Me Me Me

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.

I always read the editor’s note in magazines and I was amused to see the editor of House Beautiful declare in the January issue that he doesn’t know any adults who like New Year’s Eve. Well, here’s one! Maybe it’s because we have spent them for 15 years or more with dear friends and our collective kids until they got too old to hang out with us. Maybe it’s because I loooove champagne. And I love to dress up. Anyway, even snow and blowing winds can’t keep me from feeling festive tonight, as we get ready to go to what’s supposed to be the best restaurant on the east end of Long Island.

In 2005 and 2006, we were with church friends in Buenos Aires on New Year’s Eve, which was just great — because it was SUMMER there. I believe I have mentioned how much l love summer (much more than snow and blowing wind).

Last year, we were back in the city with our pals, making the BIG mistake of going to Tavern on the Green. We thought it would be fun and kitschy, and a good place to watch the fireworks at midnight. OMG! Eurotrash nightmare, service nightmare, crowded, horrible — but it’s funny to look back on now. Hence, the restaurant on Long Island, far from the craziness of New York.

The only bad thing about New Year’s Eve is feeling worse for wear on New Year’s Day, but a nice pot of black-eyed peas and cornbread and a steady diet of football make everything okay again. Cheers to all — and may 2009 be a year of happiness, peace and good health.

From the minute we arrived in Manhattan more than 32 years ago, I knew THIS was the place for me. No suburbs, ever. Suburbs looked too much like the small town I grew up in, and I wanted the opposite of that. Nothing has made me rethink that basic decision, and my attitude is reflected in my favorite TV show Mad Men and the trailer for Revolutionary Road (not that I would actually see the movie because I can’t bear movies or novels about married couples who hate each other). In any case, once I got addicted to theater, the suburbs weren’t an option.

But — and this is a BIG “but” for me — New York can be a lonely and tiring place to live. Just the everyday stress of the subway and picking your way through crowded streets. So many ambitious people. Tired of your job? Don’t worry, 20 other (younger) people would love to have it. Even in a recession, it’s hard to find a genuinely friendly clerk in a store. You can easily go through the day with very little personal interaction other than your co-workers.

Luckily for me, I arrived here a newlywed and never had to try to meet someone special. I think that would be SO hard. I just Netflixed the movie Broken English starring Parker Posey (she’s from the south but was playing a native New Yorker!) about a lonely, anxious single woman who’s good at her job but doesn’t love it and can’t find happiness with a man. Such a sad movie.

It makes me laugh that my adorable daughter is settling down in Atlanta and can’t be sweet-talked into moving home to live near her mama. “I don’t want to come back here and see the same people from the same schools in the same places,” she says. Manhattan is a small town to her!

It’s Christmas morning, and the kids are still asleep. (But we aren’t – thanks to an ancient cat who yowls every hour on the hour beginning at 6AM in hopes that someone will take a shower and she can drink water from the tap. Don’t get me started!) Christmas should be the happiest day, even though I wish my mother, the amazing Mary, was still with us to see her precious grandkids today. I think of her whenever I hear “Silver Bells,” her favorite holiday song.

But…happy! When you’re tired and busy, it’s important to take time to appreciate the little things So, here are a few (very) random things that make me happy.

Waking up to a day with no responsibilities. I can sit on the bed and read a book, or take a walk, or work on a photo album, or do nothing.

Browsing at a store where everything is enticing and not necessarily expensive. Ikea. Whole Foods. Sephora. Barnes & Noble. Just about any outlet store.

Going to a museum with time to wander through a special exhibit using the audio guide, then buying the thick and pretty art book of the exhibit as a souvenir.

Sitting in Yankee Stadium and watching the bleacher creatures do the “roll call” of players before the game starts. (Will this happen in the new stadium? It better.)

Walking on the narrow stretch of beach across the road from our house and picking up scallop shells to wash and put in a basket. Heck, walking on ANY beach.

Doing the backstroke, slowly, for 30 minutes in any available pool, humming Frank Sinatra songs to pass the time.

Sitting at the dining room table with my adorable son on my right side, my adorable daughter on my left side and my darling husband on the other end. And HE cooked the entire delicious meal!

Merry Christmas!

I may be a liberal politically, but in the movies I like manly men who pull a gun on the bad guys and leave no doubt that they’d be perfectly willing to pull the trigger. We just saw Gran Torino, the super-fabulous new movie starring the incredible Clint Eastwood. Oh boy, I’ve loved Clint forever. Play Misty for Me? Ay-yi-yi, so scary. Dirty Harry? Loved him. I even enjoyed the silly comedies he did in the 80s with the monkey and Sondra Locke (from whom he parted unhappily; sorry Sondra).

Since winning the Oscar for Unforgiven, Clint has been unstoppable as a director, and I was so happy that my dear church friend Margo Martindale had such a wonderful part as the worst mother on earth in Million Dollar Baby. “They hate YUUU!” she said to poor dying Hilary Swank. Margo says that Clint is a sweetheart in real life. Of course he is! He even shut Spike Lee up, but that’s another story.

Anyway, the programmers of movie trailers must have realized that I was in the audience at Gran Torino, because they managed to show previews of four different movies starring four more of my favorite manly men: Russell Crowe (who is apparently NOT a sweetheart in real life, but I love him anyway), Christian Bale, Daniel Craig, and Clive Owen. MANLINESS!!! Who needs Tom Cruise strutting around in a Nazi uniform when you can wait for the latest from Russell, Christian, Daniel and Clive. And Christian’s movie is a new Terminator! Bonus, bonus fun.

Clint BETTER get a Best Actor nomination for Gran Torino. Nobody ever wins an Oscar for playing a regular person, so I’m quite sure Sean Penn or Frank Langella will win for their expert impersonations (just as Philip Seymour Hoffman’s Capote beat Heath Ledger, who should most definitely have won for Brokeback Mountain). Whatever — Clint, you are the MAN.

Here’s a true sign that I am a southern girl at heart: I hate snow. HATE IT. It’s snowing outside now, huge puffy white flakes that make children giddy, skiers thrilled and me mutter OY. I don’t ski. I don’t skate. I hate cold weather of any variety, but wet cold weather is the worst. Rubber boots? OY. Wet wool coat? OY. Slippery sidewalks? OY. Airline delays when my baby girl is trying to come home for Christmas? Triple OY.

I could be the person who invented SAD — seasonal affect disorder, or something like that. It means that I like light. The longest day of the year is my happiest day. Light outside till 9 PM? Yes — let’s have a cocktail on the deck at dusk (8:30). Beautiful! I feel sure I couldn’t live in the northwest or even San Francisco — not enough light. My mood starts to drift downward after Labor Day and only begins lifting in March, because March leads to April leads to May leads to SUMMER. 

Summer means heat, which I love. I’d rather it be 90 degrees than 50 degrees. Although I complain about almost everything, you will never, never, never hear me say that it’s too hot. If it’s 98, I might complain a tad. But not like I complain about snow, which I hate in all circumstances. The only thing worse than snow is ice — and often, snow leads to ice. (What a meteorologist I am!) How do people in Buffalo or Green Bay survive?

Now that my children are grown, never again will I have to pretend to enjoy taking them sledding in Riverside Park, smiling at their joy while inside I am thinking, “Get me the HELL off this hill!” When snow was predicted last night, my adorable 6 foot 2 son said, “Oooh, I want to go sledding!” And I said serenely, “Have fun, sweetie — I’ll be home watching Oprah.”