Me Me Me

I can hardly believe I have written more than 30 posts since September and this is the first time I have used this title. Honestly, this could be the theme of the entire blog, if I weren’t so determined to maintain an upbeat outlook. But sometimes, you’ve just gotta vent. And in the past 24 hours, I’ve been exposed to several of the millions of things that get on my nerves, so bear with me. Some of these complaints will mean nothing to you if you don’t live in New York, a city designed to test your nerves 24/7. But I do live in New York, so here goes.

WHY do people talk loudly on the subway? This morning, I was treated to a mother’s dramatic rendition of a children’s picture book — not dramatic enough, apparently, because the read-ees (two admittedly cute little boys) challenged each other to “see how many times we can say hi. HI! HI! HI! HI!” I lost count at 30. Mom kept reading — loudly. On tonight’s subway ride, a group of four young adults argued (loudly) the relative merits of neighborhood bars. HUSH, people! Some of us want to read in peace about greedy auto executives as we hurtle north beneath the ground!

WHY do sweaty bald men get into my personal space at the gym? Can’t they see that my precious trainer and I are busy discussing his love life while he tries to convince me to roll from side to side on an enormous red ball? Go grunt on the other side of the room!

WHY do people who are borderline ill come to the theater and proceed to make alarming noises involving the content of their throat, culminating in a coughing jag? Jeez Louise, stuff a Ricola in your mouth! Better yet, leave the room. Better even YET, stay home.

Wow, I feel a lot better now. Thanks for listening.

I have friends of many persuasions, politically speaking, and I’m always intrigued when I meet parents and children who end up on opposite ends of the spectrum. Is it a simple case of rebellion? Or did the kids carefully reason through their world view and announce one day, “Mom and Dad, I reject everything you hold dear.” Thank goodness that never happened in the Henderson household!

But how did I, who can remember when my hometown movie theater back in Alabama had a door marked “colored entrance” (it led straight to the balcony), and whose mother snatched off my black armband on Vietnam Moratorium Day in 1970, end up a liberal? Two words: Uncle Jack.

The much-loved and coddled youngest of 11 children, he grew up to be the family intellectual. He ventured to Scotland (!) to get a doctorate in theology. He marched in Selma. He had a framed picture of Martin Luther King in his office. (That last one was quite a bone of contention among his conservative older brothers.) He had a fabulous life partner, Paul, who told me I looked like model when I was a scrawny teenager. And Uncle Jack was a liberal. Oh yeah! And if he was a liberal, I wanted to learn about politics and be one too.

Uncle Jack, the baby brother my mother adored, is 82 now, still smoking like a chimney, still enjoying a daily vodka and tonic, still going strong. So are the outreach ministries he started at the Presbyterian church he served for many years in Washington DC. He’s larger than life! And his influence lives on, especially in me.

I don’t feel comfortable talking about religion, much less writing about it. I grew up in a Baptist church that expected everybody to profess and re-profess their faith and repent and rededicate their lives to Jesus every other week. It was belief fueled by fear. Never mind that it was segregated. Or that women weren’t allowed to serve as deacons! But I have great memories of Vacation Bible School, youth musicals and old-time hymns, and even having a “sleepover” at the pastor’s house the night Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. 

We’ve now been members of Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church for almost 30 years. It is such a special place, both physically (the most beautiful all-wood oval sanctuary that feels like sitting on a ship) and in the way the community takes care of one another. Great preaching, friends of all ages, a spiritual anchor for the kids — what a fabulous church we have.

Fifth Avenue is emerging from three years of internal turmoil and transition just in time to celebrate the congregation’s 200th birthday with a banquet this weekend. I was lucky enough to compile an anniversary photo book that turned out exactly as I envisioned it, thanks to a super-talented young designer, Christie Repcheck. It makes me happy to have been able to give this gift to a place that has given me so much! Happy birthday, dearest church!

At what age does flirting become inappropriate? I’m probably way past whatever it is, but that hasn’t stopped my natural inclination to make nice with attractive men — straight, gay, married, single, young, old. Well, mostly young. And straight. And single. My darling husband understands this tendency in me and is secure enough not to mind it. He even refers to one handsome church friend who is sweet enough to flirt with me as “your boyfriend.” 

The more I think about my DH’s willingness to put up with my flirting, the more I marvel at it. Would I stand by while he sidled up to some 30-year-old chick and flashed his blue eyes and intelligent smile, while dazzling her with his ability to make conversation? I would be very unhappy to observe such behavior. I might even go so far to label it “gross.” A double standard? To be sure. 

But middle-aged women can get away with a lot, given the fact that nobody really takes our flirting seriously. It’s harmless. (Truly, it is.) Middle-aged men, on the other hand, frequently DO pick up 30-year-olds who would be plenty happy to become their trophy wives and give them a trophy child or two to dandle in their old age. Um, over my dead BODY!!

There you have it, then: I can proceed with my innocent flirting, and my darling husband doesn’t get the same privilege. So far, he doesn’t seem to mind.

Any weekend in which I get to see both of my children is a great weekend — and this one was doubly great because we gathered in Nashville to watch our budding actor give a fabulous performance as a Cockney-accented gangster in a pinstriped suit in Vanderbilt University Theatre’s production of Alan Ayckbourn’s farce Role Play. The play earned a standing ovation, and our star’s sweet sister, who has been busily raising money for Georgia U.S. Senate candidate Jim Martin (donate so that he can win the runoff! www.martinforsenate.com), and loving aunt shared the evening with us. 

Parents influence their children in a million ways, and if we’re lucky, they learn from our mistakes and do a better job with the next generation than we did with them. Lord knows they are aware of their parents’ neuroses, as our adorable son demonstrated after the show when he compared me to a character who goes ballistic over a missing fork before a dinner party. (This comparison was not very complimentary, as his girlfriend pointed out. He didn’t see the problem. HA!)

But… one child working in a national political campaign and another one acting and majoring in theater? It’s almost too weird. I was an intern for my congressman, a long-serving Alabama right-winger; I argued feminist politics with his chief of staff in the summer of 1975, and the congressman liked me enough to come to my wedding a year later with his wife (who sported a very distinctive Bride of Frankenstein hairdo), causing a splash in my hometown. Today, I work at Broadway.com and see an average of three shows a week. Meanwhile, my darling husband starred in plays throughout high school and had a summer internship in college at the Georgia governor’s office. It’s enough to make me hum the theme from The Twilight Zone.

Truthfully, I don’t expect our baby girl to stay in politics and I sincerely hope our baby son pursues his other major, elementary education, and not theater as a career. For now, though, it’s fun to see them putting their own spin on things we love.

There’s nothing I can say about last night that’s not cliched or glib, to borrow Tom Cruise’s favorite term. I am thrilled and exhausted, having cast my vote (along with half the people in my apartment building) at 6:15AM, worked all day, celebrated until 1AM, then went back to work for a full day, including TWO plays. No wonder I’m about to pass out! 

The main thing I feel, besides relief, is a lot more safe. The Supreme Court is safe for at least four years. The environment is safe. The right to choose is safe(ish). No jokes about “bomb bomb Iran.” A commitment to getting out of Iraq. A pledge to rejoin the international community. A Vice President with knowledge of the world. And do you know who the hero of the past few weeks has been? Colin Powell. His endorsement of Obama was so beautifully expressed, so calm and rational. Obama’s a Christian, but so what if he WAS a Muslim? Yes, Colin Powell! Tell the truth!

And furthermore, you go, Chris Buckley! I can’t bring myself to offer David Brooks an imaginary hug, but in my current “We Are the World” frame of mind, maybe I should ask David and Peggy Noonan to join the scintillating Maureen Dowd and me in a campfire circle for a chorus of “Kum Ba Yah.” (Sorry, William Kristol, you don’t get to sing with us.) See, I’m hallucinating! But it feels so good. 

As I enter election withdrawal, I may need to ask my darling husband to read me a bedtime story, maybe a CNN version of Good Night Moon, which has already spawned the hilarious parody Good Night Bush. “Good night moon. Good night room. Good night Anderson Cooper jumping over the moon.” zzzzzzzz

My precious trainer called me “surly” tonight, and I was a tad peeved. He was giving me a backhanded compliment in noting that I had been cordial when the gym manager came over to engage us in chitchat. (I hate interruptions during the hour I spend with my PT.) “You weren’t at all surly,” he said, in the tone I used when praising my preschool children for sharing or being patient. “You were very pleasant.” Hey! I’m plenty pleasant a huge percentage of the time!

The fact is, girls are raised to be people pleasers, and boys are raised to do whatever the hell they want. Do you think most men worry about whether their co-workers like them? They do NOT. Women, on the other hand, attach a huge percentage of our self-worth to other people’s approval and whether everybody ELSE on earth is happy. Our own happiness? It’s hard to make time for that.

The best thing about getting older is that you care less and less about other people’s affirmation. You know whether your work is good, whether you’ve done your best and whether you enjoy someone’s company. It’s easier to cut through life’s nonsense and concentrate on people and activities that really mean something to you. You can be pleasant (not surly!!) because it feels good, not because you crave a pat on the head.

I have been married for my entire adult life, and my darling husband and I spend most of our (limited) free time together. In fact, until this past summer, neither of us had ever taken a vacation without the other. (He went fishing in Alaska, and the combination of elements involved in that — fishing + boats + Alaska — was a no-go for me, even before the world had heard of Sarah Palin.)

Anyway, I got to thinking about marriage after interviewing the inimitable Elizabeth Ashley, who holds a dim view of the institution after having been unsuccessful at it three times. According to her, a woman who can support herself has no need for marriage and is a lot happier living alone or communally with other women. Huh. That idea is about as foreign to me as becoming a survivalist in the woods of Montana.

I had less than zero idea of what marriage would be like when we arrived like the Clampetts at the NYU law school dorm (one room and a kitchenette overlooking the Waverly Theater in the then-skeevy Village). I certainly had no marital role models, since my parents couldn’t stand each other. But I lucked out in getting a companion so simpatico, I’d just as soon not speak to anybody else for an entire weekend.

It’s my DH’s birthday tomorrow, and I’m feeling mighty fortunate, even if I’m not wild about his newfound willingness to go on vacation without 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!!