Yesterday, I tried—in vain—to recreate a Sunday from childhood passed. I woke up in time to choose a proper outfit for the Episcopals and drink my cup of coffee (2% milk, sugar) and listen to the Top 40 Radio Countdown. Ryan Seacrest has replaced Casey Cassum. No surprise. I already knew such. But, somehow, I resent the change on this particular Sunday morning.
“I refuse to arrive after the first hymn, young lady, let’s go!” Mamma should have said, urging me to put down the mascara wand and totter out the door in my kitten heels. But, she’s not there so I leave late and blister my feet as I run past W. 3rd Street, through the arch of Washington Square and onto Lower 5th.
The service: lovely choral pieces, the priest admits he’s gay, heads shake in disapproval, smiles tweak the lips of the younger set, I’m asked to tithe (“10% of what income?” I wonder). Ninety minutes later I’m back outside in the city air. I decide that the coffee hour in the Parish Hall would just be too much. Back home, that’s where I would gossip with friends, whisper in my sister’s ear about someone’s tacky outfit, ask Mamma to take us to an expensive restaurant instead of back to Granddaddy’s house for the usual repast of oxtail soup and collard greens.
I take myself out to Sunday lunch on Clinton Street. The line wraps around the little bakery/cafe so I’m forced to stand outside and look at the couples and the strollers and the men that parade their Maltipoos around on pink leashes. I pull out Carole Radzwill’s memoir, “What Remains” and lose myself in her story of cancer, frustration, love and loss.
When I’m finally ushered inside (“Table for ONE,” the waitress says, as if I’m a waste of space) and the plate of roast pork arrives, I don’t care anymore. Nothing has been recreated. Sunday memories are sullied. I learn the lesson of never going back. I wish that I had never complained all those years. I wish that I had left the house on time. I wish that I had enjoyed my collard greens and asked for more. Please.
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
Monday, October 31, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Trifecta
Big and blonde. Lithe and fair. Dark and thinking.
We were a sight.
Three writers in the night, in the big, bad city, talking our way out of Thursday and into the next glass of wine.
Wade through the talk of approaching winter, misspent money, boyfriends and millionaires, Southern surrender and Northern sensibility and you have conversation about the important things. Smiles broaden and fingers dance in the air as one glass turns into two and then three. We’re animated and earnest, very serious about this writing thing... and each other.
Not like that, darling.
Like this: we rattle off random sentences and turns of phrase on the computer screen to make the waking hours more bearable. We wish each other the best of luck. When the writing thing happens to turn a dime or two we promise to sail off into the sunset.
Dreams. Yeah. But, "Mimi," "Opinionista" and I will make it one of these days.
We were a sight.
Three writers in the night, in the big, bad city, talking our way out of Thursday and into the next glass of wine.
Wade through the talk of approaching winter, misspent money, boyfriends and millionaires, Southern surrender and Northern sensibility and you have conversation about the important things. Smiles broaden and fingers dance in the air as one glass turns into two and then three. We’re animated and earnest, very serious about this writing thing... and each other.
Not like that, darling.
Like this: we rattle off random sentences and turns of phrase on the computer screen to make the waking hours more bearable. We wish each other the best of luck. When the writing thing happens to turn a dime or two we promise to sail off into the sunset.
Dreams. Yeah. But, "Mimi," "Opinionista" and I will make it one of these days.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Ignorant & Confident
An important day lies ahead of me. I know that it’s a day of consequence because it requires traveling north of 14th Street and remaining there for hours and hours— longer than my usual two-martini cocktail rendezvous at the Algonquin or the St. Regis. After all the meetings, I’ll be fatigued and in need of a taxi and glass of wine. I wish I had saved a good bottle for a day like today.
“I think it is a matter of having both ignorance and the confidence to take on the task of undeveloped paths.” (Tom Ford)
Today, I am ignorant and confident and wearing a chic, little fall suit. I’m even wearing nice shoes that Mamma would approve of. Y’all wish me luck and hope that I make it back down South—south of 14th Street—with a smile on my face.
“I think it is a matter of having both ignorance and the confidence to take on the task of undeveloped paths.” (Tom Ford)
Today, I am ignorant and confident and wearing a chic, little fall suit. I’m even wearing nice shoes that Mamma would approve of. Y’all wish me luck and hope that I make it back down South—south of 14th Street—with a smile on my face.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Majesty
The girl had to learn everything for herself, and she became involved in various situations and some of the first bloom wore off. However, there was bloom to spare... She was faintly tall, with fine rather large features, eyes with such an expanse of blue in them that you were really aware of it whenever you looked at her, and a good deal of thick, blonde hair--arresting and bright...
--F. Scott Fitzgerald, "Majesty"
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Tennessee & Truman
Question of the day: Why can't I write like Tennessee Williams and lead the life of Capote?
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Mamma's Right Wing Loves
“Damn Clinton and his privates!” Mamma declared in a rage. “The Arabs wouldn’t have had a chance in hell if our President—the leader of the free world—had behaved like a diplomat instead of a sex-crazed Sigma Alpha Epsilon brother. He’s up there in the Oval Orifice with a Cheshire cat grin smeared across his face concentrating on his willard instead of on national security and foreign policy.” She had vented—a pearl of sweat forming on her brow line in the process—but it had been brief, a mere moment of undignified behavior. Mamma quickly collected herself, adjusting the starched collar of her pink Lacoste tennis dress, tweaking her gold earrings for reassurance.
“I think you’ve gotta thing for ol’ Clinton and you’re just afraid to admit it,” I teased, glancing at her over the top of my People magazine. Mamma was poised on the divan by the picture window, engaged in one of her favorite pastimes, right-wing website surfing. The absurdity of her sleek, silver Dell laptop amidst the antique furnishings of her Alexandra Mauve sitting room was lost on Mamma. Our decorator had gone to great pains to duplicate the Czarina’s wall color for her—the last Russian Czar, Nicholas II, and his wife Alexandra were her obsession. Something about their tragic demise enthralled her. Really, the fall of anything captivated Mamma’s imagination—her Confederate Complex, I called it. As a member of the landed, Southern bourgeoisie, Mamma used to cite the War of Northern Aggression (never, ever referred to as the Civil War) as the most disastrous moment in our nation’s history. Then, along came Clinton.
“Really, Mamma,” I pressed on, trying to get her riled up, “the way you get so agitated... Are you sure you don’t have a crush on Slick Willie?”
Motionless, she sat there amid her purple, pondering the ruin of her country at my hands. Mamma was predisposed to hyperbole, dramatics—ruinous thoughts—all the while sitting perfectly still, a gorgeous smile spread across her face. Such theatrics didn’t make her disingenuous—quite the contrary—she was the most real, 55 year-old child I had ever known.
“Oh, come on now,” I continued, “he was happy as a pig in slop during his two terms—let it be.” My absurd statement wasn’t any fun unless she blushed, scratched the side of her neck in discomfort. “We inherited a damn fine economy on account of him and his so-called depraved, left-wing policies. Does it really matter who he slept with?”
“I never thought I’d raise a child with such loose morals,” Mamma said, her jaw tensing, jamming down the space bar with her long index fingernail. Her vein, our vein—from brow to hairline, smack in the middle of the forehead—pulsated quick and blue, the one feature we shared. We were in a race to the finish, blue blood pounding away.
“Rush warned us that the liberal media machine would infect our youth. Cancer, he called it—one big, fat malignant tumor teeming with Yankee talking heads. They’re going to get you Belle, ravage you with their idealistic rhetoric until you’ve elected another gonorrhea-riddled, cocaine-snortin’ Democrat into office.”
Our household revolved around conservative talk radio and internet. Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Matt Drudge were the golden trifecta, beguiling Mamma for at least six hours a day. George Will and his musings entered the picture at night—the Fabio of her political fantasies. Mamma had plenty of right-wing love to go around.
“Here’s an idea,” I said, thickening and elongating every vowel, extracting consonants. The accent always deepened when I spoke to mother on important issues. “Why don’t we resume this conversation in two years when Little Dubya’s first term is over? You know, take a step back, evaluate the two men and their presidential legacies.”
“Game on,” she said, for a moment sounding like one of those Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity brothers. “If my George’s legacy beats Clinton’s, you’ll go and work for the media outlet of my choosing—”
“And, if I win,” I said, cutting her off, “I’ll quit pushing paper for Granddaddy and do whatever the hell I want—in New York City.”
She touched her neck, her gold earrings and resumed trolling the internet for proof that all was right within her conservative world.
“I think you’ve gotta thing for ol’ Clinton and you’re just afraid to admit it,” I teased, glancing at her over the top of my People magazine. Mamma was poised on the divan by the picture window, engaged in one of her favorite pastimes, right-wing website surfing. The absurdity of her sleek, silver Dell laptop amidst the antique furnishings of her Alexandra Mauve sitting room was lost on Mamma. Our decorator had gone to great pains to duplicate the Czarina’s wall color for her—the last Russian Czar, Nicholas II, and his wife Alexandra were her obsession. Something about their tragic demise enthralled her. Really, the fall of anything captivated Mamma’s imagination—her Confederate Complex, I called it. As a member of the landed, Southern bourgeoisie, Mamma used to cite the War of Northern Aggression (never, ever referred to as the Civil War) as the most disastrous moment in our nation’s history. Then, along came Clinton.
“Really, Mamma,” I pressed on, trying to get her riled up, “the way you get so agitated... Are you sure you don’t have a crush on Slick Willie?”
Motionless, she sat there amid her purple, pondering the ruin of her country at my hands. Mamma was predisposed to hyperbole, dramatics—ruinous thoughts—all the while sitting perfectly still, a gorgeous smile spread across her face. Such theatrics didn’t make her disingenuous—quite the contrary—she was the most real, 55 year-old child I had ever known.
“Oh, come on now,” I continued, “he was happy as a pig in slop during his two terms—let it be.” My absurd statement wasn’t any fun unless she blushed, scratched the side of her neck in discomfort. “We inherited a damn fine economy on account of him and his so-called depraved, left-wing policies. Does it really matter who he slept with?”
“I never thought I’d raise a child with such loose morals,” Mamma said, her jaw tensing, jamming down the space bar with her long index fingernail. Her vein, our vein—from brow to hairline, smack in the middle of the forehead—pulsated quick and blue, the one feature we shared. We were in a race to the finish, blue blood pounding away.
“Rush warned us that the liberal media machine would infect our youth. Cancer, he called it—one big, fat malignant tumor teeming with Yankee talking heads. They’re going to get you Belle, ravage you with their idealistic rhetoric until you’ve elected another gonorrhea-riddled, cocaine-snortin’ Democrat into office.”
Our household revolved around conservative talk radio and internet. Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Matt Drudge were the golden trifecta, beguiling Mamma for at least six hours a day. George Will and his musings entered the picture at night—the Fabio of her political fantasies. Mamma had plenty of right-wing love to go around.
“Here’s an idea,” I said, thickening and elongating every vowel, extracting consonants. The accent always deepened when I spoke to mother on important issues. “Why don’t we resume this conversation in two years when Little Dubya’s first term is over? You know, take a step back, evaluate the two men and their presidential legacies.”
“Game on,” she said, for a moment sounding like one of those Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity brothers. “If my George’s legacy beats Clinton’s, you’ll go and work for the media outlet of my choosing—”
“And, if I win,” I said, cutting her off, “I’ll quit pushing paper for Granddaddy and do whatever the hell I want—in New York City.”
She touched her neck, her gold earrings and resumed trolling the internet for proof that all was right within her conservative world.
A Whole Lotta Pork (Political or Otherwise)
“This is Zeola,” the deep, soulful voice greeted me on the other end of the telephone line.
“Hey, there, it’s Belle. Can I speak to Mamma?” I had exactly twenty minutes to unload on Mamma before I had to be at Housing Works Book Store for Jonathan Lethem’s reading. I wasn’t quite sure how I could be both tactful and timely in recounting to her my work woes.
“Belle, is that REALLY you?” I could just see the whites of her eyes growing bigger. When Zeola got excited her eyeballs bulged out of their sockets—Daddy said that she reminded him of a catfish about to expire on a fishing rod. “The connection’s so good I’d think you’re right here with me at the stove.”
“No, still up here in the big city tryin’ to do my thing—”
“I didn’t think your Granddaddy would ever let go of you,” Zeola said, her accent like slow buttermilk coating every word. She lowered her voice, “What are you doin’ up there with all those Yankees?”
“Oh, Lord…” I could just imagine being late, walking in on Jonathan mid-sentence, tip-toeing to the bar to get my complementary, horrificly oakey serving of Chardonnay.
“Listen, I’ll call back and chat later, but I’m in a hurry. Will you just pass the phone to Mamma?”
“Lands above, we worry about you!” Zeola said, adopting the urgent, strained tone that adults use when chastising loud children inside the local Cineplex.
“Put her on the phone!”
“Well, I don’t know if your Mamma can make it to the phone on account of the bacon grease that’s poppin’ out of my skillet but, being the good Christian that I am, and seein’ that I need myself another soda, I’ll just try to holler and see if she’ll come back into the kitchen.”
Zeola was angry. I was angry. Mamma would soon be angry when she heard that I hated working for the News Channel. Marvelous how even long distance we could all get worked up in a matter of minutes.
“It’s Belle you’ve been talkin’ to for all that time?” I heard Mamma say in the background. “Lord, look how you’re runnin’ up the phone bill—hand me that.”
Bacon frying in the house always put her in a bad mood.
“Belle, is that you, honey?”
“Hey, there, Mamma. You got a second?”
“Yeah, but not much more. I’ve got to keep supervisin’ Zeola and the bacon. She’s making a seven-layer salad for the church supper. Damn chintzy Episcopals—the church has money coming out of its ears and we still have to bring in food. Why can’t we just have the vestry meetings catered?”
“I want to quit the News Channel,” I blurted out.
“What?”
“Nothing’s like I thought it would—”
“Lord!” Mamma shouted into the phone. “Zeola, you mean to tell me that you think that hunk of pig is done? You mean to tell me that all of the germs have been cooked out, there are no more trichinosis running around—you would serve that to one of your grandbabies?”
If the issue at hand was either my future as a journalist or the possibile trichinosis poisoning of the Episcopal vestry, the pigs would win out. Growing up, Mamma’s greatest fear was that one of us would die of either trichinosis or asphyxiation. While she argued with the maid, I downed the last of my glass of wine. Liquid courage. I had to tell her what was happening at work.
“Now, Belle, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” she said, once again focusing her nervous energy on me. “Up in New York and at the News Channel, you’re at the center of the thinkin—”
“The thinking, conservative world,” I said, rolling my eyes, finishing the oft repeated sentence.
I'd had enough of them all. I snapped shut my cell phone and grabbed my keys. Walking down Prince Street I wondered--was there more pork frying in Mamma's kitchen or being slung around the News Channel's basement newsroom?
“Hey, there, it’s Belle. Can I speak to Mamma?” I had exactly twenty minutes to unload on Mamma before I had to be at Housing Works Book Store for Jonathan Lethem’s reading. I wasn’t quite sure how I could be both tactful and timely in recounting to her my work woes.
“Belle, is that REALLY you?” I could just see the whites of her eyes growing bigger. When Zeola got excited her eyeballs bulged out of their sockets—Daddy said that she reminded him of a catfish about to expire on a fishing rod. “The connection’s so good I’d think you’re right here with me at the stove.”
“No, still up here in the big city tryin’ to do my thing—”
“I didn’t think your Granddaddy would ever let go of you,” Zeola said, her accent like slow buttermilk coating every word. She lowered her voice, “What are you doin’ up there with all those Yankees?”
“Oh, Lord…” I could just imagine being late, walking in on Jonathan mid-sentence, tip-toeing to the bar to get my complementary, horrificly oakey serving of Chardonnay.
“Listen, I’ll call back and chat later, but I’m in a hurry. Will you just pass the phone to Mamma?”
“Lands above, we worry about you!” Zeola said, adopting the urgent, strained tone that adults use when chastising loud children inside the local Cineplex.
“Put her on the phone!”
“Well, I don’t know if your Mamma can make it to the phone on account of the bacon grease that’s poppin’ out of my skillet but, being the good Christian that I am, and seein’ that I need myself another soda, I’ll just try to holler and see if she’ll come back into the kitchen.”
Zeola was angry. I was angry. Mamma would soon be angry when she heard that I hated working for the News Channel. Marvelous how even long distance we could all get worked up in a matter of minutes.
“It’s Belle you’ve been talkin’ to for all that time?” I heard Mamma say in the background. “Lord, look how you’re runnin’ up the phone bill—hand me that.”
Bacon frying in the house always put her in a bad mood.
“Belle, is that you, honey?”
“Hey, there, Mamma. You got a second?”
“Yeah, but not much more. I’ve got to keep supervisin’ Zeola and the bacon. She’s making a seven-layer salad for the church supper. Damn chintzy Episcopals—the church has money coming out of its ears and we still have to bring in food. Why can’t we just have the vestry meetings catered?”
“I want to quit the News Channel,” I blurted out.
“What?”
“Nothing’s like I thought it would—”
“Lord!” Mamma shouted into the phone. “Zeola, you mean to tell me that you think that hunk of pig is done? You mean to tell me that all of the germs have been cooked out, there are no more trichinosis running around—you would serve that to one of your grandbabies?”
If the issue at hand was either my future as a journalist or the possibile trichinosis poisoning of the Episcopal vestry, the pigs would win out. Growing up, Mamma’s greatest fear was that one of us would die of either trichinosis or asphyxiation. While she argued with the maid, I downed the last of my glass of wine. Liquid courage. I had to tell her what was happening at work.
“Now, Belle, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” she said, once again focusing her nervous energy on me. “Up in New York and at the News Channel, you’re at the center of the thinkin—”
“The thinking, conservative world,” I said, rolling my eyes, finishing the oft repeated sentence.
I'd had enough of them all. I snapped shut my cell phone and grabbed my keys. Walking down Prince Street I wondered--was there more pork frying in Mamma's kitchen or being slung around the News Channel's basement newsroom?
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Al Freddo
A bracing wind off the Hudson. The rattle of a broken radiator. Lentils and sausage at the corner of Mercer and Prince. Night falls before the office door is closed. No more lovely dinners on the sidewalk.
Not AL FRESCO.
AL FREDDO.
WINTER.
Not AL FRESCO.
AL FREDDO.
WINTER.
Cindy Crawford of the Confederacy
“How does it go? If it bleeds it leads?” I asked, trying not to blush, nervously twisting my blonde ponytail into a bun. I stood in the doorway of the hair and makeup room watching D.—the resident femme fatale and alpha anchor—as she sat cross-legged in the barber shop-style black leather chair examining her jaw line in the magnifying mirror. An errant pimple had dared to mar her flawless complexion. The last time I had seen her look so concerned was during the Florida recount.
“Not quite,” she said, shooting me a look of pity in the mirror, as if I’d watched Holly Hunter in Broadcast News one too many times. “There’s a long approval process, darling. Blood and guts alone don’t cut it with the guys on ‘17’.” D. stopped dabbing liquid foundation on her miniscule blemish and swiveled around. “I’m sorry, I know you haven’t been here long. Look at me—it’s been two years since I left CNN and I still haven’t adjusted to the office politics.”
D. had been poached from CNN’s Atlanta affiliate by the News Channel execs for her stunning looks and perfect teleprompter delivery. They could care less about her reporting and writing abilities, though. “She’s got ‘fuck me’ lips—that’s the reason we put her on air,” I heard one of the producers say in the editing room while I was cutting D.’s Ramallah footage. “And, those big, blue eyes—what’s she doing, pleading with the camera to slip a hundy in her thong?”
It was as if the newsroom trenches were a high school cafeteria, everyone loudly casting their votes for the year book superlatives. D.—hands down—would have won Best Looking; Most Popular, however, was way out of her reach. The blonde bombshell and native Southerner fluctuated between pleasant and insufferable like the temperature in the Mojave desert come nightfall. Everyone despised her. But, hell, I didn’t care, I was in awe of her--I wanted to be her. Everyone back home called her the “Cindy Crawford of the Confederacy,” a beautiful product of our Georgia soil.
“I’ll learn my way around soon enough,” I said, turning away from her reflection, stepping into the overly air-conditioned linoleum hallway. I walked down the corridor toward the newsroom ticking off our similarities, wondering how long it would be before I replaced her in that chair.
“Not quite,” she said, shooting me a look of pity in the mirror, as if I’d watched Holly Hunter in Broadcast News one too many times. “There’s a long approval process, darling. Blood and guts alone don’t cut it with the guys on ‘17’.” D. stopped dabbing liquid foundation on her miniscule blemish and swiveled around. “I’m sorry, I know you haven’t been here long. Look at me—it’s been two years since I left CNN and I still haven’t adjusted to the office politics.”
D. had been poached from CNN’s Atlanta affiliate by the News Channel execs for her stunning looks and perfect teleprompter delivery. They could care less about her reporting and writing abilities, though. “She’s got ‘fuck me’ lips—that’s the reason we put her on air,” I heard one of the producers say in the editing room while I was cutting D.’s Ramallah footage. “And, those big, blue eyes—what’s she doing, pleading with the camera to slip a hundy in her thong?”
It was as if the newsroom trenches were a high school cafeteria, everyone loudly casting their votes for the year book superlatives. D.—hands down—would have won Best Looking; Most Popular, however, was way out of her reach. The blonde bombshell and native Southerner fluctuated between pleasant and insufferable like the temperature in the Mojave desert come nightfall. Everyone despised her. But, hell, I didn’t care, I was in awe of her--I wanted to be her. Everyone back home called her the “Cindy Crawford of the Confederacy,” a beautiful product of our Georgia soil.
“I’ll learn my way around soon enough,” I said, turning away from her reflection, stepping into the overly air-conditioned linoleum hallway. I walked down the corridor toward the newsroom ticking off our similarities, wondering how long it would be before I replaced her in that chair.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Girl Crush?
Mamma didn't know what to think about my Friday appearance on Gawker...
"Are they sayin' you're a lesbian?!"
"Are they sayin' you're a lesbian?!"
Friday, October 14, 2005
Belle & the Brit
The early fall thunderstorm raged on, rain slipping down the red bricks of my building, sliding off the windows, pooling around my cheap patio furniture outside. What was I supposed to do? Thursday night and I knew that I had to get out of the apartment—I’d been cooped up all day with my computer and Indian takeout. My studio apartment smelled like curry and I looked like Eileen Wurnos (the Florida serial killer as played by Charlize Theron in “Monster”) in flannel pyjamas.
Someone to cheer me up… someone with a sharp wit and a love of wine…someone to be my partner in crime … Mimi!
Mimi (of Mimi New York blog fame) and I decided to finally meet face-to-face and go out for a few glasses of vino and a plate of antipasti. She’s a tough-as-nails broad from England and I’m a sugary sweet girl from the South—or so we thought on our respective taxi rides over to the restaurant. Once we’d had a glass of wine and discussed the New York media scene, men and rent below 14th Street, though, we laughed at how different we were in person than on our sites. Yes, some of the preconceived notions were true. But, who’d have known that Mimi speaks in such a soft, sweet tone that I had to lean into her glass of Pinot Grigio to hear her latest disastrous dating story? Or, that her big, blue eyes would gently encourage me to talk about my life when surely her travails as a stripper were much more interesting cocktail fodder?
Four hours later, and I couldn’t afford any more Sauvignon Blanc. I had to go home even if I wanted to tuck into another bar, order a dirty martini. But, I have a feeling we’ll be going out again. After all of our terrible evenings with Manhattan men, I think Mimi and I deserve some fabulous nights on the town—just us girls.
Someone to cheer me up… someone with a sharp wit and a love of wine…someone to be my partner in crime … Mimi!
Mimi (of Mimi New York blog fame) and I decided to finally meet face-to-face and go out for a few glasses of vino and a plate of antipasti. She’s a tough-as-nails broad from England and I’m a sugary sweet girl from the South—or so we thought on our respective taxi rides over to the restaurant. Once we’d had a glass of wine and discussed the New York media scene, men and rent below 14th Street, though, we laughed at how different we were in person than on our sites. Yes, some of the preconceived notions were true. But, who’d have known that Mimi speaks in such a soft, sweet tone that I had to lean into her glass of Pinot Grigio to hear her latest disastrous dating story? Or, that her big, blue eyes would gently encourage me to talk about my life when surely her travails as a stripper were much more interesting cocktail fodder?
Four hours later, and I couldn’t afford any more Sauvignon Blanc. I had to go home even if I wanted to tuck into another bar, order a dirty martini. But, I have a feeling we’ll be going out again. After all of our terrible evenings with Manhattan men, I think Mimi and I deserve some fabulous nights on the town—just us girls.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Mamma's Right Wing Loves
“Damn Clinton and his privates!” Mamma declared in a rage. “The Arabs wouldn’t have had a chance in hell if our President—the leader of the free world—had behaved like a diplomat instead of a sex-crazed Sigma Alpha Epsilon brother. He’s up there in the Oval Orifice with a Cheshire cat grin smeared across his face concentrating on his willard instead of on national security and foreign policy.” She had vented—a pearl of sweat forming on her brow line in the process—but it had been brief, a mere moment of undignified behavior. Mamma quickly collected herself, adjusting the starched collar of her pink Lacoste tennis dress, tweaking her gold earrings for reassurance.
“I think you’ve gotta thing for ol’ Clinton and you’re just afraid to admit it,” I teased, glancing at her over the top of my People magazine. Mamma was poised on the divan by the picture window, engaged in one of her favorite pastimes, right-wing website surfing. The absurdity of her sleek, silver Dell laptop amidst the antique furnishings of her Alexandra Mauve sitting room was lost on Mamma. Our decorator had gone to great pains to duplicate the Czarina’s wall color for her—the last Russian Czar, Nicholas II, and his wife Alexandra were her obsession. Something about their tragic demise enthralled her. Really, the fall of anything captivated Mamma’s imagination—her Confederate Complex, I called it. As a member of the landed, Southern bourgeoisie, Mamma used to cite the War of Northern Aggression (never, ever referred to as the Civil War) as the most disastrous moment in our nation’s history. Then, along came Clinton.
“Really, Mamma,” I pressed on, trying to get her riled up, “the way you get so agitated... Are you sure you don’t have a crush on Slick Willie?”
Motionless, she sat there amid her purple, pondering the ruin of her country at my hands. Mamma was predisposed to hyperbole, dramatics—ruinous thoughts—all the while sitting perfectly still, a gorgeous smile spread across her face. Such theatrics didn’t make her disingenuous—quite the contrary—she was the most real, 55 year-old child I had ever known.
“Oh, come on now,” I continued, “he was happy as a pig in slop during his two terms—let it be.” My absurd statement wasn’t any fun unless she blushed, scratched the side of her neck in discomfort. “We inherited a damn fine economy on account of him and his so-called depraved, left-wing policies. Does it really matter who he slept with?”
“I never thought I’d raise a child with such loose morals,” Mamma said, her jaw tensing, jamming down the space bar with her long index fingernail. Her vein, our vein—from brow to hairline, smack in the middle of the forehead—pulsated quick and blue, the one feature we shared. We were in a race to the finish, blue blood pounding away.
“Rush warned us that the liberal media machine would infect our youth. Cancer, he called it—one big, fat malignant tumor teeming with Yankee talking heads. They’re going to get you Belle, ravage you with their idealistic rhetoric until you’ve elected another gonorrhea-riddled, cocaine-snortin’ Democrat into office.”
Our household revolved around conservative talk radio and internet. Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Matt Drudge were the golden trifecta, beguiling Mamma for at least six hours a day. George Will and his musings entered the picture at night—the Fabio of her political fantasies. Mamma had plenty of right-wing love to go around.
“Here’s an idea,” I said, thickening and elongating every vowel, extracting consonants. The accent always deepened when I spoke to mother on important issues. “Why don’t we resume this conversation in two years when Little Dubya’s first term is over? You know, take a step back, evaluate the two men and their presidential legacies.”
“Game on,” she said, for a moment sounding like one of those Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity brothers. “If my George’s legacy beats Clinton’s, you’ll go and work for the media outlet of my choosing—”
“And, if I win,” I said, cutting her off, “I’ll quit pushing paper for the conservatives and do whatever the hell I want—in New York City.”
She touched her neck, her gold earrings and resumed trolling the internet for proof that all was right within her conservative world.
“I think you’ve gotta thing for ol’ Clinton and you’re just afraid to admit it,” I teased, glancing at her over the top of my People magazine. Mamma was poised on the divan by the picture window, engaged in one of her favorite pastimes, right-wing website surfing. The absurdity of her sleek, silver Dell laptop amidst the antique furnishings of her Alexandra Mauve sitting room was lost on Mamma. Our decorator had gone to great pains to duplicate the Czarina’s wall color for her—the last Russian Czar, Nicholas II, and his wife Alexandra were her obsession. Something about their tragic demise enthralled her. Really, the fall of anything captivated Mamma’s imagination—her Confederate Complex, I called it. As a member of the landed, Southern bourgeoisie, Mamma used to cite the War of Northern Aggression (never, ever referred to as the Civil War) as the most disastrous moment in our nation’s history. Then, along came Clinton.
“Really, Mamma,” I pressed on, trying to get her riled up, “the way you get so agitated... Are you sure you don’t have a crush on Slick Willie?”
Motionless, she sat there amid her purple, pondering the ruin of her country at my hands. Mamma was predisposed to hyperbole, dramatics—ruinous thoughts—all the while sitting perfectly still, a gorgeous smile spread across her face. Such theatrics didn’t make her disingenuous—quite the contrary—she was the most real, 55 year-old child I had ever known.
“Oh, come on now,” I continued, “he was happy as a pig in slop during his two terms—let it be.” My absurd statement wasn’t any fun unless she blushed, scratched the side of her neck in discomfort. “We inherited a damn fine economy on account of him and his so-called depraved, left-wing policies. Does it really matter who he slept with?”
“I never thought I’d raise a child with such loose morals,” Mamma said, her jaw tensing, jamming down the space bar with her long index fingernail. Her vein, our vein—from brow to hairline, smack in the middle of the forehead—pulsated quick and blue, the one feature we shared. We were in a race to the finish, blue blood pounding away.
“Rush warned us that the liberal media machine would infect our youth. Cancer, he called it—one big, fat malignant tumor teeming with Yankee talking heads. They’re going to get you Belle, ravage you with their idealistic rhetoric until you’ve elected another gonorrhea-riddled, cocaine-snortin’ Democrat into office.”
Our household revolved around conservative talk radio and internet. Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Matt Drudge were the golden trifecta, beguiling Mamma for at least six hours a day. George Will and his musings entered the picture at night—the Fabio of her political fantasies. Mamma had plenty of right-wing love to go around.
“Here’s an idea,” I said, thickening and elongating every vowel, extracting consonants. The accent always deepened when I spoke to mother on important issues. “Why don’t we resume this conversation in two years when Little Dubya’s first term is over? You know, take a step back, evaluate the two men and their presidential legacies.”
“Game on,” she said, for a moment sounding like one of those Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity brothers. “If my George’s legacy beats Clinton’s, you’ll go and work for the media outlet of my choosing—”
“And, if I win,” I said, cutting her off, “I’ll quit pushing paper for the conservatives and do whatever the hell I want—in New York City.”
She touched her neck, her gold earrings and resumed trolling the internet for proof that all was right within her conservative world.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Busy In Love
Was too preoccupied being in love down South to post blog entries... very sorry. My musings will recommence tomorrow morning!
Thursday, October 6, 2005
Wedding at Brierfield
Flying back down South for a weekend wedding… The invitation reads:
Five o’clock at Brierfield Farm
Little River Road
Brierfield, Alabama
Meander to the barn afterward for the reception
Dinner the previous night is at the Birmingham Country Club. Sunday is a polo match. This all feels very horsey, like I’m going to run across Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles and Wills of Wales somewhere in the church pews. I take back what I said about the South being a bastardized version of 18th century Gallic society. Maybe we Southerners are just trying to capture a little piece of England, the Mother Country, that place we originally came from. No wonder I try to create a little piece of Alabama up here in the Big Apple. It’s a survival skill of some sort; I convince myself that I’m back home, but the best version of “home”—a home with tolerance, poetry readings, Barney’s, diversity, the Film Forum, chaos, Cipriani’s, skyscrapers, roof-top gardens, symphony in the Park, a chance to reinvent myself.
Of course, what I really want, is to share this new home of mine with someone I love. Southern Boy, where are you?
Five o’clock at Brierfield Farm
Little River Road
Brierfield, Alabama
Meander to the barn afterward for the reception
Dinner the previous night is at the Birmingham Country Club. Sunday is a polo match. This all feels very horsey, like I’m going to run across Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles and Wills of Wales somewhere in the church pews. I take back what I said about the South being a bastardized version of 18th century Gallic society. Maybe we Southerners are just trying to capture a little piece of England, the Mother Country, that place we originally came from. No wonder I try to create a little piece of Alabama up here in the Big Apple. It’s a survival skill of some sort; I convince myself that I’m back home, but the best version of “home”—a home with tolerance, poetry readings, Barney’s, diversity, the Film Forum, chaos, Cipriani’s, skyscrapers, roof-top gardens, symphony in the Park, a chance to reinvent myself.
Of course, what I really want, is to share this new home of mine with someone I love. Southern Boy, where are you?
Tuesday, October 4, 2005
A String of Diamonds, Pearls on Sunday
I keep dreaming about Paris—St. Germain, really. The Left Bank and Café de Flore… a nicoise and a pernod in the shadow of the eglise…A cliché—yes. But, I’m all right with that. The fantasy is of me and an older man…
“You have a princess neck,” he says, trying to roll his tongue around the “r’s,” soften them up to suit my American ear.
“I do?” I demur, trying for a moment to be the good Southern girl of years past. At present, I’m very busy being maudlin and analyzing my big city life across the pond.
“One meant for a string of diamonds. Pearls on Sundays.” A slow sip of the Calvados and he continues staring.
It is some weeknight in October and I am stroking the blonde hairs on my neck and the old, tanned Frenchman next to me is thankful for the breeze off the Seine and his Cubano cigar and the forgiving light cast by Flore’s awning. The golden hue takes ten years off and he knows it. Without a pause, he asks me to write my phone number on his crisp, linen kerchief.
“Ahh, but you won’t answer your phone,” he says, suddenly coy.
“Of course I will.”
The Frenchman and I continue exchanging lies.
Why not? Joan Didion told me that, “I could stay up all night and make mistakes and none of it would count.”
Paris begs for mistakes… and then for all to be forgotten over a café au lait and croissant in the morning.
“You have a princess neck,” he says, trying to roll his tongue around the “r’s,” soften them up to suit my American ear.
“I do?” I demur, trying for a moment to be the good Southern girl of years past. At present, I’m very busy being maudlin and analyzing my big city life across the pond.
“One meant for a string of diamonds. Pearls on Sundays.” A slow sip of the Calvados and he continues staring.
It is some weeknight in October and I am stroking the blonde hairs on my neck and the old, tanned Frenchman next to me is thankful for the breeze off the Seine and his Cubano cigar and the forgiving light cast by Flore’s awning. The golden hue takes ten years off and he knows it. Without a pause, he asks me to write my phone number on his crisp, linen kerchief.
“Ahh, but you won’t answer your phone,” he says, suddenly coy.
“Of course I will.”
The Frenchman and I continue exchanging lies.
Why not? Joan Didion told me that, “I could stay up all night and make mistakes and none of it would count.”
Paris begs for mistakes… and then for all to be forgotten over a café au lait and croissant in the morning.
Sunday, October 2, 2005
If You See Something, Say Something
The N train slows to a halt and opens its doors, releasing old passengers, collecting new ones. I put down the Times Magazine to look at the new faces and bulky Sunday strollers that crowd the center aisle. Just behind the families and tourists, barely visible on the faded yellow wall of the subway car, is an MTA poster (Mass Transit Authority, for you non New Yorkers/city-dwellers).
“IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING!”
I turn back to the Times and the Didion piece. But, this time, I can’t concentrate. I stare at the poster and listen to the babies gurgle, the blind beggar with the impressive baritone begin an Otis Redding tune. Like a mother’s final warning or an overhead announcement at the airport, “Last call, this is the last call for passenger Belle on flight 6759 to Birmingham, Alabama…” the words of the slogan resonate in my mind.
What is the difference between informing and snitching? Telling and divulging? Enlightening and exposing? If I saw a lone backpack on the subway platform, yes, of course I would report it. The same goes for a suspicious piece of luggage in Penn Station or Grand Central. But, what about when it comes to the more difficult things in life—when there are repercussions for “saying something when you see something?” What would y’all do?
My conscience makes me open up. My conscience makes me reveal things that I wish I could keep tucked in the box springs of my bed, somewhere hidden beneath my feather mattress and silk comforter. My conscience makes me disclose information that, perhaps, I should keep to myself.
“Writing, writing, writing… to relieve the pressure on my heart and conscience.”
I’ve seen too much to sit still, keep my mouth closed. Relay. Release. Reveal. Expose. Expose’…
“IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING!”
I turn back to the Times and the Didion piece. But, this time, I can’t concentrate. I stare at the poster and listen to the babies gurgle, the blind beggar with the impressive baritone begin an Otis Redding tune. Like a mother’s final warning or an overhead announcement at the airport, “Last call, this is the last call for passenger Belle on flight 6759 to Birmingham, Alabama…” the words of the slogan resonate in my mind.
What is the difference between informing and snitching? Telling and divulging? Enlightening and exposing? If I saw a lone backpack on the subway platform, yes, of course I would report it. The same goes for a suspicious piece of luggage in Penn Station or Grand Central. But, what about when it comes to the more difficult things in life—when there are repercussions for “saying something when you see something?” What would y’all do?
My conscience makes me open up. My conscience makes me reveal things that I wish I could keep tucked in the box springs of my bed, somewhere hidden beneath my feather mattress and silk comforter. My conscience makes me disclose information that, perhaps, I should keep to myself.
“Writing, writing, writing… to relieve the pressure on my heart and conscience.”
I’ve seen too much to sit still, keep my mouth closed. Relay. Release. Reveal. Expose. Expose’…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)