Me Me Me

Wow, I am feeling so sad and uneasy about the state of magazines! I was a magazine editor for 25 years before decamping for the internet, and if there was any way to break even with a print publication about theater (I tried, and there isn’t), I would do it in a heartbeat. Five percent of the workforce about to be cut from Conde Nast, the Tiffany of magazine companies? Six hundred jobs on the block at good old reliable Time Inc.? What is the publishing world coming to?

I grew up enthralled with magazines, especially Seventeen (when it was oversized!), Teen (the source of a pen pal I kept for several years and even managed to meet — hello Liz Richter, wherever you are) and my mother’s women’s magazines (I collected Betsy McCall paper dolls). I still subscribe to 17 (!) magazines, which greatly curtails my book reading, but what can you do? I need my magazine fix. I “take” (the southern word for subscribe) eight home design magazines, my particular fetish, and I console myself with the idea that no one will ever be able to pore over decorating porn on the screen of a Kindle. 

Journalism as a profession is changing so fast, I don’t know how to keep up. I have recently and reluctantly advised two young people not to go into debt getting a graduate degree in journalism. These days, anybody can take a liberal arts degree and start blogging (like meeee!). Of course, that won’t teach them how to gather facts, structure an article, edit their own work and come up with something worthy of publication. The New York Times has already sounded the death knell for copy editors (sob! my first job!) and Tina Brown is giddy over the possibilities of her new Daily Beast website. 

But if there’s no money to support old-fashioned reporting, fact-checking and editing, how will people figure out what’s truthful and reliable? Where will my profession be in 20 years?

I have avoided writing about the election because I am too nervous about the outcome. In the past week, I’ve talked to dozens of people who describe in detail how they’re feeding their addiction to political news. Some prefer MSNBC, many swear by Jon Stewart, some check out liberal blogs, some even sneak a peek at Fox to hear what the enemy is saying. My darling husband relaxes nightly with dreamboat Anderson Cooper on CNN (I must admit I’ve developed an attachment to one of his sidekicks, earthy Ms. Candy Crowley).

But when I opened the New York Times today and saw that practically the entire front section was about the election, including an article pondering whether having a Democratic President AND a Democratic Congress would somehow threaten the republic? (We should only be so lucky!) I slammed the paper shut without reading a word. I’ve become one of those speak/hear/see-no-evil monkeys! I’m almost afraid to breathe until November 5. 

I also know lots of committed folks who are heading to Pennsylvania to knock on doors, or making calls from Obama phone banks. Can’t do that either. At this point, I don’t trust myself to talk about politics without flying off the handle. I feel so pessimistic when I see the faces of people yelling nonsense at McCain and Palin rallies. How can they have lived through the last eight years and not realize that they’ll be voting for more of the same, or worse? How did the language of politics get so screwed up?

I was in a hotel room in March 2003 on a college visit with my 17-year-old daughter the night the Iraq war started. I listened to the reporters excitedly discussing how the “shock and awe” bombs were lighting up the night, and I said out loud, “This is an ungodly mistake.” That baby girl is now a college graduate, the war is still going on, and Barack Obama was one of the few politicians brave enough to have said, from the beginning, that it was absolutely wrong. He is so smart (a minus, apparently, these days), so steady, and so committed to the values I believe in. He will be a transformational President in every way. Please, America, surprise me!!

In our 32 years in New York, we have given a lot of cocktail parties. A LOT. For years, we threw a Christmas party featuring a spiral-sliced Honey Baked ham from Georgia, and I made weird things like bourbon balls and 70s-style marinated mushrooms and swedish meatballs. I toasted pecans, and my mother would ship up a batch of cheese straws  – it was all vaguely southern. Mix your own drink in a plastic cup. 

Now we’ve moved up to caterers and rented glassware and helpers to pour drinks and round up abandoned plates and napkins. We had 50 people over last night to celebrate our fabulous new minister and his wife. Did you know that Presbyterians enjoy cocktails? Well, in Manhattan, they do. And I had much more fun than when I attempt a (stressful!) dinner party. I love seeing a steady stream of people come through my door, smiling and ready to have a great time on a Friday night. And when the party guests know and like one another, so there’s no pressure to help different “worlds” of people mingle? It’s just the best!

I have a book called Entertaining Is Fun!, written in 1941 by the society decorator Dorothy Draper and filled with hilarious tidbits about olives wrapped in bacon and choosing caviar and how the maid should behave. But I’ve gotta agree with Dorothy when she advises, “Plan your party so that you and your husband (we hope you have one) will have a good time and your guests will have the time of their lives.” Amen.

Far more often than I should, I hear myself saying, “I dread that.” I use the word dread so much, I decided to look it up, and the definition might as well be tattooed on the inside of my eyelids: “to anticipate with alarm, anxiety or reluctance.” That just about sums it up! One morning, after I had sighed and lamented over whatever thing I might be dreading that day, my darling husband delivered this earth-shattering pronouncement: “I hardly ever dread anything.”

Isn’t that amazing? And it’s true. I’ve watched him spend a weekend preparing some complicated power-point presentation that he neither dreaded working on nor having to deliver. (Both parts would have been hugely dreaded by me.) He doesn’t dread boring social events, or changing planes, or having to pack and unpack children’s belongings, or endless car rides, or houseguests, or tedious work assignments, or confrontations. Those are merely the tip of the iceberg of things I dread.

Many times, after living through something I dreaded, I am asked by one of the three sunnier members of my family, “That turned out fine, didn’t it?” The answer is usually yes. And I’ve been blessed with very few truly dread-able life events. So why do I forget the positive outcome and begin dreading things all over again? Hey, at least I’m not a worrier! On a sliding scale of neuroses, that one seems a lot worse.

Six short months from now, I will no longer be the parent of a teenager. My baby girl became a teen during the era of Dawson’s Creek, a show that now seems as tame as Captain Kangaroo. I progressed from Dawson and Pacey to The O.C. before my kids left for college; a girlfriend and I now savor the absolutely hilarious (and super-naughty) Gossip Girl together. Holy moly, I’m glad I don’t have a seventh grader at home anymore watching the underage G.G. crew sip colorful cocktails and lose their virginity on a weekly basis. And their wardrobes! “Mommy, I want Serena’s purse.” Honey, so do I!

The point of this particular trip down TV memory lane is that I love teenage pop culture. I can’t wait to see High School Musical 3 on the big screen this weekend. Hi Zac Efron! And my darling husband, who would surely rather listen to NPR or classical music on the Long Island Expressway, never complains about two hours of top-40 on Z100. He even gets into the spirit by asking, randomly, “Is that Britney?” (Rap, on the other hand, makes him reach for the secret station-changing button on the steering wheel.)

Is my taste for the young stuff inappropriate now that I’m the mother of two young adults? When do I have switch to Lite-FM? Truthfully, I’m slowly weaning myself from childish things — I don’t know one Jonas Brother from the other, and I can’t abide The Hills. But I’m determined to stay in the pop culture loop, even though being middle-aged gives me permission to listen to delightful singers like Michael Buble and Robin Thicke without apologizing.

I am sad that David Duchovny and Tea Leoni are breaking up. I got this news from Perez Hilton, the Edward R. Murrow of celebrity goings-on. They were my favorite New York City private school couple (he went to Collegiate, she went to Brearley), and they were so great-looking and seemed so crazy about each other. Okay, David has just gotten out of rehab for sex addiction, and now Tea (or David, I’m unclear which) is cheating (sez Perez), so it’s a mess. No wonder David looks ‘rough’ on those subway-station billboards for Californication, a show I cannot imagine watching.

Now I must pause and offer a heartfelt tribute to The X-Files, my favorite TV show of the 1990s and one of the greatest series of all time, at least in its first five seasons. We used to hustle the kids off to bed (whether they were ready or not!) in order to get the first glass of red wine poured before that creepy theme music began. Dear Fox Mulder, so young, so handsome, so glum. Hey, you’d be glum too if you’d seen your sister carted off by aliens when you were a child!

Glum Fox met his match in deadpan Dana Scully, the youngest doctor in the history of the FBI. Gillian Anderson was 25 when that show started, and stunningly beautiful. Thank god the celebrity rags weren’t ruling the newsstand back then or we would have been subjected to weekly items about her weight. I loved, loved, loved the fact that she looked like a real working woman with boxy suits and helmet hair, pursing those gorgeous lips at Mulder’s latest nutty crusade.

Someday, when my grandchildren sort through my personal effects, they will find my carefully preserved Scully and Mulder dolls — a Barbie and Ken dressed like the characters, complete with a cross necklace around Scully Barbie’s neck! What will the grandkids think of this treasure? I won’t be around to find out.

Finally, a confession: We did not go to the movie theater this past summer to see the latest X-Files film on the big screen. We got busy with college graduation, and by the time we got un-busy, the movie had sunk without a trace. Forgive us, Fox and Dana! We will catch up with it on DVD, where we expect to see Mulder/David still looking glum and Scully/Gillian skinnier but still stunning.

Here’s a terrible admission from the former Alabama State President of the Future Homemakers of America (!): I would be perfectly happy never to cook another meal until the day Saint Peter greets me at the pearly gates. I am easily stressed out, and cooking provides a maaaajor source of stress for me. The ingredients! The chopping! The timing! The cleanup! Oy, let’s order Mama Mexico and be done with it. 

My darling husband, thank goodness, truly enjoys cooking. If he had the time (and he does not, since he works 24/7), he would thumb through his carefully saved issues of Cook’s Illustrated every night and brine something. (That publication loves brining, whatever that means, plus using rubs, herbs and all kinds of things I can do without on my food, thanks! Just looking at an issue of Cook’s Illustrated stresses me out.) What an adventurous cook he could be if he had the time, and our adorable son would be happy to sample anything he might make. Our adorable daughter and I would just as soon have his world-famous mac and cheese, chicken with gravy, and fried okra. Now THAT’s good eating!

I’ve made my share of meals, but the truth is, if my mate wasn’t here, the Henderson family would have no gravy (chicken, turkey or beef — he’s great at all three), no homemade cornbread, no beef stew (from a weird but tasty recipe in Cook’s) and dozens of other family favorites. We’re having a dinner party tonight with fancier food on the menu (stress!!) and I’ll get the table ready, make the salad, and perform sous-chef drudgery, but he’ll oversee the meal. Luckily, he enjoys it.

Is it possible to be well-dressed without something fabulous on your feet? Boy, oh boy, do I wish I could wear stylish shoes! I look pretty nice in high heels, although there is scant evidence of it since I am physically unable to keep them on for more than 15 minutes at a time. I’ll spare the gory details of what’s wrong with my feet, but the only shoes that truly feel good are three-year-old lattice flats from J. Crew that have been resoled multiple times. If anything rubs any part of my feet, trouble follows. This is a wee bit of a problem since I live in a city that requires constant walking. And I like to walk fast! 

My dream shoe would be sky-high Christian Louboutin pumps with those wonderful devil-red soles. I would be six feet tall in those! Feel the power! But I would never pay for a pair because I would not be able to wear them. When I tried to get cute one year on Tony night and squeeze into strappy satin heels, I ended up hobbling down 50th Street in the middle of the night like a lame racehorse on its way to the slaughterhouse. “Shoot me now!” I cried, but nobody paid attention at 2AM. 

So when the weather gets colder and the lattice flats have to be put away for another year, I contemplate my wardrobe of old-lady Cole Haans and worse — brands and styles that would make a fashionista shriek with horror. I feel like strapping on a sandwich board that says, “I have good taste! But nothing feels good on my hideous feet!”

In my experience, if you want something badly enough and you keep banging on the door, your wish will come true. This has happened once in my personal life — I really, really wanted to marry my darling husband, even though we were only 21 years old when I came to this realization — and I got my wish. That story had a happy ending that continues to this day, knock on wood.

It’s happened three times in my professional life, with mixed results. I wanted to write for The New York Times, and I didn’t stop pushing until it happened. After four articles that got edited by committee, I thought…this is NOT fun! That was a long time ago, but things can’t have changed much; most of the articles in the Arts & Leisure section read as if the writers wouldn’t know a decent lead sentence if it rammed into the back of their car. My second wish was to write a book about actors who got their start in theater. That one came true — and a total of 10 copies of my book were sold. The third thing I wanted was to be the editor of a theater magazine. I got THAT wish, too — but after 114 weekly issues, the magazine went bankrupt, and nobody came knocking at my door with a comparable position. (Thankfully, I got a great job overseeing lifestyle coverage at Child before getting back in the theatrical game at Broadway.com.)

What is the point of this recitation? It’s to remind myself that professional jealousy of any kind is a waste of energy. Of course, New York City is base camp for breaking the tenth commandment, “Thou shalt not covet.” Thy neighbor’s wife? How about thy neighbor’s success? Wouldn’t it be nice to be a known quantity in the competitive world of publishing? Why do people with not-so-much talent end up with big-time bylines? The answer may be that they simply WANT it more than I do at this point in my life — and at the end of the day, what looks like success might not translate into happiness.

One of the happiest decisions I ever made was to have a second child. This was an enormous leap of faith, given that I am an only child and knew absolutely nothing about children until my adorable newborn daughter was placed in my arms. And when I say “nothing,” I mean that I had never changed a diaper, never baby-sat, never even cooed at an oncoming stroller. When, after 10 years of marriage, I took my first leap of faith into motherhood, I spent the entire pregnancy in a low-level state of dread punctuated by occasional crying jags. Luckily, the result was a curly-haired angel with big, beautiful eyes.

This little love bundle unleashed in me a feeling of family that I had never experienced growing up in the middle of an extended clan with multiple dysfunctions. I soon realized that I didn’t want her to grow up alone in the big city. So, little brother followed. Best decision ever. A nice, neat nuclear family in which the parents are never outnumbered on an airplane. 

And yet…I often wish my nuclear family was bigger. Because, in many ways, these three people are, as the amazing Mary used to say to me, “all I’ve got.” Practically speaking, I would never have had the patience (oy, I have no patience on my best day!) and flexibility (HA!) to juggle the needs of another kid when they were young, in spite of having the best babysitter on earth. (SHE always wanted me to have a third one!) But the two I’ve got have flown the coop now, with no interest in coming home between Labor Day and Thanksgiving, even for a weekend. It’s not that I want another little one — if I had to live through seventh grade again, I would need a vial of cyanide on the nightstand — but it would be so nice to see one more person of “my very own” at the dining room table.