Dammit

It saddened me so much to hear of the passing of Natasha Richardson.

Much will be written and discussed in the next few days: there will be an outpouring of sympathy for her husband Liam (hubba hubba) and her children. There will be retrospectives of her work and the legacy of her acting family. We will learn lots and lots about traumatic brain injury and how seriously we must take what appears to be a mere bump on the head and then all the information and sadness and elegiac whatsahosit will fade as the next story pushes it's way into our collective consciousness. And then, because it's what we collectively do, just a little less than a year from now, we'll see her lovely face during the "In Memoriam" bit at the Oscars and we'll go "Oh, that's right...she did die last year, didn't she?" and some of us may even feel a little tug of sadness about it all again.

But I would like to say that when I read this morning that she was seriously injured and in hospital I was very concerned. When The Spouse called me this afternoon to say she'd passed the news went through me like a shard of glass. It wasn't quite like the whole Princess Di thing (which I should probably tell you about sometime) but it was a very visceral and painful response.

"Really? " says you..."she was that big a deal to you?"

"Yep," says me. "Pretty much". You see, I once met Natasha Richardson. (Actually, I think I've told you this story before but under the circumstances, you're going to politely indulge me). It was the summer of 1991, when The Spouse and I were engaged. He'd picked up some work on a film that was being shot in Seattle (back when they shot movies in Seattle) starring Rutger Hauer and Natasha Richardson. It was called "Past Midnight", it was shown on the telly and I think The Spouse and I were the only folks who ever watched it. Not the point. There was a cast and crew party aboard a boat and we went. We sat at a table with other folks from the crew (because sometimes cast and crew are chummy and sometimes they are not but usually crew hangs with crew and cast with cast and it is, ya know, kind of a caste system), drinking and enjoying the beautiful summer evening and generally, at least for me, thinking "dig this...there are famous people on this boat".

Then, one of those famous people came down the middle of the room. It was Ms. Richardson and she looked exactly as she appears on screen. She wasn't bigger or smaller or somehow altered...because, let's face it, there is a big fat difference between what someone looks like when they are on screen and made up and costumed and coiffed and lit. But she was just as lithe and beautiful and real and so very reminiscent-of-her-mum as she looks on screen.

And I dared.

I was sitting at the outside of the table and she was walking through the room greeting everyone...EVERY one...not just the Hollywood air kiss thing reserved for the "in crowd" you might expect. She came by our table and said 'hello' and I stood up and quietly said, "Ms. Richardson...I loved you in 'A Handmaid's Tale," and she took my hand and looked into my eyes and said, "Thank you...then it was worth the pain".

I realize on paper that might seem very swanning and pretentious. Except when that movie was released and she was junketing, she talked about how very difficult a film it was to make and how hard it was for her personally to approach some of the themes etc. etc. etc. It may not sound like a real moment on paper but it was. She was sincere and lovely and gracious and I have always liked her. I liked her before that (it started in 1987 with "A Year in the Country") and I've liked her since (including her lovely work in the remake of "Parent Trap"...which I realize will not be one of the things for which she is majorly remembered but I liked it so there) and I am just plain sad that such a silly thing could snuff such a lovely light entirely in advance of any reasonable expectation.

Rest in peace, Natasha.

Poor Baby

I have a very tiny violin on which I'm playing a very mournful tune for the poor lads at AIG.

After all, we all get bonuses for screwing up.







Oh.


Wait.


No we don't.




Bastards.

First of All

Oh, sure, of course I'm going to recap PR in a bit. It's what I do. But I also have to take a moment to give a shout out to the people of Omaha who are reeling from yesterday's shooting.

Two words: gun control.

And for those of you who want to argue the point with me, don't. It's my blog and I don't want to hear it today. You can't convince me that somehow this situation would have been averted if everyone in that mall was packing. That would have just resulted in more death and injury.

We need fewer guns in this damn country; not more.

Period.

To the people of Omaha: God bless you. You're walking in a surreal fog right now, trying to comprehend how something like this could have happened in your town. And you probably won't be able to comprehend it. But what you can do is be there for each other, be kind to the strangers you encounter on the street, hug your loved ones a little tighter, pray for the victims and their families. (Gawd, Christmastime...that makes it suck even harder). And when that mall reopens, my advice is that every one of you goes there in a big show of solidarity. The bad guys win when we're afraid.

That is all.

Oh My Yord

A friend sent this to me today...

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Hi! I'm Having a Pity Party. Wanna Come?

I've been putting off blogging today because I don't want to tell you what I'm really thinking lest you find me lame beyond belief. But then I thought, "Hey, like they haven't figured that out already. The kids are alright".

It goes something like this:

A friend sent me a link to an article in the local paper about these two women, one in Seattle, one in Paris, who both have blogs (about food) and both just got book deals. I know my friend's intention was to show me what is possible, to be encouraging and all that but the net effect was flaming green-eyed jealousy and a whole lot of "pft"ing.

Now here's the thing: I didn't start my blog to get a frakking book deal and I'm perfectly happy with my 110 hits a day (on a good day) and the handful of faithful readers who comment. (Because I like the back and forth of the comments and, as has been noted before, sometimes the comments are better than the initial post. It's fun. And if I was getting thousands of hits a day, like those stupid book deal women, it might translate into more comments and then I wouldn't be able to answer them all and that would stink).

I pretty much have abandoned the "discovered in a soda shop" route to any sort of success. It's all about plugging away and risking and all that "up by your bootstraps" stuff. But still. Sheesh. Stupid book deal women. We hate them. (Even though I'm pretty sure I'll end up buying at least one of the books).

The Neighbor asked if I'd read the blogs and I muttered that I wasn't going to give them another hit, silly women with their stupid book deals, especially the one who lives in Paris which should be gift enough for a person for crying out loud. But today I did. And they are good blogs. I didn't read them, however, and say, "Oh. My. Lord. Well, that explains it. Of course they got a book deal and not only that we should all stop writing because they are saying with eloquence and beauty everything that ever needs be said". They were good blogs, I repeat. But on a good day mine is just as good. So bollocks.

And then there was other stuff: a friend who just got a superfantastic new job and I couldn't be happier for her for she truly is deserving but part of me was all, "Well, crap" and jealous. Because there is one iron in the fire that might be very nice but it's one of those deals where if someone special takes a job I'll have a job and if he doesn't than I won't. It's just a possibility. Which essentially leaves me in the same frakking place I've been since February of wanting a job but not wanting just any old job for the sake of having a job and trying to figure out what's next. I do not do well with uncertainty. Which is unfortunate, given that not much is certain. Ever.

I started my pity party last night with The Neighbor, giving her strict instructions that I was NOT looking to be encouraged or jollied out of my mood or given stirring speeches. I just wanted to vent. And she let me. But we got into the notion of success and how I would count that. In most areas of my life I'm perfectly content, yea verily. But when it comes to writing, I do have some nebulous goals. I don't write for the sake of art. It isn't enough to craft a particularly elegant sentence. At some point along the way, I want it to be read. I don't need to be on the New York Times best-seller list for 6 months. But published would be nice.

"You are published," she said.

"Yes, but one article in one literary journal isn't enough", said I. Because it's not. It was all very thrilling and affirming and all that but it's not like I said, "Excellent, that's one off the short list. Now all I have to do is learn to make chevre and I'll die happy".

But blah blah blah. We've already established that my musings about being a writer are utter twaddle. There's more:

1. I had a profound conversation last night with The Child which made it clear that she is at the point of considering Deep Things. She's thinking for herself, questioning for herself, making things her own. Which is lovely to see. And a little scary. We set her on a path, which is our job, but she'll be travelling it in her own way. She's growing up and that makes me feel shaky sometimes.

b. We're planning this boffo trip to Chicago in July and someone was going to come and now he can't. Which sux so much it isn't even funny. When The Child found out she wailed, "Well, then I'm not going either". Yes, she is, because we've already bought the tickets, it will be fun and she'll get to meet other people but still. I'd be bitter® about it but I don't own the rights.

3. My stupid frakking car stalled on me twice this morning so as soon as I got the kids to school - by the grace of God and all the archangels in charge of all things automotive - I had to take the piece of crap to my car guys. Again.

So grumbled, grumble, fuss, fuss, fuss.

I'm in a valley time and have been for a while. I'm so over it but as I don't see an incline in the near distance, I'm forced to look for whatever beauties the valley might afford. And there is, at least, some dappled light on the path:

• We had our first al fresco family meal last night - chicken with chutney crust, moist and delicious.
• There's plenty of wine in the house.
• I started watching "Battlestar Galactic" (the mini-series) again.
• I got an email from Dariush this morning. (Oh, btw, I'm jealous of him, too; but he's not stupid). It had nothing to do with any of this but managed to be encouraging and stir me to action on a little project I've cooked up.
• The car guys just called and the problem appears to just be some silly wire so it probably won't cost $412,000 to redeem my piece of crap vehicle. (2000 Ford Focus - worst car since the Edsel. Just saying).
• I had a nice chat with Payson.
• JP called and made me laugh, plus I think I've convinced him to come for my birthday in September.
• The weather is very beautiful and it's hard to be completely poo-headed about everything when the sun is shining.
  
  I think it was Julian of Norwich who said, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well". I believe that. Even when I'm in a pissy mood.

Chicken with Chutney Crust

1 c. fresh breadcrumbs
¼ c. dill weed
½ t. dried basil
¼ t. salt

chutney (Major Grey's is yummy but any sort will do)

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts

olive oil for drizzling

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Combine breadcrumbs with seasonings.

Pat dry chicken breasts. Spread both sides with chutney. Dredge in breadcrumb mixture and place on a rack in a baking dish. Drizzle with olive oil.

Bake for about 20 minutes, until chicken tests done.

Things I Hate

I've been trying to write a post that would be potentially more interesting than this one is about to be but I'm too preoccupied to do it justice.

Yesterday I was a very good girl, attending quite faithfully to things that don't rock my world, like book-keeping. But then my Quicken started blorting for reasons only it knows and it took me about 5 hours to do my bank reconciliation. And when it was finally done it was off by a dollar so I still had to go through everything one more time to find the boo-boo. Which I finally did but still.

The bad news? The bank seems to think we have way more money than I do. "Score!" says you. "Not so fast," says me. This is the week I'm supposed to pay the mortgage and such. Can't be writing big checks until I know for sure where the discrepancy is. And because I'm just not that lucky, I'm worried that it's not going to work out in my favor.

A Little Play

Friday

The Spouse: "What's for dinner tonight, honey?"

The Wife: "Rice and beans".

Saturday

The Spouse: "What's for dinner tonight?"

The Wife: "Rice and beans".

Sunday

The Spouse: "Don't tell me, let me guess, rice and beans?" (throws crockery)

The End

And of course, because I'm worried about it I'm afraid to look at it and thus am completely stressing out even as I try to avoid it. Which is really not working for me.

Not to mention, I have other important matters to attend to today: parent club business, resumes to write and send in, videos to download, a dog to walk. I gotta get in gear, despite my overwhelming desire to just sit in a corner and rock with my blankie tucked under my chin.

And as long as I'm dwelling on stupid things I hate, turns out "Gilmore girls" is ending once and for all. There are only 2 more episodes. When I was apprised of this sad fact via a definitive email from JP, I almost cried. I told The Spouse how upset I was and he was all, "Yeah, but you feel like this whenever one of your shows ends. You'll deal".

And of course I'll deal because it's only television after all (Only television? Did I say that out loud?) The difference between this ending and say, "Seinfeld" is that with "Seinfeld" I knew going in it was the last season. So did the writers, thus allowing them to build the show to a conclusion. But all through this season of the girls, no one knew for sure whether the show would be getting an 8th season. While the writers have done their best to restore the show to its former wit and grace, they aren't going to be able to deliver what the people want in time. They just aren't. And that makes me sad.

This was a pivotal moment from last week's episode. I swear, if you don't get a little choked up...even if you don't watch the show...you seriously need to go digging in the bottom of your closet for your soul.