Everything Old is ... still old

 I used to love going to antique malls.

I still go, but I used to enjoy it a lot more than I do now. I love the feeling of being surrounded by old timey things my mother or grandmother used to use. They bring up memories of my childhood, all warm, fuzzy, and campy.

There is nothing like a huge dose of nostalgia to make you shell out 20 bucks for a tiny bowl because your grandmother used to serve you pudding in it.

I chuckle when I see some cheap old toy I’d bought for myself at the dime store back in 1965, now priced in the double digits.

“And my mother said I wasted my allowance on a piece of crap,” I scoff. “Look at the cash I’d have made if it hadn’t gotten thrown out.”

Your average antique mall hits the sweet spot between the delicate fine art pieces at Christie’s Auction and the calcified florist vases at Goodwill.

Need to replace the Barbie head that your brother popped off and stuck in the oven? Somewhere in the antique mall is a booth displaying an array of disembodied Barbie doll heads and no one is creeped out by it.

Back in the day, antique malls played music from the 30s and 40s as I rifled through lace dresser scarves and orange reamers. Did I want to relive imprinting homemade gnocchi on a version of my Aunt Marie’s milk glass vase or did I want to serve martinis from a gilt-edged cocktail set at my next dinner party…which would also be my first dinner party?

Antique malls gave me the ability to visit that sanitized, glorified, fictionalized version of the past that makes people binge the Turner Classic Movie channel.

But something must have happened during the pandemic. When did MY stuff become the antiques?

And why are they playing Kenny Loggins?  

How am I supposed to feel a sense of nostalgia when there are entire booths of what I already have in my kitchen? Corning Ware is not an antique; it’s what I make baked ziti in.

All the useless junk I passed up at those home parties where you’re supposed to prove your friendship to the host by purchasing wall sconces or an apple peeler – they’re all there. In this I feel somewhat affirmed.

There was an entire booth dedicated to kitchen décor, specifically farm animals and green checks. That was a thing for about five years when my kids were little. Someone would have green-checked goose cannisters, someone else, green-checked chicken cannisters.

I was feeling superior, having not succumbed to trendy fashion. I put it all in plastic and that never goes out of…

…then I found the Tupperware booth. Honestly – if you ever want to know how long a couple has been married, check out the color of their Tupperware.

My last refuge was textiles. I love to rifle through old clothing, even though I’ve never gotten up the nerve to wear any of it in public. It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to pull off a vintage look.

“Look, Diane. Remember wearing these!” one lady exclaimed, pulling an item off the rack.

“Oh my god, yes,” her friend answered. “Can you believe we went out in public wearing that?”

They screamed with laughter.

I hurried to the door. Thank goodness I was wearing a coat.

A Linguistic Rant

You know those grammatical errors that are like chalk on a black board?

Having typed that sentence, I realize that people younger than me don't know about chalk on a black board. Even I don't technically know about black boards, because in my day, chalk boards were green. But they still made the same screeching, teeth gritting sound if you rubbed the chalk on them just the wrong way.

As out-dated as that previous paragraph may be, I'm told that common grammatical errors, particularly those made while speaking, are now accepted as part of the lexicon. So, risking being called "outdated" (I'm 64 -- that ship has sailed), I insist on being the gatekeeper of the lexicon in certain circumstances.

Honestly, in normal conversation, I might use the occasional "ain't" when phrasing something colloquially. And goodness knows, the one contribution for which I thank the south is the phrase "y'all." Growing up in New Jersey, we had "yous" or "you(s) guys," but that just advanced the assumption that everyone in New Jersey is in the mafia.*

Breaking it down to "you all" sounds stuffy; but "y'all" -- perfect. Unless you go too far and insist on "All ya all" -- that's just over playing the down-homey trope.

So you see, I'm not a grammar purist.

However, if you are presenting yourself as a professional, at least acknowledge that the words with which you insist on assaulting my brain are wrong slang.

Keeping all the above in mind, I'm asking everyone to Stop. Using. The. Word. ANYWAYS.

Stop it. Now. There is no such word.

It's "anyway." Anyway. Why is this so hard?

I'll concede this: I listen to a lot of podcasts. You don't exactly have to be vetted in professional broadcasting to do a podcast. 

Doesn't matter. "Anyways" has infiltrated the slickest podcasts; it comes out of the mouth of people who should know better. You may as well utter the phrase, "I seen..." (I almost didn't refer to that most horrible of phrases. I know how hard it is to control the gag reflex when you hear it.)

There is even a larger problem here, though; and I shudder to mention it.

As alarming as it is to hear the word "anyways" used by a proficient announcer, there is this even more alarming evidence of the destruction of lingual integrity: an editor allowed the word in a book.

Before you defend this atrocity, I'm well aware that prose written from the viewpoint of a certain character will be written in said character's voice.

That wasn't the case. This was third person omniscient -- meaning, told by THE GUY WHO SHOULD KNOW THERE IS NO SUCH WORD AS "ANYWAYS."

I'm not going to reveal the book because, other than this abomination, it's a wonderful book. In the moment I viewed That Word, however, the book made a flying trip several feet across my bed, upsetting dog and cats and causing a brief "hmph" from Chuck (the same reaction he'd elicit were I being knifed to death two feet away).

So, stand with me, America! Let's not allow "anyways" to become an accepted part of our language! They've apparently dispensed with the whole "never end a sentence with a preposition" rule. I have seen sentences -- nay -- paragraphs -- beginning with "because" or "but" in respected publications.

Do not allow this word "anyways" to further erode the integrity of our linguistic foundation! Hold your fellow humans accountable for the utterance of this outrage! Stand with me and refuse to acknowledge the acceptance of this degradation of grammatically correct usage!

I feel so much better -- I know this is something that will unite us all.

Today, "anyways;" tomorrow, vaccinations!"

*This is not true, by the way. Very few New Jersey Italians are or were in the Mafia. Most of us are just working slobs like everyone else, only we cook better. That being said, after a lifetime of she and my father constantly plucking us out of the brink of poverty, my mother quipped that she should have caved to the stereotype by "just signing up" with the Mafia -- as though she was going to join  the fire department's ladies auxiliary. 

A Post for Readers Only

This is a post about books. More specifically, this is a post about reading. The two do not necessarily go together.

So, if you just like books, but don't like to read: Come back another time; I often make literary references and like movies too, so that may appeal to your particular aesthetic.

If you like neither books nor reading, you fall into one of two categories: You are my brother Art and someone in the family guilted you into reading this; Or you felt, since you made it out of high school, there was no need to read anything further than video game reviews; in which case...what are you even doing here?

Even Gulliver has his doubts

I'm told everyone has their version of a literary Waterloo -- the book everyone -- everyone -- loved, said was brilliant, won awards, etc. -- that you could not get through*.

My literary Waterloo is 100 Years of Solitude.

This book is also a landmark in my life. Prior to attempting to get through it, I was adamant about reading one book at a time. 

Many people have several books percolating at one time, but not me. I gave each book the respect of my full attention. I'd finish it -- pause at least an hour to mull its impact -- and then.,.only then...begin my new relationship reading matter.

And then I encountered
100 Years of Solitude.

The fact that the first page of the book is a genealogy chart should have prepared me. All the names were similar. I might insert here that I later found out that this WAS DELIBERATE.

What kind of psychopath author tells you on the first page, "This is going to get really confusing and I did that on purpose...because I hate you?" This was an abusive relationship, plain and simple.

Okay. Perhaps I'm projecting a bit.

The fact is, I began 100 Years of Solitude with the idea that I wouldn't begin another book until I finished it.

Months went by as I hacked my way through the South American jungle; at least I think I did. I say it took me months, but actual reading time was minimal. I'd look at the book, consider the book, contemplate what I'd read of the book, realize I was going to have to reread what I'd already read of the book because I'd fallen asleep, and then turn on the TV.

Meanwhile, other enticing books crossed my path, but I had to wave them along. After all, I'd read that everyone else loved it and it won a Pulitzer, for god's sake. Oprah loved it, so surely the problem was with me. 

I fought on, during which the only thing I remember, having completed over half the book, was an unnaturally-old man chained to a tree in a yard.

I know, I know: Blah, blah, blah, magical realism*, blah, blah, blah, hyperbole, blah, blah, blah, metaphor. Like Water for Chocolate didn't torture me like this.

I got all that literary jargon. It's just that...I had to admit: it made me hate reading. And, to me, reading is like breathing.

So I shelved it. 

That's right. For the past five years, I've been cheating on 100 Years of Solitude.

Only now I no longer practice literary monogomy. Oh no --I've opened my reading experience to include multiple relationships all at once. There is my nighttime while-the-lights-are-on book; my Kindle book for when I'm awake in the middle of the night; my audiobook for the commute to work; my audiobook for my commute from work; my weekend binge book; and my non-fiction required reading over breakfast book.

This is what 100 Years of Solitude has done.

It reminds me of the first time I read William Faulkner. It was incomprehensible to me, but for whatever reason I kept at it. I hated it and loved it at the same time. I fought with it and called myself stupid. I almost gave up and, in fact, stopped reading completely for awhile, figuring my future was in something like banking or dog grooming instead of anything requiring words.

And then, Benjy Compson started calling, "Caddy! Caddy!" in my head and I had to go back. And Benjy led me to the maze and beauty of the rest of the prose. Faulkner is never going to be an "easy read;" but eventually, the words begin to take on a rhythm. I found myself talking to myself in Faulknerian. It was worth every backtrack and rereading it took to complete The Sound and the Fury.

So I joined the ranks of the few who absolutely love William Faulkner's work. And that's how my youngest son wound up with a middle name he hates.

I've been in a between-World-Wars books kind of mood lately, but suddenly that old man chained to the tree started calling me.

"Quitter!" he taunts; and then the coup de gras: "Lazy reader!"

Ouch.

And so I'm heading back to South America, armed only with a printout of the genealogy chart.

But, just between you and me, I'm seeing Stella Gibbons on the side.

*James Joyce's Ulysses is not in this category because no human being enjoys reading it. There are entities who claim to adore it, form clubs around it, quote it excessively, and extol its brilliance to whomever will listen. But these are not humans. They are aliens, as is Joyce. Jung  diagnosed Joyce as being a schizophrenic only because the idea of an alien was...ahem...alien to him. Ahem. 

They Said, "Yes!"

I'm not the sentimental type. 

To me The Hallmark Channel is just lazy storytelling set to forgettable music with wardrobe out of Coldwater Creek or L.L. Bean, depending on the time of year.

You will not find a single romance novel on my shelves or in my Kindle; in fact, if the phrase "smile that made his eyes crinkle" shows up within the first 15 pages, I will physically throw the book away. EYES DON'T FREAKIN' CRINKLE, BRENDA! If they're crinkling, you need to get the dude to an ER, not "feel my heart skip a beat."

The fact is, I've grown into a rather cynical old broad and, quite frankly, after a year of being an "essential employee" (not essential like healthcare professionals, but essential like the pizza delivery guy -- both essential, but one gets praised in Facebook memes and the other gets coughed on by anti-vaxers), I've become downright bitter.

I think the pandemic took the perkiness out of the sunniest dispositions. But, honestly, you only have to spend a few minutes scrolling social media to know the world is filled with discontentment and skepticism.

Then this weekend, this happened:

That's my son Charley getting down on one knee and proposing marriage to Sarah at Longwood Gardens.

I might add that I was not there. I did know he'd planned it, but I didn't know when.

John and me (ca. 1972)

When he told me his plans, I was nostalgically touched; for generations Longwood Gardens has been our place to visit, no matter where we lived. There are photos of my family at the garden dating back over half a century. If there is anything such as "ancestral lands" for my family, Longwood would be it. 

I was envious. When I was 12, I decided I was going to own Longwood Gardens. Not only was I going to own Longwood Gardens, but there was going to be a guy who was damn well going to propose to me there and I was going to make sure he knew where it should happen and how I wanted it done.

Turns out Longwood wasn't for sale so there went that plan.

Gazebo where -- admit it
 -- if you went to Longwood,
you were adamant that jerk Rolf
was going to dance with you in.

I have to admit, I shuddered for Charley when he told me his plans. Longwood is so crowded in the summer. I envisioned him trying to get the proposal out as a six-year-old streaks by and some old lady wanders cluelessly between them. 

But I also know that, while this seemed like the biggest event now, there are so many landmark moments before him, a bungled proposal would become no more than an amusing anecdote around the after dinner table for the two of them. But, still -- a mother worries.

Charley called me the Sunday evening after he proposed and said he was sending pictures.

I asked if he had thought to bring a friend along to document the moment.

"This proposal is well documented," he assured me.

The photo above -- taken by a bystander. The documentation Charley spoke of was all from complete strangers.

Wait.

What?

That's right. Complete strangers stopped to watch and document an occasion that occurs every day, millions of times, over and over, since forever. These angry, divided, disheartened humans stopped their personal experience of the day to watch two people they didn't even know, decide to commit to each other.

Seriously -- was no one going to shout out, "Just trying to pay less taxes by filing jointly" or "Marriage is a device of the patriarchy?"

Nope.

For a moment...for just that moment...life was the simplest thing in the world: two people in love taking their first scary, shaky steps together into their future.

And for a moment...for just that moment...an entire conservatory full of disparate individuals came together, dropped their jaundiced view of the world, and recognized the purity and poignancy of the moment.

A couple couldn't ask for a greater mitzvah, if I may respectfully borrow a term.

That was enough to make this bitter old lady do something she's never done in her entire life -- I happy cried.

And I couldn't stop. 

I see the photos and I start right back up again. Especially when I remember that the guy in this photo:

Is the same boy in this photo:

BUT I AM IN NO WAY SENTIMENTAL, do you hear me!

Floating in a tin can

Why does Richard Branson taking a rocket jaunt into the fringes of space bug me?

It’s not like the millions spent for Branson’s 90-minute joyride was ever going to be spent on anything but the billionaire version of a road trip. It was never going to heal the planet or save an African village from contaminated water.

So, no -- I’m not disappointed that his money and the money burned away by the rest of “The Club” isn’t going toward more altruistic endeavors.

It certainly bothers me that it is possible for there to even be billionaires on this planet that is suffering on so many levels. But that’s not Branson’s or Gates’s or Bezos’s or Buffet’s problem; they just did whatever the
system allowed. And, if they lobbied to have the ladder pulled up after them, it’s only with our blessing they did it.

I recognize that telling people what to do with their money is not only an infringement of their rights, but is downright rude. I can’t very well scold Charley on his collection of totally useless replicas of medieval armory; he’d only point to my growing collection of gnomes, blocks of clay, piles of fabric, containers of crystals...at which point I would remind him of the 124 hours of pain I endured giving him life and to just shut up about all that.

Meaning -- it’s a slippery slope to start inflicting guilt on people who are spending money they are convinced they worked for on something you aren’t personally interested in.

I can’t gig Bezos on planning to spend billions on his own joyride, using funds he chose to pocket instead of paying his employees a living wage or at least letting them go to the bathroom with dignity; when I, in fact, spent $58 at ThredUp for two Talbot’s blazers*, using funds from my paycheck which, I have to admit, I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for my invaluable assistant Tina and my volunteers, who never get paid but are permitted unlimited use of the bathroom.

One man’s space flight is another woman’s wardrobe score. 

So, no -- I don’t think my annoyance has anything to do with the money spent on Branson’s flight.

It’s the reaction to his little stunt that annoys me most of all. The media fawning is starting to tick me off. 

It’s not like this guy achieved something that hasn’t been achieved before; he only figured out a way to make it pay. The most obvious thing observers of his landing noticed was the great big Virgin Galactic logo emblazoned on the bottom of the ship.

Let’s not imbue this joyride with any noble purpose; it was a commercial, plain and simple.

So this whole adulation of a foray into space (more like the edge of space, but they got to experience weightlessness, so...weeeeeeee!) is hardly justified. This was an ad to mine the cash from other bored millionaires for whom nothing is enough anymore.

Branson’s crewmate and Virgin Galactic employee Sirisha Bandlha insisted that the trip was an advance for science: 

"So on this last flight, if you look at some of the footage you see me messing with this tube, I'm actually performing a science experiment in space."

“Messing with this tube.”

This was a baffling new scientific term.

So -- I actually found the “science experiment” Bandlha referred to. It was NASA-funded and had to do with horticulture. Oh -- and NASA had already performed it before. They just wanted to know if a regular schmo could manage to...ahem...mess with a tube.

Oh.  Okay. I get it. I’ve had to write grant proposals. (I’ll just leave this here for now.)

So no one, not even NASA, calls this stunt the commercial that it was. The focus continues to be either on the waste of money or on the major strides humanity had taken. Either way, it worked to Branson’s ultimate purpose of exposure of his brand.

It reminds me of a bit comedian Robert Klein used to do shortly after the first moon walk.

He pointed out that Neil Armstrong could have been an instant millionaire if instead of the famous words he uttered, he just shouted “Coca Cola!”

 *Yes! Two Talbots blazers for less than 60 bucks -- and they fit great even though I’m shaped like an Oompah Loompah! No affiliation, by the way; I was just so tickled to be able to afford investment pieces on my budget.