Long week, part 2: the dog walk at midnight.

It's 11:45 p.m.:

Me, calling from the other room: Sweetie? It's 11:45.

The historian: [who has been watching television stroke resting: stirs]

Me: Shall we go for a walk?

The historian: YES.

[rustling, then light cursing from the other room:]

The historian: [to himself:] I left my shoes in the car. I have to get them.

Me: If only you had a pair of back up shoes. Like some people in this house.

The historian: Do you have back up walking shoes?

Me: [PLEASE.]  Of course I do. I have back up pretty much every kind of shoes.  [pause:] You need a new pair of shoes. [knowing perfectly well that a shopping trip is a horror to the historian:] You could get a new pair of shoes tomorrow.

The historian: I had a plan to get a new pair of shoes once...

Me: ...I remember...

The historian: ...then I found that pair of shoe laces...

Me: ...and you were all, New pair of shoe laces? That's practically a new pair of shoes!

When we stepped outside, we could feel the storm-edge in the wind, me in one of my billion pairs of walkable shoes, him in his new shoe laces. 

The historian: Feels like it's going to storm.

It really did. And on the back-home half of the walk, snow started to evidence itself out of thin air.

Me: See? You can see the flakes up there--look, in the lamplight.

The historian: No... [and then:] Yes. 

[For anyone who's interested, Friday Poem Day will occur on Saturday this week.]

The political economy of TV.

underrated. suave. watch it.

Since we are approximately the last American adults who (a) have cable, and (b) watch television, we are watching television. On cable. Basic cable, as it happens. On BBC America, for whatever reason, they are showing Inside Man, an underrated Spike Lee Joint featuring a terrific, smart performance by Denzel Washington, a terrific, smart performance by Clive Owen--the ineffable Clive, as I like to call him--and a silken, slightly terrifying (terrific and smart also) Jodie Foster as a fixer. ZOMG I love this movie. In fact, we both do.

I'm doing whatnot and nothing on the internets when the historian calls me from the other room:

The historian: They're showing Inside Man, with one of my all-time favorite Jodie Foster performances.

Me: (scurries)

[Jodie Foster is being silken and threatening and also patronizing. Denzel is having none of it.]

Denzel Washington: You got a card, in case I need to call you?

Jodie Foster: Please don't take this personally, but no. I don't think you can afford me.

Denzel Washington: Well, don't take this personally, Miss White. Kiss my black ass, okay?

Me: Jeez I love this movie.

The historian: 'Kiss my black ass, okay?' There's sure a lot of patronizing going on.

[A commercial comes on.]

The historian: [with a small yet decided amount of heat:] The only thing wrong with this is these cussing commercials every ten minutes!

Me: It's capitalism, that's all. Just capitalism. Capitalism is ruining our television experience!

The historian: That's not even the half of it. [pauses, so that we may reflect:] Not EVEN the HALF of it.

Said, read, and heard today.

This morning, I read yesterday's post to the historian. I was still in bed. The historian was dressed and sitting bedside:

Me: 'And yet, once we left the store, I yearned for them. I looked on the M & S site when we got back home. Where were the boots? They were nowhere to be found, mere ghosts of memory. Soon, we left for America, bootless. Literally. I looked on the Marks & Spencer website. Still no boots. And then, a few days later, lo! they appeared. And reader, I did buy them, with free shipping. And today, I wore them. And they are perfect.'

The historian: I didn't know you were looking at the Marks & Spencers website.

Me: (a flash of shopping shame. On the other hand:) Well, honey. You know, if you need any shopping done, I'm your girl.

**

At the Arctic Circle, where we were acquiring food so that we could make the City Art Meltdown:

Manager, the entire upper half of her body thrust through the drive-thru window, using her outdoor voice: I'm gonna ask you to pull up to the first space up there (gestures toward a waiting space marked '1'), because it's gonna be another minute on your tots, 'kay?

**

My colleague, to me, in a text: 'I hate to do this so early in the semester but I need to Skype into tomorrow's meeting at 4. Can I Skype you at 4?'

Me: 'Of course. I just have to curse you with a thousand curses, is all. Not really.'

Colleague:  Lots of gnashing of teeth and curses from you these days. I like it!

Later, I received this in an email:



via GIPHY

(this would be the 'optional tantrum component' of any meeting. Which, since it's the beginning of the semester, seems only fitting.)

At the farmer's market we discuss tattoos.

Just now, reading this post by my friend Ann reminded me that the historian and I had a little discussion at the farmer's market this morning:

(Passing the henna stall:)

Me: If we wanted, we could get henna.

The historian: How long does it last, do you know?

Me: I don't, really.

The historian: Maybe two weeks? I thought the henna April did for Supriya was...

Me: ...so beautiful!

The historian: --yes. Amazing.

We walk on.

The historian: I've been thinking I could get a tattoo.

Me: (What!? Mind entirely blown.) ...I saw a post somewhere of super tiny tattoos that I thought were kind of cool. Like a little crescent moon right here (pointing behind my ear). Or, like, five tiny stars scattered across (sweeping gesture across clavicle).

Historian: (flexes bicep)(for real) I was thinking right here.

Me: Oh!

Historian: --like, maybe, a hammer and sickle. (considers:) Or Karl Marx!

Me: (whoa.) (pause:) Well, solidarity.  

--and off we went, to buy peaches, peppers, and corn.

I am not in any way endorsing this product.

At home after a long, long, long-ass day. I'm talking seriously long:

Me: The historian! C'mere, there's an ad with a bear and he's filing stuff.

The historian: (comes into the room) What now?

Me: (gesturing at the television) Look!

Me: See? It's a bear, and he's filing stuff for that guy.

The historian: (watches for a second. Laughs.)

Me: I want a bear who does my filing for me.

The historian: (laughs again)

(we both watch the bear execute his file clerk duties.)

The historian:. . . he's probably just a temp.

Over shrimp tikka masala.

There's been a cold snap, as they say. It was gray and legitimately chilly today.

Me:  It's definitely cold enough for tights, except for my rule.

The historian:  What's that, again?

Me:  Once you wear tights, no more bare legs.

The historian:  I see.

garbage rules, Jean-François Chénier

Me:  ....and the reverse in the spring--once you wear bare legs, no more tights.

The historian: I saw a couple of young women today on campus--they were wearing tights.

Me: I know. I would have, too. But I have the rule.

The historian: [contemplates.]

Me:  It's like my personal "no white after Labor Day" rule.

The historian: And my rule is "wear shorts for as long as possible."

A Night at the Theater.

I have a complicated relationship with the theater, unless we're talking about a movie theater, in which case I love that theater, no complications whatsoever. I have seen some pretty awesome plays, and while I was at them, I was rapt and moved and totally engaged. But on the whole, and who can say why, a movie seems like an altogether more reliable bet. I know I have friends who are theater people who are reading this, so let me just concede: yes, this is probably an indication of my slouchy character, and yes, it's possibly intellectually and culturally lazy. Yes yes yes to any charge you'd care to make: I'm guilty. That doesn't mean I won't choose the movie over the play 99.9% of the time.

However: my college has a theater, and that theater puts on plays. We keep hearing good things. Our good friend is the director of the theater. When we had dinner with him and his wife a few months ago, he told us that the theater would be doing Death of a Salesman, and he'd be playing Willy Loman.

The historian put his foot down--not that he had to put it down very hard. We agreed, okay? that we would go to the play. Tonight was the night (note for those paying attention: Thursday = not a movie night).

In three acts, here are a few scenes from our evening:

__________
 
Dinner. We're eating burgers--Boca for us, regular beef for running son:

The historian (to running son): So we're going to see Death of a Salesman tonight. Maybe you should come with us, because maybe it would confirm your feelings about selling.

Running Son: ...or maybe it would just confirm my feelings about plays.

__________

The production is quite good. Our friend is superb. At intermission:

Me (turning to the historian): This is a great play, one. Two, everyone is really good. Three: it's so depressing.

___________

After the play. We're walking the dog:

The historian: I can't wait till tomorrow when I see [our friend] so I can tell him how good we thought the production was, and how good he was.

Me: He was really wonderful, wasn't he?

The historian: Really good. I'm going to buy a copy of the play and read it.

[we reflect on the overall excellence of the theatrical experience. Bruiser moseys. We follow his lead.]
The historian: So--tomorrow we're going to see that one movie, what's it called?

Me (reading his mind): Admissions? Or something like that. [we both pause, and think of Tina Fey, God bless her.]

The historian: Right--it's supposed to be funny, isn't it?

Me: We can only hope.

_______________


In conclusion: the play was excellent. It's a masterpiece, and the production is entirely worthy. It's open for two more nights, and if you can make it, you should go. Aaaand tomorrow night, we'll be at the (hopefully funny) movies.
 

Monday, better known as Tuesday.

--not to moan about it or anything.

Discussing our respective long, long, long, long days, while preparing dinner. The historian is rehearsing the tenor of the conversation in one of today's meetings:

Mr. Dialectical himself.

The historian: . . . and it just seems like we've had all those conversations before--a billion times.

Me:  And it's not like one of those Hegelian deals, thesis-antithesis-synthesis. [hand circling in an ascending spiral]--what's the word for that?

The historian: Dialectic? That's the dialectical process.

Me: I know, but isn't there a word for that moment of transcendence? when things get better*?

The historian: I don't know. Probably.

precipitous descending spiral.

Me: [resuming:] but it's more like circling [hand circling in a precipitous, descending spiral] down into hell. Or like Sartre. No Exit.

Sartre was French.

*Aufhebung. FYI. 

Tennis fiend.

When I was a mere slip of a lass, I never in my whole entire life thought I would learn to love so many different sports so much. Back in those days, I thought sports were for unintellectual types unlike myself. However, I learned to love basketball when I was at BYU, and they had good teams upon good teams, culminating in the Danny Ainge years, which were very good years indeed.

I learned to love soccer because my kids' dad played soccer in high school, and all our kids played. It is perhaps the best game of all.

And I learned to love to watch tennis because the historian loves it. I have watched a lot of tennis on television in the last several years. At the moment we are watching the semifinals of the Australian Open, and it has literally been killing me to watch Federer hit balls into the net on his tired-looking returns, even though I would feel sad if Andy Murray lost. Also, I will feel sad if Federer loses.

The historian: Well, that's it. Murray's going to win this set, and then he's going to go on to win the match. He's just playing better.

Me: He looks confident, doesn't he.

The historian: He sure does.

Me: [mulling over my vast trove of tennis legend and lore] I don't know--we've seen Federer come back in situations just like this.

The historian: ....

Me: Well, haven't we?

[Federer wins the tie-break to win the set.]

The historian: You called it.

Me: [gloating like a gloater. I wish I could say I kept it to myself. But:] I did, didn't I?

[NOTE: this was all, of course, before I realized how the match actually turned out.]

Target: another view.

I arrive home from an outing. It's 10 p.m. The historian is not home. He stomps the snow off his shoes about ten minutes later. He's been shopping for a birthday present for our now-2-year-old grandson:

Me: Hi there. Where've you been?

The historian: I went to Target. Lemme tell you, that was an ordeal.

Me: Yeah? (uncomprehending. But on second thought:)

The historian: I walked through aisle after aisle of . . . it was just full of wreck 'em sock 'em knock 'em fight 'em hit 'em . . .

Me: (thinking: if I had been there, I would have known how to lead him directly to all the gentle organic toys:) So what did you get?

The historian: This. (produces an enormous plush toy, a lion cub, pretty much as big as the kid in question.)

Me: Perfect.

We have some opinions up in here.

While walking the dog, after watching more of the Democratic National Convention than I would have thought probable, or advisable:

Me: So David Brooks thinks they'll need to talk about the economy more, because that's what independent voters care about.

The historian: (with some starch) Frankly, I could not care less what David Brooks has to say.

Me: [laughs] Yeah, he sees himself as the voice of the independent voter.

The historian: In fact, I don't care what any of those commentators have to say. They could just describe what happened, and then they could just be quiet.

(I loved this so much it hurt a little bit.)

Are the bears all hanging out without me?

Going east through the Lamar Valley:

The historian: What do you think she's looking at? (gesturing at a young woman, wearing blue shorts, standing on a ridge, facing the river)  Maybe a bear.

Me: (deducing from her motionlessness, presumed age, and general unmoved demeanor:) No.

The historian: (drives on. He knows I'm right.)

Me: There should be, like, a universal language of--

The historian: They should just throw up a sign that says--

Me: ...what they're actually seeing. Like--

The historian: "Bear." Or--

Me: "Antelope."

The historian: "Bison."

Me: "More bison." "Just elk."

The historian: --or "scenery."

Me: "Straight up river."

Here are some animals we did see:

"Antelope."

"Unspecified Ground Animal, such as Ground Squirrel."

"More Bison."

"I had it on good authority that there might
be bears in and around this locale, but I was
denied. Alas."

We decided we couldn't be bothered to see a movie.

On our way home from downtown:

Me: ...and maybe I'll hang up my clothes, and then I will make these cookies--they're supposed to be, like, the best chocolate chip cookies in the history of cookies.

The historian:  Why's that?

Me: Well, they have some special ingredients. Like cake flour and bread flour.

Historian: Is there butter?

Me: Yes. And really good chocolate.

Historian: Lots and lots of butter?

Me: They are, in fact, an all butter cookie. But the real secret, apparently, is to let the dough rest a long time. Because--

Historian: (interrupting) --because if they don't get, like, twenty-three hours of rest, they're just no good the whole next day.

(this is the last couplet, but it is not the very last couplet.)

Not much knowledge of the laws of physics, though.

We're walking the dog. I have the leash:

The historian: (facing me and Bruiser, runs a few steps backward) Just like Jimmy Piersall.

Me: (hoping for no backward running mishap, especially since it's dark out--) ...now why were we remembering Jimmy Piersall, again?

Historian: It's the 50th anniversary of the Mets. Remember? he celebrated by running the bases backward.  (pauses, remembering:) Of course, Boyd, who we used to play doubles with, used to run the track in the field house backward, so he'd be in practice for running to get a ball. He tripped and broke his ankle.

Me: [remembering another one of the historian's acquaintances who did something else nutty like this...who was it?]

Historian: ...and also Craig T., who broke something or other when he was demonstrating to his wife how he could change directions in mid-air.

Me: (chuckling on the inside)

Historian: ...had a Ph. D. in philosophy.

COUPLET.

Revising.

I am reading tomorrow night at City Art. I am also sick. I have been revising a small batch of recent poems for this reading. I am also sick. Did I just say that twice?

Me, to the historian:  I maybe don't have faith in these poems.

Historian: (waits, as he has, perhaps, heard me convey this sentiment before.)

Me: ...but maybe that's because I'm sick.

Historian: (radiates total compassion and understanding. Also understands that he's possibly better off waiting this particular conversation out.)

Me:  ...but then I often feel that way about my poems?

Historian: (through ESP communicates that these poems are, and will be, just fine.) I hate to see you feeling so bad--do you need me to get you anything?

Me: (sigh.) No.

We discuss the news.

A conversation.

Me: ...and after tomorrow, Miriam and Evie will be out of school for two weeks for the Easter holidays.

The historian: Two weeks? Wow.

Me: I know! And then they get an extra day off, because of the royal wedding.

The historian: ...there's a royal wedding?

Me: Whaaa?

The historian: I'm serious--there's a royal wedding? Who's getting married?

Me: (laughing) It's Prince William and Kate Middleton.

The historian: First I've heard of it.

Me: I don't know what you read.

The historian: Will they get to watch it on TV? When I was a kid, when Queen Elizabeth got crowned, we got to stay home from school and watch it on TV.

In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, I believe that the royal wedding will be televised, but if not, I give you the royal wedding in Legos:

(click the link above for the whole slideshow)

Sometimes you just hear what you want to hear.

This evening, walking the dog at dusk.

Kids up the street: (in chorus) Can we pet your dog?

Us: Sure!

Me: His name is Bruiser.

One kid (while petting Bruiser): We know. (pause:) I'm a monster. (one arm inside his shirt)

Another kid (also petting Bruiser): I'm a monster too.

Me: Very scary.

Yet another kid (petting Bruiser): I'm not a monster.

Me: So, the monsters are trying to catch you?

Yet another kid: (nods)

More petting. Then:

Me: (brisk as all hell) Okay!

The historian: So you think it's time to get going?

Me: Yep.

Kids: (in chorus) Bye Bruiser!

The historian: (contemplatively) When that kid said I'm a monster, at first I thought he said, I'm a Marxist.

Another way of understanding the role of television in my life.

Over dinner:

Me: (enumerating the television shows of my youth) . . . and Hawaii Five-O, and Taxi. And Cheers.

The historian: Of course, when you were watching a lot of those shows, you were a kid, and I wasn't.

Me: . . . right . . .

The historian: . . . but then, we really didn't watch much TV . . .

Me: (rolls eyes)

The historian: because we were in grad school, and so there just wasn't time.

Me: I'm not sure if that's actually true . . .

The historian: well, it didn't seem like there was time.

Me: (pauses to reflect) . . . of course, you actually finished your Ph.D.

The historian: (tactful silence. Eats quesadilla.)

A proposed new video series: let the people decide.

This morning, whilst eating pancakes.

Me: I thought of a new video idea this morning when I woke up. It would be called, "The Historian Explains the Difference Between Socialism and Communism." And you would explain the difference, possibly while you were eating pancakes.

Historian: . . .

Me: Just like you explained it to singing son. When we were in Yellowstone.

Historian: . . .

Me: There could be a whole series, called, "The Historian Explains."

Historian: That could be interesting.

Me: So, you'll let me?

Historian: No.

For Lent.

Me (there are Reese's flavored Easter eggs on a television commercial): That's right, it's almost Easter.

The historian: That's why, when I stopped at the 7-Eleven on my way home for a bottle of Coke, except I bought Dr. Pepper instead, at the cash register, I said to myself, "That's a Cadbury egg," and I bought one and ate the whole thing in the car.

Me: So you think that's fine, eating Easter candy now? Even though it's Lent?

Historian: Well . . .

Me: I guess you don't really observe Lent.

Historian: No, actually, I'm giving up texting for Lent.

Me: [mirth]

Historian: Also, the desire to text.

Me: [mirth redoubled]

Historian: Also, . . . what is that? Twittering.