Post Script
Two and a half glasses of champagne (Veuve Cliquot), one half bag of Milano cookies later...
My surgery, a medically recommended procedure being related to the end-of-the-line as far as my (biologically) procreative life goes, offers in my choice of surgeon, a hilarious intersection in his clientele, divided between women like me with real medical conditions, and women whose procedures are purely elective and cosmetic. In my brief interaction with The Male Surgeon, whose tendency not listen to me and then interrupt me with pre-prepared answers that have little to do with anything I have said, has convinced me that, despite his superior anatomical knowledge of women, the only way he really likes dealing with them is completely knocked out under general anesthesia. Supposedly he's a wizard with trocars and laparoscope, which is more important than personality, under the circumstances.
I was supposed to be partially conscious for part of the procedure, but "freaked out" under the first narcotic they gave me which was supposed to be very chill, but not, apparently, chill enough for me. I am dying to know what I said or did, but The Male Surgeon, smiles, a first for him, which is completely unfair because I'm not smiling. What am I doing? I'm lying in extended recovery in more pain than I care to remember in a hospital gown reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in "As Good as it Gets." Then, The Male Surgeon says, knowingly (ok what the frak did I do?), not to worry that "people do very weird things under the effect of anesthesia" and that I simply "wasn't comfortable" and that none of this means I was a "bad girl." If this was sexual repartee, that truly is as good as it gets for irony in my life these days.
Meanwhile, the marketing service employed by The Male Surgeon and His Colleague has been bombarding my email in-box lately wanting feedback on them. These emails started weeks before my procedure was scheduled, which is laughable because, whether or not, I'm "bad," I'm not stupid. I'm certainly not stupid enough to answer one of these and get moved from number two to number eight on his surgery schedule. You know the point where they've get the PA to stitch you up so they can make their four o'clock tee-off or worse yet, they accidentally nick a nerve somewhere and you won't be feeling anything for years. I'd like to think what I did tell him, under anesthesia, was that as a feminist and professional woman with serious medical issues, I don't completely relate to his advertising (glanced at once in "Atlanta Magazine") that seems to be aimed at the Alpharetta housewife who's afraid her husband is going to trade her in for a younger model and that his logo, with the strategically placed Georgia O'Keefe calla lily, would almost work, if it were intentionally that kitsch. Or, maybe I just made an ass of myself.
Post post script: Oxycodone, the Hillbilly Heroin
Worst of all, my husband, sympathizes with The Male Surgeon. "What did you say to him, honey? You could have had the ride of your life, but even after a healthy dose of what my anesthesiologist calls the 'number one drug abused by anesthesiologists who abuse drugs' (sounds good, but I'm not an anesthesiologist so I can't remember its name), "you're the one in ten who showed signs of residual "personality'." He wishes he could take me off-line when I get loopy and reload me into the system with plenty of upgrades. My husband says to write about oxycodone. What is there to say about oxycodone? It works. It takes the pain away. It fucks up your digestive system. My husband begs to differ, he nicked one of my painkillers in order to "get a good night's sleep," so good, in fact, that he didn't wake up until 11 am the next day. He says it's fantastic.
My husband comes around again and says that I have been writing for eight hours. He says that I am even more autistic than he is, because after four hours he needs a break. I say that I am a repressed autistic, who doesn't generally get to give in to her nature, seeing as we have four young children to raise.
So Nick and Nora Charles.
Thanks to those of you who sent flowers.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
I, convalescent III: She Reads the Press
The TUE (totally useless education) offered broad de Tocquevillian cultural speculations on the difference between BBC English (RP) and the totally flat Midwestern American newscaster pronunciation, which is totally accent-less (to an American). I read both the high and the low press, and when I say low, I mean really low, the lowest of the low, "The National Enquirer." I love you Dominick Dunne, old fart and insignificant snob that you are, for admitting that you were thrilled to learn one could get a subscription to that publication. Sometimes, I read "Vanity Fair," then in Mallorca, I discovered "The Daily Mail,"Hello" and "Tatler."
Although their standard is hipness as opposed to old money, "Vanity Fair" and "Tatler" seem to employ a formula first popularized, for Americans of my generation, by "The Preppy Handbook." Referring to the latter, Angela Carter amusingly described it as symptomatic of Reagan era prosperity, an instruction manual for the "nouveaux riches" to study the mores of the "anciens riches" so that they might pass among them unnoticed. "The Preppy Handbook" offered insights such as "money is like the golden retriever sitting by the fireplace, you don't necessarily notice it much, but it's good to know it's there." Written by a class-traitor, who bites the hand that feeds it (and laughs all the way to the bank), the levity of style reassures the reader that it's ok to pay attention to this sort of thing because nobody takes it seriously. As for le vice anglais, "Vanity Fair" tends toward interminable articles in which the Dear Reader is offered a glimpse at people whose lives are touched by beauty, coolness, social significance and/or deviance, the likes of which his own will never approximate," whereas "Tatler's" articles are shorter and get right to the point: new and unsuspected opportunities for social mortification. "What kind of bore are you" (always suspected you were a bore, but now you can find out what kind!) "The new ultra-rich" (and why you aren't anybody if you haven't got at least $IB) or "The latest, coolest neighborhood off the M something or other" (don't worry, once you discover it, the hip will have moved on someplace else.) I think I like the "Daily Mail" better.
Back to Anglo/French/American stereotypes, in the more serious international rags I read, where I quickly skim past all references to the Dismal Science, but linger in the Arts, Culture and Home sections, it appears They view us (Americans) as naive, overgrown children who are occasionally (but not often) visited by glimpses of self-awareness. Friday's FT movie section queries, in all seriousness: "Is the American capable of irony?" As for sex bay-bee, they seem to ascribe to us a mix of Puritanism and liberation that makes us sexually weirder than they are. It's barely relevant, but I love this repartee from my husband's great-aunt, a Very Grand Lady, who as the wife of the Spanish ambassador somewhere in South America, responded to a remark about Spanish imperialism with the comment "Really you ought to be grateful to us for civilizing you. Prior to the Spanish arrival you were running around with nothing but a tail-feather in the arse." Not sure where that leaves us, their own descendants, who grew up in Rousseau's Garden of Eden among the noble savages, the "criollos" or creoles, from the Spanish "criado alli" or "raised over there," but having lived in both the Old and the New World, I think we are a hybrid mutation.
Le Monde est Mondial
At any rate, I'm a lot more "demi-monde" than "Monde"--that's "demimonde" not Demi Moore and, if you do look it up: not a "grande horizontale" either. See "demi-world of ghost writers, hacks and publicists." In a life, largely unburdened by any qualities likely to make me popular or easily identify with selective groups, I do remember one time at Wellesley, I considered joining a "Society." It was one of the better ones frequented by the pretty, witty girls. I had friends there, I might have got in, but then I thought better of it. I realized to get in would be a complete masquerade. I'd have to spend the whole time making sure they didn't get to know the real, not pretty, not witty me. I joined the Shakespeare society, instead, which offered a greater mix of people, more interested in Elizabethan masques than social status. This is where I learned there was an Indian equivalent of "The Boarding School Boys." This phrase, straight out of my high-school and early college vocabulary, had to do with getting a date to PDC (local prep school, girls ask boys, Sadie Hawkins dance) or deb parties. The only thing more mortifying than having to rely on A Boarding School Boy as your date (you were such a loser you couldn't get anybody you actually knew--or their brother, or their resident exchange student--to accompany you), would be to learn that you (the male), had unwittingly, through the machinations of Your Mother, become the poster-child (I'm pretty sure a picture was included) for The Boarding School Boys. That is to say, she had written up a resume of your qualities and, more succintly why she thought you would be a desirable date aka "Eddy would like to meet some nice local girls." I think the Indian equivalent, never actually saw it, was a marriage-focused resume with picture that went something along the lines of "Arun is a doctor/engineer with a degree from blank, or blank IIT, great professional prospects, job waiting for him in the States...who would like to meet a suitable girl."
Although their standard is hipness as opposed to old money, "Vanity Fair" and "Tatler" seem to employ a formula first popularized, for Americans of my generation, by "The Preppy Handbook." Referring to the latter, Angela Carter amusingly described it as symptomatic of Reagan era prosperity, an instruction manual for the "nouveaux riches" to study the mores of the "anciens riches" so that they might pass among them unnoticed. "The Preppy Handbook" offered insights such as "money is like the golden retriever sitting by the fireplace, you don't necessarily notice it much, but it's good to know it's there." Written by a class-traitor, who bites the hand that feeds it (and laughs all the way to the bank), the levity of style reassures the reader that it's ok to pay attention to this sort of thing because nobody takes it seriously. As for le vice anglais, "Vanity Fair" tends toward interminable articles in which the Dear Reader is offered a glimpse at people whose lives are touched by beauty, coolness, social significance and/or deviance, the likes of which his own will never approximate," whereas "Tatler's" articles are shorter and get right to the point: new and unsuspected opportunities for social mortification. "What kind of bore are you" (always suspected you were a bore, but now you can find out what kind!) "The new ultra-rich" (and why you aren't anybody if you haven't got at least $IB) or "The latest, coolest neighborhood off the M something or other" (don't worry, once you discover it, the hip will have moved on someplace else.) I think I like the "Daily Mail" better.
Back to Anglo/French/American stereotypes, in the more serious international rags I read, where I quickly skim past all references to the Dismal Science, but linger in the Arts, Culture and Home sections, it appears They view us (Americans) as naive, overgrown children who are occasionally (but not often) visited by glimpses of self-awareness. Friday's FT movie section queries, in all seriousness: "Is the American capable of irony?" As for sex bay-bee, they seem to ascribe to us a mix of Puritanism and liberation that makes us sexually weirder than they are. It's barely relevant, but I love this repartee from my husband's great-aunt, a Very Grand Lady, who as the wife of the Spanish ambassador somewhere in South America, responded to a remark about Spanish imperialism with the comment "Really you ought to be grateful to us for civilizing you. Prior to the Spanish arrival you were running around with nothing but a tail-feather in the arse." Not sure where that leaves us, their own descendants, who grew up in Rousseau's Garden of Eden among the noble savages, the "criollos" or creoles, from the Spanish "criado alli" or "raised over there," but having lived in both the Old and the New World, I think we are a hybrid mutation.
Le Monde est Mondial
At any rate, I'm a lot more "demi-monde" than "Monde"--that's "demimonde" not Demi Moore and, if you do look it up: not a "grande horizontale" either. See "demi-world of ghost writers, hacks and publicists." In a life, largely unburdened by any qualities likely to make me popular or easily identify with selective groups, I do remember one time at Wellesley, I considered joining a "Society." It was one of the better ones frequented by the pretty, witty girls. I had friends there, I might have got in, but then I thought better of it. I realized to get in would be a complete masquerade. I'd have to spend the whole time making sure they didn't get to know the real, not pretty, not witty me. I joined the Shakespeare society, instead, which offered a greater mix of people, more interested in Elizabethan masques than social status. This is where I learned there was an Indian equivalent of "The Boarding School Boys." This phrase, straight out of my high-school and early college vocabulary, had to do with getting a date to PDC (local prep school, girls ask boys, Sadie Hawkins dance) or deb parties. The only thing more mortifying than having to rely on A Boarding School Boy as your date (you were such a loser you couldn't get anybody you actually knew--or their brother, or their resident exchange student--to accompany you), would be to learn that you (the male), had unwittingly, through the machinations of Your Mother, become the poster-child (I'm pretty sure a picture was included) for The Boarding School Boys. That is to say, she had written up a resume of your qualities and, more succintly why she thought you would be a desirable date aka "Eddy would like to meet some nice local girls." I think the Indian equivalent, never actually saw it, was a marriage-focused resume with picture that went something along the lines of "Arun is a doctor/engineer with a degree from blank, or blank IIT, great professional prospects, job waiting for him in the States...who would like to meet a suitable girl."
I, convalescent II: Southern Lady
Would I be a Southern Lady? A lot of ambiguity where I come from when it comes to the word "Madame." In the careers I considered but never pursued category, I did once aspire to a title I could have earned on my own merits: The Honorable," for current or former American ambassadors. After all, if you are going to represent a bordello, why not The Most Powerful Nation in The Free World? In my imaginary life, association of "The Honorable" is tied up with lots of creamy stationary and the third person address: "The Honorable requests the honor of your presence" or "The Honorable declines to attend your function, busy as she is with her important life, looking after Matters of State."
The Southern (as opposed to European) definition of lady has more to do with "maintaining your dignity in the face of adversity" than who begat or married you. At least that's what I came upon reading Tennessee Williams' autobiography. He offers the example of the older lady living in reduced circumstances with her daughter and son-in-law, in a boarding house somewhere in Florida. Apparently being a lady means that when your drunken bastard of a son-in-law gets in a rage and drops his glass eye in your soup bowl, you gingerly fish it out (with the correct spoon) and say something along the lines of "Willis, I think you dropped something."
Meanwhile, I glance at a Lady's Progress sort of story in"Hello" magazine. "Lady So and So, daughter of somebody I've never heard of and his un-memorable little slut of a fourth wife (she's young enough to be his daughter and then some) became London's IT Girl and took up with a ubiquitous restaurateur." Exactly whose mother is proud of their daughter taking up with a ubiquitous restaurateur? The Hilton's may not act like ladies, but they're the grand-daughters of a hotelier, for frak's sake. We then learn that "Young Lady So and So (now past her prime in the Euro scene?) aspires to come Stateside and do Reality TV." There again, who, with any shred of dignity, would do reality TV? Whatever happened to the Pamela Harrimans? They had presence and style. At least Pamela's resume had lovers with premium names you'd heard of--The Aga Khan, Agnelli, etc.
Oh back to my denouement, forget the blood and lizards. Pan to some generic Western frontier scene. Cheryl Crow is singing about putting on a poncho and playing for mosquitoes, drinking, and talking about thrift store jungles, and Geronimo's rifle (he he), Marilyn's shampoo and Benny Goodman's corset and pen--my cultural patrimony. Or maybe, it's the South, throw in some magnolias and the strains of Reba McEntire's "Fancy" are playing instead
The Southern (as opposed to European) definition of lady has more to do with "maintaining your dignity in the face of adversity" than who begat or married you. At least that's what I came upon reading Tennessee Williams' autobiography. He offers the example of the older lady living in reduced circumstances with her daughter and son-in-law, in a boarding house somewhere in Florida. Apparently being a lady means that when your drunken bastard of a son-in-law gets in a rage and drops his glass eye in your soup bowl, you gingerly fish it out (with the correct spoon) and say something along the lines of "Willis, I think you dropped something."
Meanwhile, I glance at a Lady's Progress sort of story in"Hello" magazine. "Lady So and So, daughter of somebody I've never heard of and his un-memorable little slut of a fourth wife (she's young enough to be his daughter and then some) became London's IT Girl and took up with a ubiquitous restaurateur." Exactly whose mother is proud of their daughter taking up with a ubiquitous restaurateur? The Hilton's may not act like ladies, but they're the grand-daughters of a hotelier, for frak's sake. We then learn that "Young Lady So and So (now past her prime in the Euro scene?) aspires to come Stateside and do Reality TV." There again, who, with any shred of dignity, would do reality TV? Whatever happened to the Pamela Harrimans? They had presence and style. At least Pamela's resume had lovers with premium names you'd heard of--The Aga Khan, Agnelli, etc.
Oh back to my denouement, forget the blood and lizards. Pan to some generic Western frontier scene. Cheryl Crow is singing about putting on a poncho and playing for mosquitoes, drinking, and talking about thrift store jungles, and Geronimo's rifle (he he), Marilyn's shampoo and Benny Goodman's corset and pen--my cultural patrimony. Or maybe, it's the South, throw in some magnolias and the strains of Reba McEntire's "Fancy" are playing instead
I knew what I had to do but I made myself this solemn vow
That I's gonna be a lady someday
Though I don't know when or how
I couldn't see spending the rest of my life
With my head hung down in shame you know
I might have been born just plain white trash
But fancy was my name
I, convalescent I: Remembering JBoss
For somebody full of nervous energy, the hardest thing is to be still. The only other time in my life I have been in a similar situation was six weeks of bed-rest before giving birth to twins in 2002. My husband bought me a laptop and set-up wireless in the house for the first time. I can remember having about two hours a day in which I could get some work done, something that probably saved my sanity. At any rate, this weekend my parents have taken the three older kiddos for the first time in as long as I can remember, leaving us with His Babyship (ok he's not a baby anymore, he's 18 mos. old) who's chirruping about, the house with his nanny, and there's my husband--which leaves me with Time To Write.
Remembering JBoss
The difference between now and my bed-rest with the twins was a sensation, then, of germinating something, both biological and externally, with the fast growth of the company. The other day, a chance coincidence brought my husband back in touch with a figure from our previous life, a company that was an early on-site training customer. My husband didn't at first remember the name (nobody who knows him should ever be offended by this trait), but I eventually did because it was connected with that refreshing novelty of Getting Paid, something my upbringing had not quite led me to believe was possible in the context of independence, rebellion and Having Fun. Although, much of the early work was certainly mundane, much concerned with setting up trainings and Java User Group talks, arranging wires, signing checks, reading legal documents and approving contracts--that I laugh when I read about business school grads wanting to be entrepreneurs because I have a hard time reconciling that sort of risk-avoidant, professionally conventional stamp of social approval with getting your hands dirty with the unglamorous work and the professionally and socially dubious status of the old-fashioned entrepreneur (he who has no money and no patronage). So, we built a company in the shadow of a standard and a brand built by my husband's former employer, unofficially barred from JavaOne, we ran our own dog and pony show at the bar next door. The neighbors and social acquaintances presumably imagined my husband and I sold novelties out of the trunk of our car, and those people who had heard of us professionally told us we were "crazy," although being from the South, there is a distinction. When you're poor, you're crazy. When you're rich, you become "eccentric."
The high point in our public awareness was the day The Industry Billionaire, whose public persona channels Genghis Khan, that is if Will Ferrell played Genghis Khan with the sort of one-liners Will Ferrell would use (disclaimer, my husband has met Genghis; I have not. If I did, I would like to talk to him about his Japanese garden). Anyway, The Industry Billionaire let it be known through his flunkies, that he might Have An Interest in us, an interest that quickly waned once he learned that we had shortly thereafter sold ourselves to a smaller company. At this point The Industry Billionaire publicly congratulated himself on not having bought us (IBM and BEA then publicly congratulated themselves that they too "passed" on us, even though they never were real contenders). He speculated that he could just as easily rape our technology and toss it into the gutter without the inconvenience of having any dealings with such contempt-worthy beings as ourselves and Our New Patron.
They say the English 19th century novel ends with epithalamion; the 19th century French novel--the French being more cynical and worldly--although, rather amusingly, they imagine the English to be far more pervy than they are: witness le vice anglais--begins with epithalamion and goes downhill from there. The American 19th century novel, from what I've gleaned from my Totally Useless Education, was less concerned with social mobility (thank God we got out of the fucking village) than with the epic battle of Man vs. Nature (think Melville's "Moby Dick") and surviving amidst the flora and fauna of the New World. At any rate, my problem with the American 19th century novel, being a 21st century sort of American girl, is what if you reached the frontier 20 years too late? The frontier's already mostly carved up. You claim your territory, then you take a look at the plot of land adjacent to yours, the adjacent land-owner takes a look at the menacing rancher from across the river and before you know it, you wake up with a splitting hang-over after a shot-gun marriage in Vegas. There's blood everywhere and the lizards are crawling up the walls. Maybe I'm getting a little too Hunter S. Thompson "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," here. Maybe "Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman" is better? Hmmh?
Remembering JBoss
The difference between now and my bed-rest with the twins was a sensation, then, of germinating something, both biological and externally, with the fast growth of the company. The other day, a chance coincidence brought my husband back in touch with a figure from our previous life, a company that was an early on-site training customer. My husband didn't at first remember the name (nobody who knows him should ever be offended by this trait), but I eventually did because it was connected with that refreshing novelty of Getting Paid, something my upbringing had not quite led me to believe was possible in the context of independence, rebellion and Having Fun. Although, much of the early work was certainly mundane, much concerned with setting up trainings and Java User Group talks, arranging wires, signing checks, reading legal documents and approving contracts--that I laugh when I read about business school grads wanting to be entrepreneurs because I have a hard time reconciling that sort of risk-avoidant, professionally conventional stamp of social approval with getting your hands dirty with the unglamorous work and the professionally and socially dubious status of the old-fashioned entrepreneur (he who has no money and no patronage). So, we built a company in the shadow of a standard and a brand built by my husband's former employer, unofficially barred from JavaOne, we ran our own dog and pony show at the bar next door. The neighbors and social acquaintances presumably imagined my husband and I sold novelties out of the trunk of our car, and those people who had heard of us professionally told us we were "crazy," although being from the South, there is a distinction. When you're poor, you're crazy. When you're rich, you become "eccentric."
The high point in our public awareness was the day The Industry Billionaire, whose public persona channels Genghis Khan, that is if Will Ferrell played Genghis Khan with the sort of one-liners Will Ferrell would use (disclaimer, my husband has met Genghis; I have not. If I did, I would like to talk to him about his Japanese garden). Anyway, The Industry Billionaire let it be known through his flunkies, that he might Have An Interest in us, an interest that quickly waned once he learned that we had shortly thereafter sold ourselves to a smaller company. At this point The Industry Billionaire publicly congratulated himself on not having bought us (IBM and BEA then publicly congratulated themselves that they too "passed" on us, even though they never were real contenders). He speculated that he could just as easily rape our technology and toss it into the gutter without the inconvenience of having any dealings with such contempt-worthy beings as ourselves and Our New Patron.
They say the English 19th century novel ends with epithalamion; the 19th century French novel--the French being more cynical and worldly--although, rather amusingly, they imagine the English to be far more pervy than they are: witness le vice anglais--begins with epithalamion and goes downhill from there. The American 19th century novel, from what I've gleaned from my Totally Useless Education, was less concerned with social mobility (thank God we got out of the fucking village) than with the epic battle of Man vs. Nature (think Melville's "Moby Dick") and surviving amidst the flora and fauna of the New World. At any rate, my problem with the American 19th century novel, being a 21st century sort of American girl, is what if you reached the frontier 20 years too late? The frontier's already mostly carved up. You claim your territory, then you take a look at the plot of land adjacent to yours, the adjacent land-owner takes a look at the menacing rancher from across the river and before you know it, you wake up with a splitting hang-over after a shot-gun marriage in Vegas. There's blood everywhere and the lizards are crawling up the walls. Maybe I'm getting a little too Hunter S. Thompson "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," here. Maybe "Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman" is better? Hmmh?
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