McDonald's.
Anyway, all this provided a sharp contrast to perhaps the last place in America where you can still locate a charming, reasonably priced bed and breakfast: Arkansas. That's right: less than 80 miles from Little Rock, Leo and I discovered what has to be one of the great deals in this great nation: Ma Gerber's.
Ma herself is quite a character. She's the sort who keeps a wad of Kleenex in her brassiere on hot days (we were there the last week in August) and yet can still tell you almost every state bird (she missed Alaska and Ohio) while mopping her brow.
At first, when he took a look around Ma Gerber's, Leo's comment was, "Too many ruffles." (That's the Norwegian in him). But then he realized: "This place is relatively clean and the room's got an air conditioner." (Cooling a Winnebago overnight in the deep South can be prohibitively expensive.)
The big plus was the Jacuzzi. As much as we cherish Thor (94,000 miles and still purrs like a baby), he lacks a place for us to fully re-charge our batteries. That is to say, what Leo might call "an erogenous zone": an area of the home where a couple in their early 60s can reawaken the embers of what drew them together in the first place.
I feel truly sorry for all the rich couples in Connecticut and New Jersey who read their separate financial statements each night before climbing into separate beds. There are actually women who can't remember their grandkids' birthdays but fall asleep dreaming of a pair of suede boots in the Short Hills Mall, men who care more about their golf handicap than their wife's disability.
Not Leo. He took one look at that junior suite Jacuzzi and his eyes lit up. Then he turned to Ma Gerber and pointed at the tub: "There's a ring" (that Norwegian again). You could see her face sag: it was 114° and she was not up for scrubbing a Jacuzzi. "The girl's gone home," she said, "I'll give you each a triple portion of bacon in the morning and bring up a can of Comet." That clinched the deal (after all, the junior suite was only $48).
That evening, Leo was extraordinarily...avid. Now I don't know how many of you have done it in water or how many of you have done it in hot bubbly water in the heart of Arkansas in the last week of August, but Leo and I nearly died. Literally. He had palpitations and I felt numbness along the length of my left leg. Afterwards as we lay there panting, Leo said, "That was really something. We should go on 'Near-Death Experiences.'" "Yeah," I said, "or 'Oprah' at the minimum."
We then went down to the porch and shared a bottle from a nearby winery with Ma Gerber and her daughter, Roberta. We must have shot the breeze for a good three hours (they have a seat that swings).
Our only reservation about Ma Gerber's is the number of stairs (62). Other than this, we unreservedly recommend this B & B for: Girlfriend Getaway, Old Travellers, Pet Owners, and Family with Teenagers. We do not recommend Ma Gerber's for An Amazing Honeymoon or People with Heart Conditions, but for an Amazing Second Honeymoon? Absolutely!
What a lot of people don't understand is that for us to sleep in their hostelry is frequently a come-down. Once we've compared shower stalls, the comfort and swivelability of living room chairs and the quality of hardwood surfaces, we opt for the Winnebago. "Maybe we'll come in tomorrow morning for breakfast" (Thor's kitchen is cramped), says Leo, letting them down gently.
Now one region of this country that has no appreciation of motor homes is northwest Connecticut. We've had some genuinely hair-raising experiences there. For those who've never been, it's crammed with stone walls. And behind those stone walls are either prep schools or homes that look like prep schools. And in those homes are alcohoòics and wife-beaters (often both) who "write."
A typical day for one of these types might be: Scotch, phoning and yelling at their agent, smacking a wife or kid (who's not enrolled at one of the local prep schools), "writing," more Scotch, and then calling the cops on Leo and me for driving Thor past their house. This actually happened to us four years ago. We received a summons for "parking within fifty feet of the Litchfield town green."
Leo put it best when he told the ticketing officer: "I don't know if you've heard, but this is still America." "No," said the cop, indicating the white clapboard buildings in our vicinity, "it's not." Can you imagine? They've actually got an ordinance against vehicles longer than 18 feet. Leo wanted to leave a whole bunch of Big Mac wrappers on their precious green but we couldn't find a McDonald's.
Anyway, all this provided a sharp contrast to perhaps the last place in America where you can still locate a charming, reasonably priced bed and breakfast: Arkansas. That's right: less than 80 miles from Little Rock, Leo and I discovered what has to be one of the great deals in this great nation: Ma Gerber's.
Ma herself is quite a character. She's the sort who keeps a wad of Kleenex in her brassiere on hot days (we were there the last week in August) and yet can still tell you almost every state bird (she missed Alaska and Ohio) while mopping her brow.
At first, when he took a look around Ma Gerber's, Leo's comment was, "Too many ruffles." (That's the Norwegian in him). But then he realized: "This place is relatively clean and the room's got an air conditioner." (Cooling a Winnebago overnight in the deep South can be prohibitively expensive.)
The big plus was the Jacuzzi. As much as we cherish Thor (94,000 miles and still purrs like a baby), he lacks a place for us to fully re-charge our batteries. That is to say, what Leo might call "an erogenous zone": an area of the home where a couple in their early 60s can reawaken the embers of what drew them together in the first place.
I feel truly sorry for all the rich couples in Connecticut and New Jersey who read their separate financial statements each night before climbing into separate beds. There are actually women who can't remember their grandkids' birthdays but fall asleep dreaming of a pair of suede boots in the Short Hills Mall, men who care more about their golf handicap than their wife's disability.
Not Leo. He took one look at that junior suite Jacuzzi and his eyes lit up. Then he turned to Ma Gerber and pointed at the tub: "There's a ring" (that Norwegian again). You could see her face sag: it was 114° and she was not up for scrubbing a Jacuzzi. "The girl's gone home," she said, "I'll give you each a triple portion of bacon in the morning and bring up a can of Comet." That clinched the deal (after all, the junior suite was only $48).
That evening, Leo was extraordinarily...avid. Now I don't know how many of you have done it in water or how many of you have done it in hot bubbly water in the heart of Arkansas in the last week of August, but Leo and I nearly died. Literally. He had palpitations and I felt numbness along the length of my left leg. Afterwards as we lay there panting, Leo said, "That was really something. We should go on 'Near-Death Experiences.'" "Yeah," I said, "or 'Oprah' at the minimum."
We then went down to the porch and shared a bottle from a nearby winery with Ma Gerber and her daughter, Roberta. We must have shot the breeze for a good three hours (they have a seat that swings).
Our only reservation about Ma Gerber's is the number of stairs (62). Other than this, we unreservedly recommend this B & B for: Girlfriend Getaway, Old Travellers, Pet Owners, and Family with Teenagers. We do not recommend Ma Gerber's for An Amazing Honeymoon or People with Heart Conditions, but for an Amazing Second Honeymoon? Absolutely!
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Alumni Notes
Greetings fellow Bulldogs! Happy New Year from me, Amanda Cavendish. Has it really been a quarter of a century since we left Yale? Is our 25th Reunion truly around the corner? Who else feels like screaming every time they hear the name Herbert Hoover? (Or is it just that he went to Stanford?)
When I look at my life today, I am struck by how remarkable it is and how little I could have pictured it in 1984. Like many of you, I am busy with children and household activities. Like a few of you (Chessy Cox '84, Pierce Lamb '84, Evelyn Matthews '82, Toby Hart '81 and Lisa Oliver'83), I live on Woodbridge Lane in Winnetka. Having been reared in Lake Forest, I never imagined I'd end up a maverick dwelling in the South.
Nor did I dream I'd be the mother of four fantastic kids. Two boys and two girls: what are the odds? Don't know how many of you recall me running around Branford freshman year in my nightgown with a hockey mask and butcher knife pretending to be that Michael guy from "Halloween," but our son Alec seems to have inherited my zest for life (some would say mental illness!). His cross-country coach was out driving one snowy November night when Alec streaked past shirtless. "Alec," yelled the coach, "What on earth are you doing?" "Living," came the response. Precisely.
Speaking of Branford, if anyone's interested in a mint-condition priceless set of Royal Worcester plates depicting the campus's most beautiful spot in the world's most glorious colors (blue and white) do let me know as it seems a pity to let it fall into unappreciative hands.
We will, however, never put our pet iguana, Pepper, on the chopping block. Our neighbors, dooming-and-glooming about stagflation, think we're bonkers to raise him. But he eats much less than you'd think and has an unusually high crest, substantially more scales than most, a particularly long whip-like tail and enormous dewlaps. My husband Doug (Dartmouth '80; Wharton '83) says he looks like his firm's accountant.
Actually, Doug had to let that accountant go recently along with a number of other longtime staff (including Chas Alexander '68). We had our own goosebumps when Doug was summoned to the C.E.O.'s office only to learn a) he's doing a terrific job b) he still has one and c) our daughter Daphne (who'd been wait-listed for the C.E.O.'s daughter's sleepover) should pack her toothbrush. Restructuring is never easy but the economic downturn has made it imperative. On a brighter note, Doug was able to fill a number of resulting vacancies off Craigslist at considerable savings. If this be the recession, bring it on!
Hard as it is to fathom, our eldest, Sarah, recently applied early decision to college (no, not Yale, though I certainly lobbied hard). She's skipping her senior year of high school, a choice having nothing to do with saving $43,000 and everything to do with her incredible maturity and poise. Can this gorgeous, graceful creature (featured in North Shore magazine's Hot Teens Issue (March 2007)) really be about to leave the nest? It seems only yesterday we were delivering her to Deerfield, where we ran into Bink Jenkins '82 and his new wife Astrid dropping off his son Ryan. The Jenkinses and we later split the services of a decorator, Missy Campbell, who did both kids' rooms at Deerfield and, as part of the package, has promised to further her work at whichever colleges they find themselves. Godspeed finding your way around IKEA, Missy (only kidding!).
Christmas Day saw us checking our investments online in a Kuala Lumpur internet cafe surrounded by a horde of laughing Malaysians in brightly-colored sarongs. Doug indicated the screen to their blithely uncomprehending faces and said, "If you don't count the decimal points, our annual fund balances haven't changed." We were on the first leg of our Alumni Asian Spice tour (Myanmar's still a no-no, but we did manage to visit Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, and four other nations). Sterling Professor of History, Peter Whittaker, briefed us on the Far East political situation in the lobby of the Bangkok Oriental and then proceeded to fleece the group for sixteen dollars playing Quarters in the bar. Be forewarned, Pete, come next year's trip, revenge is ours.
On the homefront, I continue to give back to the greater Chicago community, serving on the boards of North Shore Country Day (Stephen is a sophomore and on the High Honor Roll), the North Shore Art League, and the Winnetka Village Improvement Association. Lately, I've battled to resuscitate the Winnetka Fox Hunt (Doug's grandfather Henry ('16) was Master of the Hunt in 1955 when it was disbanded) as a charity function to benefit the Winnetka Historical Society. I've been on the phone constantly. Sisyphus, you have my sympathy.
Despite this travail, I recently squeezed in time with Nan O'Brien '82, Froggy Morton '83, Francesca Thurgood '83, and Tina Barker '84. Nan announced she's just read a piece on Hollywood agents reluctant to pay for lunch in these troubled times and then promptly picked up the check!
Our indefatigable Daphne was re-named co-captain of her gymnastics squad and wiill again dance lead position on the synchronized swim team (see schedule at www.northshorewaterlillies.org). She is also hugely relieved finally to be menstruating (We told her all along: "You have to be last in something.").
We're currently re-doing the bedrooms in our guest cottage in case we have to rent out the big house (just joking!) so if anyone's in the neighborhood, give a holler. Don't be shy: we keep Pepper with us. In the meantime, cross your fingers and watch this space in the Spring Issue to see where Sarah applied early and if she got in. That'll be something to share at Reunion.
When I look at my life today, I am struck by how remarkable it is and how little I could have pictured it in 1984. Like many of you, I am busy with children and household activities. Like a few of you (Chessy Cox '84, Pierce Lamb '84, Evelyn Matthews '82, Toby Hart '81 and Lisa Oliver'83), I live on Woodbridge Lane in Winnetka. Having been reared in Lake Forest, I never imagined I'd end up a maverick dwelling in the South.
Nor did I dream I'd be the mother of four fantastic kids. Two boys and two girls: what are the odds? Don't know how many of you recall me running around Branford freshman year in my nightgown with a hockey mask and butcher knife pretending to be that Michael guy from "Halloween," but our son Alec seems to have inherited my zest for life (some would say mental illness!). His cross-country coach was out driving one snowy November night when Alec streaked past shirtless. "Alec," yelled the coach, "What on earth are you doing?" "Living," came the response. Precisely.
Speaking of Branford, if anyone's interested in a mint-condition priceless set of Royal Worcester plates depicting the campus's most beautiful spot in the world's most glorious colors (blue and white) do let me know as it seems a pity to let it fall into unappreciative hands.
We will, however, never put our pet iguana, Pepper, on the chopping block. Our neighbors, dooming-and-glooming about stagflation, think we're bonkers to raise him. But he eats much less than you'd think and has an unusually high crest, substantially more scales than most, a particularly long whip-like tail and enormous dewlaps. My husband Doug (Dartmouth '80; Wharton '83) says he looks like his firm's accountant.
Actually, Doug had to let that accountant go recently along with a number of other longtime staff (including Chas Alexander '68). We had our own goosebumps when Doug was summoned to the C.E.O.'s office only to learn a) he's doing a terrific job b) he still has one and c) our daughter Daphne (who'd been wait-listed for the C.E.O.'s daughter's sleepover) should pack her toothbrush. Restructuring is never easy but the economic downturn has made it imperative. On a brighter note, Doug was able to fill a number of resulting vacancies off Craigslist at considerable savings. If this be the recession, bring it on!
Hard as it is to fathom, our eldest, Sarah, recently applied early decision to college (no, not Yale, though I certainly lobbied hard). She's skipping her senior year of high school, a choice having nothing to do with saving $43,000 and everything to do with her incredible maturity and poise. Can this gorgeous, graceful creature (featured in North Shore magazine's Hot Teens Issue (March 2007)) really be about to leave the nest? It seems only yesterday we were delivering her to Deerfield, where we ran into Bink Jenkins '82 and his new wife Astrid dropping off his son Ryan. The Jenkinses and we later split the services of a decorator, Missy Campbell, who did both kids' rooms at Deerfield and, as part of the package, has promised to further her work at whichever colleges they find themselves. Godspeed finding your way around IKEA, Missy (only kidding!).
Christmas Day saw us checking our investments online in a Kuala Lumpur internet cafe surrounded by a horde of laughing Malaysians in brightly-colored sarongs. Doug indicated the screen to their blithely uncomprehending faces and said, "If you don't count the decimal points, our annual fund balances haven't changed." We were on the first leg of our Alumni Asian Spice tour (Myanmar's still a no-no, but we did manage to visit Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, and four other nations). Sterling Professor of History, Peter Whittaker, briefed us on the Far East political situation in the lobby of the Bangkok Oriental and then proceeded to fleece the group for sixteen dollars playing Quarters in the bar. Be forewarned, Pete, come next year's trip, revenge is ours.
On the homefront, I continue to give back to the greater Chicago community, serving on the boards of North Shore Country Day (Stephen is a sophomore and on the High Honor Roll), the North Shore Art League, and the Winnetka Village Improvement Association. Lately, I've battled to resuscitate the Winnetka Fox Hunt (Doug's grandfather Henry ('16) was Master of the Hunt in 1955 when it was disbanded) as a charity function to benefit the Winnetka Historical Society. I've been on the phone constantly. Sisyphus, you have my sympathy.
Despite this travail, I recently squeezed in time with Nan O'Brien '82, Froggy Morton '83, Francesca Thurgood '83, and Tina Barker '84. Nan announced she's just read a piece on Hollywood agents reluctant to pay for lunch in these troubled times and then promptly picked up the check!
Our indefatigable Daphne was re-named co-captain of her gymnastics squad and wiill again dance lead position on the synchronized swim team (see schedule at www.northshorewaterlillies.org). She is also hugely relieved finally to be menstruating (We told her all along: "You have to be last in something.").
We're currently re-doing the bedrooms in our guest cottage in case we have to rent out the big house (just joking!) so if anyone's in the neighborhood, give a holler. Don't be shy: we keep Pepper with us. In the meantime, cross your fingers and watch this space in the Spring Issue to see where Sarah applied early and if she got in. That'll be something to share at Reunion.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
A Girl's Best Friend
Once I've slept with a woman eight times, I start thinking about marriage. A lethal combination of erectile dysfunction, halitosis, and an alarming series of facial tics usually keeps me mired at seven, so, for me, eight's a charm.
One conquest was Amanda. We got serious, she made me dinner, and we eventually got so serious I started to cook her dinner. What do they say? First comes love, then comes marriage? I guess that's because "purchasing a quality diamond" doesn't rhyme with "baby carriage."
Anyway, I was shopping for an engagement ring while living in New Hampshire. I know that may sound challenging, but the state does boast Manchester, a city with a population of more than 100,000 and some awfully fine jewellers. An "Esquire" I'd thumbed through at the barber shop (did not like seeing Salma Hayek after deciding to marry Amanda) said a ring should cost two months' salary. I was working at the rec. center part-time so I convinced myself to spend four months' salary. Which left me with $1,900 for a ring, but no money to live on for a third of a year. I would be like Will Smith in that movie "The Pursuit of Happyness" (yes, I do know how to spell it), when he worked as an unpaid intern for Dean Witter to become a broker. I would work for four months and just be broke. Or broker. But not a broker.
Everyone talks about the four C's of diamond buying: cut, clarity, color, and carat weight. But what about that fifth, all-important C: cost? Let's face it: there's no sense fussing over a stone's clarity if you can't afford it anyway.
Now you can get a gem for $1,900, but every time the jeweler showed me a ring, I felt my hand tighten around my wallet. I started thinking about all the things I'd done in my life because society told me to: wearing shoes, trimming my nails, attending school through eighth grade, not running in the pool area, showering Thursdays and before christenings, paying taxes, and not staring at people with obvious problems. Did I really want to start following "Esquire"'s rules when I wasn't even a subscriber?
As I stood in the jeweller's, I pictured the way Amanda shovelled in food like a refugee when I cooked for her, but at her house said, "I'm not hungry" or "I'll just watch." Here was a woman 23 years old, in the prime of life, whose idea of fun was to watch someone eat a not particularly good meal. How sick is that? I hate being watched when I drive, sleep, read, or, especially, eat. I didn't like the way Amanda came at me in the bedroom either, her face all flushed and devilish. I once shoved her away and said, "Christ, at least take off your shoes."
I turned to the jeweller: "What do you have for $100?" He stared at me in an unfriendly manner, then said with an edge, "I have absolutely no ring on the face of God's earth for $100." "That wasn't my question. What do you have in the shop for $100?" He handed me an empty velvet box: "This costs six dollars." I glanced at a shelf behind him. "How about for a newborn?" He cocked an eyebrow, "You're marrying a newborn?"
"How much is this?" "That is $90." "What is it?" I asked. "A bell." "Oh," I said, "why does it have a handle?" "It's a hand bell." "For the front desk at a hotel or something?" "Perhaps," said the jeweller, "but it is not an engagement bell."
Now here's where the New Hampshire mentality can be annoying. Who says you can't give a woman a sterling silver bell for an engagement present? Had he read that in a rule book? The truth is, almost anything in life can be justified short of assault with a power tool: adultery, war, famine, misuse of sick days.
"I'll take it," I said. He paused: "Sir, may I offer some unsolicited advice?" I looked hard at him: "No."
Amanda was very pleased with the bell. "It's beautiful," she said, "absolutely lovely." "You know, Amanda," I announced, "I saw an awful lot of engagement rings in Manchester Tuesday." She gasped. "The one I wanted for you cost $65,000." She eyed me closely: "In Manchester?" I continued: "I could imagine nothing less for you. If you can't have the best, you're better off without a ring."
"Maybe an emerald...." she said hopefully. "Your eyes are green: they'd clash." "My eyes are hazel," Amanda said. "Right," I agreed, "greenish." She crossed to the bell. "Is that why you got me this?" "With this bell I thee wed," I intoned solemnly and shook it by its handle. We stared at each other for the longest time. I felt on the brink of saving $1,800. Actually, I was on more of a precipice. Amanda rang the bell, then she rang it a second time, and a third, and a fourth. "It does have a nice sound," she finally smiled, ringing it again. "Right," I agreed, "but ring it less often."
One conquest was Amanda. We got serious, she made me dinner, and we eventually got so serious I started to cook her dinner. What do they say? First comes love, then comes marriage? I guess that's because "purchasing a quality diamond" doesn't rhyme with "baby carriage."
Anyway, I was shopping for an engagement ring while living in New Hampshire. I know that may sound challenging, but the state does boast Manchester, a city with a population of more than 100,000 and some awfully fine jewellers. An "Esquire" I'd thumbed through at the barber shop (did not like seeing Salma Hayek after deciding to marry Amanda) said a ring should cost two months' salary. I was working at the rec. center part-time so I convinced myself to spend four months' salary. Which left me with $1,900 for a ring, but no money to live on for a third of a year. I would be like Will Smith in that movie "The Pursuit of Happyness" (yes, I do know how to spell it), when he worked as an unpaid intern for Dean Witter to become a broker. I would work for four months and just be broke. Or broker. But not a broker.
Everyone talks about the four C's of diamond buying: cut, clarity, color, and carat weight. But what about that fifth, all-important C: cost? Let's face it: there's no sense fussing over a stone's clarity if you can't afford it anyway.
Now you can get a gem for $1,900, but every time the jeweler showed me a ring, I felt my hand tighten around my wallet. I started thinking about all the things I'd done in my life because society told me to: wearing shoes, trimming my nails, attending school through eighth grade, not running in the pool area, showering Thursdays and before christenings, paying taxes, and not staring at people with obvious problems. Did I really want to start following "Esquire"'s rules when I wasn't even a subscriber?
As I stood in the jeweller's, I pictured the way Amanda shovelled in food like a refugee when I cooked for her, but at her house said, "I'm not hungry" or "I'll just watch." Here was a woman 23 years old, in the prime of life, whose idea of fun was to watch someone eat a not particularly good meal. How sick is that? I hate being watched when I drive, sleep, read, or, especially, eat. I didn't like the way Amanda came at me in the bedroom either, her face all flushed and devilish. I once shoved her away and said, "Christ, at least take off your shoes."
I turned to the jeweller: "What do you have for $100?" He stared at me in an unfriendly manner, then said with an edge, "I have absolutely no ring on the face of God's earth for $100." "That wasn't my question. What do you have in the shop for $100?" He handed me an empty velvet box: "This costs six dollars." I glanced at a shelf behind him. "How about for a newborn?" He cocked an eyebrow, "You're marrying a newborn?"
"How much is this?" "That is $90." "What is it?" I asked. "A bell." "Oh," I said, "why does it have a handle?" "It's a hand bell." "For the front desk at a hotel or something?" "Perhaps," said the jeweller, "but it is not an engagement bell."
Now here's where the New Hampshire mentality can be annoying. Who says you can't give a woman a sterling silver bell for an engagement present? Had he read that in a rule book? The truth is, almost anything in life can be justified short of assault with a power tool: adultery, war, famine, misuse of sick days.
"I'll take it," I said. He paused: "Sir, may I offer some unsolicited advice?" I looked hard at him: "No."
Amanda was very pleased with the bell. "It's beautiful," she said, "absolutely lovely." "You know, Amanda," I announced, "I saw an awful lot of engagement rings in Manchester Tuesday." She gasped. "The one I wanted for you cost $65,000." She eyed me closely: "In Manchester?" I continued: "I could imagine nothing less for you. If you can't have the best, you're better off without a ring."
"Maybe an emerald...." she said hopefully. "Your eyes are green: they'd clash." "My eyes are hazel," Amanda said. "Right," I agreed, "greenish." She crossed to the bell. "Is that why you got me this?" "With this bell I thee wed," I intoned solemnly and shook it by its handle. We stared at each other for the longest time. I felt on the brink of saving $1,800. Actually, I was on more of a precipice. Amanda rang the bell, then she rang it a second time, and a third, and a fourth. "It does have a nice sound," she finally smiled, ringing it again. "Right," I agreed, "but ring it less often."
Friday, 12 March 2010
Bucktown
Given that half the planet's population wipes its ass with bark, I appreciate that I was able to graduate from Northwestern. But I can't help confessing I wish others also appreciated it. Specifically, women. I've been searching for companionship for as long as I can remember to no avail. And perhaps that's part of the problem right there: using words like "avail." But I am who I am and honestly don't see why having a large vocabulary in Chicago should be an impediment.
I live in Bucktown, a happening neighborhood somewhat distant from the city center. I actually had a fight with one woman about its location. "Where are we?" she asked indignantly. "You're in Chicago," I informed her. "The hell I am," she responded. We then spent the majority of our "date" with a street atlas spread before us in my basement apartment, squabbling about city boundaries.
Why do I live in a basement at the age of 53? Not because I favor cool, damp environments, but because I work in a helping profession; while everyone else has been figuring out how to enrich themselves, I've been attempting to give back to society.
I'm a page in a public library off East Wacker. I help arrange books on the shelves, sort magazines, and direct patrons to the restroom. And yet a good number of women I've met don't even know what a page is. "What, you mean like in a book?" "No," I answer calmly, "I'm not a page in a book." Or, I love this question: "Are you working on your M.L.S.?" If you encounter a pilot, do you ask, "Are you considering becoming an astronaut?"
It's very sad to see how the older people get, the more they care about money. It's like they'd rather view your financial statements laid out than hear about your siblings, the starring role you had in the Freshman Revue (at a university noted for its drama program), and your boss.
Here's my financial statement: I do not care about accumulating as much as I possibly can before I depart this earth. I do not care about the right address, travel, fine wine, ridiculously uncomfortable European modular furniture and all the rest of it. I care about the moment, about communication, and laughter.
Blake wrote: "To see a world in a grain of sand/And a heaven in a wild flower." Yet citing this as my personal philosophy has elicited the following responses: "How can you see anything, never mind a grain of sand, in this basement?," "I want a lot more than a wild flower," and "Let's get the check."
Finally, after my mother asked me for the umpteenth time, "Do you mention your degree from Northwestern?," I placed the following ad: "World-famous businessman with balls the size of Vidalia onions seeks company." This drew 26 responses, all of them male. I then dropped the bit about onions and was met with: "Are you Bill Gates?," "Why is a world-famous businessman advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?," and "Why is Bill Gates advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?"
I live in Bucktown, a happening neighborhood somewhat distant from the city center. I actually had a fight with one woman about its location. "Where are we?" she asked indignantly. "You're in Chicago," I informed her. "The hell I am," she responded. We then spent the majority of our "date" with a street atlas spread before us in my basement apartment, squabbling about city boundaries.
Why do I live in a basement at the age of 53? Not because I favor cool, damp environments, but because I work in a helping profession; while everyone else has been figuring out how to enrich themselves, I've been attempting to give back to society.
I'm a page in a public library off East Wacker. I help arrange books on the shelves, sort magazines, and direct patrons to the restroom. And yet a good number of women I've met don't even know what a page is. "What, you mean like in a book?" "No," I answer calmly, "I'm not a page in a book." Or, I love this question: "Are you working on your M.L.S.?" If you encounter a pilot, do you ask, "Are you considering becoming an astronaut?"
It's very sad to see how the older people get, the more they care about money. It's like they'd rather view your financial statements laid out than hear about your siblings, the starring role you had in the Freshman Revue (at a university noted for its drama program), and your boss.
Here's my financial statement: I do not care about accumulating as much as I possibly can before I depart this earth. I do not care about the right address, travel, fine wine, ridiculously uncomfortable European modular furniture and all the rest of it. I care about the moment, about communication, and laughter.
Blake wrote: "To see a world in a grain of sand/And a heaven in a wild flower." Yet citing this as my personal philosophy has elicited the following responses: "How can you see anything, never mind a grain of sand, in this basement?," "I want a lot more than a wild flower," and "Let's get the check."
Finally, after my mother asked me for the umpteenth time, "Do you mention your degree from Northwestern?," I placed the following ad: "World-famous businessman with balls the size of Vidalia onions seeks company." This drew 26 responses, all of them male. I then dropped the bit about onions and was met with: "Are you Bill Gates?," "Why is a world-famous businessman advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?," and "Why is Bill Gates advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?"
No, I'm not Bill Gates. I wear glasses (Who, at 53, doesn't?), am somewhat overweight (Who in America isn't?), and care about the environment. Hey, maybe I am Bill Gates. See, I'm funny and have personality. So I'd like to think that a first date at Walker Brothers Pancake House would not prompt this comment: "I don't see booze on the menu." Of course not: it's a pancake house. Should I have chosen Hooters?
That was the date where I nearly lost it. Jacqueline was a 39-year-old Assistant Vice something or other at some place that sounded dreadful and all she wanted to talk about were 401ks and Roth IRA Rollovers. I was trying to saturate my Hawaiian Platter (a short stack garnished with pineapple, coconut, and maraschino cherries) with as much maple syrup as possible while she was prattling on about being "fully vested." Then I had yet another opportunity to hear her vision of the "dream," which countless other women have also confided to me.
Basically, these gals are looking to retire. They're hoping to kick back, take it easy, re-do the kitchen of a brand-new home purchased for them as some sort of bizarre wedding present, and possibly have their new soulmate foot the bill for their kids' (from a previous marriage) college tuition.
Imagine: Jacqueline's 39, probably has another 28 years of productivity in her (38 if she invested those 401k funds poorly), and she's ready to slip into a bathrobe. I told her flat-out: "I'm not a player in the capitalist system. If you're looking for a University of Chicago professor with a chair, an orthodontist with a booming practice on Lake Shore Drive, or even somebody who owns two TCBY frozen yogurt franchises in decent locations, I'm not that guy. I'm in a helping profession." She asked, "Are you a nurse?" "No," I answered, "I'm not a nurse. And I'm not someone who can provide a life of luxury for myself or anyone else." "O.K.," she said, "don't get your back up. I'd just like to meet somebody who earns more than $22,000 per year." I asked her why she named that sum. She told me it was the poverty line figure for a family of four. "Oh," I said with new interest, "so you want to start a family?"
I stood naked before a full-length mirror Saturday morning and asked myself, "If I were a woman in her late 40s/early 50s who'd been through two messy divorces, been mistreated and neglected by virtually every man I'd met since then, and were yearning for sexual release to the point of developing hives, would I want to see this guy coming toward me nude?" I honestly couldn't decide and since it's not the sort of question I can ask my mother and she's the only woman I'm friendly with, I'm still without an answer.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Gifted
Dear Betsy,
Mother and I were sorry to learn from your academic advisor that your apprenticeship to a maker of fine Swiss chocolates has come to naught. As you know, failure to complete this Independent Study Project jeopardizes your graduation from Hampshire next spring. We hope you have not paid January rent on your apartment in Zug and that you will join us here in Charlottesville for Christmas.
Let me hazard a guess as to how you may have passed this morning in Switzerland and then allow me to tell you how I spent mine. I presume you awakened late and obviously did not report to chocolatier Herr Zimmer, though he is your primary reason for being in Europe. (I don't need to remind you that your difficulties with authority stretch back to ninth-grade summer when you put Mrs. Cuthbertson's goldfish in a blender after she commented negatively on your weeding prowess.)
Perhaps you then made your way to an Internet cafe at around noon, smoked a pack of cigarettes (we've asked you to stop), did not email Mother and me (we've asked you to start), and did email Willy Duffy (we've asked you to stop). We saw Willy dining the other evening at Chez Robert with his parents while wearing a baseball cap.
We've eagerly awaited details of exciting journeys you may have undertaken since beginning your adventure abroad. After all, we purchased you a 60-day Eurail Pass only to receive upon your arrival a request for funds to buy an Interail Pass since "Eurail doesn't cover Romania." Mother imprudently wired this money, but as of this writing I have no reason to believe you've set foot in that nation. (Your intention to spend a five-day break in early November in "France, Italy, Spain, and Sweden" left us baffled. Unless, of course, you were travelling with Bruce Springsteen and his band).
So I assume you did not use either of your rail passes today. You did, however, use all three of your credit cards yesterday (I received an alarming call from Visa this morning alerting me to "unusually heavy activity in the Zug region").
Maybe you treated yourself to the same sort of meal you apparently enjoyed Tuesday (Thai Brasserie: 165 Swiss francs). Must you eat Asian food in Zug? The amount also seems exorbitant for lunch for one (Mother hopes you're making friends; I don't if it means you're buying them lunch).
I devoted my morning to hunching over a yellow legal pad, endeavoring to calculate how much we've spent on you since the first of this year. The amount is staggering (at least to me and others who dwell on planet Earth): $184,362.
I once heard you comment to Jacob Simonton, "Since Hampshire costs more than Princeton, it must be better." That remark rankled at the time, but I kept my silence. Betsy, Hampshire costs more than Princeton not because it is better, but because it has a substantially smaller endowment.
One out of every 2.4 dollars I earn currently subsidizes you. The school taxes in Charlottesville are crippling but your inability to gain access to magnet programs for the gifted meant that you never attended public school. Your interest in riding was heartwarming; your insistence on buying a pony in Ireland was not. I must put it plain: raising you has been occasionally rewarding, often challenging, sometimes exasperating, but above all, it has been expensive.
In your last email (which we received some time ago), you mentioned that you "do not like Virginia." This is a very broad statement and I'd like you to elaborate. I realize that John Grisham resides in Charlottesville and Mother informs me that you've never taken to the author or the town. Apparently, you don't consider him a "real writer." Approximately 400 Americans earn a decent living writing books each year; John Grisham has sold more than 60 million copies of his work. He is as real a writer as exists, Betsy. Furthermore, as he's never had any contact withour family save for a book-signing two years ago, I'm not sure his presence in the area is justification for not spending Christmas with us. So, please, indulge me, and tell me if John Grisham is keeping you from us. I doubt whether he or we would consider moving, but it would be nice to know.
I now must ask: What are your plans for the next semester? You mentioned a possible internship at a "Rangoon lunatic asylum" under the auspices of a program run through the Women's Studies/Psychology joint major at Bard. For your information, Rangoon is now known as Yangon, lunatics are currently referred to as "mental patients," and asylums are these days called "institutions." I don't imagine you know the proper terms for any of these in Burmese, but am sure you will become familiar with them over time.
I assume your accommodation costs in Yangon will be considerably lower than those in Zug. Food may be a problem: most subsist on rice. For someone accustomed to a bowl of fresh macadamia nuts on her bureau, this may come as a shock.
A further shock: contrary to your wishes, you will not occupy a "one-bedroom in Greenwich Village with a garden" after graduation. Mrs. Cuthbertson was right: you're a crappy gardener. You will live north of 86th street and east of Second Avenue with four other girls of my choosing (not Willy Duffy) in a two-bedroom apartment with paper-thin walls and poor light. If someone has to sleep on the living-room sofa, it will be you.
I strongly urge you to return home for Christmas. Bring Mother a box of Herr Zimmer's truffles and make sure it is gift-wrapped. I don't care how you obtain this, but if I see a charge on my card, so help me God.
Love,
Dad
Mother and I were sorry to learn from your academic advisor that your apprenticeship to a maker of fine Swiss chocolates has come to naught. As you know, failure to complete this Independent Study Project jeopardizes your graduation from Hampshire next spring. We hope you have not paid January rent on your apartment in Zug and that you will join us here in Charlottesville for Christmas.
Let me hazard a guess as to how you may have passed this morning in Switzerland and then allow me to tell you how I spent mine. I presume you awakened late and obviously did not report to chocolatier Herr Zimmer, though he is your primary reason for being in Europe. (I don't need to remind you that your difficulties with authority stretch back to ninth-grade summer when you put Mrs. Cuthbertson's goldfish in a blender after she commented negatively on your weeding prowess.)
Perhaps you then made your way to an Internet cafe at around noon, smoked a pack of cigarettes (we've asked you to stop), did not email Mother and me (we've asked you to start), and did email Willy Duffy (we've asked you to stop). We saw Willy dining the other evening at Chez Robert with his parents while wearing a baseball cap.
We've eagerly awaited details of exciting journeys you may have undertaken since beginning your adventure abroad. After all, we purchased you a 60-day Eurail Pass only to receive upon your arrival a request for funds to buy an Interail Pass since "Eurail doesn't cover Romania." Mother imprudently wired this money, but as of this writing I have no reason to believe you've set foot in that nation. (Your intention to spend a five-day break in early November in "France, Italy, Spain, and Sweden" left us baffled. Unless, of course, you were travelling with Bruce Springsteen and his band).
So I assume you did not use either of your rail passes today. You did, however, use all three of your credit cards yesterday (I received an alarming call from Visa this morning alerting me to "unusually heavy activity in the Zug region").
Maybe you treated yourself to the same sort of meal you apparently enjoyed Tuesday (Thai Brasserie: 165 Swiss francs). Must you eat Asian food in Zug? The amount also seems exorbitant for lunch for one (Mother hopes you're making friends; I don't if it means you're buying them lunch).
I devoted my morning to hunching over a yellow legal pad, endeavoring to calculate how much we've spent on you since the first of this year. The amount is staggering (at least to me and others who dwell on planet Earth): $184,362.
I once heard you comment to Jacob Simonton, "Since Hampshire costs more than Princeton, it must be better." That remark rankled at the time, but I kept my silence. Betsy, Hampshire costs more than Princeton not because it is better, but because it has a substantially smaller endowment.
One out of every 2.4 dollars I earn currently subsidizes you. The school taxes in Charlottesville are crippling but your inability to gain access to magnet programs for the gifted meant that you never attended public school. Your interest in riding was heartwarming; your insistence on buying a pony in Ireland was not. I must put it plain: raising you has been occasionally rewarding, often challenging, sometimes exasperating, but above all, it has been expensive.
In your last email (which we received some time ago), you mentioned that you "do not like Virginia." This is a very broad statement and I'd like you to elaborate. I realize that John Grisham resides in Charlottesville and Mother informs me that you've never taken to the author or the town. Apparently, you don't consider him a "real writer." Approximately 400 Americans earn a decent living writing books each year; John Grisham has sold more than 60 million copies of his work. He is as real a writer as exists, Betsy. Furthermore, as he's never had any contact withour family save for a book-signing two years ago, I'm not sure his presence in the area is justification for not spending Christmas with us. So, please, indulge me, and tell me if John Grisham is keeping you from us. I doubt whether he or we would consider moving, but it would be nice to know.
I now must ask: What are your plans for the next semester? You mentioned a possible internship at a "Rangoon lunatic asylum" under the auspices of a program run through the Women's Studies/Psychology joint major at Bard. For your information, Rangoon is now known as Yangon, lunatics are currently referred to as "mental patients," and asylums are these days called "institutions." I don't imagine you know the proper terms for any of these in Burmese, but am sure you will become familiar with them over time.
I assume your accommodation costs in Yangon will be considerably lower than those in Zug. Food may be a problem: most subsist on rice. For someone accustomed to a bowl of fresh macadamia nuts on her bureau, this may come as a shock.
A further shock: contrary to your wishes, you will not occupy a "one-bedroom in Greenwich Village with a garden" after graduation. Mrs. Cuthbertson was right: you're a crappy gardener. You will live north of 86th street and east of Second Avenue with four other girls of my choosing (not Willy Duffy) in a two-bedroom apartment with paper-thin walls and poor light. If someone has to sleep on the living-room sofa, it will be you.
I strongly urge you to return home for Christmas. Bring Mother a box of Herr Zimmer's truffles and make sure it is gift-wrapped. I don't care how you obtain this, but if I see a charge on my card, so help me God.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Consolation
Dear Motorola:
I am writing to tell you what a central role your company has played in my family's life during the past 60 years and to express my gratitude. I am nearly as old as Motorola (you came into existence in 1928; I in 1946) and still remember when my father brought home our first television. We lived in a modest home in a modest town and modest state (284 Maple Lane, Akron, Ohio), so I do not exaggerate when I say that seeing Dad come through the door with that set was the highlight of a 13-year-old boy's life. It's difficult to describe what those flickering images in your "wonder box" meant to my friends and me. We inhabited a small corner of the world and led limited lives, which Motorola enlarged. Thank you.
Over the years, we owned dozens of the Quasar products manufactured by Motorola and parting with one of your television sets was like saying goodbye to a family pet. The only thing that consoled (no pun intended) us was the thought that another shiny TV made by you, bigger and better than ever, would arrive to take its place.
When my Dad got back from Korea and my older brother, Brian, from Vietnam, the first thing they did after greeting relatives was to plop down in front of the television and relax. Veterans certainly do love television; at least those in our family.
Which is why it was so disappointing when our remote control stopped working last Tuesday. The remote's a Panasonic but since they bought up your TV and radio business more than 30 years ago, we've still felt close to you each time we hold the device in our hand. Dad's long gone and Brian (who purchased (and loved!) numerous Motorola gadgets for his own home over the decades) now lives with me. He's bed-ridden and spends most of his time watching television. Or used to, before the remote failed.
"Failure" is too harsh a word. Certainly for Motorola. Your compnay's like America itself: dependable, innovative, and the best thing going on God's earth. If you happen to have a spare remote (details attached), I've got two new, triple-A batteries just raring to go. Ordinarily, I'd ask a company to replace a faulty product, but in my eyes, Motorola's like my child: it has no faults! So I'd be more than happy to pay for the new remote as I'm sure Brian probably wore ours out with his darned channel surfing.
I don't know if the person reading this letter has ever been bed-ridden or had a loved one bed-ridden or even witnessed someone bed-ridden without a working remote. But that's probably the definition of frustration. At least it is for Brian. Put that together with the fact that his hospital bed in the living room is no longer adequately functioning (head rest doesn't elevate). The warantee's expired, but when I discovered that the electronic sensors under Brian's mattress were made by Motorola, I leapt for joy. No one stands behind their goods like you. That's what I told Brian the other day when he was fussing about the remote.
I said, "Don't fret, Brian. Companies like Motorola (and there aren't many left) are the bedrock of this nation. A family like ours, which has made some sacrifices over the years and continues to serve with honor (our nephew's currently in Iraq where I believe he has a Motorola cordless phone and camera (model #HMVC3050) in his tent) will never be let down by such a grand firm. You'll get your remote, Brian."
I didn't want to burden him with the cost of a new hospital-bed motor ($830) or power windows, doors, and locks for our Chrysler (buy American!), which the dealership says will run to more than $1,150 (estimate enclosed). Thank God Motorola manufactured those parts or I'd really be up the creek. Or in the creek if I were to sail through an open, inoperational car window into a small body of water or possibly even a lake, river, or ocean. Brian would be home in bed, unelevated and without his remote. Or unelevated and with his remote if you send it quickly.
In the meantime, heating bills are mounting ($3,263 currently overdue), but as long as they don't repossess the house ($14,914 behind in mortgage payments) and I can obtain an extra blanket ($26), we should be able to carry on and continue, as we always have, to purchase your fine products.
God bless,
Eugene Banks
I am writing to tell you what a central role your company has played in my family's life during the past 60 years and to express my gratitude. I am nearly as old as Motorola (you came into existence in 1928; I in 1946) and still remember when my father brought home our first television. We lived in a modest home in a modest town and modest state (284 Maple Lane, Akron, Ohio), so I do not exaggerate when I say that seeing Dad come through the door with that set was the highlight of a 13-year-old boy's life. It's difficult to describe what those flickering images in your "wonder box" meant to my friends and me. We inhabited a small corner of the world and led limited lives, which Motorola enlarged. Thank you.
Over the years, we owned dozens of the Quasar products manufactured by Motorola and parting with one of your television sets was like saying goodbye to a family pet. The only thing that consoled (no pun intended) us was the thought that another shiny TV made by you, bigger and better than ever, would arrive to take its place.
When my Dad got back from Korea and my older brother, Brian, from Vietnam, the first thing they did after greeting relatives was to plop down in front of the television and relax. Veterans certainly do love television; at least those in our family.
Which is why it was so disappointing when our remote control stopped working last Tuesday. The remote's a Panasonic but since they bought up your TV and radio business more than 30 years ago, we've still felt close to you each time we hold the device in our hand. Dad's long gone and Brian (who purchased (and loved!) numerous Motorola gadgets for his own home over the decades) now lives with me. He's bed-ridden and spends most of his time watching television. Or used to, before the remote failed.
"Failure" is too harsh a word. Certainly for Motorola. Your compnay's like America itself: dependable, innovative, and the best thing going on God's earth. If you happen to have a spare remote (details attached), I've got two new, triple-A batteries just raring to go. Ordinarily, I'd ask a company to replace a faulty product, but in my eyes, Motorola's like my child: it has no faults! So I'd be more than happy to pay for the new remote as I'm sure Brian probably wore ours out with his darned channel surfing.
I don't know if the person reading this letter has ever been bed-ridden or had a loved one bed-ridden or even witnessed someone bed-ridden without a working remote. But that's probably the definition of frustration. At least it is for Brian. Put that together with the fact that his hospital bed in the living room is no longer adequately functioning (head rest doesn't elevate). The warantee's expired, but when I discovered that the electronic sensors under Brian's mattress were made by Motorola, I leapt for joy. No one stands behind their goods like you. That's what I told Brian the other day when he was fussing about the remote.
I said, "Don't fret, Brian. Companies like Motorola (and there aren't many left) are the bedrock of this nation. A family like ours, which has made some sacrifices over the years and continues to serve with honor (our nephew's currently in Iraq where I believe he has a Motorola cordless phone and camera (model #HMVC3050) in his tent) will never be let down by such a grand firm. You'll get your remote, Brian."
I didn't want to burden him with the cost of a new hospital-bed motor ($830) or power windows, doors, and locks for our Chrysler (buy American!), which the dealership says will run to more than $1,150 (estimate enclosed). Thank God Motorola manufactured those parts or I'd really be up the creek. Or in the creek if I were to sail through an open, inoperational car window into a small body of water or possibly even a lake, river, or ocean. Brian would be home in bed, unelevated and without his remote. Or unelevated and with his remote if you send it quickly.
In the meantime, heating bills are mounting ($3,263 currently overdue), but as long as they don't repossess the house ($14,914 behind in mortgage payments) and I can obtain an extra blanket ($26), we should be able to carry on and continue, as we always have, to purchase your fine products.
God bless,
Eugene Banks
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
How to Get into Brown
Getting into Brown is tough these days: fewer than one in nine made the cut last year. It obviously makes little sense to dispense advice along the lines of "ensure that the previous four generations of your family attended Brown," "be the child of a famous parent," "captain three varsity sports," "have your parents build Brown an arts center," or "change your skin color." Nonetheless, there are time-tested strategies that have proved surprisingly successful.
#1) Join an expedition to the Galapagos and discover a new plant or insect. While others are enjoying a naturalist's lecture aboard your "floating classroom," hop out with an empty mayonnaise jar, capture the freakiest-looking specimen you can, and upon returning to upstate New York, tell your local vet or florist you found it in nearby woods while "exploring" and get him or her to inform Brown. Failing that, order something exotic through the mail and follow the same procedure.
#2) Find a new bird. The larger the thing you discover, the more impressive. If you're handy with scissors and surgical thread, or know someone who is, you can attach the head of one bird to the body of another and then "scan" the resulting creature so that a vet who has seen the image can testify to your powers of detection.
#3) Write a book. Brown long ago ceased caring about students who read books; they're now interested in those who write them. A girl who collected stories from women about their first menstrual periods will enroll at Yale this fall. So that one's taken, but what about "First Spankings," "First Wet Dreams," "First Divorces," "Second Divorces," etc.? Remember, you simply require an English teacher or other adult not related to you to verify that you've written a book. It doesn't have to be any good or actually make it to market (just list a publication date beyond April).
#4) Have a teacher claim that you're "the most outstanding college candidate I've seen in all my years of teaching." This phrase has become almost mandatory. It will obviously be easier to meet the criterion if you approach a first-year teacher, but if necessary, you can always become extremely close to or sleep with a veteran teacher so that they'll lie.
#5) Be yourself in your essays. But first ensure that "yourself" is someone else. Find a peer who's a more talented writer, has more varied interests, and is not also applying to Brown and ask him or her to pen your essays. You may have to sleep with this person as well, but if your board scores are high enough and he or she's not too unattractive, it's probably worth a shot.
#6) Become a hero. Remember that movie "The Contender" starring Joan Allen in which a politician stages an auto crash and attempts to "save" a drowning woman in order to enhance his reputation? Do something similar. Even if you don't have ready access to a bridge, a car which can be submerged in a river, or a willing victim, you can be heroic on a smaller scale. If you inhabit a house that's not too valuable or doesn't contain objects of beauty, set a small fire which escalates into a dramatic conflagration which you then single-handedly extinguish. An infant or toddler sleeping upstairs and media coverage are a must on this one. Don't screw up.
#7) Submit an art portfolio or musical tape compiled by a lavishly gifted cousin. How's Brown to know you can't hold a crayon when they're looking at intricate silhouettes depicting the downside of globalization? For aspiring musicians, it's better to claim you play a stringed instrument than a woodwind (it indicates more practice). Drums are a no-no.
#8) Do something at "the state or national level." Telling Brown you won a local diving competition is like announcing that you breathe. Participate in a regional or national contest even if the thing you're doing is idiotic or borderline offensive. "I was one of 16 selected from 3,400 nationally given the privilege of recently journeying to Atlantic City, N.J." catches Brown's eyes because these are numbers they can relate to. It doesn't really matter if your achievement concludes "to take part in the rapid doughnut-eating contest." It's merely important you appear well-rounded (i.e., good at something not having to do with school).
#9) Identify others erroneously accepted by Brown. As Gore Vidal famously wrote, "It's not enough to succeed: others must fail." Here's a way to mesh the two: trawl Facebook, MySpace, the Internet, and even back issues of your local newspaper to see if you can nab anyone who's currently undeservedly on the Brown campus. (Think Prince Harry in Nazi regalia.) Someone who's committed murder or manslaughter, flashed their breasts at a party, vomited on someone else, written an obscene slogan on an intimate part of their body with a Sharpie, or been to Cuba in contravention of U.S. travel regulations does not deserve your place at Brown.
#1) Join an expedition to the Galapagos and discover a new plant or insect. While others are enjoying a naturalist's lecture aboard your "floating classroom," hop out with an empty mayonnaise jar, capture the freakiest-looking specimen you can, and upon returning to upstate New York, tell your local vet or florist you found it in nearby woods while "exploring" and get him or her to inform Brown. Failing that, order something exotic through the mail and follow the same procedure.
#2) Find a new bird. The larger the thing you discover, the more impressive. If you're handy with scissors and surgical thread, or know someone who is, you can attach the head of one bird to the body of another and then "scan" the resulting creature so that a vet who has seen the image can testify to your powers of detection.
#3) Write a book. Brown long ago ceased caring about students who read books; they're now interested in those who write them. A girl who collected stories from women about their first menstrual periods will enroll at Yale this fall. So that one's taken, but what about "First Spankings," "First Wet Dreams," "First Divorces," "Second Divorces," etc.? Remember, you simply require an English teacher or other adult not related to you to verify that you've written a book. It doesn't have to be any good or actually make it to market (just list a publication date beyond April).
#4) Have a teacher claim that you're "the most outstanding college candidate I've seen in all my years of teaching." This phrase has become almost mandatory. It will obviously be easier to meet the criterion if you approach a first-year teacher, but if necessary, you can always become extremely close to or sleep with a veteran teacher so that they'll lie.
#5) Be yourself in your essays. But first ensure that "yourself" is someone else. Find a peer who's a more talented writer, has more varied interests, and is not also applying to Brown and ask him or her to pen your essays. You may have to sleep with this person as well, but if your board scores are high enough and he or she's not too unattractive, it's probably worth a shot.
#6) Become a hero. Remember that movie "The Contender" starring Joan Allen in which a politician stages an auto crash and attempts to "save" a drowning woman in order to enhance his reputation? Do something similar. Even if you don't have ready access to a bridge, a car which can be submerged in a river, or a willing victim, you can be heroic on a smaller scale. If you inhabit a house that's not too valuable or doesn't contain objects of beauty, set a small fire which escalates into a dramatic conflagration which you then single-handedly extinguish. An infant or toddler sleeping upstairs and media coverage are a must on this one. Don't screw up.
#7) Submit an art portfolio or musical tape compiled by a lavishly gifted cousin. How's Brown to know you can't hold a crayon when they're looking at intricate silhouettes depicting the downside of globalization? For aspiring musicians, it's better to claim you play a stringed instrument than a woodwind (it indicates more practice). Drums are a no-no.
#8) Do something at "the state or national level." Telling Brown you won a local diving competition is like announcing that you breathe. Participate in a regional or national contest even if the thing you're doing is idiotic or borderline offensive. "I was one of 16 selected from 3,400 nationally given the privilege of recently journeying to Atlantic City, N.J." catches Brown's eyes because these are numbers they can relate to. It doesn't really matter if your achievement concludes "to take part in the rapid doughnut-eating contest." It's merely important you appear well-rounded (i.e., good at something not having to do with school).
#9) Identify others erroneously accepted by Brown. As Gore Vidal famously wrote, "It's not enough to succeed: others must fail." Here's a way to mesh the two: trawl Facebook, MySpace, the Internet, and even back issues of your local newspaper to see if you can nab anyone who's currently undeservedly on the Brown campus. (Think Prince Harry in Nazi regalia.) Someone who's committed murder or manslaughter, flashed their breasts at a party, vomited on someone else, written an obscene slogan on an intimate part of their body with a Sharpie, or been to Cuba in contravention of U.S. travel regulations does not deserve your place at Brown.
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