Moving Pains

For a good portion of the earlier part of this week, I was helping my friends R~ & M~ move into their new apartment. I haven't moved in about five years, which is about the longest time I've been in any one place since I was living with my parents. I tallied up the number of times I have moved in my life and came up with 19. Nineteen! Can you imagine? Granted, one of those moves was before the age of four which I can barely remember, but that means that I have moved 18 times since the age of 18, the second big move of my life. Thirteen of those moves were with my ex-husband. I will forego explanations here, but this fact will become more relevant as I go on.


As we were packing up the old apartment earlier this week, my friend R~ collapsed in the kitchen and grumbled something about having to do "80% of the work." Now to be fair, it is true that he and his buddy were spending a tremendous effort lugging heavy, awkwardly-shaped pieces of furniture down the stairs and placing them, tetris-like, into the moving van, and all in the heat of California in July. So I don't blame him entirely for voicing this sentiment. On the other hand, my friend M~, his wife, was responsible for packing up the kitchen, which is an equally Herculean task in its own way. By the time I had arrived there on Tuesday, M~ had already completed about half the job, and it took her and I together most of the afternoon and some of the next morning to complete the rest. I remembered, as I was packing, that this is a familiar pattern: the kitchen is always the last to be packed and the last to be unpacked, at least in my experience. So I found myself feeling a little nettled by his attitude.


But his comment brought back memories-- or not memories exactly, but more a resonance with many such moves and many such arguments. It got me thinking. So I'm going to propose a theory here which I hope won't get me accused of being sexist or solipsistic. Just remember that I am basing my theory on my personal experience of 13 moves with the opposite gender and what little I know of human nature in nearly 42 years of existence.


When it comes to moving, men think in terms of division of labor. I do this. You do that. It's a 50-50 split until someone starts slacking, and then immediately the male mind starts calculating the percentage. Now it's 60-40, now it's 80-20, etc.


In contrast, I think women look at moving as a community effort. We all work together and do what needs doing until the job is done. Packing for a woman is not a simple task. It is not a driven, linear task. Each item pulled from a cupboard or drawer (other than maybe the cereal boxes) is a potential emotional memory gravity well. You pull that old sugar bowl out from the back of the cupboard and wipe the dust off, and, oh, this was grandma's, remember? Or, you remember when we got this on that trip to... and so on. Packing for a woman is a constant battle with emotional currents. I would argue that it requires just as much effort to stay on task as it would to swim in a straight line across a raging river.


In terms of sheer volume, R~ may be right. Maybe he and the men he had helping him did move 80% of the apartment. But I don't think it's an accurate assessment, nor do I think it's a fair one. We're looking at apples and oranges here. We can't set up a scale and weigh furniture against kitchen appliances and fragile household items. And if we did, it would take the wisdom of Anubis to determine the difference.


In the end, I think R~ was searching for validation and perhaps a little well-deserved praise. I wish I had had the presence of mind to do so at the time. Packing a kitchen is a tedious, wearisome task, but one far more within the bounds of my capabilities than moving heavy furniture. Perhaps instead of justifying the delays in the kitchen packing, I should have praised his hard work and his contribution to the moving effort. But, then again, perhaps I was wiser to let R~ and M~ work things out on their own, as husbands and wives have done since the first people moved out from their caves.






57 Days til the Burn

House vs. Doc Martin (and Others)

My parents always had this guideline, if you will, that if someone on TV wasn't the kind of person you would invite over for tea, then they probably weren't worth watching on TV either. Now granted, this doesn't always apply to serious drama, as found in films and theatre, and it certainly doesn't always apply to literature (from Gilgamesh on down, we'd be dealing with some very problematic houseguests); however, I think for television shows I watch regularly this is a fairly accurate rule of thumb. If I am going to devote an hour or more a week to this person, then he'd better be someone likable, someone with worthwhile qualities I can admire, or at least find humorous or diverting.


So my question is: How did an asshole like House get top billing?


He's taciturn, surly, is motivated purely by self-interest, has little or no compassion, and absolutely no manners. See, here's my problem with this guy. It's not like there haven't been characters like this before, but usually they've been relegated to a supporting role, making it clear that their behavior is not the norm. Making a character like House the star of the show sends out the message that it's okay to be a jerk when you're a genius and people need you to do what you do. I just don't buy it. We need more courtesy in this world, not less.


However, to be fair, I decided to look at some other characters whom I admire, ones that, if squinted at, might fall into the above category, but for some reason, I choose to forgive them.


Doc Martin. He's taciturn, surly, and lacks interpersonal skills. However, he does seem to truly care about his patients, even if he is incapable of expressing it. When he is careless of people's feelings, it's more from being oblivious than any deliberate malice. In fact, in most cases, he is exceedingly polite. I would enjoy his company for tea, but I have a notion I would make him nervous. The conversation would be stilted, and he would excuse himself early.


DCI Gene Hunt from Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes. Sure, he's the kind of cop that thinks with his gut and is more likely to solve things with a fist fight or blazing guns. But can you blame him? He's only being consistent with what a man of the 70s or 80s would do. As long as he's got 21st century foils Sam Tyler and Alex Drake to keep him in line, he's an alright bloke. I might not invite him to tea, but I'd let him buy me a beer.


Bernard Black, Black Books. I will grant you that Bernard can be a jerk at times, but he is more likely to make an ass of himself than be an asshole. He is just So Appallingly Funny. I would drink anything with this man: tea, wine, whatever's going. But I'd send him home before he decided to do Belly Savales or, god forbid, Cobumbo.


I am noticing a bit of a pattern here: They're all British (well, Bernard is Irish...). Am I really so shallow? Just dress the jerky behavior up in a fancy accent and I will forgive anything? Well, no, not exactly, no. I think what it comes down to is that there is a certain smugness in House that I dislike intensely, this attitude he has that he is just untouchable; they need him, so he can act however he wishes. I don't believe these other characters have that much power. And, in addition, I believe they are balanced out more equally by their co-stars.


All things considered, I would just rather spend my evening with my favorite fellows from across the pond. May House fade into oblivion.






89 Days til the Burn

PalFest is a Success!

I am really encouraged when I see things like this: a Palestinian Literature Festival in Ramallah. Violence and oppression raining around them, and there they are, those brave souls, reading poetry and stories and plays, keeping the dream of Palestine alive. Are these not Zamyatin's sailors in the mastheads?

Michael Palin was there. And Nathalie Handel, too. And many others. And the festival went forward as planned in spite of Israel's attempts to disrupt it. See news article here.

Art is a powerful tool, as we well know. It can transform the world. I hope the Palestinians pile word upon word upon word, subverting media misconceptions, undermining the wall, and transporting them to freedom.

90 Days til the Burn

Nanci Griffith and The Loving Kind

Friday night was also a chance for me to see Nanci Griffith in concert at the Rio in Santa Cruz.


Nanci was so inspiring-- I just came away singing! She had a really sweet presence onstage and a good rapport with her audience as well as her band. Stylistically, she is a little more country than I prefer, but I have to admire her for her skill and longevity. She has been a singer/songwriter for many years. Her songs have been covered by many famous artists.


I especially liked her folksongs-- one was set in the Dust Bowl, another in Ireland. The title song, "The Loving Kind," tells the story of Mildred and Richard Loving, a black woman and white man who married in 1958 and ended up having to defend their right to marry all the way to the Supreme Court. They won their case and ended up setting the precedent for the nation. This song is a tale simply told and very subtly parallels the recent struggle of gays and lesbians to have their marriages validated. No obvious connection is made to this in the song, but Nanci did so when she introduced it onstage, and also mentioned that it was Mildred Loving's hope, right before her death, that her and her husband's story would serve as inspiration for those seeking the right to marry.


The opening act, Jenna Mammina, was good, too. She was clever and funny and did this amazing thing where she created a song on the spot from six words thrown out to her from the audience. I loved it!






91 Days til the Burn

Frolicking at Filoli

Today, the weather stayed nice long enough for some friends and I to enjoy Filoli, an English estate and gardens in Woodside, some 30 miles south of San Francisco.

Filoli is created from the motto: FIght for a just cause, LOve your fellow man, LIve a good life.

I never knew this place was here. How did this go undiscovered for so long? It's like a little piece of Europe plunked down right in my backyard. Inside the house was a ballroom and a library and *huge* fireplaces and art... Outside were gardens with winding paths and secret doorways and trickily fountains. All the roses had names, and the trees, too. (Each had little nameplates to tell visitors what they were.) But one tree I had to name myself. I called it the Merlin tree because it looked like the tree Nimue trapped Merlin in.

It was a beautiful day, and we came away refreshed in spirit, body, and mind. We will return. Oh, yes. We will.

92 Days til the Burn

Laugh Lines

Every so often I like to cull a few gems from student writing. Enjoy! (Or cringe, as you please).



"Only losers decide to go to the movies by themselves."

"My ex-girlfriend and I had a very happy relationship because I told her the truth no matter what."

"But the fact that you can hog the covers, or spend all your money on your twelve cats if you please makes being single all worth the while, right?"

"If you don't achieve the goal you always thought you wanted, as long as you are happy, you are successful in your career -- even if it's unemployment!"

"Furthermore, men and women were created as supplements of each other. Women need shoulders when they feel sad. Men need soft and warm voices when they feel stressed."

"Even the grandparents got evolved."






93 Days til the Burn

In Search of Cordelia

I did the strangest thing tonight. I turned on the TV while I was cleaning house. I never do this because I find TV too distracting on the one hand, and on the other, when it's worth watching, I like to give it my full attention.


Even stranger, I let the channel rest on a reality show. I never watch reality shows; I'm allergic to them.


Even stranger, said reality show was Paris Hilton: My New BFF.


Did I mention I *never* do this? Never.


But this show was like a road accident. I simply could not turn away. It was so repulsive, I had to investigate to see what makes it tick. I do this for you, Dear Readers. May my sacrifice not be in vain.


First, a quick update. Paris Hilton is in search of a best friend (thus BFF: Best Friends Forever). Apparently her last one betrayed her in some vague, unforgivable fashion. So here she is: bereft. She doesn't look bereft. In fact, she looks rich, spoiled, and vulgar. But I digress.


Let the auditions begin. The young hopefuls line up to proclaim their undying love.


What's wrong with this picture?


I mean, besides the fact she puts these foolish, pitiable creatures through all manner of humiliation.


Besides the fact that the very idea of *auditioning* for a best friend is so patently artificial that it knaws at my moral center with a squirmy, maggoty determination.


Besides the fact that not once--not *once*--in all the effusive offerings of trueness and loyalty did anyone ask what Paris was going to bring to this relationship.


And as I watched on with appalled fascination, Paris up on her throne, surveying her little kingdom, suddenly it hit me: Well, it's Lear, isn't it? "Which of you shall we say doth love us most?" Except Shakespeare did it with style, taste, and a considerably better ear for poetry.


But it occured to me then what I was waiting for: I was waiting for Cordelia to step forward and say boldly (paraphrased), "Nothing. I give you nothing. No love, more or less, than what you deserve."


Of course, there is no Cordelia. And even if there were, Paris would never recognize her for her worth. Not until, Lear-like, Paris too was stripped of her power and left naked and raving in a thunderstorm. It doesn't bear thinking about...


Poor Paris. Poor thing.
For thy fake love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.






94 Days til the Burn