"There’s nothing wrong," I said. "It’s just that, as an individual, I’ve failed in life."
"So have we all," he said, "you, I, all the people here in the station buffet. We are every one of us failures. The secret of life is to recognise the fact early on, and become reconciled. Then it no longer matters."
"It does matter," i said, "and I am not reconciled."
— Reading Daphne du Maurier’s The Scapegoat and hit a Pema Chodron patch in it.
If one more woman comedian comes up and says to me, ‘You opened the doors for me …’
A thing I wrote about Joan. <3
Lately a friend of mine’s four year old is into saying, “I don’t like your good idea.” (I assume this is a contraction of some preschool-learned politeness along the lines of “That’s a good idea, but…”)
Just putting it out there in case you’ve been looking for a new way to express displeasure/ issue a veto/ rebut a think piece.
Haha! I guess they felt like Jane Bare Knuckles It would be too much of a stretch.
When Jane was working on this story on the history of Seventeen, we did a lot of emailing back and forth about Back to School magazine issues and how much we loved them. In junior high I read the hell out of every September issue of Seventeen, and the memory is all caught up with the anticipation of seeing people again after the summer and the belief that Everything Was Going To Be Different This Year.
One year, one of the pieces of editorial advice was to soak cotton balls with perfume and lay them on your next day’s outfit so that the outfit would become pleasantly layered with scent. I did this DILIGENTLY for at least a month. Four or five cotton balls each night. So that’s what September always feels like to me, like the time of year that you believe that you can soak some cotton balls in Jean Nate, tuck them in your clothes overnight, and become magically alluring the next day.
One of my favorite things in Sylvia Plath’s diaries are the entries that swing from “I need to start having people over for dinner more often! What a pleasure to cook for people!” to “I need to stop having people over for dinner all the time, they’re assholes and I need more time to write.” (Loose paraphrase!)
I think of this whenever I get in a burst of sociability.
Ugh, yes. When I read today’s horoscope for Geminis, it left off, “You will accidentally take a Benadryl nap midmorning.”
Dear ragweed: I almost typed rageweed by accident, even though I was going to try to come up with something fair-minded to say. Such as, theoretically I have nothing against you. But if you could just not pollinate? Or if you could thrive on the moon?
A couple of years ago we were in San Francisco visiting my stepson, and one night we were walking back from dinner and there was this nice grenadine-ish smell in the air, and I said, “It smells like cherries.” My stepson paused, sniffed, and said, “That’s urinal cakes, Carrie.” (Except he’s very deadpan, so it was more like, “That’s. urinal. cakes.”) Anyway, I was writing well this morning so I was late getting to the woods for a walk. It was already hot out and there were lots of thick gnarly spider webs everywhere with dime-sized spiders in them. None of the guys I passed were wearing shirts. And once in a while when the breeze picked up it smelled a lot like urinal cakes (not unpleasantly!).
— The surprising and tragic story behind the behind on Loverboy’s Get Lucky cover
(Those pants! Get Lucky was in my first batch of tapes from the Columbia Record and Tape Club.)
Posted 8/27/14 @ 8:30 AM
Fascinating table of the incomes in Jane Austen novels. (The dollar equivalents are for 1988; adjusted for 2014 Mr. Darcy has $667,000 a year.) (Via.)
Posted 8/25/14 @ 2:53 PM