Driving back from dropping the young man at his job at 4 am, which was supposed to not be a thing anymore as a condition of his return to that place, the rock stations grow dreary, I switch to classic rock and hear “Take the Money and Run,” which I’ve never been able to like, though I got the album it was on for Christmas when I was 11, but it does no good to turn on NPR at that hour; makes a person start thinking about things and then sleep is hard to reach, and I decide for the umpteenth time it isn’t just because he rhymes “what the facts is” with “the people’s taxes,” but that I don’t care about Billy Joe and Bobby Sue at all, or anyone who makes a man sing “Hoo, hoo, lord,” as a matter of course, even from back in the 70s when people had the misguided idea that was okay to do in a song.
And it’s followed up with “Sultans of Swing” by Dire Straits, so now I’m about to slip into an existential fog, something I’m always poised on the edge of anyway, when I turn onto our street to find the young rabbits just sitting in the middle of the road, and one of them swiftly exits stage left, but the other nervously bounces back and forth directly in front of me for a hundred yards, and I have to crawl behind it, even turning into the driveway in front of me in confused panic before finally heading back off to the yard and what I can only assume will be relative safety.
So now I’m awake anyway, but it isn’t a good thing for me to be, with that idiotic song rolling through my brain, the ceiling fan ticking lightly in constant rhythm against the motor casing, birds beginning to chirp outside my front windows, and if I’m not careful, thoughts about things will start creeping into my head. I don’t know how you insomniacs survive these nights with all the gloom and road kill and bad rhymes which accompany them.
Now and then I start thinking about an old out of date topic, make some idle remark on it, and learn that I have uncovered a passionate opinion that others will not ever let go. Humanity: maddening, yet sometimes adorable.
Darrin Stephens, fictional husband of fictional Samantha, star of Bewitched, is one such topic. Such intensity. And it’s my own fault I remained slightly mired in it.
First, Twitter is forever. Well, kind of. Not if you used Brizzly or Twitpic. But anyway. Nearly two months ago I came out in favor of Darrin number two, because he doesn’t stress me, and oh, what an unpopular opinion that turned out to be. Only I accidentally removed the most fired up tweet from this combined screenshot
So after the third person hearted the disagreement over a month after I shocked (a super tiny part of) the world with my heavy-handed proclamation, I got to thinking, “That must mean someone is doing a Twitter search for this very topic.” And why? Therefore, I examined Darrin number one further, which I hadn’t done in awhile. I forgot what an imposing physicality he possessed. Maybe that was attractive. Was it? For research purposes I typed into the Google box, “Was Dick York fit” or maybe I typed “did people think Dick York was sexy,” or honestly, I don’t remember. It was three or four days ago. And this was the top result.
I kind of thought that sometimes he looked like an old lady with a rictus grin, but maybe if he’d have taken off his shirt during the show, I’d have forgiven him that and his general daily wailing. He looked good with a beard in Wagon Train.
As an aside, I’ve read that the term beefcake was originally used to describe the unbelievably handsome Guy Madison. I ran across a picture of him in later years the other day, and golly, he really held up.
Anyway, recently, between the first thing and this thing, Antenna TV asked on Facebook, as they do, “which replacement actor did you like better?” and I don’t usually answer, but wasn’t thinking clearly, I guess, and I said, “Aunt Vivian and Darrin Stephens.”
And that whole thing went on for too long. What on earth possessed me to remain in the conversation and make sure I finished it? But I’m sure no one disagrees with me about Aunt Viv.
It’s not that I found Darrin number two attractive. And he wasn’t very…butch, I guess, is what I mean. Without falling into the trap of discussing who was in a better situation, Jeannie or Samantha, because that’s a fiery hotbed of disagreement, let me tell you, I had to wonder who Samantha, the character we know, would prefer in bed. (I've forgotten how this relates to Astronaut Tony Nelson, to be honest. Maybe another bit of blather sometime.) Whiny Darrin or Exasperated Darrin. I just have to believe Darrin number two knew things that Darrin number one would never have been able to imagine. And I don’t think Dick Sargent was so wealthy he’d have a 37 year-old boyfriend at the time of his death for that reason alone. There’d have to be other perks. But I don’t want to “argue” about any of that ever again, because it’s a super weird thing to do. Also, let it be known, in case those Twitter ladies find me, that I think Dick York was swell, and it probably wasn’t his fault about the overabundance of sclera, or that he was made to look like a useless tool in an oddly fitting suit coat.
For someone funny who agrees with me, sort of, click on the picture. Read the comments so you don't think I'm making this all up.
This morning on To Tell the Truth, we saw the first woman to sail alone across the Atlantic, ten years earlier. I have a pretty good batting average for choosing the correct one as they walk onto the stage combined with their reaction as the votes are shared. But the reasons the panel choose who they think is the true person vary from great sense to nonsense. Today, Peggy Cass chose the same one as me, but her reason was that the lady was so incredulous at all their questions, she must think they’re boobs. And she was the right one. I picked her because she looked like she’d spent time in wind. Also, she wore a black dress and pearls. The others were trying to look like tough women don’t bother.
ANYWAY. I had this little scenario going in my head during which a small gaggle of 14 year-olds were watching this show together at a sleepover, during a school break, perhaps, and talking about which panel member was dreamy. First, of course, none of them were what you'd think a 14 year-old would find “dreamy.” But girls will be as they are. A girl begins by gushing a little about Bud Collyer, because he highly resembles her Algebra teacher, Mr. Sullivan. The other two squeal and rock back with laughter. He’s so old! But Linda says, “No, not really so old. I’m sure he’s younger than Dad…” And the other two laugh some more. Pat says, “Well, that’s much too old for you, Linda. Besides, Johnny Carson is much more…” I should find a word that girls might use in 1962…they spoke so strangely back then, didn’t they? “…much more handsome, although ancient.”
Sharon jumps up and says, “You don’t think he’s ancient, you want to kissss him!” She grabs a cushion off the sofa and hugs it to her face, twisting around and making smooch noises.
Linda grabs another cushion and jumps around with it, saying, “Oh, Johnny, you’re so gorgeous!”
Sharon laughs and says, “She calls him Johhhhnn!”
Linda drops to the floor hugging her cushion and says, “Johhhhnnn, darling!” Pat looks disgusted and says urgently, “Be quiet, you two! I don’t want Bobby coming in here and pestering us!” Bobby, of course, being Patricia’s 12 year-old brother. I suppose he ends up face down in a jungle swamp in a few years. Or maybe he gives up his lifelong interest in aviation engineering to study finance and gets to stay at college until well after his number comes up. But that’s another story.
The girls squeal and scurry to replace the cushions and sit back down, and Pat says, “If you dare mention that name at school, Linda, I will tell every single girl we know that you dream about kissing Bud Collyer!”
Linda replies indignantly, “I never said I want to kiss him! He just reminds me of Mr. Sullivan…” She stops, realizing what she’s said.
“You want to kiss Mr. Sullivan!” Sharon yells gleefully.
“Shhh,” Linda and Pat both say, “Be quiet!”
Sharon says, “Okay, okay, besides, I’ve Got a Secret is next, and Kim Novak will be on it tonight. I want to see what she’s wearing.” Her cheeks are a little pink, worrying if that sounds casual enough to the other girls, but they don’t notice.
1. notes on stuff I've either partially written or still haven't gotten to:
Sharing more reading and music and etc this year. How did mother never read Betsy-Tacy?
"Criminals flourish when no credible system exists to adjudicate the claims of their victims." (I no longer have any idea where I was going with this.)
Code switching v. the dog whistle The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya Toradora! Love, Chunibyo & Other Delusions
la goutte qui fait déborder le vase...
Exquisite Timing: Perimenopause and the Bee Gees
mittelschmirtz Livvy ovaries overlapping Medium 1977 letting it happen as it happens
3 oz gin 1/2 oz maple syrup 3/4 oz lime juice
“Fully functional. I am programmed in multiple techniques. A broad variety of pleasuring.” 2. My daughter said my blog has been depressing lately:
For some reason, I apologized. I mean, in my head I was thinking I’m probably going to do a lot of light-hearted little posts soon, and then she followed up saying the posts are also too long…
I like to vary the length. But the online blog thing keeps changing. People like pictures with a bit of text stamped onto them, and they like short pithy essays, and for some reason, they like, or at least like to create, very very long recipe posts with endless repetitive photos of eggs in a bowl, and then eventually a list of ingredients and instructions. But it seems that they get scared if you get beneath their skin about really personal stuff they can’t do anything about. Well, sure, I get that. And it’s never been my intention to expose myself all that much online in that manner, anyway. Yet I can’t apologize for it and feel very good about what that means. So I kind of take back the apology. At the same time, if I have any more cruel depths to share; elements which occasionally rise above my shallow, superficial mien, I’ll just go paint or bake a lot of cookies and see if it sinks back down into the belly of the beast in which it usually resides. The world has enough to be going on with this season.
3. I liked writing better when the screens were larger. The keyboard on this 11-inch MacBook Air suits me perfectly, but I'd rather be typing beneath a much larger page. I don't see how that can be really just me. Stay tuned, if you want to. I'm in the mood to fool around.
I did a lot of stuff. Got to do a lot more stuff tomorrow. You know how you'll look up a recipe online and a reviewer will say I LOVED THIS! I MADE IT EXACTLY LIKE THE RECIPE ONLY I CHANGED EVERYTHING AND IT WAS SO GOOD!! Or, I HATED THIS! I MADE IT EXACTLY LIKE THE RECIPE ONLY I CHANGED EVERYTHING AND IT WAS SO BAD!!
Besides important things getting done, I made these chocolate cookies from a recipe online, and I was going to make two needed changes; leave out the cayenne pepper, and use a different sugar because of that being sugar I don't have. Anyway. I started by putting in 8 oz of butter accidentally instead of 6, and so I compensated by adding an extra 1/4 cup of flour and 2 tbs sugar, and slightly increased the cinnamon, pepper, and baking soda. I left out the recommended 2 tbs milk, and then chilled it for only 30 minutes instead of an hour. And you know what? I kind of love these cookies. So when I get to not thinking about all the other stuff I've got to do, I'll find the recipe for you, and then share what I made instead.
I made The Drink again. The drink formerly known as “Moist Panties” because of this whole thing about people and their cognitively dissonant vocabularies is now known as “Purple Rain.”
And my photos turned out lousy because it has rained a lot and that rain is certainly not purple, just messy and ugh. Well, one is a good photo with lousy composition, the other is better composition, but not by much, and not even Photoshop could do much with it compared to the first one from the other day, which is in the post before this one.
ANYWAY. Here is what’s in it:
3 oz Tanqueray Ten (I will be trying it with Hendrick’s pretty soon) 1 oz Lillet Blanc 1/2 oz Rothman & Winter Creme de Violette 1/2 oz fresh lemon juice
I imagine it generally garnished with flowers, but they are all soggy right now in the middle of spring, so it got a lemon slice today. And I truly believe you should shake it rather than stir it, before straining. Anyway. It’s purple, and you can taste the violet, yet that’s not cloying, and I am super proud of this creation, so I hope you like it as well. I made it so it can be easily decreased to 2 oz or 1.5 oz gin. Let me know if you need help with the fractions.
Also, you might wish to know I made one today because I was having some lasagna cooling-off time (pictorial of that tomorrow, I expect, at the other blog site,) and reading some truly salacious gossip about my boyfriend Bill. Iwaslikewow.
He’s been dead since I was 16, so I don’t care much what he did when he was kicking around Hollywood and various continents except for too bad about all that booze, because I like my dead stars with some spice to them. It’s much more attractive, for some reason, though I tend to prefer my live fictional boyfriends (who number rather fewer) to not go around creating havoc or making a lot of really bad life decisions.
But Bill isn’t even my type anyway, you know. My living type, if I have one, is tall, skinny, dark-haired or formerly dark-haired, intellectually eccentric, and not prone to getting into much trouble. (My living type is male me, only without perimenopausal additional pounds. I would apologize for this, but it would be dishonest.) Bill is, truth be told, my own bad life decision at the back of a dark bar or on a vacation far from home, etc. And I prefer him that way. I feel that while I made some enormously bad life decisions in my actual non-fictional youth, I did not have nearly enough fun making them, or even make enough of them to do much with novel-writing now in middle age. I don’t have much of an interesting past, is what I am saying. Bill is part of the interesting past I would enjoy having. Frankly, he could still get it as Max Schumacher, though, if I had a cocktail or two, and so I made this one.
I don’t know how seriously people take me…and I just remembered my oldest daughter told me today that my blog is inspiring…so whoops, plus also I will not repeat the thing about Jackie Kennedy although I’m pretty sure she’d be okay with it because she is a cool chick.
I started this yesterday evening. When I have the page filled sufficiently, I’m posting it.
1. This post brought to you through the auspices of Weyerbacher Brewery in Easton PA, my erratic luteal phase, and a fresh loaf of Italian bread, and is dedicated to Rumson, New Jersey, my friend Anna*, and everyone who portrayed Mr Knightley in a movie.
I went to Kroger for some Italian sausage (thus, also some bread,) and because I needed a few minutes around some people; collective energy and so forth, and listened to my iPod there and back, noticing it has a remarkable understanding of just the sort of mood I’m in. So that’s what this is. Well, plus a few more songs that played while I was cooking sausage. Check it out: That sign has been up at Tuesday Morning for at least a couple months, definitely before the news of Hancock’s new bankruptcy was announced, and waaaay before they announced they were closing ALL stores. Things that make you wonder…
I have On The Beach on while typing this. Wasn’t Tony Perkins just beautiful?
And in 1959, as skinny as my beautiful sons. People seem to find this wrong now, or maybe they always did, I dunno. I remember being made fun of for it when very young, then later as a teen and young woman, the ugly sneers… But if it’s okay for people to weigh a whole lot, it’s also okay for them to weigh not very much at all. Life, you know. Diverse and all.
Hello. I’d like to talk with you about Gregory Peck’s jawline.
2. Because of reasons to do with that unfortunate Lois Lane scene, no, not in the completely awesome exciting and thoughtful unless there is something seriously wrong with you new film, but the old outdated Superman movie, I have this Gordon Lightfoot song in my head.
I do like this song, but I always thought of it as some of the “grownup” music when I was a kid.
Speaking of which, Merle Haggard has died, and while I was not a fan, I mean, of course I remember him and he was a part of our youth and etc., and it occurs to me that all our childhood grownups are dying, and pretty soon we’ll be the only grownups who remember them, or something like that. I couldn’t quite hang onto the thread I was following. Our childhood is all ghosts, is maybe what I mean. I have a list of half a dozen people who, when they are gone, will have been the end of it all. Let us not speak their names just now. Not because of superstitions we need not have, but because we will rather continue to think of them as healthy and strong.
I was in a better mood earlier, and also yesterday when I began this exercise. It’s gloomy and raining now, which does a thing to my brain, I guess, though I never mean for it to. And so I am not going to finish this until I am in a better mood again. That’s what it’s meant to be about.
3. I’ve had a look at my “notes for later” document that I keep in my dock, and found some items to share:
a. "Exquisite Timing: Perimenopause and the Bee Gees:" this is an essay I’m working on which I’ll probably post to Medium some time or other. But Medium has already changed a lot since it started. I’m not quite as keen on it as I was in the beginning. I’m that way, just always was, I guess. Nobody steal my title.
b. My son said this a few weeks ago: Jesus was walking around the desert with chest damage, trying to build an arc reactor, Judas turned his back on him and betrayed him, trying to steal the technology.
c. I copied this from somewhere, don’t remember who said it. You can Google it if you like. “What is tolerance? It is the consequence of humanity. We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other's folly - that is the first law of nature.”
4. You know how people used to complain that their old out of touch parents would send them painful inspiring emails, or chain letter emails, or ridiculous urban legends? Here are examples of the things I text to my kids.
5. I saved this photo to share as well, but do not recall why. Something to do with his speech pattern. 6. A little while back I made my hair lighter, and it's also shorter than it's been in awhile, but then I saw this brief stuttering video from a few years ago and got to missing it dark, never mind long, a person should be only so fickle.
So what do you think? A little darker than image a like it is now, or a little lighter than image b like it's sort of now meant to be? * For Anna, I was going to post a link to a Tumblr site devoted to red-haired men. But they turned out to all be gay porn. So, anyway...here's a song.
Parts 2 and 3 will be, oh, on other days this month.
I'm always mad at Twitter. Currently I tweet less (mainly I mean see other people's tweets less) because they want my phone number to prove I'm me on new comp. that I got in September, and I refuse because everyone else just let me sign in regular, and what, no one gets my phone number unless we are much, much closer than Twitter and me. But this post will be tweeted automatically, and occasionally I say something on the phone, so I haven't gone from it. Anyway. These aren't all the tweets, just the ones that tickled me while rereading them.
I was out of gin for about a month, and found room in the budget for some this week, so I made my way to Jungle Jim’s yesterday. I thought I might save a few dollars and buy Tanqueray Ten (not Tanqueray. Tanqueray Ten.) instead of Hendrick’s. If I drove a little farther, I could buy a full liter of Hendrick’s for nearly the same cost, but wasn’t into the idea.
Anyway. Shelved between those two brands was another I’d never heard of. I called the man and asked if he’d had it, and he looked it up online to learn…IT’S FOR MEN.
It is a gin for men. Because you see, women like all their drinks to taste like hummingbird nectar and lollipops, and this scares men from gin, since the new (American style, let’s be honest,) labels are much too girly in taste profile, and there is only one kind of man and he refuses to drink any gin that might accidentally turn his martini into liquid cotton candy. Except from my experience that’s new-style vodka, not gin, and a topic for another day.
This “gin for men” idea is, of course, a marketing gimmick, but I don’t know that they are actually pursuing it other than as a testament in their advertising. I realize I made an apron yesterday and I will confess to silver polish on my toes this week, however, have you ever had the impression I would enjoy something like Fruitlooptini? Maybe the stamp was a little smudged when I was printed. Here’s a look at the concept, anyway.
But in terms of what it means to be a woman drinking a “man’s gin,” this author sums it all up much better than I can, and it was hearing her review of Langley’s No. 8 over the phone that cemented my decision to buy it. I’d been wanting a gimlet all day, anyway, so she struck a chord. You really must read what she wrote about her experience with this gin. Go on, I’ll wait here.
Back? Good. Wasn’t that sharp? I do not, however, use Rose’s Lime as she did. Honestly, I find it cloyingly sweet, and why should you have to add lime juice to fix it? I like Stirrings Key Lime syrup if I can find it, but will make my own with limes, sugar and water, or, better, with Nellie & Joe’s Key Lime juice and sugar, and I also use a higher ratio of gin to lime syrup. So mine is a sterner gimlet than hers, ‘cause I guess she and Raymond Chandler are more girly than me, or whatever.
Here it is. It was refreshing, and did have a boldness to it from a somewhat more traditional profile, but it was not my favorite gimlet.
So to further commit to the science of understanding what makes a gin a man’s gin, I have crafted a martini this evening, which I chose to make with Lillet Blanc, in the usual 6:1 proportion, though I’ll drink one from a bar that’s 5:1, as happens from time to time. That’s probably easier to sling into a glass without fuss, just guessing. I can pour an accurate ounce from a bottle, but that’s the extent of my bartending flair.
Mainly, the thing about the Langley’s is that it’s middle ground. Have you had Junipero? Middle ground like that, but…if Langley’s is manly in the “I’ll be at my ‘no girls allowed’ club" sense, Junipero is manly in a really terrific pair of shoes, with a great haircut and the often delectable scent of “yes, girls are allowed, because I like them a lot.” I don’t know, the metaphoric comparison got off track between brain and keyboard. Anyway. Langley’s No. 8 is partly classic, partly “new” botanical. It doesn’t taste entirely of tree like old-timey gins, nor entirely of garden, which is what their copywriter dismissed about brands such as Hendrick’s.
So maybe that’s what men like and women don’t: middle ground. That hasn’t been my personal experience, but what do I really know, after all? I probably like an Aviation because it’s lightly purple. That’s probably why Ernest Hemingway liked it, too. He was known for being such a girl.
So, the martini is good.
I'd say it's very good, well-balanced, and gives one ideas about things, which a good martini should always do, but again, not my favorite. This gin, I think, is well-made for tall fizzy drinks, which is not my arena. Still, if you like gin, and I do mean styles of gin created since Germany was reunited, I recommend giving Langley’s No. 8 a try. I paid $38, whereas Hendrick’s is generally $34, but this will vary according to region.