Happy Labor Day Weekend from Santa Barbara! Ready for Fall, Real Estate Course, and New York…

Last October in Dutchess County, NY. Paradisal estate on the Hudson River.

Last October in Dutchess County, NY. Paradisal estate on the Hudson River.

Kids back in school, earlier sunsets, and a chill in the morning air: the unmistakeable signs that fall is near.

Of course when you don’t work or go to school–and live in Southern California nine months a year where temperatures mostly range from 60 to 80–the change of seasons is mostly symbolic and culinary. Gelson’s begins to stock matzoh for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur even in Santa Barbara, hardly a Jewish mecca, and pumpkin patches pop up everywhere. Big Wave Dave’s on Hope Ave., known to locals for their overpriced Christmas trees, got into the pumpkin business a decade ago. I imagine the tent will go up shortly after Labor Day.

Still, the transition from summer to fall is a cultural phenomenon. And for a bicoastal girl, it means that overcoats, gloves, boots and scarves are not far off. I was thrilled on Monday night to wear my leather jacket over a t-shirt and jeans with high-heeled sandals to Primitivo Wine Bistro, where I ate with my friend Mark. I bought a Travelzoo offer for 59 dollars on my July flight to the city and recommend that foodies (a word I hate but use reluctantly as there is no alternative) on a budget subscribe via email.

Travelzoo restaurant deals, while not as plentiful, are much better than either Groupon or Living Social. We had a great dinner, though I was miffed that the new chef replaced the best brie dish I’d ever eaten with a vastly inferior and just plain bizarre appetizer in what I called in my Yelp review an act of “territorial idiocy.”

I can’t stand it when a new chef takes over and then banishes beloved dishes created by the former chef. Culinary penis envy, a longstanding pet peeve of mine, is quite common. Wilshire, one of my favorite restaurants in LA, totally overhauled the menu last year, but due to my–and other regulars’ outcry–much of the old menu has been restored. Most important, the steak tartare is back, which matters because the dish is not as ubiquitous in LA as it is in New York, where one can find excellent steak–not just tuna or yellowtail– tartare a dozens of restaurants. I don’t worry about salmonella or whatever the health concern is as I regularly ate raw beef as a child when Hilma made burgers.

I just booked my October trip to the city for $404 RT on Virgin, the only airline I fly these days. Hipmunk is my favorite discount site and even if I have to pay $100 more (which is rare), I don’t mind. Virgin planes, seats, entertainment, and service are qualitatively different from all other airlines, at least on coach. If you fly to Newark instead of JFK, which I hate because I have too much luggage to take the train and the cab is $65-68 after tip due to the flat fee, you won’t be paying much more than you would for a one-stop on American or, God forbid, United.

A flight goes by faster when you’re watching a good movie or show on HBO and I always pay for WiFi so I can do Facebook if I’m too tired for a movie. I don’t mind paying for food and booze; I’d be paying for both were I not in the air, so my in-flight tab is irrelevant to me. I’m careful about money; I’m not completely neurotic. Best of all, I arrive refreshed and happy. The bus from Newark is fine and sometimes I luck out and get a ride from a friend.

I arrive on the 8th and return on the 24th. J and I are seeing the Afghan Whigs in LA the 25th and he will sleep over at my parents’ house. We went up to San Francisco to see the Whigs for our first time in the fall of 2012 and had the best time at the Fillmore. Sadly, I will miss the October 23-25th Cabaret convention in the city, which I really wanted to attend, but it couldn’t be helped.

I’m so looking forward to my few days upstate in Dutchess County at the country place of my NYC landlords. Their daughter, 35, is a Darmouth/NYU trained actress and director and they’ve become close friends who treat me like a daughter.  I had a paradisal weekend last October playing with their Golden retrievers, eating simple, beautifully prepared fish and vegetables on the banks of the Hudson where their 18th-century New Hamburg manse sits.

Brady presiding over the castle.

Brady presiding over the castle.

The house has been expanded and partially rebuilt after two fires, but it’s a splendid old country estate. You can see the pictures from last October in my Facebook Victorian Chick album.

The Hudson River Valley is one of America’s pastoral gems. I can’t wait to take long walks with Brady and Ika. Here we have Brady deciding whether or not this “stick” is too big to bring back to his mommy.

Brady's idea of a "stick." It's a log!

And the answer is…of course not!

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His daily walking stick!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last year the leaves turned late, but even without the glorious reds, oranges and golds, the long morning walks were perfect.

Enchanted forest in New Hamburg, one stop on the Metro North's Hudson line before Pougkeepsie (the Vassar stop).

Enchanted forest in New Hamburg, one stop on the Metro North’s Hudson line before Pougkeepsie (the Vassar stop).

I plan finally to finish two half-read novels, Jenny Offil’s Department of Speculation, and Christopher Beha’s What Happened to Sophie Wilder, which I found in my 6-hour trunk and car cleaning, here.

Reading room upstate.

Reading room upstate.

In the next week or two, we’re having six panels of the Saab painted for $1400 (normally $3000). My used 2007 Saab 9’3 2.0T with 76K miles will be like new. I really didn’t mind driving a landfill, but I am absolutely overjoyed at having a clean–and clear–car and trunk. I took Emma to the vet for an ear infection and test , but nearly had to cancel the appointment because she refused to get into my immaculate Saab. One friend speculated that Emma didn’t recognize it without all that junk on the front and back seat.

Emma reading to drive the (pristine) Saab home from the vet.

Emma reading to drive the (pristine) Saab home from the vet.

A few weeks ago, I received my books for the first month of the Keller Williams licensing course and will be in LA Tuesday through Friday for the months of September, November and January. I won’t take class in October or December because I go to New York those months and the whole purpose of getting my license is to become a referral agent from New York to LA and possibly Santa Barbara as I explained in my Victorian Chick third anniversary blog.

New Yorkers are mad for Santa Barbara these days, but most can’t move to Santa Barbara until they can afford not to work. But some might consider a condo to test the waters and I could assist with that. J is a private land use consultant and regularly addresses Santa Barbara realtors to answer questions about the mind-boggling, onerous and labyrinthine zoning and permitting regulations in one of the two strictest counties in California (and probably, America).

But if New Yorkers envision ten more years of productive professional life, they need to be in LA. And if they have kids in Manhattan private schools, Santa Barbara has only one real option: Laguna Blanca. It’s a strong school but quite small and socially problematic (it has a reputation for cliquey, mean girls). Also, moving from a city of 8 million to a “city” (Santa Barbarans think they live in a city not a town) of 100K people is the lifestyle equivalent of the bends. Moving out of the city to LA–or anywhere on the West Coast–is a big enough adjustment. Most New Yorkers, even those in love with Santa Barbara, would go out of their minds in laid-back Santa Barbara after two months.

In other news, I am happy to report that our dear Ollie, a 16.5-year-old Norwegian forest cat, seems to be out of danger. After a lung tumor scare two weeks ago, the vet determined the mass on the x-rays was fluid around the heart. She’s not sure it’s full-fledged congestive heart failure, but Ollie has responded well to the Furosemide, a diuretic, and they will do another x-ray in ten to fourteen days.

There are better meds for heart failure, but she’s not sure if that’s the cause of the fluid build-up. My Facebook friends, both those I know in real life and those I do not, responded with an outpouring of love and support which made the prospect of losing my second best friend in this town after J, considerably easier.

Mr. Sooty Paws, my mush pot.

Mr. Sooty Paws, my mush pot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is the blog impeder yesterday, sprawled out on my Macbook as if to say, “Thou shalt not blog.”

Ollie, Blog Impeder.

Ollie, Blog Impeder.

I felt fortunate he allowed me to re-vamp a 2.5-year-old blog about smoking written six months before before I started e-cigs in the summer of 2012: Victorian Chick and Town and Country’s Nina Griscom on the Pleasures and Psychology of Smoking. I didn’t really become a full-time vaper until February of 2014, with the purchase of my first EVOD at Henley Vaporium in SoHo.

J and I ran into a realtor friend of his at Chucks, who smokes and feels about ANTZ precisely as I do. I told her about the magnificent defense of smoking by Town and Country‘s Nina Griscom in the Jaunary, 2012 issue and decided to overhaul this blog, adding pictures and a prefatory note about my transformation from unrepentant, late-in-life smoker to ecstatic and passionate vaper.

And as I posted on the CASAA Facebook page , I think this may be an even better blog to send to friends who smoke because once you stop (or cut back to a pack a month), smokers no longer trust you, no longer see you as one of their own. I did love cigarettes, but now I prefer e-cigarettes. When my EVOD breaks or I can’t get juice, I will smoke for a day or two. And I hate it. One cigarette is fine, but if I have to smoke for a full day, I feel genuinely ill.

Another of my projects for fall is to follow up with Kangertech and contact modeling agencies to become a spokesperson or spokesmodel for e-cigs. I’m not a young woman, but it’s never too late to stop smoking. Your lungs substantially regenerate and quitting even at 40 or 45 yields significant health benefits.

You can see my pitch on my public Facebook album, Vaping with Class and Style: Happy 40-something Vaper, the gist of which is this: e-cigarettes are associated with counter-culture types with ink, piercings, bad clothes and a rebellious, angry attitude. That describes some but not all vapers, who are actually a diverse group politically, chronologically, geographically and socioeconomically.

I’m off to buy some cheap hippie outfit for a 50th birthday party in Santa Barbara. I have nothing remotely 1970s, but apparently the teeny bopper stores are full of flower child attire. I might hit a cheap thrift store by Killer Shrimp and Bucatini, one of our favorite restaurants, owned by the people who own Tre Lune, a fine Italian restaurant in Montecito favored by Dennis Franz and Rob Lowe above all other Italians in Santa Barbara’s crowded field.

One other piece of news: the Patch has undergone a disastrous server change. All my links are now dead (you get a 404 code). If you want to read the pieces I’ve posted on Amy Chua, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Elaine Stritch, Proxy, Jilly Jazz, Hama Dance Centre, or various Geffen productions, you can find them on my new (but hidden) Patch profile. If things go as I plan, I won’t be posting pieces there anymore, just here and in real publications.

Happy Labor Day! Here’s to a wonderful and productive fall!

P.S. I did not post my Robin Williams blog. Now that we know he had a Parkinson’s diagnosis, his tragic and grisly end is no less painful. But it does make more sense. I will finish my piece within the week.

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The Problem with Mannequins Circa 2014: A Rare Note on Body Image and Weight in Middle Age (300th Victorian Chick Blog!)

Secondhand, fatally stained Monique Lhuillier bought Jan, 2011. Taken with Pantech Breeze (always shaved 5-7 lbs). A small 4. The "skinny me" pre-2011 summer which was my size before about 39.

Secondhand, fatally stained Monique Lhuilier bought December, 2010. Taken with Pantech Breeze (always shaved 5-7 lbs). A small 4. The “skinny me” pre-2011 summer which was my size before about 39. This was after my first ever Perlane so I still have a shiner under my eye.

Ed. Note: Yesterday I wrote the better part of a blog about Robin Williams, genius and mental illness, but because it’s a more academic (that is, allusive and exegetical) blog than usual and my printer is disconnected from my MacBook, I will hold off a day or two on that. I wrote this blog about body image, sans pictures, a week ago.

I’m back in Santa Barbara after nearly three weeks in New York with the best weather I can recall in late July and early August. I wrote one blog in the city but never uploaded pictures–which I find the most tedious and irritating part of blogging–so technically this is my 300th Victorian Chick blog. 300 blogs in three years and four months: it’s hard to remember my life before Victorian Chick (and its FB and Twitter spin-offs, as it were).

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Not the best picture. There is lace between the pleats and it’s lovely from the side. But for polyester, it sure does wrinkle! 2 hours in a car left it looking thus.

After a wonderful reunion with my parents, I drove up to Santa Barbara on Friday and stopped for gas in the Palisades. The cheap boutique at 1021 Swarthmore with regular sidewalk sales will surely close when Rick Caruso gets his grubby billionaire paws on the eight or nine acres for which he paid between 40 and 50 million dollars, but occasionally you find something great.

When I arrived in SB and posted a picture of the only really cute thing on sale, I realized it evoked the dress on Madison Avenue that gave me heart palpitations a few weeks earlier.

I don’t know the name of the store. It’s not early Alzheimers– though the amount of literature and philosophy I’ve forgotten in the last 15 years sometimes makes me wonder if I should get tested for early onset. I simply forgot to take a picture of the whole display with the store’s name.

As I’ve blogged, both for myself and Bicoastal Brunette, I’m a designer resale and consignment girl who rarely buys new clothes and certainly not on Mad.

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Fantasy dress on Madison in the 60s.

The dresses are of course not the same. One has a rich, two-toned fabric the iPhone can’t pick up through a glass window and probably costs a couple thousand dollars. The other is 100% polyester (both the shell and the exterior) and cost 44 dollars at a young person’s surf boutique with a few fun things and a lot of sartorial disasters. But both are sweet, pink dresses which appeal to my love of all things feminine.

When I posted this couture dress, I noted that I’m no longer skinny enough to wear such dresses. I was a true 2 until age 38 or 39, weighing 118 pounds at 5’8” at 36 and 124 pounds 39.

Summer 2010 in a Trina Turk suit. This shaves off some 5 to 7 pounds because it was pre-iPhone and the Pantech took the most slimming pictures of any phone or camera I've seen. No doctoring. Just flattering phone camera.

Summer 2010 in a Trina Turk suit. This shaves off some 5 to 7 pounds because it was pre-iPhone and the Pantech took the most slimming pictures of any phone or camera I’ve seen. No doctoring. Just flattering phone camera.

In April, 2011, I fell on an escalator at the American Philosophical Association conference in San Diego and gained about 15 pounds. Even when no longer on crutches or walking with a cane, I never got back down to 124. I went up to a 4/6, though today’s sizing is bizarre and meaningless. I own three used Nicole Miller dresses and all fit identically thought they’re different sizes: 4, 6, and 8.

Yesterday, I re-posted the two dresses in a diptych to underscore the difference between my lifelong skinny body and my current slender/curvy but toned figure. After my May trip to New York and two hours with a trainer (complimentary when you join the Equinox), I got serious about working out again.  My ankle is still injured and unfit to dance, but for two months I swam, walked and lifted weights. My bone density increased and my body fat decreased, though the trainer was surprised the numbers weren’t more different because he saw such a radical change in my body.

Labor Day, 2010. Again, with the Pantech (unless J's Blackberry Torch). These are tiny little jeans given to me by a girl who grew out of them. I was 120 here.

Labor Day, 2010. Again, with the Pantech (unless J’s Blackberry Torch). These are tiny little jeans given to me by a girl who grew out of them. I was 120 here.

But there’s no getting around it: I am no longer a stick.  The upside? Tits. I love my tits. Every single day I see them in the mirror, they make me happy. I know some women on FB don’t like it when I wax poetic on the wonders of having tits (I’m a full-fledged C). But if you were tiny (a small B) all your life and then one day you woke up and without surgery, you were a glorious C, you wouldn’t stop looking at and talking about your tits either.

At the club waiting for DMV appointment. I of course missed it and had to start all over. I miss that hat and have enlisted all my Catholic friends to pray to St. Anthony.

At the club in May, 2014 waiting for DMV appointment. I of course missed it and had to start all over. I miss that hat and have enlisted all my Catholic friends to pray to St. Anthony.

The perks (pun intended) of the Victorian Chick tit augmentation method are twofold. One, it’s free. I didn’t spend a penny on my tits. Two, brand new tits are as perky as a college girl’s tits, unless of course you’re the unfortunate tit-baring daughter of Bruce Willis and Demi Moore who inherited neither parents’ good looks. The skin is identical and there’s no sagging. I didn’t plan to tumble down an escalator. And it at once shocked and horrified me when on a lark I stepped on the scale a month later. I weighed 139! 139 at 5’8” might as well have been 159!

The downside is having some unwanted weight down below: I have an ass and I have hips. When I was a 2, or small 4, I still had an ass and hips but they were smaller. I still have a flat stomach but my torso is not as bony as it was. And I was a dancer. A little bony is good as long as you’re not gaunt and anorexic and still have a glow in your cheeks and thick, lustrous hair. Anorexia kills hair and skin, but if you’re super thin and still have great skin and hair, it’s pretty fabulous.

After May, 2011, I vowed never to step on a scale again as I could wear 80% or 85% of my clothes. I had to say goodbye to a few spectacular dresses and slacks but otherwise, my clothes fit. When the trainer weighs me (or the doctor I saw to yank out my Fallopian tubes in April–which absolutely reduced the pain of my period though the gynecologist swore that it would not), I stand on the scale with my back to the display.

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Last month in New York before workout.

But this last trip, I decided to step on the scale at Equinox just for the hell of it. I cannot bring myself to reveal the number on the Internet but it was fucking terrifying. We all know that muscle weighs more than fat, so I just shrugged it off, knowing that I’m in better shape than I’ve been in years with the strongest, most defined arms of my life. Also, any new clothes I buy are geared to my larger body and looked good enough for me to take them home.

As my readers know, one of my blogging pastimes is bashing Jezebel-types. My first Huffington Post blog took aim at Erin Gloria Ryan, a consistently irritating woman and editor at a site whose work is capable of inspiring misogyny in even the staunchest supporter of the Planned Parenthood and NARAL. My piece on Gloria Steinem and takedown whiny feminist blogger Lauren Hermanson were my most liked and shared blogs. Google Analytics ranked only the Rick Caruso ahead of those rants about feminism.

And just when I didn’t think it was possible to hate Naomi “Speaks to Her Vagina for Hours” Wolf more than I already did, she began posting nonstop nonsense about Gaza, which ignorant and/or anti-Semitic people post as “the real truth.” For those who haven’t read the New York Times review in which Toni Bentley, former New York City Ballet dancer and author of five books, eviscerates Wolf’s vagina book, it’s a treat sure to buck up the spirits on the glummest of days.

Wolf’s least dreadful writing was The Beauty Myth, but even that was a hardly groundbreaking, to say nothing of dubious, work of scholarship.  As someone who attended Yale (and like Wolf a decade earlier, majored in English at a time some 20% of freshman were pukers or starvers or both), I have always been critical of the view that Madison Ave. is even partly responsible for eating disorders in America, much less that the problem is all or mostly their doing.

As a member of Al-Anon from 1994 to 1997 who regularly attended Overeaters Anonymous meetings a few years before that, I heard the stories of thousands of women from diverse socioeconomic and ethnic backgrounds with eating disorders. I attended OA during psychoanalysis because I was so isolated and starving for the community from which I was removed at Yale due to my Christmas, 1990 breakdown.

I never felt entirely at home in OA because I neither starved, puked, nor binged, but I didn’t know until 1994 that you don’t need a drunk parent to qualify for Al-Anon and that drinking relative or friend is sufficient. My maternal grandfather, not Jewish of course, died around 1966 in a county mental hospital of alcoholic insanity; my brother is clean and sober over 20 years; and my father’s first wife was an alcoholic who drank her way to pancreatic cancer. More than enough to qualify for Al-Anon as alcoholism is a family disease. Children of alcoholics exhibit behaviors which affect their offspring in devastating ways, even if they do not themselves drink to excess.

Without exception, all the women with eating disorders came from at least difficult families. Most came from much worse. Not every woman had been physically or sexually abused, but most had been emotionally and mentally abused. Occasionally you will find an anorexic or bulimic who comes from what British psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott, who wrote about the “good enough mother,” might have called “the good enough home.” But a teen girl from a basically healthy and functional home doesn’t look at a mannequin or cover of Vogue and decide to stick a spoon down her throat five times a day. That’s just not how it works.

(A side note: non-bulimics don’t appreciate how much work–and planning–goes into bulimia. Finding a private bathroom in a dorm or workplace to puke is no mean feat. Yale bulimics I knew had scoped out the bathrooms likely to be empty at particular times so that they could puke in peace, or at least without fear of discovery.)

This is not to say that media influence is meaningless. But a girl with a strong and healthy sense of self who values her mind and talents does not pathologically control food or her body. Sexual abuse is common among girls and women with eating disorders. I can’t count the number of times I heard at a meeting, “After I was molested (or raped), I got fat. I thought if I was fat, no one would touch or hurt me again. I thought being fat would make me disappear.”

Anorexia is also common among high-achieving girls who might otherwise drink or drug to excess, but who cannot manage straight As and three extracurriculars high or drunk. When you feel unsafe in a chaotic home, you try to control whatever you can. Sometimes it’s your school life or hobbies (music, dance, sports) and sometimes it’s your body. What else can a girl of 15 really control?

Any reputable psychiatrist knows that anorexia is harder to treat than bulimia because severe and prolonged deprivation of food requires a fairly high level of dissociation. Bulimics stuff their feelings but then binge and purge the dangerous, unsafe emotions. The wall between thought and feeling (which includes desires and instinct) within anorexics who are not also bulimic is sometimes impossible to penetrate, which is why more anorexics than bulimics kill themselves.

I knew a woman who lived next to my college best friend, a woman 18 years older I met when teaching body sculpting (“stretch and tone”) at Main Street Dance and Exercise in Santa Monica. Her neighbor was an isolated 40-something secretary and bookkeeper from an extremely unhappy Armenian Seventh Day Adventist family. In 1999, three years after my seven-year best friendship had ended, I got a call in Santa Barbara from Dru. After stints in seven or eight EDUs and years of therapy (but not OA, to which she couldn’t commit), Sue leapt to her death from the top floor of a Santa Monica parking structure.

In my middle college years, I was just above runway weight (about 115). I was too thin, but I ate three square meals a day and worked out like a maniac. I didn’t drink a lot of alcohol (booze is fattening but that’s not why I drank so little) and I always got stuck in a dorm on the 4th floor. Yale’s residential colleges didn’t have elevators and the stairs were not what I jokingly refer to as California pussy stairs in a 1960s apartment building. I think the cold weather also stimulated my metabolism because as an LA girl, I’d never experienced real winters. By Thanksgiving, we were in overcoats and mufflers, and in the fall of 1992 after 18 months off for analysis, I went from 126 in late August to 115 by mid-November.

So I was really skinny. And frankly, I loved it. As I wrote on the post with the pink dresses, anyone who has never been a size 2 or 4 can’t fully appreciate the rush, the joy, and the pure sense of power that comes from looking like a model or actress on red carpet.  If you’re starving or puking your way to a 2, you don’t get the same sense of power or well-being because you’re deeply unhappy and usually, physically unwell or weak. But if, without taking extraordinary or unhealthy measures (puking, starving, or cocaine, for instance), you’re ready to don a gown at the Oscarst, it’s intoxicating.

Kathleen Rooney’s Live Nude Girl: My Life as an Object is a rigorous, witty memoir by a DePaul professor English professor, poet, and publisher about posing nude for art institutes to pay her way through grad school. The title fairly popped off the shelf at Chaucer’s Books, a thriving independent bookstore in Santa Barbara which stayed afloat long after Borders and Barnes and Noble went under. Like me, Rooney is a tall (5’8″), thin brunette. Unlike me, she’s the successful author of multiple books with a steady gig at a great school. Her memoir was published by a university press with endnotes at the tender age of 32 or 33, so I hold her in the highest regard.

Rooney captures the rush of being skinny in a paragraph early in the book:

My skinny is what I have always been. My skinny is
how I always want to be. My skinny is me. But some-
times I distrust it. My breasts are too small; my nipples
too pink. My butt is too big for my frame, curved and
fleshy.

By making “skinny” a noun, Rooney underscores the link between a super thin body and personal identity. Thinness isn’t just an adjective describing a person; it becomes a thing in itself. No writer I’ve read on the subject has ever nailed what it is, particularly for an intellectually powerful woman, to be skinny. I never worried about my breasts being too small but I was obsessive about size of my ass. Gaining even a few pounds (even if my Ann Taylor 2L jeans fit, except the ones my housekeeper shrunk) distressed me. But I was neck-deep in psychoanalysis, battling frequent nightmares and crying a lot, all the while getting all As and A-s in demanding and writing-intensive Yale courses.

Still, my concerns about weight or jeans size never prevented me from eating great food in New York, LA and New Haven (yes, New Haven had good food then and is now the sixth highest Zagat rated city in New England). In the 1992-3 academic year, I spent weekends on the Upper East Side with a family friend and Wall Street lawyer who put in 75 hour weeks. He took me to city’s best places and I took full advantage of the opportunity.

It was 22 years ago that I lived part-time on 88th and 2nd in a duplex at the luxurious Leighton House (one of the first in what is now Yorkville and before that Germantown). In December of 2010, I became a part-time New Yorker. With every passing year, the mannequins get smaller. Courtesy of Polar Vortex, I did vastly more walking this last trip than I normally do in summertime (I hate heat and humidity and would gladly take 30 over 90). And J and I have been eating at Paseo Nuevo, the outdoor mall in Santa Barbara, at Eureka! Burger and California Pizza Kitchen near Bebe and Lululemon. I’ve noticed how unnatural, even inhuman, those mannequins have become.

And while I’m generally unsympathetic to feminists who write about body image, I’ve come to feel that the fashion industry is partly to blame for the alarming number of girls who claim to have gone on a diet by fifth or sixth grade. I don’t know enough about the business to know precisely whom to blame (the marketers, the designers, the advertisers, or the shareholders). But mannequins even at cheap stores like Forever 21 and H and M are shrinking.  A size 2 exists in human nature. I know because I was one. While tiny, I still had some natural curves unlike an Ellen Pompeo or a Sandra Oh. Today’s mannequins range from 0 to 00, sometimes a 000. They aren’t even approximations of women in the state of nature.

Much, probably more than I care to know, has been written about Barbie dolls. As girly as I was, I didn’t play with dolls. Because my parents aren’t animal people, I didn’t have pets and compensated with stuffed animals.  And I hate feminist theory and criticism–Women’s Studies gives me hives–but surely whole forests have been felled so that feminists can rail against the evils of Barbie.

But here’s the difference between Barbie’s unrealistic and unattainable body and the mannequins all over Manhattan: Barbie is a doll wearing clothes no girl, teen, or woman can buy; these mannequins are wearing clothes actual women are intended to buy.

I work out at the flagship Equinox on the Manhattan’s East Side (63rd Street). It’s in one of the most expensive Manhattan zip codes (10065), and the women who work out there, even if 55 years old, are in better shape than 95% of American women. These ladies between 25 and 55 are fierce plankers, Soul Cyclers, weight lifters, Pilates students, swimmers, and runners. I’ve never seen anything like it in LA, though I no longer work out in an elite LA gym.

Rarely if ever do I see a woman at SBAC (or Santa Barbara generally) whose body  comes close in size or muscle tone to the 1-2% ladies at 63rd Street. Then again, Santa Barbara is hardly known for drivenness. Part of Santa Barbara’s raison d’être is its laid-back lifestyle, even compared to LA, which is considerably sleepier than New York.

The only place in America I feel like I’m full-figured is on the Upper East and West Sides of Manhattan and perhaps SoHo. Of course, getting cheap Chinese massages and grabbing a bite at Aroma Espresso Bar on 72nd between Columbus and Amsterdam near Steps on Broadway, or spending time near Lincoln Center where bun-heads abound, is guaranteed to make any woman feel like a moo cow. I never feel curvy or zaftig in LA. And outside some yoga studios, which dot the landscape like nail salons, Santa Barbara really isn’t that skinny a city. It has a reputation for gorgeous women, or at least gorgeous college girls, but I taught at UCSB for three years in the late 1990s. Girls not in the dance program or on sports teams had not only retained the Freshman 15; most were working on the Sophomore or Junior 15. The slovenly attire merely magnified the inattentiveness to fitness among many UCSB students of that era.

The only exceptionally fit Santa Barbara women I know of are triathletes and marathoners, not my circle because I’m not a mountain woman. Camping is incomprehensible to me and roughing it is staying at a nice youth hostel in D.C. or an Econolodge in San Diego. The only climbing I care to do is up stairs in an Upper East Side walkup. I hate hiking (it’s dusty and dirty) and I don’t know how to ride a bike. I didn’t learn as a child and I see no point to learning now, when as my FB mom never fails to note, I might break a hip. I have enough problems with my gimp ankle.

I realize that I’m still slender. Here are two flattering pictures in the best pair of jeans ever made (J Brand). 10517923_703412723027123_3450662020770620401_oEven Mom said took they take ten pounds off and worth the full price (200 dollars), though I paid 69 on consignment at Lola Boutique in Santa Barbara. Coming from Miss CVS Bux, who cut her hair at Supercuts until 72, this is saying a lot. I am happy to report that Mom has gone to a real salon for the last two years. Baby steps. I’m still dreaming of her first spa day but not holding out too much hope given the fiasco with the massage certificate for Mother’s Day which my father eventually used because she wouldn’t go even when it was paid for in advance.

With my Kangetech Vision Spinner and mini-pro-tank.

With my Kangetech Vision Spinner and mini-pro-tank in July, 2014.

I love my body; it’s a source or pleasure and pride. Of course I’d love it more a size smaller, or if it looked like it does in my most slimming pictures in all clothes. But I’m happy with my life in general and my body in particular.

Between 9/11 and 2008, my hermit phase, I didn’t go to restaurants or bars, nor did I buy wine at the supermarket. I drank nothing for nearly seven years and ate only pre-made food and cold cuts from Gelson’s or Lazy Acres (our pre-Whole Foods alternative not nearly as good in those days as it is now and quite limited in its to-go selections). I drank a lot of vegetable juice, swam for an hour five or six nights a week, took two or three long twilight beach walks a day, and stretched in my apartment at least 30 minutes a day.

I will always care about fashion and want to be slender and fit. I will always care about my skin, do fillers, and use good skin care. I make no apologies for regarding my appearance as an integral part of my personal identity and feeling about myself as I make my way through life. I’m not delusional enough to think that my face at 55 can look like my face at 42, when aestheticians with high standards express shock that I’m not 33. But I will do what I can. If “aging gracefully” means aging naturally, I want no part of it, though I don’t intend to be a cautionary tale like Meg Ryan. You can stay ten years ahead of the game from the neck up, not twenty.

From the neck down, there is no reason a woman with with no health issues and good genes who danced, swam, walked and did yoga throughout her life can’t have the body she did at 30. From the waist down, my mother’s body at 74 is better than it was at 55. She takes three to four ballet classes a week and eats small portions.

But I don’t have to be skinny anymore. Slender is enough.

Life is too short post-40 for one who doesn’t make a living off her appearance in whole or in part to forego wine, specialty cocktails, fine whiskey and great restaurants. To stay skinny (assuming you have the right genes) you need to eat frequently (four times a day, ideally) and I won’t cook, at least not routinely, anything but eggs and frozen dinners. My life revolves around restaurants and it’s my second biggest expense in life after rent. I don’t and won’t for the foreseeable future learn to cook the sorts of things I eat out, though occasionally I will sauté an onion with some garlic, boil some pasta and sprinkle some freshly grated cheese atop some expensive jar sauce.

As a skinny chick all your life, it takes some time for your eye to adjust to curves or extra weight. But it can be done. I know. I did it.

Curvy, fit me last month. I cropped out the legs as I didn't like how they looked. Ha. Cropping is your friend.  Also with EVOD. VAPING FOR LIFE

Curvy, fit me last month. I cropped out the legs as I didn’t like how they looked. Ha. Cropping is your friend.
Also with EVOD. VAPING FOR LIFE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“Big” Theater on Solstice Weekend: “Camelot in Concert” at the Granada and David Suchet in “The Last Confession” at the Ahmanson

June 21-22, Camelot in Concert. Granda Theater. www.granadasb.org.

June 21-22, Camelot in Concert. Granda Theater. www.granadasb.org.

Who says there’s no great theater in LA and Santa Barbara? Answer: people who haven’t lived or spent time in either place in the last dozen or so years. But this is a special weekend, particularly in Santa Barbara (and not due to that incomprehensibly popular  parade which clogs State Street and downtown) because a large scale musical with big names is playing two nights at the elegant Granada Theater, reminiscent of a 19th-C European opera house.

With the opening of the New Vic last December, Santa Barbara has a better theater scene than it has since I arrived in 1996. And now that summer is officially here, PCPA Theaterfest in Solvang and Circle Bar B are up and running with shows ranging from farce (Noises Off! and Forever Plaid at PCPA) to a comedy/mystery with a Noel Coward feel and a British comedy of manners  (Murder by the Book and Enchanted April at Circle Bar B). 

I am particularly excited about the positively reviewed Murder by the Book because my favorite shows at Circle Bar B feature its long married directors, Susie and David Couch. I’ll buy a ticket today for next weekend. (I was unimpressed by the golf farce last summer but really enjoyed three plays in the previous season.)

I can’t afford Broadway–at least not without sacrificing restaurants–but I attend four or five cabarets every trip to New York. And I catch the phenomenal modern dance troupe ChristinaNoel and the Creature whenever I’m in town. So after a month in LA and Santa Barbara, I start to jones for musical theater. Neither of my Southern California hubs have venues like the  Laurie Beechman, 54 Below, the Metropolitan Room or the Duplex, much less piano bars like the casual Marie’s Crisis in the Village, Brandy’s on the Upper East Side, or the much more upscale Bemelman’s at the Carlyle Hotel. Due to the old-school elegance and caliber of musicians regularly featured at Bemelman’s, it’s the only place I can pay $21 pre-tip for an admittedly large and stiff martini and feel I’ve gotten my money’s worth.

A New York server at Cafe Montana, whose father is in the Broadway world, said you can find occasional cabaret in Los Angeles, but only at the price point of Feinstein’s, the legendary cabaret at what used to be the Regency Hotel on 60th and Park but has for some time been known simply as the Loews. I’m two blocks from Dad’s old business hotel so walk by it a lot. Feinstein’s was closed during much of the renovation which seemed to go on forever, but now open.

54 Below is pricey ($75-$95) when a legend like Patti Lupone or four-time Tony nominee Laura Benanti performs, but many shows are in the $35-45 range, including Jarrod Spector, six years as Frankie Valli in Jersey Boys and co-star of the current Broadway sensation, Beautiful: The Carole King Story). Beyond the $25 food or booze minimum, I paid nothing to see Spector’s extraordinary show, about which Stephen Holden raved in the New York Times, because I pay $100/year to be a VIP Ruby member.

54 Below’s membership program gets me into some shows for free (particularly the 11PM shows with well-known artists or earlier ones with lesser-known talents), offers me preferred seating and first dibs on new shows, and earns me points on dinner and drink purchases. Sadly, nothing like 54 Below exists in LA. And of course in Santa Barbara, neither name would ring a bell to anyone under 55 or 60 unless a transplant from New York or someone with an interest or background in musical theater.

The last large musical production in Santa Barbara was My Fair Lady in Concert. As I blogged, the show suffered from technical problems and lack of chemistry between Higgins (played by the marvelous Jonathan Pryce) and Eliza (Laura Michelle Kelly).  Kelly isn’t Sierra Boggess, a trained opera singer before Broadway, but she sings beautifully. Alas, her voice didn’t save her acting (or cartoonish Cockney accent), so the show fell flat.

The Santa Barbara symphony remains one of the best of its size in America, and I adored the music, costumes and sets. But aside from Broadway veteran Gregory Jbara’s hilarious rendering of Alfred Doolittle (Eliza’s father) and Cloris Leachman’s scene-stealing turn as Higgins’ mother, it was a B- at best. This beloved musical just doesn’t fly when you don’t care about Eliza or understand why Henry–or anyone–would.

A less illustrious production of my favorite musical than the star-studded Kennedy Center one in 2013 starring Pryce, Jbara, and York, came to Santa Barbara the year before. I took my boyfriend, a complete theater (and musical theater) void whose cultured Brooklyn and Queens-raised Jewish parents never took him to the Lerner and Loewe show, to rectify this unacceptable state of affairs. (I frequently foist show tunes on the dear soul because you can’t date me for just under four years and not know who Ben Vereen or Stephen Schwartz are. Of course I can’t sing, but this doesn’t stop me from trying. A perennially good sport, he tolerates my efforts to educate him about the American Songbook).

While the music, set, and costumes were spectacular, the Eliza-Henry dynamic in 2012 was even worse than in 2013. But I’m not complaining. Well, maybe a little. (It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures, as I have explained, contra the New Age–and unwittingly anti-semitic–aversion to kvetching so popular in inspirational or motivational memes which clutter my newsfeed and trigger my inner Denis Leary, or worse, Jay Mohr or Bobby Slayton.) Still, if the Santa Barbara Center for the Performing Arts wants to keep trying to get a single classical musical right, it should be My Fair Lady; because even if the acting falls flat, there is still the unsurpassed music.

Marcia Milgram Dodge, the director of last year’s attempt, returns to the Granada with Camelot in Concert. Barry Bostwick, perhaps most famous for his six-year run as the lovable but hapless New York City mayor on Gary Goldberg’s Spin City, plays Merlin. In an interview with Casa Magazine, he said, “It’s quite a deep text for a musical. The themes are very challenging. Merlin’s tragedy is that he wasn’t able to tell Arthur about everything he will have to endure before he loses his magic. The ‘word’ has been ‘think.’ And Arthur ends up thinking too much.’”

Sean Patrick Leonard, who like Neil Patrick Harris, has successfully balanced theater, TV and film, plays Arthur. Brandi Burkhardt, Josh Grisetti, and Michael Campayno round out the cast of a musical I’ve never seen performed. I barely remember the movie, but all my life have heard the story of my parents taking my brother and sister, now 53 and 60, early in their marriage. (I have always considered them full siblings, but they’re Dad’s kids from his first marriage, not my mother’s children).

When Vanessa Redgrave appears in the white fur, my sister, then 13, audibly gasped at Guinevere’s radiance. Take that, Second Wave feminists! Little girls like beautiful grown-up girls in fancy clothes and shiny baubles. You can write all you like about the irrelevance of physical appearance or the myth of biology, but (most) boys like to blow things up or shoot things (even if the weapon is made of toast), and most girls at some point in their childhoods want to be the princess in a pretty dress who gets her prince.

Leonard called Camelot in Concert “a fun and sexy story with an amazing group of singers”: “Forget about the fates!” A reference, of course, to the musical’s deeper themes about fate, innocence, despair and hope. I haven’t read Tennyson’s Morte d’Arthur in many years, but as a Victorianist, I love all things Tennyson. I’m inspired to dig out my Norton Critical Edition and reread one of the two greatest poets of the Victorian age. My reading of Browning and Tennyson at UCLA in 12th grade drew me to the Victorians long before I declared it my specialty in graduate school.

So that’s my Saturday night after my swim, color, and mani/pedi. Tomorrow I head to LA to see David Suchet, best-known as Hercule Poirot, in The Last Confession. It has been described as a Catholic House of Cards, and since I’m missing that show so profoundly, I’m looking forward to what I imagine is a brilliant rendering of villainy. I find diabolical displays of power far more appealing when aestheticized. Real-world evil is rarely elegant or even smart–much less sexy–like Spacey’s Frank Underwood. Only Spacey could make a murderer of two likable characters at once appealing and beddable.

Papal intrigue was a favorite topic of Browning’s (Bishop Blougram’s Apology), and no Brit did the Italians better than the powerhouse poet who was George Eliot’s favorite of the Victorians, though she and George Henry Lewes socialized with Tennyson and his wife. Eliot was no slouch herself on the topic of Renaissance Italy. In her own time, she was known simply as the “author of Romola,” creating a complex villain in Tito Melema. Before Daniel Deronda’s Grandcourt, which influenced Henry James in his creation of Gilbert Osmond, the monster of Portrait of a Lady, there was Tito.

My parents enjoy Poirot and I read 30 Agatha Christie novels by the end of elementary school. But I know Suchet through one of my favorite films of the last fifteen years, HBO’s Live From Baghad, based on Robert Wiener’s book about the Gulf War. I encourage anyone who loves great writing and acting to rent the film starring Michael Keaton, Helena Bonham Carter, Lili Taylor and a host of familiar character actors. Suchet plays the Iraqi Minister of Information, Naji Al-Hadithi, who became Iraq’s Foreign Minister. The score is haunting and aside from the suspenseful narrative (a feat, given that you know how it turns out), Live From Baghdad is the best platonic love story I’ve seen as an adult.

Happy Solstice Weekend! (Though, as I said, I find it a great nuisance, not being a fan of parades in general, and particularly not one with such a hippie-dippy vibe. I’m the #grinchwhohatesSolstice.)

P.S. Last Saturday, our friend threw himself a spectacular 50th birthday bash at a large loft on Cesar Chavez. I forgot to write a Yelp review, but if you ever need a space which can accommodate 250 people with cozy industrial chic decor–not exactly ubiquitous in Santa Barbara–this is the place to rent. In lieu of gifts, he asked for donations to The Fund for Santa Barbara. J and I had a great time and got what I think is one of our best pictures together.10383876_686658918035837_1876026508630749590_o

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J’s 43rd Birthday Pictures and 3.5 Days (And Counting) 100% Smoke-Free!

At the carwash Monday. Prestige on Milpas Blvd in SB: fast and fabulous. Not cheap but it's SB so whatever. En route to LA for day of fun with New York/CT friend who doesn't know my hometown

At the carwash Monday. Prestige on Milpas Blvd in SB: fast and fabulous. Not cheap but it’s SB so whatever. En route to LA for day of fun with New York/CT friend who doesn’t know my hometown

I want to get to the club for a longish swim while it’s still cloudy (I’m too sore and tight for weights today), but wanted to report that it’s been 3.5 days since my last cigarette and that I have no desire for a real one. The key, as vapers told me since I switched from V2 (old school e-cigarettes with cartridges rather than liquid) to the Kangertech EVOD in February, is having backup tanks, batteries and charging cables. But I didn’t listen–till now.

I’m an odd mix of stubborn and laid-back. Things that drive my borderline OCD methodical boyfriend mad, a not wiped down table at a cafe, say, don’t faze me at all. My boyfriend is convinced that my iPhone is full of microbes and close to spawning organisms which will crawl out of the lucite Marware case and penetrate my ear drum. He bought me a new case months ago, but I haven’t pressed him to change it for me.

Maybe all this just makes me a slob when it comes to my electronics, not actually mellow.  I definitely get irritated (see my Yelp rants about the DC Metro and BART), but a lot of stuff just passes me by. My mother finally cleaned the screen on my 2011 MacBook Pro because she couldn’t bear having the equivalent of a petrie dish in her house, much less looking at it on her kitchen table, for one more day.

Mom seemed particularly distressed to learn that the caked on matter was the byproduct of sneezing and coughing directly on the screen rather than turning my head to do both as my boyfriend has suggested countless times. I tell him that his/our longhaired kitty is to blame for my daytime allergies and that it is not therefore entirely my fault. Just look at this guy!

Ollie the king of all kitties. Mr Fluffball.

Ollie the king of all kitties. Mr Fluffball.

I make the same argument about used tissues in the bed. Neither persuades him that I couldn’t avoid sneezing on my Macbook or toss the tissues every morning when I arise. But in the latter case, I do make an effort.  Furthermore, Mom had to clean my spit up and snot, among other things, when I was a baby, so I find her squeamishness about dried snot illogical. She seems to feel that it’s different now that I’m 42.

And Mom isn’t exactly a neat freak. Not to mention the fact that dear Hilma, the woman who came to my parents when I was five and continues to work 15-20 hours a week nearly 37 years later, is not known for her stellar cleaning skills.

My obsessive, and obsessively neat, Jewish grandmother (think Tree Grows in Brooklyn) didn’t think much of her as a cleaning lady, though Grandma loved Hilma as much the rest of the family always has. I haven’t written about my 30th St. Augustine reunion in May, which both Maya Rudolph and Gwyneth Paltrow attended. But Hilma was the star-in-absentia of the reunion: everyone remembered Hilma and no one could believe she still was still with us. Most people had help, if only part-time, and no one else’s housekeeper or nanny still works with their parents.

And to be fair, Hilma wasn’t hired on the strength of her cleaning or culinary prowess. She was hired to shop, cook Monday through Thursday, do laundry, keep the house picked up, and look after me. For some time, her sister, a wonderful woman from Guatemala with three grown sons, two of whom served in the military, has come every five or so weeks for five hours to do “heavy cleaning.” Between visits from Hilma’s sister, my aunt regularly mopped the kitchen floor because she likes to walk around the house barefoot and felt the floor was unfit for shoeless feet.

And Hilma doesn’t believe in throwing out food. Neither did Jean-Marie, come to think of it, the Buenos Aires woman who cared for me from 7 months, when Mom went back to work full-time as Executive Director of the Los Angeles County Bar Association the year Warren Christopher was president, to 5 years. (This was a perfect 40-hour-a-week mommy job, by the way).  She would cite the “pru people” in Africa as a reason not to toss stale or slightly molded bread. To this day, Mom does a refrigerator sweep every other day because if it were up to Hilma, unfinished half-and-half and cottage cheese would remain in the fridge in perpetuity: a sort of historical record of the Ordin family’s dairy consumption.

And in law school–which Mom seems to think a relevant detail–her fridge was so bad that Dad almost broke up with her at the outset of their courtship. She lived in a tiny studio at Venice and Robertson not far in those blissful traffic-free days in LA circa 1960 from UCLA Law and her job at 9107 Wilshire, next to the soon-to-be closed Kate Mantilini on the Beverly Hills/West Hollywood border, where Mom was office manager for five small firms with just ten or so lawyers including my father.

Either Dad was early or she was late for a date, so she invited him upstairs while she finished getting ready and told him to help himself to a beer in the fridge. Experiencing what he describes as a mild coronary upon opening the fridge door, he instantly thought to himself, “This isn’t the broad for me. If my mother sees this refrigerator, she’ll disown me.”

Mom’s 2010 Acura bought used in 2011 after a garbage truck crashed into her used 2002 Acura six blocks from the funeral of one of Dad’s oldest friends, is always neat and clean but for the pink foam curlers she often dons in the morning (and sometimes wears on the commute downtown if she has a breakfast meeting) because Dad made it a condition of marriage that she never wear curlers in bed.

And at least since my college years, Mom’s cars have been close to spotless. However, when she gets on me about my Saab (and before that, my Pathfinder), which at its worst my boyfriend’s son has referred to as “the landfill,” I remind her of the condition of her fridge during law school, during which she worked 25-30 hours a week as she had as a UCLA undergraduate.

To this Mom replies in her most exasperated tone (which isn’t all that exasperated), “Dear, I was 23 years old! And working my way through law school. You are 42 and don’t have a job. You can afford regular car washes!” I guess she has a point. Sort of.

Like me, though to a lesser degree, Mom leaves a trail in her wake. Dad said that throughout their marriage,  he could track her precise path after work by following her purse, blazer, keys and wallet through various rooms of the house they still live. J always marvels the day or two after I return from New York: “What happened? Everything was so neat. Now there are purses and empty wine glasses everywhere. And a K-Cup in the Keurig.  How do you do this so fast!?”

But at the moment, I’m pretty proud of myself. I took my car to the carwash for my fabulous LA day with Ellen, born and raised in Greenwich before marriage and  motherhood on the Upper West Side (and briefly, Scarsdale). That was Monday and other than the backseat–which I don’t even count, since that’s just mobile storage for a girl who lives in three cities– it’s still pristine. As I often note on Facebook when my feed is full of motivational memes about realizing your dreams, the key to happiness in life is low expectations. My mother has always felt this way and I have entirely embraced this philosophy. Low expectations do not connote laziness; one can still be disciplined but expect very little.

In this vein, I’ve recommitted to working out (apart from dancing, which sadly is not yet possible) and see a tremendous difference in my body, and particularly arms, as a result of the core work and strength training. And I’m thinking I’m going to stay with this clean car thing awhile and see how it goes. On a related subject, I’ve stocked up on tanks, batteries and charger cables and been 100% smoke-free for 3.5 days with no plans to buy a backup pack. Now that I have backups and a car charger, I’m never left in a lurch.

Which brings me full-circle. While my person is always immaculate, my possessions tend to be shmutzy. J calls me his “beautiful disaster” and “strange, shmutzy, spilly creature.” He says to look at me, you’d never think what a mess I am.

But again, I’m feeling pretty smug right now. After leaving my gorgeous 90% off wallet in the upstairs bathroom at the Laurie Beechman Theater on 42nd and 9th during the Christmas Cabaret Cares for AIDS and returning ten minutes later to find it gone, I have a new driver’s license.

Yes, I drive without the plastic card confirming that I’m a valid driver because I never get pulled over (except when my registration sticker is expired due to a late smog test). In CA, driving without a license has always been a 25 dollar fix-it ticket and while I’m careful about money, that’s not enough of an incentive to go through the rigamarole of the SB DMV, worse than ever now that Ventura is closed for renovations.

I started an informal pool on Facebook, asking friends to guess how long it would take me to lose. I am happy to report that it’s been ten days since picking it up at the rental I never stay and that in 19 days in the city, I didn’t lose my Montecito Bank and Trust card once!

So perhaps in my early 40s, I am becoming a grown-up in the logistical realm. I’m not proud that sometimes I forget to flush the toilet after I pee, but I’m often on the phone or texting and so forget. When I solicited praise for this feat, my boyfriend looked at me the way he does so often and said, “That’s great, sweetie. My 42-year-old girlfriend remembers to flush the toilet every time she uses it.”

My father pities J and says often, “Poor Jarrett, he must just go insane living with you. He’s such a normal, straight shooter and you’re just, well, nutty as a fruitcake! I need to call Jarrett and assure him that I understand his cross to bear. Maybe he should take some Ativan or Buzpar.”

I see patches of blue peeking through the June gloom (the marine layer over Santa Barbara between Memorial Day and the 4th of July), so need to get to the club to swim.

Here are the pictures from J’s pre-birthday sushi and cake celebration with his parents, son, and of course Doobie the Briard. 10457592_638809169544407_1945725308323711712_n

10448812_638809406211050_5494175080622397428_n

I like this picture and wish J's mother had used my phone, which like the iPhone update doesn't default to green.

I like this picture and wish J’s mother had used my phone, which like the iPhone update doesn’t default to green.

I am cheating on Emma. Sssh.

I am cheating on Emma. Sssh.

And here are the pictures from Montecito Wine Bistro last night (and yes, they take Axcess, buy one entree, get one free first time and 10% off–so free sales tax–thereafter). Sadly, the pictures of us didn’t really turn out.

Best chicken I've had in years. Perfectly tender and flavorful chicken atop white beans with tomato, spinach and asparagus.

Best chicken I’ve had in years. Perfectly tender and flavorful chicken atop white beans with tomato, spinach and asparagus.

10 oz Angus steak with truffled mashed potatoes and asparagus for him. The best chicken I've had in years atop white beans,tomato and spinach.  A Matua Sauvignon was perfect because the fire (at 65 degrees?!) was too hot that close.

10 oz Angus steak with truffled mashed potatoes and asparagus for him. 
A Matua Sauvignon was perfect because the fire (at 65 degrees?!) was too hot that close.

 

Lovely outdoor patio. Nicer than Piatti by a lot.

Lovely outdoor patio. Nicer than Piatti by a lot.

 

My dear Green Bay friend,who has stunning homes both in Wisconsin and Florida, immediately noticed the filthy fireplace.  "Egad! That needs to be cleaned!" Not surprisingly, I didn't notice.The only think I could think is why the hell is there a FIREPLACE blazing at 65 degrees?!  Answer: It's Santa Barbara. A weird place with a lot of, sorry, weather pussies.

My dear Green Bay friend,who has stunning homes both in Wisconsin and Florida, immediately noticed the filthy fireplace.
“Egad! That needs to be cleaned!” Not surprisingly, I didn’t notice.The only think I could think is why the hell is there a FIREPLACE blazing at 65 degrees?!
Answer: It’s Santa Barbara. A weird place with a lot of, sorry, weather pussies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Thursday!

P.S. Here is a picture at the Westside Pavilion with my friend Ellen, now in New York, pre-return to CA, where we will rendezvous again in a week or so. I drove her from her son’s place in WeHo along Sunset through Beverly Hills, Holmby Hills, Bel Air, and Brentwood,  to my parents in the Palisades.

With Ellen by Nordstrom/Landmark Cinema.

With Ellen by Nordstrom/Landmark Cinema.

We stopped for lunch at Cafe Montana, which was beyond fabulous. I ate a hundred times there in the late 1980s and 1990s, but hadn’t been back since 1999. I was out of LA nearly a decade and for whatever reason, the 32-year-old Montana Avenue staple dropped out of my parents’ stable. I will be back soon.

Our server, Roland, is from Manhattan and Queens musical theater stock. He is himself a performer and long on personality. I’ve never met an Angeleno who had heard of the small cabaret, Don’t Tell Mama. He says there’s nothing like it anywhere in LA, though we have upscale Feinstein’s sort of singers who visit bigger venues.

After Ellen chatted with my parents, I drove her to Nordstrom for the sweater/jacket I’ve been living in for months (I own in two colors) and then through Carthay Circle en route to West Hollywood for crostini at Fig and Olive.

I go to the original location a block from the place I stay in the city (62nd/63rd and Lex) and come to the museum-like WeHo location only when I am in that part of town. I’m in the city every two months, so I’m not motivated to fight traffic to get to the LA location and avoid the Newport branch like an STD.  As all my friends know, I don’t do the OC, not even (or especially) Newport Beach, which I consider thoroughly repellent.

6 for 21.  Note: The Burrata crostini in LA has pesto. Not the same as the NYC locations. Fig and manchego with marcona almond , along with the mushroom, the best. The salmon was pretty good but the pesto messed up the burrata.

6 for 21.
Note: The Burrata crostini in LA has pesto. Not the same as the NYC locations. Fig and manchego with marcona almond , along with the mushroom, the best. The salmon was pretty good but the pesto messed up the burrata.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Thursday!

 

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Happy Friday from the SBAC Pool: Blogging Break, New York, Re-Post of D-Day 2011 Blog

After pro makeup and hair for Mother's Day treat, pre-St. Augustine 30th reunion.

After pro makeup and hair for Mother’s Day treat, pre-St. Augustine 30th reunion.

Ah… I just finished a great strength training workout and found no open lanes at the pool, so I thought I would check in after nearly six weeks of no blogging.

New York was amazing as always, packed with cabaret, food, music, and friends. I will blog about a Uganda benefit at the Triad on 72nd and the phenomenal modern dance troupe, ChristinaNoel and the Creature, I saw for the second time in a year. Broadway Sessions, hosted by the inimitable Ben Cameron with the brilliant Joshua Stephen Kartes on the piano–my favorite way to spend a Thursday night in the city–featured the graduating musical theater majors from Ann Arbor (U of M). It was as moving a show as any at Broadway Sessions.

But I’ve experienced a bit of a workout rebirth in the wake of a training session at Equinox 63rd which was to focus on my weak ankle. I’ve been to the club in SB six out of eight days and feel such a surge of energy and vitality (not that I was low energy to begin with but I’m fired up about a non-dance workout regime for the first time in years).

I revised and added pictures to my old blog about D-Day and thought I’d re-post in a catch-up blog. I have probably 50 great (not professionally great, of course) New York pictures, along with pictures from my sister’s acoustic show last Saturday at Bob’s Espresso Bar in the bohemian, vibrant, and artsy North Hollywood Arts District. It’s not Throwback Thursday, to which I finally succumbed on Facebook, but here is Bob with my sister pre-Fast Times, with the rest of the gang of musicians and servers.

The gang at Hi Pockets. I wasn't sure if it was spelled "high" or "hi." A friend from those days said spelling it "high" would have been entirely too obvious. That's my sister in the gray jacket with white shirt and Bob kneeling bottom right

The gang at Hi Pockets. I wasn’t sure if it was spelled “high” or “hi.” A friend from those days said spelling it “high” would have been entirely too obvious. That’s my sister in the gray jacket with white shirt and Bob kneeling bottom right. Late 1970s or early 1980s.

My sister’s progressive rock band with her husband Gregg Olson is Scarlet Hollow, but this was all acoustic. I will write something up for the Patch with more details, but you can find Scarlet Hollow on Facebook. I love this picture of us. It’s one of the few good shots we have as adults. Gregg has recovered miraculously from the massive stroke of 2012 and they’re back to playing, writing and producing. 10369179_633676300057694_8663320986144014524_n

People on and off Yelp love Bob’s, but rent isn’t cheap on Lankershim Blvd. these days, so if you want to support local business, forego Starbucks and hit Bob’s. (The show was free but the suggested donation was $5, so if you know people in NoHo, send them over.)

“Bob” is Robert Romanos of Fast Times at Ridgmont High (1982), an iconic film about American teenage life which really put Phoebe Cates, Jennifer Jason Leigh, and Judge Reinhold on the cinematic map. It took years for people to see Sean Penn as anything but Jeff Spicoli and over 30 years later, people remember Romanos as Mike Damone.

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Still photos immediately conjure up Jackson Browne’s hit, “Somebody’s Baby Tonight” and I will forever associate a candy striper uniform with the song by one of Joni Mitchell’s many longterm boyfriends. Joni is my sister’s female idol, so I grew up with Joni, unlike most people my age.

I’ve often written that I have more in common with Baby Boomers than Gen Xers and it’s largely because of my sister and brother, 60 and 53, respectively. I worshiped the Big Chill, loved St. Elmo’s Fire, and detested the insipid Reality Bites. The Winona Ryder character wasn’t so awful, but her attraction to Ethan Hawke wiped out whatever sympathy I might have been able to muster. And you gotta do better than Ben Stiller as the solvent, stable sellout in the Saab (though I love Saabs and intend to drive mine another eight years) if you want me to care about her romantic conundrum.

Singles, on the other hand, was entertaining. I loved the soundtrack, which I played over and over in the closet passing for a bedroom in New Haven during the blizzards of 1992-3. But I could not at all relate to the aimless 20-somethings who, unlike the Reality Bites characters (with the exception of Janeane Garafolo’s), were at least likable. Immature and not overly bright, yet vulnerable and affable.

I saw Fast Times toward the end of elementary school or perhaps the beginning of Westlake, but we didn’t have a VCR until 1984, so I probably saw it on cable. I thought the movie was funny and cool, and I knew the actors would go on to bigger and better things. The script was funny and of course Sean Penn’s Jeff Spicoli was hilarious. But About Last Night was my sexual “coming of age” film, though, in 1986: gorgeous young adults in Chicago having lots of sex and drinking at a local pub was far more my style than awkward teens with fast food jobs and no apparent scholarly aspirations.

Having for six years attended an all-girl college prep school like Westlake, I’ve never been able to relate to movies about the typical coed public school experience. This is why The Breakfast Club, which I saw with my mother in Westwood on one of our Saturday mommy/daughter movie days) didn’t particularly resonate. I didn’t regret seeing it and understand why it loomed so large in the 1980s pop cultural landscape,but neither did I watch it again and again.

Also, the family dysfunction in the film struck me as too pat. I was already a Woody Allen fan by 6th grade. If I wanted neurosis, I’d choose the mature, Jewish, upscale New York version–even at 12, when I’d never been to the East Coast, much less the city. As my readers know, I was never really a teenager. By 14.5 years of age, I lived alone in the Palisades on weekends while my parents lived at the boat in the Marina. By 16, I had a car and a license and only ate dinner with my parents on Sundays, because I danced during the week at 6PM and then studied at the UCLA reading room till quite late. I wanted to go to Yale and I was busy with dance, debate, speech, and then teaching (“stretch and tone”).

I’ve decided to take a bit of a blogging break for summer, or perhaps just to extend the unintentional break I took in June. I love writing but I miss reading and watching TV. I’ve never even seen The Good Wife or Parenthood, and I’m now four full years behind on Grey’s Anatomy. Obviously I have no interest in Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, or The Walking Dead. But I saw just four movies last year and the year before. (J and I enjoyed Draft Day and I want to see the Jon Hamm baseball movie as well as the tearjerker with Laura Dern based on the popular novel, The Fault in Our Stars. 

I see an empty lane, along with a wonderful woman and grandma who received a doctorate in Chinese language and literature at Yale in 1965! She was headed east just before I left, and I look forward finally to having a nice wine date.

I didn’t blog about the debacle in DC, but I did write a Yelp list with six reviews which fairly covers the disaster of mass transit to and within that annoying, overpriced city. I got a lot of private messages from Yelpers I don’t know, so I think I must have hit a nerve.

It wasn’t, however, a total wash. I spent four stimulating and wonderful hours with Sigrid Fry-Revere, author of The Kidney Sellers: A Journey of Discovery in Iran. I also enjoyed Busboys and Poets and Chef Tony’s in Bethesda. But when I got back to Penn Station after a good friend gave me a pass for the Acela that Saturday after my night in a youth hostel on I Street, I wanted to kneel and kiss the filthy train station’s ground. When Penn Station evokes paradise, you know you’ve had a rough couple of days (and that DC sucks).

Perhaps over and above the long lunch with Sigrid and the nice bus ride down on Washington Deluxe, the trip was good comedic material. I’ve decided finally to take a class in stand-up and try some open mic. Lots of people have asked me if I do stand-up and while it’s a frightening and naked prospect–far scarier than walking on stage naked (which I would actually enjoy, to be honest)–I’m going to give it a try. My father alone is good for hours of material. 

I will eventually post a photo blog about New York, along with a blog about Blue Tavern’s Happy Hour. I spent more time than usual in Central Park because the weather was so beautiful, more spring than summer for most of the trip. 10269072_626936350731689_4411102207028995477_o

Wednesday is J’s birthday and Monday I will spend with my friend Ellen, whose New York trips have not coincided with mine since my birthday in 2013. And if you’re in LA, tomorrow is the “finish line” of the AIDS Life Cycle ride. I will be volunteering at 1PM. It’s Pride Week in West Hollywood, which is always festive and warm. I was in New York the day of the AIDS Walk, but didn’t get there till people had begun to disperse.

Happy Friday!

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A Qualified Defense of the Mrs. Degree: Experimental Blog in 200 Degree Santa Barbara Heat (Link to Click! Bang! Podcast with Jacob Sullum)

Vapor Connection, Isla Vista

Vapor Connection, Isla Vista

I. Obscene Heat, Vapor Connection and Click! Bang! Podcast with Reason’s Jacob Sullum.

I intended to blog both about the Vapor Connection in Isla Vista, Santa Barbara’s second legitimate vapor store, and about the predictably excellent podcast on Click! Bang! with Reason’s Jacob Sullum.

But it’s 200 degrees in Santa Barbara (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating but it’s goddamn hot) and almost no one in this so-called beach town has air conditioning. I can hardly breathe, much less write intelligently on a substantive topic with life and death stakes.

“But you only need air conditioning 10 days a month”: I’ve been hearing this nonsense for 18 years. It’s a bald-faced lie. You need air conditioning in Santa Barbara the minute it hits 77 degrees because for no reason anyone can explain, 77 degrees here feels like 87 degrees in West LA. You can’t blame it on humidity. And I can’t blame it on menopause for at least eight more years, at which point I’m seriously considering a temporary move to Wisconsin, Maine or Vermont. I don’t know where I will spend the four disgusting summer months, but by then I will have more funds than I do now, and I’m sure it’s cold somewhere in the world when it’s hot in America.

I’m a native Angeleno and the daughter of the same. But I hate the heat. A few Midwestern friends posted a funny e-card meme a month or two ago to the effect that the first person to complain about summer heat after this inhumane winter was going to get a baseball bat to the head.

But when I say that I’ll take 30 over 80, I mean it. 30 is a just fine temperature. 80 is an unacceptable temperature dry (except in Scottsdale, which has a reverse Santa Barbara effect whereby 80 feels more like 72). 80 with humidity is simply unacceptable and the only reason to put up with such horribleness is to play in Manhattan during the summer. It’s the worst time of year in the city, but there’s outdoor jazz and theater, along with a sultry, festive mood which partly compensates for the cost of cabs since the subway isn’t an option. I don’t buy on credit, but if I had to go into credit card debt for cabs during the summer in the city, I’d do so.

“But the subways are air conditioned,” New Yorkers insist. This is the equivalent of “you don’t need a/c in SB more than 10 days a year.” Yes, the trains are cool. But trains do not appear just because Victorian Chick graces the platform with her presence. It’s 10 degrees hotter below ground and unless you want to arrive at a restaurant (at any time of day) looking like you just got out of the steam room–or worse, mugged, with mascara streaming down your face–subways just aren’t an option.

After a lovely experience this afternoon at the DMV of Santa Barbara–with a line out the door simply to get a number because the Ventura DMV closed–I sat in my 2007 Saab 9/3 2.0T for a full hour blasting the a/c and listening to classical music on KDB. I probably used 1/8th of a tank of gas, but it was money well spent.

My SB friend with kitties almost as spectacular as Ollie saw my post on Facebook and said he too was in his parked air-conditioned car listening to KDB.  Thirty minutes later, he sent me a link to The David Hazletine Quartet streaming live from Lincoln Center, which has elevated my mood considerably, but not enough to write lucidly about the recent FDA deeming regulations re e-cigarettes. The best resource on all e-cigarette related matters remains CASAA. Here is their official response to the distressing document of 240 pages. If you, or someone you know, vapes, please join CASAA.

So my experiment for this blog concerns a status update I posted in about 9 minutes from my iPhone before editing and expanding from my MacBook. A FB friend of mine in Illinois who adores Ollie (I mean, only an evil kitty hater like my former Upper West Side friend can fail to worship at the altar of Ollie) asked to share the post on his timeline. A bookseller and active political Facebooker, he’s been very kind to me and my blog.
He posted it as a “brilliant–and controversial–essay” by Victoria Ordin, which struck me as odd, given it was just a status update.

Curious, I plugged the update into Open Office and found that it was 850 words. At the risk of offending 90% of bloggers, I have to say the writing on most blogs is simply embarrassing: run-on sentences, creative punctuation, amorphous voice, bizarre spelling, and trivial if not entirely vapid content. Even bloggers I know who are both smart and educated (though not in English or philosophy) write blogs my mother characterizes as “at best, notes via email to a friend about a casual and insignificant event.”

I don’t consider even compelling offhanded thought worthy of a blog post. It’s just me thinking aloud. But if you’re on LinkedIn and click on a blog in the “professional bloggers” forum, you’ll see many posts which say much less (in much less coherent ways).

J and I are going to Milk and Honey for dinner. I go to LA tomorrow for lunch Friday with two Westlake alums 17 years my senior before Saturday’s reunion lunch. The tubal yanking (that’s not the technical name which is too long for me to remember) wasn’t nothing. The pain in my shoulders lived up to they hype. After 24 hours, I was taking only Advil.

But I didn’t feel good for three days and my stomach bore a disturbing resemblance to an Ethiopian child on one of those Sally Struthers television pleas for money. It’s not as though I’m a stranger to a faux pregnant tummy the first day of my cycle. But this was extreme. If you’re in a longterm relationship and you know your partner never wants another kid, I suggest you make him snip snip. A tubal ligation is real surgery under a general anesthetic.

Happy Wednesday from the equator (aka Santa Barbara)!

P.S. Even Ollie and Emma agree the heat sucks.

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Ollie after his slumber, wondering why I'm bothering to pet that dopey yellow dog who is half-unconscious

Ollie after his slumber, wondering why I’m bothering to pet that dopey yellow dog who is half-unconscious

 

II. A Qualified Defense of the Mrs. Degree.

 

        The Mrs. Degree is proof that options exist for women which do not in the same way exist for men. Some men want a wife and mother who will raise healthy and happy kids, and they’re willing to support a woman who does that and that alone.

Among the many flaws of feminism (and liberalism generally) in my lifetime is the stigma attached to this option. The other grand mistake is the idea that everyone needs a 4-year college degree, and that trades and vocational education are less valuable or worthy. Never has this snobbery been more unwarranted: successful plumbers make far more than assistant professors at a UC campus and usually more than associates–that is, tenured but not full professors. Good waiters make more than adjuncts and community college folks, who amount to intellectual slave laborers.

Just this week, the Atlantic ran one of the most depressing stories I’ve read in years about poverty among university professors, some 75% of whom are adjuncts with no reasonable hope of securing a tenure track positions. Don’t get me started on the rising salaries of administrators, who seem to be proliferating like cancer cells. 

But without going back to Austen or Eliot or the concept of dowries, Americans once understood the value of an education for a woman who would eventually become a homemaker. Schools in Manhattan like Miss Porter’s and, to a lesser extent, Chapin, are monuments to this understanding.

Girls of a certain class went to “finishing” or “charm” school and learned useful things about being a hostess to a successful man. Of course, Chapin families today like to think the school is as rigorous as Brearly (or Nightingale Bamford), but that’s hogwash.

 My classmate from K to 6, Gwyneth Paltrow, attended Spence when the family moved to the city. I thought she’d spent a year or two at Nightingale but I think I’m wrong. In the recent New York Post piece about the now 37-year-old Spence girl who made 300/hour as a dominatrix (not an escort), the woman said she recalls kindergarten girls kissing the schoolmistress at the end of each school day. I’m not sure if curtseys were involved, but they may very well have been.

Even circa 1969 on the “left coast” in the heart of Hollywood at my alma mater, Westlake School for Girls (though really, who knows about those Los Angeles weirdos?), they offered “deportment” classes. Ha. Deportment! A friend of mine in the class of 1973 tells me that the tide was changing during her years. The Women’s Movement influenced even privileged girls in West LA attending a school in Bel Air (Holmby Hills) on 700 North Faring Road.

My boyfriend’s mom’s parents sacrificed to send her to Barnard. She was middle class, not a typical Barnard girl born in 1943. She became a prominent allergist (though she initially certified as a pediatric orthopedist), attending SUNY Med after Barnard and marrying her fellow med student, Jarrett’s father, shortly after graduation.

She tells me that her mother was apoplectic when a wealthy Jewish boy asked for her hand in marriage at age 19. Her mother was a first-generation Jewish immigrant in Brooklyn who worked while the grandmother took care of her and her little sister. She spoke Yiddish to the girls until her father put his foot down, fearing she would not properly assimilate and become a real “American.” This was not an uncommon story.

 My de facto mother-in-law’s mother was downright horrified that she wouldn’t marry a man she didn’t love. She liked him as a friend, but didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with this man who was not merely well-off but truly wealthy.

My point is not that she should have married this wealthy man. It is rather that you don’t have to go back even a century (much less two) to a time when marrying for security was commonplace. Growing up in West Los Angeles private schools, it was unusual to find a mother circa 1985 who wanted her daughter to marry a doctor or affluent professional. But as recently as 1960s Brooklyn, there were mothers who thought along these lines.

At my boyfriend’s mother’s Barnard freshman address (happily, the term “freshperson” had not yet been inflicted upon us), the president, a heroine to her, said to the 200 girls that they were there because they were smart and talented. But she also knew that many at Barnard not primarily to cultivate their minds but to find a husband at Columbia (or one if its professional schools).

Her message, in considerably more ladylike language, was, “Screw that. You’re at Barnard for you. Don’t foreclose options and waste this rare opportunity to do something extraordinary with your lives.” (As it happened, the president had four kids in her 40s, in a rare of example of “having it all” or “leaning in,” to take a word currently in vogue.

Susan Patton, that obnoxious Princeton graduate and mother of Princeton girl, ignited a shitstorm that went fairly viral because she said that if Princeton girls wanted families, they might keep their eyes open during college for a suitable husband and father. Since the article, she’s published a book about which one witty writer had this to say: “The problem isn’t that Patton is a lousy feminist; it’s that she’s a lousy elitist.” 

Family was never my plan: my thought was husband and tenure. But there’s no room in today’s feminism for commonsense. Patton gave sensible advice in her letter to the Princetonian: not every Princeton girl wants an MD, PhD, MBA or JD and those who don’t might look around for a life partner while they’re still surrounded by what David Halberstam termed “the best and the brightest.”

Patton’s tone was insufferable, but her basic point was not wrong. As a Yale graduate and Ph.D. Candidate who will never be a professor, I can attest that out of Manhattan and some West LA circles, it’s not easy to find men who can keep up with me both intellectually and verbally.

This, incidentally, is why I love Facebook. I have amazing interlocutors, often male, in their 50s, 60s and even 70s, who are both accomplished and cultured and understand what I’m talking about.

In Santa Barbara, men like that tend to be over 55 (and often grandpas), which is why I hang out so much at the Wine Bistro of Montecito–that and the large numbers of ex-New Yorkers whose stories about New York before my college years fascinate me. Wine Bistro may be geriatric, but I have the most stimulating conversations with the most interesting men. And the wine is only 6/glass from 3PM to 6PM for all Pierre LaFond varietals, which I can’t resist.  

Women who don’t want to pursue professional degrees will likely work at some less than thrilling job for several years while they look—as educated women—for a man who wants kids and is equipped both emotionally and financially to support them. In other words, they’re looking for a ring. And there’s nothing wrong with that. 

Too, not every woman wants to marry an intellectual or cultural peer. Many successful, smart and bookish women prefer a solid, strong, kind man of integrity, even if he couldn’t place Chaucer in a century, name a single David Mamet play, recite the plot of Pippin in two sentences, or tell you who Dawn Steel or when the English defeated the Spanish Armada. 

There are competent, smart, logical and hardworking men who work in fields which do not require a liberal arts education. A friend of mine knows a Princeton PhD married to a blue collar guy and they’re happy. But if you do want a mental sparring partner who knows the same cultural references, what better place to look for that than at an Ivy League school? 

Men are more likely to stray when their wives are boring bimbos. Sex is essential. But being the best lay in America won’t keep most brainy professionals satisfied. A moderately attractive woman who can keep a man intellectually stimulated is more appealing to a successful and decent man than a hot crazy woman who has nothing very much to say.

To get and keep a great guy, you have to be kind, great in bed, not a nut (this is key), and fun to talk to about a range of subjects. If, that is, monogamy matters to you. If, on the other hand, you’re content for your husband and the father of your children who provides a stable, comfortable home to have a discreet extracurricular life, that’s cool too.

But most women are jealous and possessive and aren’t content to screw the pool boy or tennis pro at the club in Greenwich or Westchester, while her doctor or lawyer hubby bangs residents or associates.

The disaster of marriage as recounted to me at bars both in LA and Manhattan is a dearth of honesty.

You can’t get what you want in life unless you know what you want. Better to make rational, informed choices about your life path than end up 30 years later posting platitudinous and redundant positive thinking memes on FB year after year with no apparent change in your level of comfort and peace.

 

 

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Quick Eve of Surgery Blog Before Century City Drinks with Westlake Girl ’89: Berlin Currywurst and Hollywood Patch Review of Zack Parker’s Proxy

Finishing Proxy review at Tre Lune with a glass of Syrah.

Finishing Proxy review at Tre Lune with a glass of Syrah.

Since I will be loopy on Vicodin for at least two days, I wanted to post my Friday blog today. Tomorrow I become officially infertile (woohoo!). Dr. Maureen Echt, the beautiful blonde gynecologist raised and trained in Louisiana is cauterizing, rather than tying, my fallopian tubes because some research indicates that it decreases the risk of ovarian cancer later in life. It’s no more money, just another insurance code, and my insurance picked up 90%, so my co-pay is only 650 bucks for a top surgeon.

They blow up your tummy with gas, which creates neck and shoulder pain.  Everyone I’ve talked to, including Dr. Echt and J’s brainiac doctor parents, confirm that I will not be feeling too hot for a couple of days. I’m planning finally to see The Good Wife. If I can’t stream or buy that on an instant service, I’ll try Parenthood. And if that’s not available, I will either do a Sports Night two-season blitz or go back to Rescue Me. 

I’m going to hit Vons for some frozen meals and stock up on fresh pressed juice from the Montecito juicer. J will get me wine and I’ll have a big old “infertility party” in bed with Ollie purring next to me. Yeah, yeah, I know you’re not supposed to drink on Vicodin but a glass or two never hurt me before. And if the pain turns out to be less bad than everyone says but still bad enough to render me useless, it will be a fun TV and wine party with Ollie keeping me company. The kitty always knows if I’m under the weather and wanders into the bedroom to comfort me. He’s the best kitty ever. This is an objective fact, not personal bias. Ollie just is the best. Period.

10003871_477194419049404_113999611_oI spent two full days writing my Hollywood Patch review (posted also to Park Slope, Studio City, and Pacific Palisades):“Highbrow Horror: Genres Blue in Zack Parker’s Proxy”. I’ll link to my Yelp review of Berlin Currywurst later. And I never restored the 1300 words on last week’s blog, which mysteriously disappeared. Actually, it’s not so mysterious. J is always nagging me to close windows and this is why: I spotted a typo and went to an old tab to fix before clicking “update.” So a draft half again as long replaced the blog initially posted.

Our YouTube video, “Why Do You Need a Flipper Anyway?: Female vs Male Knife Flipping”, seems to have amused viewers of J’s channel, JGTELLSU. In the last month, J has posted a number of informational videos about guns, knives and computers. I wouldn’t have noticed the problem had I not seen the hyperlink gone.

I should swim since I’ll be in bed a few days but I’m not feeling motivated, so I will just hit Nordstrom on the way for the taupe version of my first retail top in years. I adore this snuggly sweater/jacket for $90 sold in the lingerie department. It’s a perfect top for flying, a sort of sexy snuggie. I hope they still have it because it was a month ago and they understandably flew off the shelves.

For those of you who missed the Noel Coward review on the Malibu Patch, here it is: “Noel Coward’s “The Vortex”: A Modernized But No Less Vertiginous Tale of Vanity, Manners and Family.

I’m quite proud of these last two reviews and gotten wonderful feedback from writer-friends. The admin’s response on Proxy‘s Facebook page particularly moved me: “This is overwhelmingly incredible, Victoria. I greatly appreciate all the thought that went into this review. That’s really the ultimate compliment for a storyteller.”

Sure, it would be nice to get paid (though nicer just to be writing for the New York Times or Wall Street Journal regardless of pay). But I don’t really care about the money. Even if you get $1000 or $1500 for a piece–my take for the Weekly Standard pieces on John Lithgow and Edith Wharton, it’s not even enough to pay a month of rent.

The review is just 1524 words but I spent longer writing it than even the TWS pieces (unless you count the time it took to read the books). I met some Ph.D. students who didn’t consider criticism an art, but from the moment I got lost in journals at the UCLA ERR (English Reading Room) in 12th grade, I fell in love with literary criticism.  I took English at UCLA senior year and felt my heart beat differently–and faster–while reading Congreve criticism for my Way of the World paper.

I don’t regret not having become a professor. The academy sucks today and I’d be miserable at all but a dozen universities in America, at none of which I would likely have been tenured even if I secured a position as junior faculty. But from the beginning, my teachers noted a passion and voice unusual even among my cohort (this was true at Yale as well as UCSB).

The passion a writer or director feels for storytelling, I feel for literary–and more generally, textual–criticism. Stephen Fraade, a Judaic studies professor at Yale, tried to steal me to his department from English after a close reading of a passage from The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan about sin, fear, death and wisdom. Sadly, that was a casualty of the lost Compaq Contura 386 in a local Santa Barbara move nearly ten years ago. But this is what I was born to do.

I could have been a lawyer–and likely would have gotten into Yale Law. Not even then-Yale Dean Richard Brodhead’s effusive recommendation (along with Phi Beta Kappa, magna cum laude, and distinction in the major) could get me into the graduate English program. And frankly, being the daughter of high-profile, deeply respected legal figures in LA and California more generally, I would have had connections both in New York and in LA post-law school graduation. But I never even thought of applying to law school. For one thing, when you’re the daughter of Robert and Andrea Ordin, there’s only one place to go: down.

I also could have been a good therapist–the kind with a Ph.D. and certificate in analysis,  not an MFCC or LSW. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, psychoanalytic institutes finally broke down and let in Ph.D.s, much to the horror of M.D.s who took a “Fuck you, I didn’t want to go to medical school either, but I did and so should you” approach.

Graduate work in psychology didn’t occur to me any more than law school because I considered psychologists professionals.  I wanted to be a scholar, someone thinking meaningful thoughts and writing significant books, not someone practical working in the real world. Helping someone deal with a fucked up family seemed like an okay way to spend your life, but certainly not on an intellectual par with writing about Kant or Wordsworth (unless you published theory in analytic journals). The real world seemed banal by comparison to the life of the mind (and not a pathological mind attached to a non-functional human being); that’s where I wanted to dwell. Too, the real world aspect of teaching appealed to me. I love lecturing and helping students with writing.

Had I to do it over, I might have gone to psych grad school, but probably not. I knew I wasn’t having kids and therefore didn’t need to make a lot of money. I also knew I was content to live in under 1000 feet for much of my life and forego big houses or luxury cards. I wanted dwell in beauty–both literary and philosophical. A Romantic (big R) even as a teen. If I’d had to support myself, I probably would have gone to psych grad school rather than law school, but who knows.

I’m just grateful for the years of elite training I received at three schools–UCLA, Yale, UCSB–and the opportunity to write whatever I want without worrying about financial renumeration. That’s why I’m going into real estate as a bicoastal relocation consultant (“referral agent”). You don’t become a writer to make money. If you make money as a writer, odds are you’ve sold out and pandered to the masses (Danielle Steel, E.L James (50 Shades of Grey lady), Jackie Collins etc).

The best writers outside Hollywood may support themselves at a modest level, but few great thinkers and writers earn a lot. A Yale English classmate of mine is now editor of Paris Review. He went to Sidwell Friends in DC before Yale and then to Hopkins with our fellow Yale English friend and now successful poet, Lisa Lubasch. I’m sure he does fine, but I’m also sure his family is there to help if he needs it. Even during my college years, English majors tended to come from more affluent families because we knew no matter what, we would be able to pay our rent, even if just on a modest one-bedroom.

I’m content to entertain and occasionally enlighten those who read and follow me. When I can plug a writer, director or actor who isn’t yet well-known (or even solvent), I’m happy to help in whatever small way I can. The e-cigarette writing I’ve done is a rare entree into politics, but that’s an issue near to my heart.

With that, I’m off. Bringing Dad pecan pie from Max’s, which he calls the best he’s ever eaten.

Happy Thursday!

P.S. Ollie had a yucky day yesterday. He doesn’t like Acepromazine, aka kitty Valium, but he likes driving sans sedation even less. Here is the sad, stoned picture.

Ollie stoned and not purring.

Ollie stoned and not purring.

Here he is today, back to his old bossy, purring, snuggling self.

"Don't even think of moving me or putting the computer on the ottoman."

“Don’t even think of moving me or putting the computer on the ottoman.”

 

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Simple Pleasures: A Perfect Cheeseburger, A Grapefruit Mimosa, A Fun Manicure/Pedicure and a Funny YouTube Video (My First on Boyfriend’s Channel about Gun Maintenance, Collectible Knives and More)

I love my EVOD! Virgin Vapor. Plum Crazy.

I love my EVOD! Virgin Vapor. Plum Crazy.

Thanks to all my readers for the wonderful feedback on the 3rd anniversary blog! I included links to a range of pieces on Huffington Post, Weekly Standard, Patch, and Victorian Chick, hoping to provide a representative sample of the many topics I cover. Except for a few paragraphs here or there about reproductive freedom, or the long rant about Rick Caruso’s diabolical plans for Pacific Palisades, I stay off politics.

It’s cloudy in SB, my favorite swimming weather but not feeling too motivated, so thought I would pass along one of my two favorite burger joints in SB, American Ale. We love Eureka! Burger, but the two places are quite different. Eureka has a range of excellent appetizers and salads plus a decent wine list. If you’re dining with a wine drinker or vegetarian (I guess we all have such skeletons in our closets, but I have fewer than most for a WLA and Santa Barbara girl), Eureka! is a better choice. It’s also bigger and glitzier than America Ale, which is grittier and features an excellent selection of beer and whiskey, plus specialty cocktails.

In other words, you don’t go to America Ale if you’re a prissy wine drinker who subsists on rabbit food. You go for a burger and if you’re being virtuous, you pass on the great fries and go with the salad. The jalapeño vinaigrette is fantastic, so last night J got the American burger (two patties) half-price with an ongoing Yelp check-in deal. Two patties are too much for me and I’m attached to the “horseradish blue” burger anyway.

American burger. Two patties.

American burger. Two patties. (That’s the regular ranch. They had to bring vinaigrette later)

Horseradish blue. Regular fries. Hot, hot, hot when they come out!

Horseradish blue. Regular fries. Hot, hot, hot when they come out!

I’m not into beer, at least not conventional beer. It’s a pointless alcohol which makes you fat but not buzzed. And it makes you pee like a diabetic. (My friend in 5th grade learned she had diabetes after our teacher called her parents and said she had to pee with astonishing frequency, so when I think excessive peeing, I think diabetes.)  I like craft beer, which has a higher alcohol content and tastes completely different from your average bottle (or God forbid, canned beer). Shock Top, which my beer aficionados on Facebook often call a “gateway” beer (between traditional and craft), is nice. A Kirin is good with sushi and occasionally I’m in the the mood for a Negro Modelo. But mostly I think beer is a fattening waste of time.

Still, the IPA was perfect with the meal. At “social hour” (their name for happy hour), 32 ounces is just $9 dollars. I was early and tried one of the specialty cocktails, the Rye Grain ($12), with branca, honey lemon, and mint. It tasted good, but a small portion for the money I would rather spend on a straight serving or two of whiskey neat. But the ramekin with a single large ice cube is cute and I’m not sorry I tried it.

The "Rye Grain"

The “Rye Grain”

I like the interior and now that it’s Daylight Savings Time, you can actually see the pretty wood. We’ve never seen it so deserted but were told that after the time changes, people don’t really flood in until after dark. We’ve never gotten a table at the window and were one of 15 people in the entire restaurant eating.1017004_611417965616861_4528038095330654213_n

I had planned to introduce J, who seems not to have seen any movies during his ten years in Houston from 4th grade to college, has never seen About Last Night. Sacrilege. An unusually grammatical commenter on YouTube gushed, saying the movie explains why some are so nostalgic for the 1980s. Indeed. I bought the soundtrack (though I probably bought as many soundtracks on cassette and then CD as regular albums during my teens and 20s), which I played incessantly.

But we decided to do a YouTube video for his new channel. I didn’t realize it takes him over an hour to upload, edit, tag and determine thumbnails, so by the time he was finished tinkering with the video, it was too late for the movie.

Growing up around the entertainment industry, I saw a lot of movies, though more St. Augustine parents were TV people. And even those I didn’t see in the theater, I eventually saw on cable or video. Barring that, I knew the casts and basic premise of most movies from the Calendar section, where I read reviews and interviews. I recall parents of friends eagerly awaiting the Nielsen ratings, whichI think ran in Tuesday’s Los Angeles Times.

Until college, I didn’t know that were people in America who didn’t know–or care–what Nielsen ratings were. I mean, I suppose I knew there were farmers or cowboys to whom this data was irrelevant. But I didn’t spend a lot of time on farms (like none), so the reading habits of farmers wasn’t exactly uppermost in my consciousness.

If you grew up around TV people, Nielsen ratings mattered. It was the difference between your friend’s mom’s or dad’s show getting picked up or getting canceled, and therefore the termination of employment. On the upside, it freed up your Friday nights (when sitcoms are taped). Ratings aren’t like a thumbs up on your gown or tux for the Emmys in some silly entertainment rag’s list of best and worst dressed. It was the difference between working and not working. At Yale, I met people who knew no one who worked in Hollywood (or Broadway): not a writer, producer, agent, director, musical director, costume designer, entertainment lawyer, choreographer, gaffer, grip or even chauffeur to such people.

That was 25 years ago of course, but it never ceases to amaze me how many movies I consider just basic cultural staples of our shared generation escaped J’s notice. Houston has repellent summers, so I’d think they’d all be at the movies for the a/c if nothing else. I understand most people have a/c in Houston, but you’d think sometimes you’d want to get out of the house you’re under the equivalent of house arrest several months a year.

But J spent all his time playing guitar. His parents, born, raised and educated in Brooklyn and Queens (though his mother went to Barnard in the Erica Jong, Twyla Tharp years) are lifelong film buffs. They recently bought the platinum pass for the SBIFF (the Santa Barbara International Film Festival), a dream they had as broke medical students, and attended four or five movies a day for ten days. His parents didn’t dream specifically of SBIFF, of course, but they wanted someday to attend a major film festival.

Though J loves some movies, J seems not to have inherited any significant interest in film; he has no inclination to keep up with new films, either in the theater or on Netflix. I blame this in part on our pathetic excuse for a newspaper in Santa Barbara, the Santa Barbara News Press. And the fact that SB sucks beyond all conception as a movie town. We have one, count ‘em, one, movie chain. I was dumbfounded upon arriving in 1996 that the movie listings occupied one-eighth of a newspaper page. We now have fancy theaters out in the sticks of Goleta in the Camino Real Marketplace. That’s hardcore suburbia. And Paseo Nuevo is still quite nice.

But movies come and go in a couple weeks unless they’re blockbusters or odd indie hits (that overrated Oscar-winning  Slumdog Millionaire stuck around for months: I enjoyed it but would never see it a second time and didn’t understand the fuss at all). Too, plenty of interesting independent films you see in LA at the Laemmle, Arclight or Landmark never even make it up here. Two hours from LA and you might as well be in [pick whatever Middle American small city has a moribund movie scene].

In the Internet age (with IMDB and the WSJ, NYT and LAT readily accessible online), it’s easy to read intelligent writing about film, theater, music and art. But I attribute J’s lack of interest both to that piece of shit paper we have here and the Metropolitan Theater monopoly. Film just hasn’t been part of J’s life, either in Texas or Santa Barbara.

I  myself rarely go to movies because I see so much theater and cabaret, both in LA and NYC. I occasionally go to the symphony or ballet and I attend the lectures at UCSB, so for three or so years, the bulk of my entertainment is live. Occasionally, I like to see a movie in New York when I’m tired and don’t want a big night out. The Cinema 1, 2, 3 is a few minutes from the apartment and the F train to Sunshine Cinema on the Lower East Side involves almost no walking.

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Thoughts on Victorian Chick’s 3rd Anniversary: Writing for Love and Identity, Dealing with Haters, and Getting a Real Estate License to Work as Relocation Consultant

With Doobie, J's parents French Briard I love as much as our lab, Emma. Here in SB for Passover

With Doobie, J’s parents French Briard I love as much as our lab, Emma. Here in SB for Passover

Last week marked three years of Victorian Chick. I’ve been too busy to think of an anniversary blog which does justice to the role it plays not just in my everyday or social life, but the way in which it consolidated my personal identity in ways nothing else in my life has.

Of course, teaching English in a New England or Mid-Atlantic liberal arts or research university was supposed to give my life intellectual and professional meaning. That didn’t happen and there is nothing else by way of career to which I truly am suited except writing.

I. Victorian Chick Ventures into Real Estate: Bicoastal Relocation Counsultant-To-Be.

I’m getting a real estate license to work as a concierge/boutique bicoastal real estate consultant and actually quite excited about it. It’s a niche market–Manhattanites finally bailing on the city–which I’m well-positioned to tap because I live on the Upper East Side three months a year and hear yearnings for good weather and lower mortgages almost nightly at bars.

Even the most beautiful properties (apartments as well as single family homes) in the better parts of LA are generally less than comparable places in the priciest parts of Manhattan, where the “maintenance fees” (their version of HOA dues) are simply outrageous. I met a couple at Fishtail with a co-op on exclusive Sutton Place. Their maintenance fee is $3800! That’s a mortgage on a quite nice house on the coasts and a veritable mansion in many Middle American cities. I’m also a Pacific Palisades native and the daughter of native Angelenos who lived mostly East of La Cienega until married with children, so I know LA well.

As I blogged in February from the city, New Yorkers are mad for Santa Barbara, where I’ve lived since 1996 (until 2010 full-time).  I’ve had several illuminating meetings with realtors both in the city and in LA/SB and spoken at length with a Wisconsin friend and realtor formerly in Santa Barbara. I’m grateful for all the support and encouragement I’ve received in so short a time, and directly or indirectly, all came to me through Facebook.

The real estate adventure will broaden and complement my bicoastal identity and lifestyle focus. This week I hit 400 reviews on Yelp, the majority of which cover Manhattan, West LA and Santa Barbara. Roughly two-thirds of my Yelp reviews, most of which are mini-blogs heavy on social commentary, deal with food, a core part of life everywhere I live. I also have lists about Chicago, Grand Rapids and Scottsdale, as well as a list about my favorite secondhand or resale boutiques in NJ, CA, and AZ. (I haven’t done the thrift stores in NYC, but the designer resale is still out of my price range.)

But relocating to a foreign land–and LA might as well be another country for a lifelong New Yorker, or even East Coaster–is not about just finding a place to live. It’s about making a life. For parents, it’s also about schools, in this crowd mostly private, but public as well in the areas with higher property taxes and better schools.

Beverly Hills High was the crown gem of the LA schools long before (the first) 90210. In the 1980s, it was still a fine school and then it slipped before partly recovering. Palisades Charter High School (Pali High) has ranged from outstanding to decent over the decades (busing, well-intentioned as it was, did not have a felicitous effect on the school’s quality). Currently, Santa Monica High or Samo, where Charlie Sheen, Rob Lowe and Emilio Estevez went, is the probably the best public high school in WLA, sending kids to top UCs as well as Hopkins, Oberlin and other strong East Coast schools.

Property taxes are a factor in school quality, but the correlation is not one-to-one. For instance, Moorpark is a relatively affordable community in the northernmost tip of Los Angeles County and home to one of the finest public high schools in the state. Thousand Oaks, a far more expensive area, has a subpar public high school.

It may have gotten slightly better, but I knew a kid at Yale from TO who went to boarding school because there just wasn’t a great secular private option, and those I’ve known to graduate from TO High are in no sense bookish or accomplished. I know a successful photographer in Thousand Oaks who told me several years ago that it still kinda sucked. Many basically secular, wealthy families (including secular Jews) send their kids to Oaks Christian. It’s not all that religious in spite of a cross which rivals the one at Pepperdine.

Santa Barbara, where the average house is about 925K, also has a subpar public high school. The best public high school in greater Santa Barbara is in the incorporated city of Goleta, where houses cost far less than in SB.  The reason? At SB High, you have upper middle class to wealthy children of professional parents going to school with children of immigrants who may or may not speak English, and who live in poverty or close to it. It’s impossible to appeal to both demographics (particularly with its high class size and notoriously unhappy teachers). In trying to meet the needs of this diverse student body, the school fails both.

On the other hand, SB has many excellent public elementary schools with small class sizes. Peabody Charter, which my boyfriend’s 4th grader attends, has 22 or 23 kids in a class with a great teacher and teacher’s aide. My elite industry school in Santa Monica, formerly St. Augustine and now Crossroads Elementary, had 25 kids with the same set-up. In short, raising a family in SB is terrific if you can hack your mortgage payment (and outrageous dry cleaning bills) until your kids hit junior high. Then it’s not so hot from an education standpoint.

Peabody even has an exceptional drama teacher, Emma Jane, who produced an impressive, ambitious school play last month: a modernization of Oliver Twist with a running time just under three hours. I’m astonished both at the grounds and the education, though it seems to me they’re frightfully behind where we were in math by 4th grade. Even the slowest kids at St. Augustine were beyond my boyfriend’s precocious, articulate, creative son in math.

Otherwise, I think it’s a strong school, though I could do with less green nonsense. I had to restrain my urge to moan when the former assistant principal, who spoke inarticulately about everything including recycling and composting, encouraged parents to walk their kids .5 mile to school, presumably to reduce the carbon footprint. Even if you believe in climate change, walking your kid to school a mile or less will do nothing to forestall it.

My rebellious nature made me want to rent an Escalade (not the hybrid one) and puff on an American Spirit just outside the school’s perimeter next to my rented gas guzzler illegally parked in the bus loading zone. (Yes, I’m a terrible person and I have no plans or desires to become a better one.) I also know a 5th grade teacher at Roosevelt Elementary in the GATE program. He’s not only impressive but passionate and dedicated to the cultivation of those exceptional young minds.

In three years, I’ve yet to meet a single mediocre teacher at Peabody. I was particularly fond of T’s second grade teacher, formerly a high school science teacher in Queens with a Masters degree. Because it’s a public school, they’re perpetually holding fund raisers (bake sales, jog-a-thons etc.) and require parents to volunteer in the classroom. This too offends me, but apparently you can write a get-out-of-class check and avoid dealing with 22 little monsters four hours a week.

It’s one thing to deal with your own child’s moods; it’s quite another to deal with other people’s barbarians whose spirits haven’t been broken. That’s from About Last Night on the even of Elizabeth Perkins’ first day teaching kindergarten: “My job is to break their spirits. That’s what kindergarten is all about! The Germans invented it, Deb. Think about it!” Of course Miss Gunther (Perkins) is quite wonderful with the little blonde girl who wets her pants, so it’s all talk. And actually, I’d rather volunteer with kindergarteners than 3rd, 4th, or 5th graders. Children may be our future, but I’m all for outsourcing them.

Happily, there’s some hope for SB High now under the leadership of the principal who whipped SB Junior High into relatively good shape.  As it stands, families with money have few options (unless they’re Catholic): 1) move to LA for the high school years, 2) move to Goleta for four years (which is not as bad as it sounds to a SB resident with the Bacara’s spa and club membership for locals, or 3) send kids to boarding school (which costs as much as private college and therefore an option only for the 1%).

Santa Barbara has only one great secular private (non-boarding) high school: Laguna Blanca.  It’s strong academically, but tiny and cliquey, so even parents who can afford the 30K or so tuition often don’t find it a good fit for their kids. I’ve heard of girls coming home sobbing because of the machinations of mean junior high girls.

Santa Barbara lacks social (or racial) diversity, so wherever you buy a beautiful home will not be significantly different socially. That’s not the case in Los Angeles. There are many parts of the city with desirable homes between $1.5-$2.5 million dollars, which beyond housing prices, have nothing whatever in common. Real New Yorkers tend not to know LA very well. They still rely on Woody Allen’s Annie Hall and more recently, Nicole Holofcener’s Enough Said, which cast my hometown in a very negative light). Others think it’s all Beverly Hills, Malibu or Compton, as a recent amusing Buzzfeed list noted.

Like Manhattan, LA has much diversity in terms of outlook, even in the top tax brackets, but the diversity here is more spread out than in the city, where 10-15 blocks makes all the difference. Mount Sinai and Lenox Hill, both on the Upper East Side, are among the best hospitals in the city (and nation), but they’re just 10 or 20 blocks, respectively, from East Harlem, one of the roughest areas in the city. East Harlem has nothing in common with its West Side namesake, the gentrified area home of Columbia University as I learned a few months ago when the Queensboro was down for the morning and my cabbie took me through East Harlem. Scary. And deeply sad.

The (San Fernando) Valley is an option: Sherman Oaks, Studio City, Encino, or Toluca Lake in the East Valley, or Agoura, Calabasas, Hidden Hills and possibly Westlake in the West Valley, though frankly I’ve rarely met a New Yorker in the city who could live happily in the Valley after being in SoHo, the UES, the Upper Westside or Midtown East.

But the reputation of the Valley in New York, to the extent the region even registers, is worse than LA proper, in no small part due to the Kardashians, from whom I think the city of Calabasas should seek reparations. Billionaire developer Rick Caruso who plans to destroy my hometown, Pacific Palisades, should kick in some cash too, because when affluent New Yorkers get one look at that monstrous baby Vegas he built, the Commons, they’ll  high-tail it out of an area they’ll already consider the boonies, far out as it is in typical 101 traffic.

I love meeting and talking new people, whether on the subway or at happy hour.  And I’ve  done more volunteer work over a lifetime than paid work (Meals on Wheels, the Wellness Community (cancer), LA Shanti (AIDS), Pacific Pride Foundation (AIDS food pantry), TIES (short-term elementary tutoring in the inner city)). I like helping people improve their lives, or at least ease the pain, and this form of real estate consulting allows me to do what I already do for free for friends in or from the New York metro area. It’s like lifestyle therapy, not just for middle-aged married couples but divorcees with grown kids, which describes most of my friends and readers.

II.  “Victorian Chick on the Patch”: Honing Craft, Expanding Reach and Reveling in Writerly Freedom.

As excited as I am about the real estate adventure, writing was my calling and Victorian Chick satisfies this. I can’t imagine my life without the blog (or the blogs I write under the name Victorian Chick on the Patch). My boyfriend of nearly four years suggested that I start a blog after accumulating some 350 Facebook “notes,” none of which I’ve looked at for over three years.

Dark picture from last weekend at my sister's 60th. But I love this picture

Dark picture from last weekend at my sister’s 60th. But I love this picture

In February, 2011, I started The Random Review on Blogger, for which I’d written just ten or eleven pieces by the time I passed a closed women’s boutique on Lex between 57th and 58th called Victorian Chick. I posted the picture on Facebook and nearly all agreed that Victorian Chick was catchier than The Random Review.

Someone I met recently in the city likes my blog but dislikes the name. He’s in the IT and social media businesses, so his view that the blog is misnamed (because Victorian Chick has little to do with Victorian culture) counts more than someone not in his line of work. For a number of reasons, I thought, and still think, Victorian Chick is a cute, apt name apart from being catchy.

1) My name is Victoria, at least since age 24 when I took my middle name and ditched my first name, Maria. Only my driver’s license and passport read Maria Victoria Ordin.

2) My dissertation was about George Eliot and both my Masters and Orals fields covered Victorian literature.

3) Victorian Chick was a women’s clothing boutique in Manhattan, just five or so blocks from the Upper East Side walkup of 450 feet feet which changed my life and without which my bicoastal identity and lifestyle would not be possible. Nor would my relation, as spectator, to the world of cabaret, or as participant, in the world of Luigi jazz dance. My soul is in New York, but my heart–family, boyfriend, and pets–is in Southern California, so I will live a geographically schizophrenic existence indefinitely. And obviously,   fashion–designer resale mostly–is a core part of my life as well as blogging, so naming the blog after a boutique on 57th and Lex makes sense.

4) “Chick” provides a clue to my unorthodox views about feminism. I’ve written more on this lately, first after that October brouhaha in Visalia with the cloying, lightweight feminist blogger in Oregon, and again after the February 13th Gloria Steinem lecture in Santa Barbara. I greatly admire Heather MacDonald’s work on academia for City Journal, and since she’s a fellow at the Manhattan Institute (whose recent study about the 1% was at the heart of James Pearrson’s excellent piece in the Wall Street Journal), my conservative friends hold out hope for a conversion. It ain’t gonna happen as long as the religious right exists in America, but I’m certainly not a De Blasio progressive or OWS supporter (finance reform needs to happen but OWS isn’t going to stimulate it).

I am fine with being called “a girl” or “a chick.” I don’t insist upon woman and I prefer Miss to Ms. I care about looks and I love beautiful things (sparkly things most of all). I make no apologies about deriving pleasure from my appearance and the pleasure others take therein. In recent blogs, I’ve twice I’ve quoted Annette Bening’s line from Bugsy–”Looks matter if it matters how you look”–and have minimal tolerance for feminists hostile to the pleasure we girly girls take in clothes, jewelry, hair, nails, makeup (not to mention the gratitude we feel for dermal fillers).

It’s fine to be oblivious to your appearance, refusing to color your grays, wear makeup, get manicures, work out, or do fillers. But to attack women who spend considerable time, money and energy looking their best is not fine. Feminism was supported to be about choice: if you choose to spend no money or time on how you look because you think the only thing that matters in life is your brain and heart, great. More money to spend on food, wine and spirits as far as I’m concerned.

I don’t look down on people who don’t care about food or wine, but I do think they’re  peculiar to deny themselves some of life’s greatest pleasures. I also think those who climb Mount Everest are out of their minds, but it doesn’t mean I dislike or wish hypothermia on them. And this really gets to the heart of something which has become increasingly apparent to me over the past three years of blogging and active Facebook use.

I have–and express–extremely strong opinions. I’m secular; Eastern thought appeals to me no more than Christianity. Judaism is compelling on multiple levels, but the supernatural machinery of the Hebrew Scriptures resonates with me no more than its counterpart in the New Testament. As for draining the mind, refraining from judgment, and relinquishing attachments? No thank you. My Baltimore FB friend and I have a running gag about the many FB pages devoted to minimalism. We think they should just call it “Surviving Downsizing (and Getting Rid of Your Shit)” and be done with it.

As for attachments, anyone with half a brain or a few years of decent therapy knows that attaching too strongly to outcomes is a recipe for perpetual discontent. I don’t need a spiritual practice to tell me that while it’s fine to prefer a particular outcome, one has to find a way to live comfortably and peacefully when things don’t go your way. As Dr. Denis Leary said in The Ref, “Welcome to the real world, kid, where most of the time, things don’t go, your fucking way.”

Gus’ speech in my favorite comedy of the 1990s (and absolutely favorite modern Christmas movie) is a version of his great bit in No Cure for Cancer about life not turning out as you thought it would: “Hey, I thought I was gonna be starting center fielder for the Boston Red Sox. Life sucks, get a fuckin’ helmet” (a clue to the context of his comedy and art in general: Irish working class folks who often become firefighters as well as cops).

If you’re going to move about the world without making judgments, you might as well get a lobotomy. What you do with distinctions and assessments is a separate issue. But constantly forming and revising judgments on an array of subjects is what thinking people do. People on Thorazine, or the cheap, readily accessible equivalent–Valium and vodka–don’t think much of anything. My preferences are mostly predictable and I make no apologies for them. This doesn’t mean I impute a lower moral value to those I think have unaccountable, or simply bad, taste in just about everything. I don’t think people with poor or unrefined taste are morally bad: they just have shitty taste.

Too, I have quite stringent standards for myself in the area of appearance and weight. I don’t insist that others adopt my standards, though if you’re a celebrity and show up in a ghastly $5000 dollar dress or get a hideous dye job (calling the lovely, talented Julia Roberts), you’re fair game. Those who live in the public sphere and have net worths in the tens if not hundreds of millions forsake the courtesy to which a Target or Home Depot shopper is entitled. If you make a living in part or in full off your looks, you have forfeited the rights enjoyed by those who can’t and don’t.

Along the same lines, it’s fine to eschew family for career but wrong to bash stay-at-home moms whose only career or work is the raising of children. I saw an obnoxious piece, Gwyneth-like in its insensitivity, about privilege and careers. The woman in her late 20s was oblivious to the trials of stay-at-home-moms (who seem to have gotten themselves an acronym of late, SAHM). Lots of women wish they could stay home, but in today’s economy particularly in coastal cities, it’s increasingly rare to be able to live decently on a single salary.

On the other hand, while it’s fair to say that raising kids and staying at home all day is excruciatingly difficult and in that sense “the hardest job in the world,” it’s clearly false to say that every full-time mom could go to a top medical or law school and then get hired at an elite teaching hospital or Biglaw firm.

I agree it’s easier for a woman who has the brains and talent to graduate from a top professional school to be a great lawyer or doctor than it is to raise healthy, happy and well-adjusted children. Plenty of superstars at work have troubled children. But it’s obviously wrong to claim that all or even most women who stay at home to raise kids could be star physicians, prosecutors, bankers, or professors “if they chose to.”

I sometimes hear women in print or in social media claim they chose family over career, women who had no career or particular training, even if they had potential, to speak of. (Some might have been excelling at work and by stepping out of the workplace, rendered themselves professionally useless, but many just had jobs, not careers.) What they’re really saying is that they chose the mommy track before they’d gotten very far up the educational or professional ladder.  So it’s really more of a hypothetical: “I’m smart, capable and disciplined, and if I’d chosen to cultivate my intellect by taking difficult subjects as an undergraduate, and then secured admission to a top graduate or professional school at which I excelled, I’m sure I would have succeeded.” Some who speak this way are surely right; others are not.

Succeeding at the highest levels in a competitive profession is hard, but it’s hard in a different way than producing extraordinary and healthy children. Early on in my Facebook life, I told a retired Wall Street lawyer I’ve known since childhood about a woman in the Carolinas homeschooling three girls under seven, two with ADHD or other special needs (behavioral, not cognitive, issues). Without missing a beat, this workaholic who periodically collapsed from sleep deprivation said in his inimitable Boston brahmin way, “I’ll take the 2700 billable hours.”

I have as little patience for feminists who denigrate women who choose to make childrearing their sole job in life as those who attack women who want to look pretty and young for being shallow or vain. For one thing, as long your appearance isn’t your only concern in your life, I don’t see anything wrong with vanity, unless you equate physical appearance with character or moral value. If you’re a modern Neoplatonist and live entirely in the world of forms (even if you don’t know what Neoplatonism is and can’t name a single philosopher in this tradition, or even five major works by Plato), terrific. I don’t live in that world, though I studied philosophy, and I don’t think most people do.

But I am occasionally a lightning rod for criticism for several reasons. I’m childless, happy, and free (both generally and financially). You’d think losing ten years of my life, including a promising career in academia and an exciting, ambitious dissertation project, or  trying to kill myself once, would earn me some slack. (It was a ridiculous attempt in 2002 with Valium and Advil, which is now is quite amusing on many levels, not least the brown paint I puked all over the already hideous carpet in that hellhole apartment I lived from 1996 to 2006. I’m not sure I needed to call the carpet cleaner because nothing could have substantially improved or worsened that carpet.)

But it’s just the reverse. Some people still suffering from extreme depression with a slew of intractable health problems resent an ex-sick person no longer in therapy or on meds and in excellent health more than they resent those who never had significant hurdles to overcome. One might also think a near decade of celibacy and Emily Dickinson isolation, plus estrangement from family, would earn me some “suffering points” in our age of victimhood, but apparently it doesn’t with some miserable people.

(A new friend of mine in New Jersey teaches composition in college and reports the most depressing stories about competitions among her students for what amounted to the “biggest victim prize.” She’s terrific but I often have to read her comments about group-think, PC, and the thought police in today’s academy with a glass of wine in hand.)

Happy people don’t care about other people’s life choices and are secure enough not to take contrary opinions about lifestyle personally. Not having to work doesn’t help matters, nor does being a swimmer and dancer in good shape who loves clothes and jewelry and displays pieces bought secondhand at deep discount in three states in her various writings. And probably eating out daily at least once, even if it’s just happy hour and a 10 dollar omelet, does me no favors with the haters and malcontents.

Health care may be an issue as well. Mine was $810/month and post-ACA, for a similar plan, it’s now just $546. I realize and truly regret that so many have been screwed by the ACA. In my FB group, the Midwesterners are the worst off (Wisconsin particularly, though this may have more to do with the state’s policies than ACA per se). My California and New York contingent fared pretty well. But my new gynecologist reports a parade of women in her office sobbing in a rage about the changes.  She say ACA has been a nearly unmitigated disaster for her patients.

So I suppose that’s another reason to hate me. But it hardly makes me a trust funder, even if it had stayed at the unpleasant $10,000 a year rate. That’s slightly less than one-third of a single, secular private school tuition for one year in  big city. Perhaps the Tea Partier in Hawaii (see below) thinks every parent of a private schooler is a trust funder as well?

That whole exchange was peculiar, as it’s usually OWS supporters who throw around “trust fund baby” (or “capital gains”) as an insult.  I’m sure Harvard-Westlake and Horace Mann parents, be they Columbia professors or Skadden Arps partners working 70 hours a week, will be by equal turns pleased and perplexed to learn they’re trust funders.

The funds would certainly help with the $35,000 or $70,000 they’re shelling out after taxes. People in that tax bracket tend not to have more than two kids (at least not with one wife, though a single second marriage baby is common and I am myself such a child). This is partly because public school is unthinkable and three private tuitions plus college is impossible. I can just see accountants at RBZ or the New York equivalent fielding a bunch of hysterical calls asking where the hell the money went.

Just last week, a dear friend of 3.5 years posted my recent Patch blog on his FB wall, which I will henceforth call “the barracuda wall of hate.” More vile men and women on a single wall I’ve seen only once and on the Patch, where the individual I’ve taken to calling ”Stalker Marsha” eagerly awaits every new blog so she can spew all the venom in her toxic mind in the comment section.

It was the first time in awhile I’d been hit with the “trust fund” thing. A man in Hawaii called me this this privately, someone on my wall I never knew well, an right wing extremist who posts a lot of hateful, ignorant shit but is actually a mild-mannered fellow about 60 from the mainland. He made other mean-spiritied comments in public.

My religious Jewish friend seems to have construed one of his favorite rabbi’s dictums–”Make your default setting kindness to mean, “Tolerate shit from despicable human beings with zero redeeming features” has a nasty wall. My wall, by contrast, is full of truly loving, fun, cool, people diverse in every conceivable way: politically, religiously, economically, educationally, professionally, and geographically.

It takes time (and balls, I’ve learned only by watching people who either have no balls or choose not to use them) to weed out the crazies and the assholes, but my FB is hopping and happy. My Klout score is in the mid-60s, sometimes as high as 68, which is unheard of for a non-celebrity.

Klout is a misnomer: it has nothing to do with actual real-world clout (though a Wall Street Journal piece not long ago argued that it’s not entirely irrelevant for those in positions of (financial) power). But Klout does measure “social media influence” defined as engagement (likes, shares, comments), and mine is high because I’m on FB so much. My Facebook page for Victorian Chick would be considerably more active if I quit posting on my personal page (which for all my blogging remains in the low 700s, unlike some political posters with 2000 or 3000 “friends”).

But I’m not in this for money, and I prefer to post some status updates to friends only. So I keep the public page, which is just shy of 500 followers or “likes,” but post there about one-third as often as I do on my personal page. 90% of my close FB friends primarily use my personal page to like, comment and share even on identical content. (My main demographic, according to Google Analytics and Facebook Insights, remains those between 45 and 65. The FB audience is 60% male and 40% female, but Google Analytics doesn’t give you gender and that may be more 50%/50%.)

As I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve fielded such hate or incurred the trust funder and narcissism charges. So for new readers, I thought I’d address both. I’ve met trust fund babies, and I grew up with kids of Hollywood writers and producers with syndicated TV shows whose kids never need to work. None drives a 2007 used Saab, wears almost exclusively designer resale or consignment clothing, shoes and boots, wears (and blogs about) lab diamonds and Pandora, or lives with their parents 9 or 10 days a month to drive an elderly father with macular degeneration to doctors, stores, restaurants, and banks when not helping read mail or the TV listings on a 42-inch plasma TV.

You’d think I’d get some points for tending to a WWII veteran who bombed Nazis, and with some who would otherwise hate me, I do. Being a caretaker somewhat makes up for having no kids (and being quite militant about why I am daily grateful I’m childless and, come 4/25, officially infertile). But as the responses to the recent New York Post story about young women opting for dogs over kids attests, breeders and non-breeders will perpetually be at odds.

I’ve never met a “trust fund princess” who lives with her parents 10 days a month instead of hiring the full-time care, and at 42, has yet to visit all of the above: Continental Europe, Asia, South America, Central America, Fiji, Tahiti, Moorea, St. Barth’s, the Middle East, Canada, Africa, and Mexico (other than Cabo and La Paz, where we sailed on Dad’s CT 54).  The last time I went to Hawaii was 1995 for six days between Christmas and New Years and before that, 1982 for a wedding in which I was flower girl. I don’t remember going at 2, but apparently I had a great time, though I fussed whenever it was time to leave the beach.

If I’m a trust funder, then I’m an avant-garde, isolationist one who has flown out of America precisely three times in my life. I’m a new kind of jet-setter who flies almost entirely between Los Angeles and New York for under $400 dollars roundtrip, except in July when no ticket is less than $500. I’m also a special sort of New York trust funder who, musical comedy maniac that I am, attended my first Broadway show in three years this past February. The motto of the new trust funder: Never leave America and attend cabaret instead of Broadway!

I’m also setting a big trend in transportation, forsaking the pricey Amtrak (the slow train, never the Acela) for the Megabus from New York to DC and Boston, just under $20 dollars each way. If you book early, it’s even cheaper. You will soon be seeing the kids of financiers posting their dinners on Groupon from Killer Shrimp ($50 for $25 dollars). And it’s all because of me, Victorian Chick.

As for narcissism, all who write a book-length study about their lives are susceptible to this charge. Memoir is a literary genre, one I studied in graduate school with modernist Porter Abbott. Within literary criticism, theory of autobiography is a highly technical field akin to personal identity theory within Analytic philosophy as a whole. Well sort of, philosophy of language and some logic are even more technical, so perhaps it would be better to say that it’s the field within literature most Analytic in its orientation.

I’ve always loved the genre, even the light pop culture version. Judith Jacklin Belushi’s Samurai Widow, Marilu Henner’s By All Means Keep on Moving, and Charles Grodin’s It Would Be So Nice If You Weren’t Here are late 1980s or 1990s memoirs I greatly enjoyed. More recently, I enjoyed (and consider a model for my own book) Live Nude Girl: My Life as an Objectthe rigorous and literary memoir of Kathleen Rooney, poet, publisher, and assistant professor of English at Purdue.

I even wrote my first of two Weekly Standard reviews, my first piece in a national publication, about John Lithgow’s memoir. I won’t here bother to give the ignorant among my haters a basic bibliography of the field, but Elizabeth Bruss has written much on the topic and any of her bibliographies will give you a decent sense the main issues, at least up to 1997.

The questions for critics hinge on the degree to which first-person accounts deserve special privilege. What is the epistemological status of the “I”? Should we take autobiographical writing as “true” in a special way by virtue of the subject’s phenomenological access? Such questions slide fairly quickly into the philosophical topic of skepticism and the problem of other minds. The split subject in Hegel is different from the split subject of psychoanalysis, but in all these sub-fields, the unity and authority of the subject are key. And yet again, slide (along with signifiers) into questions of reference, meaning, and consciousness.

Porter assigned canonical instances of “self-writing,” as literary-critics often call autobiography (a term which allows for “autography” and other life writing), including St. Augustine’s City of God, Teresa of Avila, Rousseau’s Confessions, Frederick Douglass’ autobiography, Virginia Woolf’s Moments of Being, and Samuel Becket’s Company. I took the course spring quarter in my first year at UCSB and glad I did, though I wish I had taken his popular modernism seminar because to this day, the 20th Century is my weakest, other than the late Henry James.

One singularly revolting and vicious Facebook woman I hope developed an ulcer from her tirade about me on my friend’s wall, has a problem with my pictures. I take it this miserable creature missed that the OED made “selfie” its “word of the year,” a frequent topic in the blogosphere which I made the subject of my Huffington Post debut. And, uh, I blog about fashion, twice in a month guest blogger for Bicoastal Brunette. A fashion blog without pictures is as useless as a food or travel blog without visuals. Beyond just awful, this woman seems not to be very perceptive or sharp.

She said that all bloggers are worthless, but seemed to feel I was a special case of worthlessness whom she pitied, and who nearly induced her to vomit in just four paragraphs in which I made no reference to myself (just my illustrious parents). What can I say? As my Facebook mom and dear friend always says when I lose or break something, “It’s a gift.” I’ve seen pictures of the woman–and her dogs–and shall refrain from comment on this score, except to note that were one to place our lives (and persons) side by side, I wouldn’t be the one inducing pity.

Perhaps the single biggest supporter of Victorian Chick is Erik in Northern California. At my urging, he took more than a few Yale English courses online, starting with John Rogers’ incomparable Milton survey based on his book, The Matter of Revolution: Science, Poetry and Politics in the Age of Milton. Erik also took Langdon Hammer’s 20th-century poetry (which I regretted not taking), and a Dante lecture with Thomas Mazzotta he called perhaps the most rigorous intellectual experience of his life. Dear Erik posted a devastating public reply to the haters in a long public status update.

I couldn’t have asked for a better, or more scathing, defense. It amounted to this: 1) Victoria isn’t for everyone; she’s an acquired taste and requires some learning and experience to grasp, 2) She isn’t telling other people how to live their life, but rather explaining her own choices, 3) She lives her life on her own terms and describes her fascinating and accomplished family, friends and acquaintances in ways many find interesting, and 4) Victoria extends compassion and offers of friendship even to those with diametrically opposed values, including this retired stick-in-the-mud Catholic lawyer who disagrees with her about almost everything in the arena of values or ethics.

My favorite sentence, however, took direct aim at the woman hurling the vilest insults: “If you find Victoria boring, please fill us in on the details of your fascinating existence.”  Heh. Don’t fuck with Victorian Chick: I have an army of supporters, some of whom correspond with me privately, but are happy to tear you verbally to shreds after a short text or email from me.

As for narcissism, yes, I post a lot. That’s why God invented the “hide” feature: take 15 minutes to learn how to use FB before whining that I’m filling your feed. I shudder to think how such people handle an IRS audit, which even if you’ve done nothing wrong, feels like a tube up the ass (aka a colonoscopy). Weaklings with trigger-fine sensitivity who snivel about the burden of a frequent Facebook poster have bigger problems than Victorian Chick and her designer resale scores or exquisite meals.

I use FB more like a typical Twitter account. If my wall were dead, the lady (I use the term loosely) might have a point. But with a Klout score between 62 and 68, and comment threads about banana cream pie at Joe Allen which exceed 100 comments (about pie!?), it appears that quite a lot of people find my  life–and those of my family and acquaintances–amusing. I also run into fascinating strangers, particularly in New York, and enjoy writing about them (anonymously of course).

People often tell me I need to write fiction and that I have a novelist’s eye for detail as well as an ear for dialogue. But I’m not not inclined (or trained) to do so. Tales from Fishtail: The Social Architecture of the Upper East Side would I think be a success. Americans have a seemingly endless appetite for stories about New York. Bushnell’s success with Sex in the City still amazes me, and the Housewives of New York, which admittedly less horrid than the rest of the franchises, I half-suspect is a hoax perpetrated by Bravo on an unsuspecting nation.

But in the wake of the book’s publication (which would include other Manhattan neighborhoods like the Upper West Side, SoHo and the Village), I’d have to move. And I could never again eat or drink at the bar and restaurant on my street. It’s the only place close by with a happy hour (red for $8/glass and white for $7/glass instead of $14 and up for both), so it’s a non-starter. All kidding aside, I’d be betraying confidences not different in kind from those entrusted to a therapist or a lawyer. Fun and potentially insightful as the book would be, ethical considerations preclude its writing even anonymously or as a roman a clef.

III. Why I Love the Patch

Three years since I started Victorian Chick and two years after starting the public Facebook page of the same name, I post my writing to some 50 branches of the Patch in three major metropolitan areas (LA, Chicago, and New York) under the name “Victorian Chick on the Patch.”

I realize, as a veteran journalist and friend of mine in New York told me at the Art Bar in the Village last trip, that the Patch is not a path to journalistic success measured by any traditional standard (prestige, money, circulation). Mom was surprised to see a UCLA Law professor and Biglaw big deal writing for the Huffington Post, the very outlet which felt that Beyonce’s and Jay Z’s $6000 dollar shopping spree at a Lower East Side sex store mattered more than the death of 400,000 Americans annually from smoking and the role e-cigarettes can play in reducing that number. For $6000, those dildos better be platinum–and do your taxes and grocery shopping.

My debut about the selfie reached 459 likes, while the review of an off-Broadway show broke 100 likes in its first day or two and the piece about Facebook ended up at 140, with many shares on Twitter, Pinterest and other social media outlets. I discuss my Huffington post story on the podcast, Click! Bang! if you’re interested. Pluralism, schmuralism. They are a bunch of cowards and hypocrites who censor whatever doesn’t mimic their ideological biases.

There was one unusually pro-e-cig article, but most of all, these anonymous “Blog Eds” who accept or reject your pieces are beyond appeal or even reach. It’s one thing to get mistreated when someone is paying you well (or poorly); it’s another thing entirely to be treated like dirt when you’re working for free by people who may not even speak English. You just don’t know who these people (men) are.

No one in from “Blog Team” who wrote me was female. I like to think it’s a bunch of poor 20-something living in a rat infested studio in the Bronx drowning under a mountain of debt with broken water heaters, but who knows. Arianna Huffington is an odious, wealthy hypocrite whom Bill Maher humors for no reason I can understand. Then again, he’s apparently close to Ann Coulter, so I don’t think he has the best taste in people.

The Patch also gives me regular practice writing pieces of 1000 words, though sometimes I write a piece in the 1500 or 2000 word range. I can write about whatever I want for as short or long as I please and since May, 2013, it’s unmoderated. The new server allows me effortlessly and endlessly to revise after the fact, so it’s like a living, breathing repository of my thoughts. And it looks cool to boot. The Huffington Post server sucked. I mean really sucked. I had to write dozens of emails about tech issues (though until the e-cig problem, the tech folks wrote me back pretty quickly).

I’m particularly proud of the two pieces this week (though I wish Stalker Marsha would contract a non-fatal STD which had the unusual side effect of preventing her from typing).  Marsha and a few other nitwits led me to adopt a strict policy of not reading comments from anyone I don’t know. Friends peruse them and alert me to anything worth reading.

1. The Grandma and the Stripper: On Double Standards and Female Desire

2. Noel Coward’s “The Vortex”: A Modernized, but No Less Vertiginous, Tale of Vanity, Family, and Manners

Of course writing brings in no money, just a lot of joy. And I get to sit around all day in my PJs, which I love. Here is today’s blogging outfit with my Henley EVOD tank and EGO Spinner battery. 10257120_653460928022303_2684592852978284807_o

This is the view from the upper balcony at J’s SB condo, where I no longer need to go to smoke, but used to spend much of my time writing. I still sit out here to sip some wine or chat on the phone (or Facebook). 10253747_653604704674592_7188070950393468957_n

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And these are my companions, though one is a bit of a sleepyhead at 13.5 years old, who spends most of her time downstairs on a double doggie bed (two on top of one another).

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So on this beautiful, sunny Passover in Santa Barbara, I want to thank all my readers, friends, and supporters.

Here’s to year four of Victorian Chick!

XOXO

 

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Winterpearls Jewelry Trunk Show Score and a Dodgers Game with Brother (Second Ballgame of my Life)

With Lori Pearl of Winterpearls.

With Lori Pearl of Winterpearls. Jewelry and wine: two of the best things in life!

I’m going to the second professional baseball game of my life today. Baseball isn’t my thing, but I did have fun in 2012 when saw the Dodgers play the Mets at the gorgeous and newly renovated Dodger stadium.  Well, play might be a bit overstated given the Mets trounced them 10-0 and the Dodgers had only 3 hits to the Mets’ 14

My brother played Little League and Pony League in West LA (people still remember his pitching) as well as at Pali High before coaching Little League 13 years. He sill umpires high school games. I never liked baseball. I found it boring and went to so many of my brother’s games, I took to calling the game “18 half innings.”

But watching Little League or MLB on TV and sitting in great seats at Dodger Stadium, eating Dodger Dogs and drinking wine (they have more than beer now) with my brother will be wonderful. We rarely have dates just one-on-one, but I see him at least once a week when in California because he’s at the house once or twice a week to see Dad and help with the industrial real estate our family owns. My brother and I were inseparable during my childhood in spite of the 11 year age difference.  He was my hero, but we were not close after my 6th or 7th grade and did not become close again until my late 30s.

The time we spent together last summer in Manhattan and New Haven was priceless to us both. My brother’s daughter is a brainiac. She’s not “smart.” She’s a star: 1st in a class of 520 at her excellent public high school with a downright inhumane junior year course load in which she’s getting straight As (AP Physics, AP Calc BC, AP US History, AP English and I think honors French (if not AP)).

She is also a dancer on pointe who does jazz and modern, dances on the school team and also active in some business club plus Girl Scouts. The girl must never sleep and is without question Ivy-bound as well as beautiful, even-keeled and sweet. It was such a privilege to show her around Yale and then take her on the subway in my favorite city.

My brother had only been on the subway a few times and it was her first time in New York (or back East).  After resting in the apartment, we hopped the F train from 63rd and Lex to 2nd Avenue to eat at Pulino’s (now closed, much to my dismay and shock given the crowds till all hours of the night). I can’t wait till my niece, now 17, is back East (whether it turns out to be Harvard, Brown, Hopkins, Yale or one of her other preferred schools).

She can visit her aunt in the city and I can give her a little break (and great food), the way my family friend took care of me when burnt out from studies at Yale. Of course, he was a Wall Street lawyer with a 2000 square foot duplex in an ultra-luxury high-rise on 88th and 1st and I had the whole downstairs. She will be roughing it in a 450-foot Upper East Side junior one-bedroom with no elevator or doorman. I feel blessed to be part of her journey, for which she is infinitely better prepared than I was.

Academically, Yale was not a problem for me. It was hard because I was compulsive and a perfectionist ever-conscious of getting into the best Ph.D programs in English from day one. It was and I imagine still is easier to get into Yale Law than Yale English because so few are admitted to the graduate school and in my years, they had an explicit policy of  not admitting B.A.s from Yale. (Of course I didn’t know this when I chose Yale, but I wouldn’t have done anything differently on this score.)

But I didn’t work harder at Yale than I did at Westlake. Emotionally, however, it was exceedingly rocky and as my Facebook and Victorian Chick family family know, I had to take an 18-month break for psychoanalysis in LA after a breakdown on Christmas break in 1990.

All that therapy (plus Al-Anon) helped me graduate Phi Beta Kappa in three years, but I didn’t have nearly the fun and social life I would have had I been as I am now. My niece will not have any of these difficulties because she’s fundamentally well-adjusted, whole and devoid of the intense conflicts that plagued me, ones rooted in a problematic relationship with my father. My relationship with my mother was perfect, as she’s pretty much the most amazing woman I’ve ever known.

But Mom enabled Dad (who is not himself a drinker) and thus perpetuated a system which had devastating effects on me, preventing the completion of my (overly ambitious) dissertation and the career in academia I’d always wanted. My depression was entirely about my relationship to my family and not at all about brain chemistry or defective wiring. Once I fixed my life, I had no need for medication and it’s now well over four years I am meds-free.

All is forgiven but forgiveness does not to me connote denial or the softening of truth. I am not a professor because of my father’s choices (which included not going on medication in the early 1990s, not admitting that his analysis was at best flawed and at worst useless, and refusing to get better psychological help and amend his behavior). My mom supported these choices and as a result, I lost ten years to a crippling depression. My thought process was too bound up with his identity struggles to allow me the clarity of mind to write a dissertation to which consciousness, identity, and language were central. These are facts, facts with which I am comfortable but not ones I will deny or downplay when asked or writing about my past.

Had I chosen a slight historical topic–the impact of the cloth trade on a fourth-rate Renaissance dramatist, for example–I likely would have finished. But I don’t do easy or trivial: if a dissertation about a canonical author isn’t going to take on the big questions of the literary or the aesthetic in conjunction with language, meaning and consciousness, what’s the point? You might as well go to law school and make a bunch of money. And I am at the tail end of the generation where lawyers at Yale Law and the top tier schools could mostly count on jobs out of school. (Of course, now law is a disaster and partners at 50 have been laid off and forced to yank their kids out of private school, wondering how to stay alive until the market rebounds).

New Historicism was big in the 1980s and 1990s and Richard Helgerson was a dear man and big deal in our department. But I didn’t want to do that. History is easy compared to poetry and philosophy when it comes to the toll on its writer. There’s a reason history professors (and grad students) are generally so much more more chill than English professors (and certainly nicer than the nasty graduate students I knew). It’s the same reason Sylvia Plath stuck her head in an oven and scores of the best writers drank themselves to death.  Literature, like philosophy, questions the very foundations of being and reality. And sometimes sticking your head in an oven sounds like a reasonable way to escape the pain of that reality.

By the time I got cured, it was too late for a career in academia. Yes, one can teach literature in community college, but the best city colleges require a completed Ph.D. And besides, but I wanted a gig at a top research university, which almost never happens at 43 or 44.  And even then, it’s long hours in a world dominated by Cultural Studies and PC. Tenure, as anyone who keeps up with academia knows, is a thing of the past.

My niece won’t go through what I did, though she may go through all kinds of hell in the post-ACA world. She is set on being a doctor and applying to the Brown B.S./M.D program. Medical school is sheer misery and everyone pretty much hates it but if you’re a scientific sort, you’re not wired like most people. She’s the most normal pre-med type I’ve ever met. Most doctors are very shut down and it’s in no small part because our system of medical education makes humanity a liability.

Sleep deprivation an low pay for many more years than law school kills the spirit and leaves medical students, interns and residents with no life for a decade. Before ACA, however, the misery paid off and you made a nice living at the end. Now, honestly, I don’t see a point to going to medical school. Obamacare has been described by one friend of mine (not a Republican) as a “giant blow job for the insurance companies” and I’m inclined to believe he (who actually spent 30 minutes a day for a year reading that behemoth) is correct. But if she continues to be at the top of her class in college and medial school, she will be in that elite 5% who always finds their way.

Today’s Dodger game will be my first of two engagements with my brother this week. Wednesday, I go to see the first night preview of Noel Coward’s 1924 play, The Vortex. Mom sent me an email with app called Goldstar. I’m now receiving four emails a day, which is precisely the sort of thing I sought to avoid by getting a new email last year after 15 years with AOL and too much spam to count.

But the discounts on theater are so enormous, I’m willing to put up with the spam. If you love theater but don’t love the prices of live theater, I cannot recommend it highly enough. (I couldn’t find the picture of me with the girls from last December at the same theater, where we saw Suburban Showgirl, but here we are at Father’s Day brunch last June).

530509_501806466578012_453872435_n                                                                                                       I have to get on the road, so I will close with pictures of my my scores, each $42, from the Winterpearls trunk show in the Agoura area.

Maureen’s and Lori’s work can be found on Etsy and you can get a fuller account of the process by which their affordable, vintage-style pieces are made. Much of their jewelry is “repurposed,” so if you care about sustainability and value, their pieces will appeal to you.

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42. Bottom stone is Swarovski crystal.

Here is a pair of earrings I’ve been staring at since I bought them!

This necklace is beautiful and goes perfectly with a pair of earrings, one of which fell off in the pool (because I didn’t buy one of those cheap plastic backs for the hook). I’m having it remade if Lori Pearl can find replacement beads. A friend of mine who loved butterflies and moths as a child assures me it’s a moth, but it looks like a butterfly to me and I posted about my beautiful butterfly yesterday on both my person and public Facebook page.10014124_649710461730683_2845916246168902830_o

Pieces generally range from $25 to $125, though there may be some pieces slightly more or less.

You can’t see the full beauty of these earrings, just $29 dollars, but I love wearing them with the necklace I usually (but not always) double, from Lisa Duncan Carrillo. They’re in LA in Mom’s jewelry box and I’ll upload a better picture when I get back to LA late Wednesday night.

Does not do justice to the necklace in person!

Does not do justice to the necklace in person!

It’s a busy week, with the Malibu Playhouse on Wednesday, the Laugh for Sight benefit at the Hollywood Improv on Melrose Thursday, and dinner with Dad in Mom’s absence on Friday night.

Saturday I’m back to Santa Barbara and then Sunday, J’s parents are coming to town for Passover (my idea because Gelson’s is running a crazy deal: brisket for four with five side dishes plus macaroons) for 69.99! We’ll get T a roast chicken as his grandmother doesn’t see him liking brisket, though I think he ate some at Killer B’s in Santa Barbara and liked it just fine.

My tubal ligation is 4/25, a week later than planned, but this worked out perfectly as it gives me time to spend with J’s parents the week they are in Santa Barbara. I leave for New York on 5/11 so am happy I get to see them now before I’m gone nearly three weeks. It is already horrid in Scottsdale by mid-May and that’s when they pack up to stay in the condo in Santa Barbara.

Happy Sunday!

(And GO DODGERS!)

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