Pot pouri (pronounced pot-purr-y)

It turns out that "pushing the pills" means "playing billiards." And the young man was not hung-over, just tired. However, even an expert could have been mislead by the description of this fellow the morning after. (This is all vis-a-vis yesterday's post).

I'm glad that I stuck it out, because A Gentleman of Leisure is actually delightful (see Wodehouse misses). And Whiskey says that I mistook his emphasis--when he said that Joy in the Morning was the worst Wodehouse book, he simply meant that it was not as good as other Wodehouse. For reference, Joy in the Morning is the book where lady novelist Florence Craye (daughter of Aunt Agatha's husband) threatens to replace her current fiance with Bertie, the current fiance-cum-policeman (Stilton Cheesewright) threatens to kick Bertie's spine through his (Bertie's) teeth, Bertie is manipulated into renting a country cottage (where Jeeves can go fishing) and Bertie's Sinbad the Sailor costume is used to facilitate some big business deal. This description is for those of you who believe that you remember Wodehouse books by plot (rather than by what the cover looks like). I'm not sure I believe you, but there you go. Of course, the only distinctive feature here is the Sinbad the Sailor costume (with the ginger whiskers).

Those of you who have grieved over my hands' rapid change from lily-white beauty to reddened calloused masses will be delighted to hear that I have completed the 35th twine rosary (The World's Ouchiest Prayer Tool--64 knots which have to be tightened by wrapping the twine a couple of times around each hand and pulling). Only nine more to go (if they're not done by Thursday, I'll have single-handedly ruined a local school's yearly retreat, and 44 boys whose prayers might otherwise have saved their souls and others will have to make do with their natural merit on The Big Day).

Finally, the Pope's new encyclical (On Christian Love or Deus Caritas Est, depending on whether you want the title or the first three words) is hot stuff.

Slang from before the Great War

Does anyone know what "pushing pills" means in the vernacular of 1910 musical comedies?

Here is the context: A mentally and fiscally impoverished young English lord is explaining why he does not want breakfast: he had a friend staying over who "was still up when I got back last night, and we stayed up playing pills--he's rotten at pills; something frightful; I give him thirty--till five this morning. I feel frightfully cheap." (p. 88 of the Overlook edition of A Gentleman of Leisure).

The description of the young lord fits exactly with Wodehouse's ubiquitous portrayal of Young Man with a Hangover. But what is "pushing pills"? It wouldn't make sense for it to be drugs--usually Wodehouse steers clear of such things. Besides, how can one be rotten at drugs? So it's probably some game involving drinking (Tiddly-winks? Dominoes?).

On Christian Love

What with rappers posing as Christ for national magazines and pro-choicers writhing with the pains of the damned at the idea of Roe v. Wade being challenged, it's about time for some relief. Pope Benedict XVI released his first encyclical, On Christian Love, yesterday.

The Time of Your Life

Whiskey brought this photo essay to my attention. It covers the San Francisco Walk for Life and the Pro-Choice counterdemonstration. It is incredible.

It seems like this is where life is--being in the orderly column of pro-lifers surrounded by the furies. I can't believe that I've let every chance to be there (or at a similar Walk for Life) slip by. It's not going to happen again. Next year I'll be there with the handy digital camera that my loving family provided me with (no doubt they foresaw some such occasion).

I mean that this is where life is in two ways. The first is simply in the way expressed by saying "This is living!" where you feel like you're doing something more than simply transforming oxygen into carbon dioxide. The other sense can be seen by looking at the pictures. The pro-lifers all look like decent people. Even the crazy independant fundamentalists have nicely embroidered jackets proclaiming the judgment to come. In general they seem serious and somewhat sad. On the other side are the pro-choicers, many of which have obviously taken far more care with their appearance than the pro-lifers. Many of the outfits seem uncomfortable, so only a desire to be fittingly adorned would make a person don them. However, they are all truly hideous and wrong. There is a girl wearing a buckled girdle over her red T-shirt and a white wig that has mini red clotheshangers stuck in it. She is also carefully made up in a Rocky Horror Picture Show style. The ensemble demonstrates the line where ugly meets evil and well-groomed meets self-hate. Her expression is closer to smugly complacent than frenzied with wrath (the other option for the pro-choicers). The signs against heterosexuality and "breeding" simply add to the overall effect: these poor people hate the human race, themselves, and life.

News Flash

Guy Crouchback has just informed me that our older brother, John Flory, has a blog. The stop-the-presses character of this news is somewhat lessened by the fact that Mr. I-always-keep-my-family-updated-even-when-I-don't-update-my-blog Flory started the blog back in the paleolithic age but hasn't updated it since The Reign of Terror (aka Jimmy Carter's presidency). I've also discovered that John Flory's friend, Don Gately, has a blog on which he has just posted a brilliant analysis of Guy Crouchback's character. Don Gately is itty-bitty, so some of his criticisms of Mr. Crouchback stem from jealousy of the latter's impressive physique.

Anyhow, there are now links to both blogs under the "Blogs Not Meant for Children" heading. This is not because they post pictures from anatomy and "learn to draw" textbooks, but rather because both are liable to break out into a rousing chorus of "I love you, you love me..." at any time, followed by hugs, cocoa, and a discussion about how we each feel about our mothers. Therefore it is not appropriate for children, invalids, or persons of a nervous disposition.

Also, Mr. Flory is known for his colorful use of language--though not so colorful as that of the brother who doesn't have a blog. What I've seen of both blogs looks like appropriate reading for grandmothers, so I'll probably merge the two lists in a bit. The thing to delight in is this: what kind of children's blogs would Messers. Flory and Gately write?

Small Talk

This semester I am a teacher’s assistant in a “Conversational Speaking” class. Today was the second day of class, and I have discovered an enormous fly in the ointment. Conversational speaking apparently means small-talk, replete with rejoinders (surprise: Oh, really?, sadness: I’m sorry to hear that, interest: that’s nice) and follow-up questions (what, when, where). The problem hit me between the eyes when the main teacher turned on me without warning and tried to carry on an example conversation with me.

Him: Ask me what I did last night.
Me: What did you do last night?
Him: I played computer games. [This was the response a student gave.]
Me: [Oh God, Oh God, Oh God—nothing I can think of is on the vocabulary list.] Awkward silence.
Him: So you see class, that follow-up questions are a way that you can continue a conversation. If you want to kill the conversation, you don’t ask one.

Thinking about it afterwards, I realized that the problem here is that in general conversation I’m good for about one follow-up question (at best), after which it’s time to go. I can see that small-talk is a worthwhile skill, because it allows one to express a charitable interest in others. But the conversation is not rooted in anything very significant, so I forget everything and then find myself hot-footing it for the opposite side of the room right at the time that I should have been following-up “So how do you like Texas?” with “That’s nice. Have you been to one of the rodeos, where stout-hearted men are cheered by beautiful women as they (the men) try to ride bucking cockroaches?”

But the opposite side of the room is full of people I’ve just talked to.

Me: So what do you do for a living?
Them: Well, I’m still an accountant.
Me: [Pause while I grapple with the information and extract the necessary point.]
Still? Are you planning a career change?
Them: Not since five minutes ago.
Me: [Pause, then shock.] Oh, did I just ask you that?
Them: Well, yes, you did.
Me: Oh. That’s nice.

Wodehouse misses

I've been reading a lot of Wodehouse lately, and while a lot of Wodehouse is incredibly good, some is really best left alone. So far all of them have been adapted from the stage. Of course this cannot be a coincidence, and so far I have a two-fold theory to explain the phenomena:

1. Dramas require a certain kind of slang which does not age well--it has to be the kind of slang used at the time. The rest of Wodehouse's novels are full of slang, too, but it's the slang of the Golden Age (that is, it's never existed).
2. The snappy cross-talk which is so enjoyable in drama does not translate well to the written word. For some reason it's grating rather than enjoyable.

Guy Crouchback told me that there was a Jeeves and Wooster book which is also sub-par, but I've forgotten the name of it. (This might be because he couldn't remember the name when he was telling me, but I don't remember.) And Whiskey doesn't like "Joy in the Morning," but I think it's okay. Also okay but not great is "Leave It to Psmith."

This is the list of Wodehouse books to avoid:
The Small Bachelor (readable)
The Return of Jeeves (not readable)
A Gentleman of Leisure (not sure--slogging through it right now).

Hail in the evening

Yesterday a friend told me that it was going to rain today. This means nothing, because this is Texas, and stormclouds behave the same way that drivers of Ford Excessives do on the freeway. That is, that they're apt to suddenly cross three lanes of traffic without signalling (signalling is for sucks), four-wheel it over the strip of grass and drainage ditch between the freeway and the feeder road, then roar off in the opposite direction. Hurricane Rita did this (for which we are profoundly grateful), and all of the weather systems seem to be involved in a giant square dance in the sky to music and announcers that only they can hear.

However, as I lay in bed reading one last chapter (take that, Mom!) last night, spurts of torrential rain and thunder started up. Then another spurt started, but it was ten-fold louder. "Annie, it's hailing!" I shouted, forgetting momentarily that just because I was still awake didn't mean she was. We ran downstairs and looked out on hailstones ranging in size from the size of peas to garbanzo beans (post-re-hydration). My car was immediately in front of us, protected by the blessed car-port that our luxury accomodations provide us with. I felt a deep sense of satisfaction at seeing the thwarted hailstones bounce off it rather than my car.

Almost three years ago, I stood on a third-floor balcony with friends watching hailstones as large as baseballs pelt our cars. I had owned my own car (my very first) but one week at the time. The noise of the hail was augmented by strange sirens which seemed to have no purpose (I thought they were old air-raid sirens that had been triggered in some mysterious way by the hail.) It turns out they were tornado sirens, which explains the high winds we experienced up there. I wasn't too upset because my car was fully insured and this was going to be a great story. However, I did make a point of finding an apartment with covered parking spaces.

When a body meets a body comin' through the rye...

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl tells the story of going for a walk with a friend immediately after being released from prison camp. They were headed right for a field of young oats, and when Frankl tried to avoid tramping through the field, his friend became very angry and said, “You don’t say! And hasn’t enough been taken from us? My wife and child have been gassed—not to mention everything else—and you would forbid me to tread on a few stalks of oats!” The man dragged Frankl through the field and they crushed thousands of stalks of oats. The point of the story was the indiscriminate brutality caused by a sudden release from horrific suffering. But the point in today’s blog is somewhat different. Read on.

The Gospel from Tuesday’s Mass was the story of the disciples plucking the heads of grain while they walked “through the grainfields” (Matt. 12.1, Mark 2.23 and Luke 6.1, RSV). On the one hand, the disciples were hungry, on the other, it was the Sabbath. The result was that the Pharisees were scandalized. But the fabulous “revised for accuracy” translation given in Mass was as follows: “As Jesus was passing through a field of grain on the Sabbath, his disciples began to make a path while picking the heads of grain.” (Mark 2:23-24). Does this remind you of the first paragraph? In this translation the Pharisees were right to be frantic with disapproval—the disciples were engaged in a foul act of senseless destruction, without even the excuse of quality time with the Nazis. Making a path through a field of oats!!! “Walking through grainfields” in the plural implies that they were walking on the footpaths between fields, close enough to the standing grain to snaffle up a small meal, but not doing any harm. These idiots who revise for “accuracy” should not only pay attention to what sounds cool, but also to what the words actually mean.

Boys' Night Out

One of our friends is having a “Boys’ Night Out” tonight. What he doesn’t seem to realize is that this is not a legitimate event. Only “Girls’ Night Out” exists, and its essence is to allow a liberated woman the chance to spend her husband’s money while making fun of him to appreciatively giggling girlfriends. The husbands stay in their proper place: at home watching the children and doing the dishes.

amazon.com

About a week ago I placed an order at amazon.com for $100 of P.G. Wodehouse (sponsored by my paternal grandparents). Originally I had them on one order, but then I found out that they wouldn't arrive until March! After investigating, this is what I found: if you are using free shipping, do not place one large order. The books are stashed in warehouses all over the country, and since free shipping orders cannot be broken into more than two shipments, all of the books must be shepherded together at some common meeting point before being shipped to you. This can take several weeks. The solution is to break the order up into smaller orders of about three books each. Four days after splitting the one order into three, I have received four books, three are in transit, and all should be here in a couple of weeks.

De-lurking is Delightful!

Mrs. Bear and Sapientiae Amator tell me that this week is National De-Lurking Week. If you are a regular visitor, the way to de-lurk is to leave a comment. I often do not comment on people's blogs because I don't have anything clever to say. I assume that the great masses reading my blog (apart from the two dedicated commentors) feel the same way. Fear not. Like Aristotle's magnanimous man, I will accept your offerings, because they are the best that you have to give.

Sorry--the best way to show how foul Aristotle's magnanimous man is is to apply his principles frequently in everyday life. I'd just be happy to know if this blog is fulfilling its purpose of keeping me in touch with people. It turns out that blogging can be an oddly lonely pursuit. I would also like to know if people have read "Laundry", which was one of my first posts.

Puns and God

A recent post on Sapientiae Amator's blog recounted a pun about Gandhi. This pun is proof that God exists, and that He is the Word because He likes words.

Five Weird Habits

My roommate Annie (of "My Lady Tongue" fame) said that she was "tagged" by Whiskey, and would have to think of five weird habits about herself. I was simultaneously intrigued and offended, because of course my ever agile mind had sprung back quickly to my own self. I do not have any weird habits. Every last one is perfectly normal and rational. Like Alice, I am the one sane person. I'm not sure how useful this particular exercise is, since everyone's eccentricities seem normal to them (eccentricity, like virtue and vice, is unconscious of itself.) I've been tagged too, so here goes, anyhow.

Rules: The first player of this game starts with the topic "five weird habits of yourself," and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals.

1. I really really like pets, especially dachshunds, and generally find that the interjection of a pet into a lagging conversation is just what the doctor ordered.
2. I like to keep my hands busy by making crafts when watching movies, chatting, etc. This serves two purposes: I can give fairly nice gifts on a small budget (rather than giving the remains of the paper towel roll) and I don't have to be bored. I spent a lot of my childhood being bored (well, beginning to be bored, but quickly discovering interesting things to do after my mother offered to find me a few chores to do), but haven't been since reaching an adult's estate. The key is to keep plenty of books on hand, of many different genres to suit fluctuating moods, and keep the hands busy. The other key might be to have lots to do, so that even when you're not doing it, whatever you are doing becomes enjoyable simply because it isn't what you're supposed to be doing.
3. Like Whiskey, I hate stopping sleeping or being awake. It makes it easy to stay up late and hard to wake up early. I wish I had been born when "morning" meant "before 5 pm" (i.e. Jane Austen's time).
4. I like cooking for fun when there's enough room to move around (i.e. generally not in my current Condo of Light and Happiness), especially when I can cook using gluten. Two of my three brothers also like to cook, and I've been marvelling over it, since we didn't cook much as kids. (However, our mother is a fabulous cook, so maybe that's the key.)
5. I really, really hate showers. When I was a child I protested since I would be dirty again in a day or two. In recent years, social pressures have forced me to the daily shower, but I submit in ill grace, and get it done as quickly as possible--apart from the blanks of time where I suddenly realize that I'm staring slack-jawed at the tiles four inches from my face with no sense of purpose connected to the soap in my hand.

I tag Windmilltilter (everyone else I know has been tagged.)

Peace in the laundry

Yesterday I finally went to wash my bedding. I've been meaning to take my comforter, quilt, blanket and mattress pad to the laundromat for months and months (Sam spilled a vanilla latte on the quilt an embarrassingly long time ago, and I'd only spot-cleaned it in a half-hearted way). Our home washer and dryer are very very small, so even twin blankets, etc., don't fit. I'd only been in a laundromat once before, I think, and I hadn't liked it, and was dreading this whole thing. I brought five dollar bills because I had heard that there was a change machine, but when I got there I couldn't figure out how to make it work and there wasn't an attendant. There were a couple of ladies there, but they only spoke Spanish. I walked around the local businesses, trying to get enough quarters, but finally had to drive to the bank. I was really mad that this had happened to me, and upset that after I'd been virtuous enough to go the laundromat, my virtue hadn't been rewarded but rather, even more effort had been required. But I got the quarters easily and deposited a check that I should've taken care of earlier. I got back to the laundromat, plugged my quarters, soap, and bedding in, and started to become aware of how lovely and peaceful the place was. The washers were big, pretty stainless steel front-loading ones, with glass doors, so I could watch my blankets swish around (I had four machines in a row running). There were just a couple of hispanic ladies there, with some very well-behaved children. It was very quiet, and the sun flooded through the glass walls (it was in an old-fashioned strip mall with the glass front wall, and I think part of a glass back wall). There'd been a variety of things that I hadn't really noticed or understood, but as I sat and watched the other people, I saw how the things worked. There were wheeled laundry carts at the exact right height for the washers, and they had tall bars so that you could push them standing up (the wheels ran very smoothly, too, which was delightful). There was a bar across the top that you could throw laundry over. There was also an old wrought iron and dark yellow/light avacado colored laundry table, nice and clean and big and easy to fold laundry on. The chairs faced the dryers, so I had to twist around and look over my shoulder to watch the laundry in the washer, which I regretted until I switched my blankets to the dryers. These were really big, and stacked two high, with glass fronts. I filled a 2 by 2 square of them. Then I sat down, and alternated between reading bits of my book and watching the bedding in the dryers. Blankets in really big dryers are remarkably soothing to watch. Each blanket tumbled in a different way which seemed to express its particular personality. I ended up watching and musing almost the whole time, and time seemed to slow down or not exist the way that it does when you homeschool and have no particular schedule that forces you to over- and under-value time and regret that the present is not the past or the future. I left with a strong feeling of wanting to return soon, and delight that it had all happened. While the idyll lasted I could see that I'd been a spoiled princess over the quarters, but that it was okay--I didn't have to be a spoiled princess now.

I came back to regular life tired and did a bunch of house-work and became ubertired, so I lost a lot of the peaceful delight, but I know I can go back to it--if not in reality, then in memory.

Bright and Colorful Fatherhood

Yesterday one of my roommates remarked that now that the Christmas lights have been taken down, her 17-month-old nephew has started calling his father "Dada" again. While the lights were up, they were "Dada" and the baby's father (and mother and older sister) were "Mama."

The years spin by...

I just realized another big change from childhood: one's attitude towards food. It used to be that food was just something to be put in one's mouth, and all the interest was on previously established tasty foods (pizza with boring toppings, macaroni and cheese, pies, etc.) Now (or at least when I have some energy) food is something fun to shop for, enjoyable to prepare, fascinating to present to others, and an interesting factor of health or illness. I'm always on the lookout for dishes featuring meat and vegetables because of the good-health associations, and unless I'm very sick I'm much more interested in meaty spaghetti sauce with spinach than I am in macaroni and cheese. Processed foods are so seductively easy that they occupy a much larger part of my life than I would like, but as a child I would have been shocked at the idea that a surfeit of processed foods could result in anything other than bliss.