Me Me Me

By a stroke of good luck, I have seen three Chekhov plays since the fall in outstanding productions, and I have fallen in love with this melancholy Russian. I said I wasn’t going to talk about theater here; I’m not a reviewer and have never wanted to be one. But having seen Uncle Vanya the other night, a couple of weeks after The Cherry Orchard and a couple of months after The Seagull, I realized why actors are obsessed with these plays.

Chekhov understood longing for something more, something greater. He understood human pain and folly. He certainly understood the boredom of everyday living! Some of his characters are laughably deluded; many are oblivious. On one level, the plays are merely slices of life, which explains why they are done badly so often. But when the actor and part are a good match, and when the rhythm is right, you think… I know these people! That’s ME. 

The women in Chekhov are problematic. (I haven’t seen Three Sisters in 20 years; too bad THAT one isn’t coming to town so I can reconsider those girls.) They tend to be over-dramatic pains in the butt, but whatever. He wrote them more than 100 years ago. And by the accounts I’ve read, Chekhov himself loved women and was something of a babe magnet, notwithstanding his TB. 

As for the character of Uncle Vanya — I absolutely adore this man. When his brother-in-law, the full-of-himself old professor, decamps at the dacha with his beautiful young second wife, Vanya proceeds to have a mini-breakdown as he contemplates all those years he spent balancing the ledger book, doing the same old thing day after day. Uncle Vanya is like Peggy Lee, belting, “Is that all there is?!” Watching him rant and lament and wave a pistol is just about the most fun anybody could have in a theater.

I read a rather bizarre story this weekend about a designer who makes jewelry from bits and pieces of Barbie dolls. Like, earrings formed from Barbie hands. Or necklaces that have Barbie eyes and lips worked into the design. I have been pondering this and don’t quite know what to make of it. 

I owned the original 1959 Barbie, with a ponytail, striped swimsuit and cat-eye glasses. Lord, I wish I had that doll now; I could probably take a nice vacation from the proceeds. Sadly, I have NONE of my Barbies, and believe me, in the 60s I had every possible permutation. Barbie and Ken, Midge and Allan, Skipper and Scooter. Bubble-headed Barbies. Kens with fuzzy and vinyl “hair.” The Barbie Dream House. The Barbie Mystery Date board game, in which the loser was stuck going to the prom with Poindexter. A bevy of shiny leatherette carrying cases for Barbie’s clothing.

Oh, the clothing! None of that velcro junk my daughter had during her circa-1990 Barbie-loving period. The original Barbie clothes had snaps and hooks and didn’t look cheap. Each outfit came with a brochure that showed all the other outfits, the better to form a wish list for future acquisitions.

These days, girls are done with Barbie by first grade. (Luckily, my adorable daughter missed the age of Bratz, the hooker dolls. Barbie looks like Eleanor Roosevelt compared to those.) But back in the day, we were still playing with Barbie at age 10. I swear, it’s true! An innocent time indeed: cookies after school, a little homework, Barbie fun, and soon it was time for The Beverly Hillbillies or Bewitched. No Gossip Girl, in which we’re supposed to believe that Chuck Bass will start running the family corporation at 18 — if he can control his taste for hos and cocaine long enough to assume his birthright. (Okay, I buy it, because Chuck is played by the divine Ed Westwick.)

Alas, it’s a different era in every way, and I’m relieved not to have a 2009-era 10-year-old whining for Juicy Couture rather than Limited Too. Fortunately, my adorable daughter WILL be able to haul out her (extensive) Barbie collection to share with her little one someday. Her dolls and clothes are carefully folded away, ready for Granny Kathy to participate in planning Barbie and Ken’s wedding with the next generation.

I’m gonna have to stop giving my favorite famous people shout-outs in print, because as soon as I do, something goes wrong. My dear Eli Manning and the New York Giants went down with a whimper in the playoffs. Caroline Kennedy withdrew her bid to become the Senator from New York. And now my idol Clint Eastwood, so wonderful in Gran Torino, has been unjustly overlooked in the Oscar nominations.

What’s happening, people? One word from the mighty ME ME ME should ensure enduring success to all those offered my blessing! For I am always right. (Oops, a little Virgo-ness slipped in there. The sin of pride! It’s a sin that I can spot in others a mile away, and I’m talking about YOU, George W. Bush. But his pride surely DID goeth before a fall. You, too, Cheney!

There was a joke when I worked at Child magazine that anybody I interviewed ended up getting a divorce, sometimes at the very moment the issue (featuring my fawning story of their happy family life) showed up in print. I broke up Melissa Rivers’ marriage, for example (after having been in her L.A. home on 9/11! But that’s another story). Christian Slater’s wife (allegedly) cut his ear in a stairwell with a glass just after giving me a serene-sounding interview. Dylan McDermott and his gorgeous wife Shiva Rose broke up soon after I spent a day photographing their home. So, celebrities — beware!

As we watched the HBO inauguration concert at the Lincoln Memorial, my tears started when the tape of Marian Anderson singing “My Country Tis of Thee” ended and my dear Josh Groban and Broadway baby Heather Headley sang the whole song. Wow! From that moment on, I was like a leaky faucet. Pete Seeger in his jaunty knit beret, leading the crowd in “This Land Is Your Land” next to Bruce Springsteen … beautiful Beyonce singing “America the Beautiful.” Adorable Malia and Sasha snapping photos (while some unknown child sat passed out COLD right behind Obama). The setting! The symbolism! I could watch that concert 100 times, and I probably will.

This is a day that I never really believed would happen. Barack Obama! I have to pinch myself to believe that this smart, unflappable, visionary man is going to be sworn in as President. Heck, that he even WANTS to do it, given the hideous state of affairs he’s been left to clean up by the previous administration. The fact that he tapped Hillary to be Secretary of State speaks volumes about how secure he is as a leader.

Of course, the carping by the Fox network right-wingers will begin anew tomorrow. But today? They’ve gotta shut their traps and watch the joyous celebration of millions of people who did not succumb to fear-mongering and hate on Election Day. Yes, we DID!!!

As you get older, it’s hard to hold on to a sense that anything is possible — you lose that wonderful, youthful feeling of invincibility, that eagerness to rush in and tackle something you’ve never tried. Even as an idea takes shape, you’re aware of all the obstacles, all the gaps in your own knowledge and experience. The risks outweigh the rewards. And besides, you’re tired. Preservation mode! 

Unfortunately for me, the status quo has never kept me happy for long. I used to marvel at folks who could do the same thing, day after day, who didn’t seem to long for … whatever. That’s a far more attractive way of living than feeling dissatisfied or regretful. Don’t you hate negative people who give off a “I’ve been screwed by life” vibe? But how do you keep doing what has to be done while holding on to the idea that something new and wonderful is still possible? 

When I look around at all the Baby Boomer moms who have successfully guided our kids out of the nest, I think about what we could accomplish if we put our minds together. We are so smart, and we have so much energy and know-how. What should our 10-year plan be? And how can we convince ourselves to go for it, whatever “it” is?

Of the many personal traits that get on my nerves, laziness may be worst. Don’t get me wrong: Relaxing is great. God knows I crave time to veg out and give my brain a rest. I have a need for solitude — I think it’s an only child thing. But lazy people? Ay-yi-yi. Just about the lowest thing I can say about someone is that he or she is “useless.” And sadly, there are a heck of a lot of useless people roaming the earth.

My darling husband and I are very much on the same page about laziness. (Actually, to keep the cliche going, he could write a dissertation on it.) As I’ve said, he is the hardest working person on earth. When he is not working for pay, he is gardening, or repairing something, or paying bills, or trying a complicated recipe from Cook’s Illustrated, or reading some boring business journal. One of his favorite words — and one of our adorable children’s LEAST favorite — is “productive.” As in, “Turn off that TV and do something productive.” Or “You can’t just lay around for three weeks after finals; you need to find something productive to do.”

His work ethic started early in life; mine did not. I never had any type of job (not even babysitting) until I was 20, when I got a Congressional internship. I never did any chores around the house as a kid — never washed a dish or emptied a garbarge can. But I was a compulsive joiner of clubs, president of everything, yearbook editor, church organist (that one was forced on me by my mother).

As an adult, I despise meetings and group discussions. But love to be busy and get a lot done every day. My favorite people are can-do people.

It’s ironic that I usually have to write these tidbits at night, because I am a morning person. I sincerely wish I wasn’t. I’d love to be one of those carefree folks who stay up late and sleep even later, but motherhood wrecked that, and now I can’t reclaim a nocturnal existence, even on the weekend. I consider myself successful if I make it through the first hour of Saturday Night Live, which is truly, truly pathetic.

Having said that, I do NOT like to get up before 7:15. That’s plenty early! But my darling husband (who, you will not be surprised to learn, can be productive at ALL HOURS) has discovered the joy of exercise and has taken to getting up at 7AM three days a week to pursue his newfound goal of becoming a 50ish Charles Atlas. This has become a source of friction, because once any alarm goes off, I’m UP! Would it kill my DH to give me that extra 15 minutes? Apparently so, because his schedule, like that of an Amtrak conductor, is set in stone. Thirty years of billing time in quarter-hours has left an indelible mark.

So, I get up at 7. And I grumble. And (as I’ve shared) I start dreading things I’d rather not do that day. But the silver lining is that I also come up with my best ideas first thing in the morning — stories to write, interview questions to ask, gift ideas, dreams for the future. The brain starts whirling, and off we go.

The Golden Globes are on Sunday and I’m excited, because it’s the only awards show in which the stars are allowed to get drunk. “Can’t they control themselves?” people at home say to the TV screen. No, they can’t. There’s top-drawer champagne on the table, booze on demand, and they’re nervous about whether they’ll win. You’d drink too. 

The awards themselves are something of a joke, voted on by a small number of foreign “journalists” that Brad and Angelina wouldn’t give the time of day except on this one night. (They’ll be there, though: Angelina has won a ton of Globes over the years; those voters love her.) The Golden Globe people are soooo smart: They plunked their show on TV right before the Academy Award nominations come out, so everybody MUST show up and drunkenly make practice acceptance speeches that will get shorter and more polished by the time they pick up their Oscar. (They hope.)

Another entertaining aspect is watching honest-to-god movie stars mixing with TV actors that the real stars don’t recognize OR care about. Here’s an at-home drinking game for Sunday night: Take a shot the first time an obscure TV actor clutching his/her Globe breathily exclaims, “I can’t BELIEVE I’m in the same room with Clint/Meryl/Sean/fill-in-the-blank-of-actor-I’ve-admired-all-my-life!” Bonus shot if they also say, “I’m SO proud to be an actor.”

But the real fun is before the show, on the red carpet. Boy oh boy, I LOVE the red carpet, and I cannot understand the mindset of any actress who claims to hate it. It’s gotta be the best thing about stardom! Designers elbowing each other to provide their newest and most beautiful dresses, jewels dripping off your ears and wrists. The shoes! The little purses! The hair and makeup! Paparazzi shouting, “Kathy! Over here!” Okay, I went off to dreamland for a second.

The newspapers are already writing tiresome stories about how people will “dress down” at awards shows this year because the economy has tanked. How ridiculous! If Cate Blanchett wears widow’s weeds on the red carpet, will anybody get his money back from Bernie Madoff? (That’s not a good example; Cate Blanchett would look beautiful in a potato sack.) For what it’s worth, I hope the stars pull out all the stops, with a little help from Valentino, Marchesa, and Harry Winston. I will definitely be watching.

Maybe it’s a Virgo thing — or maybe it’s undiagnosed OCD — but I am definitely a creature of habit. I eat the same breakfast and same lunch every weekday (okay, that’s actually a weight-control thing). I walk toward the same spot in the locker room in the gym at every visit and get disoriented if someone’s there and I have to find another one. We eat a steak and split a bottle of red wine every Friday night. We sit in the same pew at church every Sunday. How fortunate for me that my darling husband doesn’t throw his hands in the air and demand: “Be more spontaneous!” Because I can’t.

The only decision/situation I feel comfortable being spontaneous about is one that involves doing less than is required of me. Skip the movie theater and stay home with a video? Fine. Unexpected people dropping by? Not so fine. (Living in New York is great for this; nobody drops by.) But mostly, I want to know: What is the plan for the day/ evening/weekend? I marvel at my adorable son’s ability, when I ask at 5:00 PM, “What are you doing tonight?” to happily respond, “I don’t know yet.” He might not even know at 10! Wow!

Maybe that should be my New Year’s resolution (along with becoming more compassionate and more patient and going to at least one museum every weekend): I will try to move past my comfort zone and enjoy the unexpected! Fat chance.

One nice thing about being married to someone exactly your own age is that you have the same pop culture memories. Even though we didn’t know each other as kids, my darling husband and I were obsessed with spy stuff in the 60s — James Bond, The Avengers, Mission: Impossible and, most especially, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Loved it! NEVER missed it! I even had an U.N.C.L.E. board game. When I got the chance to interview David McCallum (Illya!) a few years ago, I could barely get a sentence out. David, a charming Scotsman, was obviously used to that reaction from female Baby Boomers who grew up watching him and Robert Vaughn (Napoleon Solo) saunter through the tailor shop “somewhere in the east 40s” in route to the headquarters of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

Anyway, a good friend gave us a special Christmas gift: the brand new set of Man from U.N.C.L.E. DVDs packaged in a handy attache case. We popped the first disk in last night feeling a bit of trepidation. Would we still like it? Frankly, Mission: Impossible just doesn’t hold up, and The Avengers isn’t the greatest (other than Diana Rigg’s catsuits) either.

After three episodes, I thought — yes, I could watch more of this! It’s a time capsule, for sure, especially in its dismissive treatment of women as ditsy eye candy. The pacing is odd; our kids, raised on slick action films, would never sit still for something this quaint. I kept getting distracted by the (sleek) decor of the rooms and the women’s (chic) clothes and (silly) hairdos; I would lose the plotline, to the annoyance of my DH.

Weirdly, however, the overall premise of a group of good guys (U.N.C.L.E.) going after a super-secret group of bad guys (THRUSH) with no national identity, bent on taking over the world, seems as timely now as in 1964. As the nasty aims and nefarious methods of THRUSH are described in the pilot episode, my DH said, “They’re like Al Qaeda!” Maybe it’s time for another show that treats spies like tux-wearing heroes and not conflicted, Jason Bourne-like hand-wringers.