I first heard this song waiting for carpool pick-up in my Volvo SUV☺ Not very nice to mothers are you Bowling For Soup? In cheesy recent pop, we much prefer Fountains of Wayne’s “Stacy’s Mom (has got it going on)” thank you very much. While I did (and still do) enjoy a lot of 80s music, I was also happy to put that decade behind me—no snakeskin miniskirt, boyfriend, or Duran Duran concerts to wax nostalgic about there.
My memories of the high school in the 80s have a lot more in common with Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep than “The Breakfast Club” or “Sixteen Candles.”
So it is not without irony that I find myself shopping for an 80’s theme party at H&M, where clothes from that decade seem to have made a comeback. They are playing “Blister in the Sun,” a female-vocalist, Euro-pop version that lacks all the angst of the Violent Femmes original. I score a pair of leatherette leggings, fuchsia satin top and black Members Only-style jacket. Paying for these clothes, wearing rather conservative and uninspired “bourge-y” sweater, slacks and Ferragamo handbag, I’m sure the register girl at H&M thinks I’m schizophrenic or have a whole alternative night-life as a street-walker.
After the H&M experience, I feel the need to explain to the 20-something sales-girl at Sephora the objective behind my request for shimmery fuchsia eye shadow: “I’m buying this for an 80s party” meaning “I don’t normally have this bad taste.” The sales girl with the dyed black hair and nose ring (who definitely was not born earlier than 1980) is impressed. “Una fiesta, anos ochenta, que guay!” She explains this to her gay male sales associate with the Clark Kent-style glasses. He’s impressed too. “Una fiesta ochentera! We wish we were going.” Are the 80s suddenly cool again, even for people too young to remember that decade?
Actual items of clothing or accessories worn by Nathalie MF in the 80s
1) Baggy sweater and leg warmers 2) Stirrup pants 3) Jellies shoes 4) Neon socks 5) Shirts with shoulder pads 6) Large hoop ear-rings 8) Stonewashed jeans with zippers at the bottom of the leg. I babysat many hours to save up the $50 for that pair of Guess jeans. 9) Overalls 10) Catholic school-girl plaid skirt, white shirt with Peter Pan collar, knee socks and penny loafers--until my transfer to “The John Knox Institute” which didn’t have a uniform, but did have a strict dress code 11) Lots of Laura Ashley floral skirts and dresses. Embarrassing but true. I spent a lot of time ironing yards of floral fabric to perfect this look. 12) Bermuda shorts and argyle knee socks. 13) Kelly green and electric blue eye-liner 7) Pouf-dress for prom 14) Total write-off year? 8th grade: braces, bad Farrah Fawcett haircut, put on a few pounds, but did not grow taller, had chicken pox the summer before, which was not good for skin, almost failed Algebra…
Then vs. Now
Favorite High School Reunion depiction—30 Rock Episode where Liz Lemon goes back to suburban Philadelphia for her 20th reunion: their private plane gets stranded in the bad weather and Jack accompanies her. She says nobody will believe he’s young enough to be their classmate and he counters: “Rich 50 is like middle-class 37.” She remembers being a nerdy outcast, but they all remember her as being mean, sarcastic and intimidating. She plays spin the bottle and winds up with Jack. They not only don’t kiss, he decides her classmates are right about her.
Sure I was: Nerdy and sarcastic, but most definitely not intimidating.
Happy I grew up then because….no cell phones, messaging or Internet. The stupid things you said and did were confined to throw-away notes or your high school yearbook--not broadcasted, mass-distributed and memorialized in the ether.
Moved on to the 90s for:
Curtis Sittenfeld “Prep” fame-whore/narrow-miss media humiliation
Graduated from college in 1994. Pitched my failure to find a job, combined with large number of interview opportunities to Rolling Stone writer for their “Gen X column—looking for the first job episode.” Used winning lines like “I discussed this with my grandmother and her friends and they said “Honey, we just don’t know what to tell you. When we graduated from college, we joined the Junior League and started playing bridge’;” “I used to write about Personality and Artistic Theory, now look at me, I’m writing about evaporators and batch digesters;” “I picked which college recruiting meetings to attend based on the quality of their buffet spread;” “I failed my interview for a derivatives sales and trading position at a large multi-national bank. I don’t think it mattered so much that I didn’t know what a derivative was…it was the moment I discussed my senior thesis on Samuel Johnson’s theories about being un-able to enjoy/live-in the present because we are constantly fixated on a past or future, which is either far worse or impossibly idealized compared to the ever-vanishing present…where The Head wrote me off as not possessing the driven, goal-oriented Derivatives personality.”
Almost (sort of, not) briefly Infamous
The article never got published and I got three good meals out of this (including one at an upscale restaurant!) on Rolling Stone’s tab.
Will never be representative of my generation because
I actually know most of the lyrics to Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show’s “Cover of the Rolling Stone”…
My husband and his friend both assume that another friend of theirs is quite a hit among the ladies. Apparently high school and college were good times for X. “Can you imagine that they used to call him the 'Devastator'."
The irony is that neither my husband, nor his friend, bothered to ask actual women, including their own wives, what they think of X. The man in question is nice enough looking, but I haven’t spent much time thinking about him. The truth is that all above-average looking people are simple abstractions to me, unless they’ve written, said or done something that particularly piques my interest.
I don’t relate too well to the (outward) absence of obvious flaws in other people—like being too nice or too beautiful. No doubt this stems from an instinct to preserve dignity. One wonders if the unnaturally beautiful or virtuous might be applying their own (higher) standards to us: aka “could use an extra hour of treadmill every day,” or “needs to use more age-defying facial moisturizer” or “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it.”
Even worse, if I suspect that an above-average good-looking person spends a lot of time improving or maintaining their physical appearance. Extreme self-discipline also makes me uncomfortable—seems too much like a self-mortification fetish. I, myself, last tried a diet in 2005—the South B(i)tch ™, which is exactly how carb-deprivation made me feel. Every time I’ve made an effort to diet or exercise more, I’ve lost the same five pounds, which immediately come back--since I haven’t been willing to make a Permanent Lifestyle Change. I do love walking and hiking, for the pleasure of these activities, not because they are connected in my mind with Self-Improvement. The irony is that all these men who spend hours buffing up in the gym would probably get more female attention if they did something like join a cooking class or book club or learn to dance.
On the self-improvement note, I recently received an email inviting me to a book signing by a former high school classmate who has written a book of lists to help people cope with those life-changing events—buying a new house, getting married, having children, getting divorced, dealing with death, and even the impossibly improbable like the World Trade Center Bombing on 9-11. I thought about this. I make lists too. This gives me a convenient sense of accomplishment, while enabling me to further procrastinate from the tedious things I mostly don’t want to do. I put things in neat stacks or star emails in my in-box. My rationale is that if something is important enough, somebody will remind me to do it and it will then pop back to the top of the list, and eventually I’ll take care of it.
Are women less judgmental about physical appearances than men? I thought about men who would not fall into the category of Somebody Whom Other People Consider Exceptionally Attractive that I would find interesting, like Salman Rushdie, for instance. I loved The Enchantress of Florence. What sort of woman, I wonder does a sensitive, deep writer-type like Salman Rushdie find attractive? Wife number four, Padma, model, celebrity chef. She's beautiful and she can cook, what went wrong there? Apparently, she wasn’t supportive enough of his career. What could the source of the “connection” he feels with most recent girlfriend, Pia Glenn be? Oh wait, that didn’t work out either…because he couldn’t get over Padma. He may write like an angel, but he appears to have the emotional maturity of a 16 year-old…
The interesting thing about getting older is that, for most people, it’s a great equalizer. Apparently X has been going to pick up his children at their school, and noticed that the high school girls in their plaid mini-skirts and knee socks still look cute, but they don’t give him a second look. However, he feels that his appearance is quite appreciated by these girls’ mothers. Sorry “Devastator” you’re cougar bait now.
“I moved back after five years, and nothing had changed. It was like re-discovering old friends.” The two French women and I were talking about the Spanish magazine “Hola” and the cast of characters that regularly grace its pages. In Spain, these people are called “Los Famosos.” Outside of Spain, with two or three exceptions, nobody has heard of them. The fact that three foreign women living in Spain, with respectable educations and otherwise challenging intellectual preoccupations and jobs had become aficionados of Hola! was intriguing, to say the least.
My Spanish mother-in-law explains it this way—“It’s a mental vacation. I can read the same article a second time and not even realize I’ve read it before.” Hola! was started in Barcelona, in the 1940s to focus on “la espuma de la vida”—(poorly translated by me) as “the frothy side of life.” Someone once told me it is the largest circulation magazine in the world. I have not verified this. What I do know is that Hola! pays people for exclusives and that many of its regulars earn all of or a decent supplement to their income selling “exclusivas”.
The Hola! formula never wavers: the photographs are authorized by the subjects and, to the extent that such a thing is possible, are always flattering. The call-outs inform us that the Hola’s cast of characters are “ready for love”, “in love”, “deceived by love”, or “recovering from love.” “So and so is thinking about getting pregnant”, “is pregnant”, "offers us exclusive photographs with her beautiful new baby.” These people give us exclusive tours of their homes, discuss their deceptions, tragic losses, projects and aspirations.”
Sus Majestades Los Reyes
At the top of the Hola! pantheon are their Majesties the King and Queen; their two daughters, the Infantas (my French friends agree there is the nicer looking daughter and “la moche”—the ugly one); the heir, Principe Felipe, who usually looks very dignified; and his brunette Barbie wife, Leticia; and the grandchildren. Their Highnesses are in Hola! by grace of who they are and tolerate the media attention with a certain bored “noblesse oblige.” Unlike the British Royals or the Princesses of Monaco, the Spanish royal family generally behaves itself and doesn’t offer much in the way of juicy scandals. This makes them less entertaining than the sub-deities of Hola, who make a concerted effort to maintain their status as regulars in its pages.
The Woman Who is More Noble than Everybody
People who know about Spanish history will tell you that among the Grandest of the Grandees of Spain, are the Albas. The Duquesa de Alba is so noble that if she were in the same room as the Queen of England, the Queen of England has to give her precedence. This is because back when the Queen of England’s ancestors were backwater Hanoverian electors, The Albas were Somebody’s. When Spain ruled the Holy Roman Empire, the Duque de Alba was at the center of things, suppressing rebellions in the Netherlands. He was immortalized as a bogeyman for later generations of Dutch children: “If you’re not good, the Duque de Alba will get you.” One of the Duquesa de Alba’s ancestors may have been the model for Goya’s “Maja Vestida” and “Maja Desnuda.”
What does the Woman Who is More Noble than Everbody look like? She has a distinctive white person’s Afro of frizzy gray hair and a face that sports the plastic surgery Masque of Death—facial skin pulled tight and immobilized by Botox, the Surprised Eyes, lifted up and pulled at the corners, and the Joker Mouth, stretched wide and tight for a perma-smile on the sides, offset by the puffy Collagen Lips. The Duquesa de Alba has an affectation for “hippie chic” clothes that might be in the closet of your teenage daughter. Occasionally, she has a health crisis and is wheeled into the front page of Hola! with mini-skirt hiked up around her waist and wild pattern stockings on her frail legs. The Duquesa de Alba has a “novio” or boyfriend. He is her son’s age and has some sort of time-punching, civil-servant job. Before her current novio, she had a second husband, a former Catholic priest, named Jesus. Real toffs debauch their Jesuit confessors. Before that she was married to some nobleman who fathered her five children.
When the Duquesa has a health crises, which happens more frequently these days since she’s getting on in age, her novio wheels her around and otherwise appears attentive to her needs. Hola! is very interested in the progression of her relationship with her novio. The Duquesa’s children are also interested in the progression of her relationship with her novio. If this relationship progresses too far, it’ll cut into their inheritance. None of these children appears to have done anything interesting with their lives besides appearing in Hola!
Tita Cervera—dite la Baronesa Thyssen
Tita Cervera also sports the plastic surgery Masque of Death, but instead of the grey Afro, she has a blond beauty shop “do”. Her wardrobe tends to Couture and is more restrained than the Duquesa of Alba’s (when you’re born Very Noble, you don’t need to make such an effort). I don’t know who Tita Cervera was but apparently she likes Art. At some point in her life she married Lex Baxter, an American actor who played Tarzan. Baxter was as a Stepping Stone. Thanks to him, she got a villa called Mas Mananas (More Tomorrows) and an introduction to the better sort of Society. In Society, she met a rich old German, called the Baron Thyssen, who inherited lots of things and also liked Art. Tita Cervera married the Baron, and became a Very Great Lady, or at least a very rich one. At some earlier point, she had a son. Nobody knows where he came from, but the Baron Thyssen adopted him. The Baron Thyssen finally had the good taste to die and leave Tita Cervera with lots of money and lots of Art. Tita Cervera had the good taste to make sure the Baron left a lot of this Art to Spain, so now you and I can go look at it in the Thyssen Bornemisza museum.
Tita Cervera has a son who looks a bit like a Spanish redneck—or maybe that’s just the rockero wardrobe and all the tattoos. He appears a lot in Hola! with his wife and their son, giving exclusive tours of their villa in Ibiza. Apparently, his mother doesn’t like his wife very much because she demanded that her “grandson” submit to a DNA paternity test. I guess that’s publicly calling your daughter-in-law a whore. Much ado about the DNA test, but the grandson passed. I think the only reason the son and daughter-in-law put up with Tita Cervera is because, otherwise, they’d have to give up their villa and get real jobs.
Tita Cervera may have the last laugh. She either adopted or genetically concocted (lots of speculation here) twin daughters. All we know is that she got them from some birth mother/rental womb rental womb out in California. Now we see lots of photos of the beaming Tita Cervera with her (not-so-cute) twin toddler daughters. Apparently it’s not just enough to triumph over the physical indignities of aging, but the limitations of childbearing as well. In the process, you can show up your ungrateful oldest son and his trashy wife.
Isabel Preysler, or How to be a Successful Ex-Wife
Isabel Preysler used to be married to Julio Iglesias and is the mother of some of his children. I think she also married a succession or combination of the following: Political Bigwig, Captain of Industry and Member of the Nobility. I can’t keep track. Since they didn’t have the good grace to leave her a widow, she divorced them or maybe they divorced her. My mother-in-law has a theory that powerful men like to be collectors, so they seek out women whose CV lists the names of many of their peers. She also says that La Presyler is rumored to have a special trick of passing out during the er, “little death.” Powerful men must really go for that too.
Isabel Preysler either has a better plastic surgeon than these other women or has the good fortune to possess the holy trinity of aging well—good skin (likely due to her Asian ancestry—she’s Filipina), good bones, and not putting on weight. My mother-in-law adds a commentary here based on the Spanish expression: “Las mujeres se enjamonan o se aparchimientan.” (With age) Women either become ham-like or parchment-like. She also offers some consolation for those of us who might be leaning in the ham direction. Subcutaneous fat does one have one advantage. It smoothes out your skin. The Hams can always console themselves with the fact that they’ll have fewer wrinkles than their Parchment friends.
La Preysler’s age-defying looks serve her well because she is one busy woman. In addition to posing for Hola!, she appears in print ad campaigns endorsing various products. Twice a year, she travels over to the US and takes a picture with George Clooney to promote Porcelanosa. There was some disagreement among the French people at the party as to whether Porcelanosa is a line of “chiottes” aka plumbing fixtures, or tiles. I think the tiles won out. To be fair, la Preysler isn’t the only one. Once you come to Europe, you realize how many “serious” American actors supplement their income here pimping out various products. George Clooney is also the face of Nespresso coffee and Hugh Laurie did a big Schweppes Campaign.
Isabel Preysler has one successful son, Enrique Iglesias, and a few other children who don’t appear to do much of anything besides appearing in Hola!
Carmen Lomana in “The Rich Also Cry”
I used to wonder what Paris Hilton would look like in her 60s. Now I know. She’s going to look like Carmen Lomana. Actual Hola! readers may wonder why I included a B-lister like Carmen Lomana. They may not even know who Carmen Loman is. That is because they haven’t seen Carmen’s YouTube video hit “The Rich Also Cry”—“Los Ricos Tambien Lloran”. Unlike her younger counterpart, Paris Hilton, Carmen Lomana’s video does not involve any physical exertions. Thank God! Carmen’s Chilean industrial engineer husband had the good taste to die at 49 and leave her a very wealthy woman. Her male-servicing days are over, thank you very much. What does Carmen Lomana do in her life/video? She shops, trys on clothes and shares her opinion about La Crisis. Researching Carmen Lomana on the Internet, all I learned is that her cleavage is a “feat of engineering” and that she wears a lot of Couture. Her interview with the journalist includes such gems as:
“Do you have lots of closets for your clothes?”
“I don’t have closets, I have rooms?”
“What do you do with your time?”
“I don’t know. What do you do? I get up at nine, I take my breakfast in bed. I spend an hour there reading the papers. I look at my agenda. I take calls from my bankers and lawyers to discuss business. I plan my day. I have a doctoral candidate who’s writing a thesis on me. That’s the ultimate luxury.”
“Carmen, are you feeling the Crisis?”
“Not personally, but it affects you…seeing my friends…people who have lots of assets but don’t have “dinero cash” to go to the supermarket…I mean those that were always poor, you know--the ones that beg--they’re used to it…but it’s tragic to see somebody who used to have a job in reduced circumstances.”
“Are you doing anything for La Crisis. For instance do you go to mercadillos (flea markets)?”
“Well, I do try to shop less, out of political solidarity. I’m wearing things that I haven’t worn in five years, and you know what? They still look great"…”Mercadillos?” You mean like those ones in the villages? Oh I love them. I’ve never been, but I’m sure they’re great.”
A recent email thread on the subject of fifth graders and why most of them do not need cell phones...let alone text messaging, called to mind this movie.
...Can't imagine why a fifth grader needs a cell phone for a school trip to France. I can barely figure out the international dialing prefixes from and to various countries, myself...but, then maybe I'm not as smart as a fifth grader. Do they actually think their child is in-danger, in their private school, guided tour over there? Reminds me of an in-flight movie I saw…
“Femme Jep” refers to a genre of movies featuring women (from the French word “femme”) in danger (jeopardy). It seems that some women have a statistic-defying penchant for encountering Mortal Danger. Or maybe it’s a vocation to one day appear as guest invitees, sobbing on the maternal bosom or sympathetic paternal shoulder of the host, saying things like “I know I shouldn’t have gotten into that car.” Think the whole tedious thread with Jack Bauer’s daughter, Kim, in the early 24s. The girl couldn’t make it further than 2 exits on the highway without encountering a psychopath or rapist.
Taken is the story of a down and out, ex-US Special Forces father (surprisingly cast as Liam Neeson), trying to build a relationship with the teenage daughter he neglected, back when he was making the world a safer place for democracy. He is nervous about his daughter and her girlfriend traveling alone to Paris. Rightfully, so, as it turns it out. Barely have the girls gotten off the plane at Orly (or maybe it’s CDG, can’t remember) when they meet a young French cheeseball, who offers to share a cab with them, on the way to their apartment. Lo and behold, he turns out to be a Spotter. Before the afternoon is even over, our two virtuous American girls have been abducted by a, get this, White Slavery Ring. Now, I know this sort of thing exists and it is perfectly awful, but the truth is they are far more likely to target girls from poor countries whose families (if they have any), can't afford to find and get them back. If I were an enterprising white slaver from Kryzhghfuckistan, do you think I would go to the trouble of abducting upper middle class American girls from the cab line at Orly, girls with ex-Spec Ops dads just waiting for a chance to Redeem Themselves, not to mention well-heeled stepfathers with private planes?
The highlight of the movie is an auction in the basement of an elegant hôtel particulier in Paris (definitely an Eyes Wide Shut “transgression among the rich and powerful” look to this scene), where wealthy buyers, including degenerate Arab sheiks, bid for the flower of our teenage American womanhood. Taken plays out like a de Sade plot, without the benefit of (intentional) social satire. Because, if you owned a multi-million dollar yacht, you’d actually need a pillowcase and handcuffs to get an attractive woman onto it?
Reading Wikipedia, I was surprised on two accounts 1) to learn that the movie had been financially successful 2) that it had been written and produced by Luc Besson. That would explain why the action scenes and suspense build-up did work well. Reflecting on Besson’s other work, I definitely like The Professional and La Femme Nikita better, but Not The Fifth Element! In the first two, the visual quality of his storytelling makes up for the limited plot.
As for Taken, part of what makes it a B movie--in addition to, as a by-product of?...the unoriginal story, and the uninspired storytelling, is its reliance on clichés—the young girl in jeopardy, the hard-boiled, yet tender-hearted father, the nefarious villains, the crooked cop. In this way, the film-maker can 1) by-pass the hard work involved in coming up with multi-faceted characters and plot 2) be assured that he is plugging into characters and themes with which his audience can easily identify. The only thing that surprised me, was that the underworld image of Paris, as such a dangerous place, was one them.
In a recent conversation with my sister, she mentioned her semi-annual “let’s look at the direction of your career” meeting with her boss, and the fact that she would need to make a decision between the “management” and “specialist” track. My sister works for a rather typical subsidiary of a multi-national conglomerate with its shares of mergers, shake-ups and spin offs—so her two main concerns were 1) job security 2) the ability to advance.
I told her to definitely go for the specialist track. When push comes to shove, the superfluous management layer is the easiest to trim. Not only is “managing people” highly over-rated (you become the person responsible for those boring-as-shit employee performance reviews); it is also highly un-differentiated. Everybody claims they can manage people; whereas, in my experience, the most effective managers were formerly People Who Could Get Shit Done. This past experience tends to make the former Person Who Could Get Shit Done good at detecting other people Who Can Get Shit Done and extracting useful work out of them. Lest you think I’m naïve, I won’t fail to mention the second and altogether nefarious breed of manager. THIS person’s meteoric rise in the corporate hierarchy owes to 1) the fact that they are surrounded by people even more incompetent than themselves 2) aware of their own limitations, they channel their energies into sucking up to their superiors and taking credit for their colleagues and subordinates’ work…until such time as it is expedient to betray those colleagues and subordinates. Such is the way of the world. Unless, you fall into the latter category of person, it is best to 1) learn to speedily recognize them 2) stay out of their reach.
Nothing is so conducive to keeping out of the clutches of The Nefarious Manager and preserving your job safety, amidst the inevitable corporate re-orgs, as acquiring some valuable skill…preferably a skill involving the company’s arcane software systems, or, failing that, a good relationship with the right geeks so that if, called upon, you actually know the people Who Can Get Shit Done. The farther people are From Getting Shit Done, the less likely they are to know whom to call on when a problem occurs. One day, for some interminable amount of reasons related to the company’s jury-rigged, legacy apps and forced upgrades from the Even More Nefarious Database and Everything Else on the Planet Vendor, X fails. Akil in department Y might know how to fix or patch X. Secure in his job, not so much because it’s an enviable job, but because the job involves the plumbing of the company’s jury-rigged arcane legacy apps that none of his superiors will come near, or possessing some more generalized knowledge that will easily enable him to get a similar job somewhere else, Akil has a decision to make 1) he can make-up some lame-ass excuse for why fixing X is impossible, an excuse that would be utterly transparent to a person with some modicum of technical knowledge, but flies above the head of The Nefarious Manager, because The Nefarious Manager has spent the greater part of his/her life studiously avoiding actual work…or 2) he can fix the problem. In this situation you either want to 1) be Akil 2) have built up a good store of credit with Akil.
Never in a million years did it occur to me that I would work in the software industry. I was nerdy person, but definitely a Humanities nerd. My school experience with Math and Science was gratitude in being able to get as far as I did, and even more gratitude for stopping where I did. The last computer class I ever took was a BASIC class in eighth grade. I had to work my tail off to get a B+ and, even then, I sensed that I reached my limits. I am not even a remotely logical person. In fact, I’m not sure I really believe in logic. My limited experience of looking at the world is that this is not a place where Logic and Reason prevail. The survival skilz I’ve developed (from being kicked in the ass by my own errors) don’t so much resemble a Philosophy as little collections of dictums along the lines of: “You are always better off working with an amoral mercenary who will double-cross you at the first opportunity to the extent that you can SEE those opportunities (concurrently or before the mercenary); you should always beware the well-meaning fanatic, to the extent that you CANNOT see into the working of such a person’s mind and, therefore, will fail to predict their behavior.
Why did I enjoy working in software? I’ve written on this theme in the past. Here’s another angle on my previous, accidental career. First, shallow but true, being a woman, in a field where women are under-represented, the male/female ratio definitely appealed to my vanity. If I’d worked in marketing or communications in some more traditional industry, I’d have never gotten a second’s notice. Second, as a writer, I can relate to engineers, to the extent that I think both professions tend to get frustrated with the Actual State of Things (the Illogical World filled with its Nefarious Scheming Individuals and jury-rigged, Crap Legacy Systems). Writers and engineers tend to like building their own worlds, where they can exert total creative control. While my husband and I became entrepreneurs by default--because nobody in their right mind with any money or gravitas in the software industry would have supported us—the latter reason is why I can no lo longer imagine working any other way. Third, in open source software, I enjoyed working in a collaborative field. The myth that other people are going to do Your Work for you, for free! (“You should be grateful I use this free POS, tell me right now, why will not JBoss scale with my app!”) is completely ridiculous. The truth is that people who tend to specialize in relatively narrow fields, where there are few people with whom they can communicate, are often very willing to share their knowledge (but not with idiots). If they enjoy what they are doing and are smart, these people have invested some time and effort acquiring this knowledge (or, if they are lucky, had a Eureka! moment), so sharing that knowledge validates their work and experience…
Little hussy with no sense of family identity or loyalty to “her people”
This is probably one of the worst things you could imply about a person in the American South. A recent, inconsequential Facebook exchange, involving a reflection on my middle-class upbringing, provoked a most unexpected, vituperative and, thankfully, private--or else all my Facebook “friends” would be having a good laugh at me now--email. The offended family member wondered how I could consider an upbringing that included trips to Europe “before adulthood!” “exclusive” private schools and membership “from both sides of my family” in “the most exclusive country club in Atlanta” middle class?
My entire life I considered myself a member of the middle class. Was this a false delusion? Was I, in fact, a class-traitor--a phony and a hypocrite who wouldn’t recognize the American middle class if it were two feet from my nose?
Why middle class? To begin with, in the US, you can’t be upper class without money. Whatever financial resources my antecedents possessed, had mostly disappeared by the time my cousins and I came around. It’s not that the money was completely gone—it helped pay for my sister’s and my private schools, summer camps, or trips to Disneyworld or cruises with our grandparents. However, money had ceased to be a comforting presence you could count on, with an air of nonchalance--described by “The Preppy Handbook,” as “the golden retriever snoozing by the fireplace: nice to have around, but not exactly something you make a big deal about.”
Ironically, the family’s most recognizable “middle class” trait, reinforced by its increasing distance from the flush days, was the need to demonstrate that we occupied a better plane of existence than the ordinary mass of humanity (whom we greatly feared sinking back into). This tendency manifested itself in little observations such as: so and so is “as common as pig’s tracks,” “country people don’t eat lamb,” “fine bone china,” “leaded crystal,” “cradle-born Episcopalian,” “the Junior League,” “debutante,” “all the men in our family are SAEs”, “only tacky people (whose marriage we haven’t been invited to) get married during Lent,” etc.
On the contrary, my limited experience reading about, and interacting with the Personages of this World (or, more frequently, their children)—where my presence was as remarked upon, to borrow a phrase from Neal Stephenson, as “a mouse turd in the pepper”--is that the upper class does not need to point out to you that they occupy a better plane of existence. This fact is blindingly obvious.
"Wait ‘till I get my money right"
Love the refrain from "Can't tell me 'nuthin" by Kanye West. The origin of my improved circumstances, in the plumbing of the Internet, is obscure enough not to attract much attention outside the middleware ghetto. In fact, the one moment of maximum public awareness was when a Personage—I’ll call him Genghis Khan—did take sufficient notice of my husband and our company to upgrade us from “mouse turd in the pepper,” to “mouse,” and, consequently--attempt to squash us. Surviving that and fading back to obscurity has been a good thing.
Growing up among inconsequential provincial snobbery, cradled in a family mythology emphasizing our participation in Great World Events and our proximity to Great Personages of this World--sometimes based on fact and, barring that, convenient coincidence--has somewhat immunized me to my current, improved circumstances. Like the French comedian, Coluche, I don’t consider myself a “nouveau riche,” but rather an “ancien pauvre.” Whatever penny-penching or profligate habits I may have, they, like my identity, were developed long ago.
I hate the word “networking”: cultivating people because you feel they can be of use to you. Thankfully, no one tries to flatter me; I would respect them less if they did--to be so deprived of self-respect to flatter somebody as inconsequential as myself. As for the occasional person who tries to cultivate me to get to my husband (or rather my husband’s money), the irony is that I spent the greater part of my career trying to shield people from my husband. If they get to him, they get what they deserve—he has very specific opinions about fools.
There’s a French expression: “pour vivre heureux, vivons caches.” This translates to “To live happy, live hidden.” The family’s picaresque repertory contained many cautionary tales, where instances of extraordinary success were reduced by unfavorable World Catastrophes—the French Revolution, the Great Depression, World War II, the Cuban Revolution (less mention was given to latter generations’ propensity to coast off the prior generation’s success, and spend down the capital). Of all these stories, my favorite was the tale of René Madec. Madec began his career as a humble cabin boy in the French East India Company; fought for the French in their ill-fated attempt to establish a foothold in Pondicherry; sometimes French corsair, sometimes British corsair; taken prisoner by the British, he deserted from the Bengal army and became military instructor to various Indian princes, rose to rank of Nawab and, later, king of Deccan, in the service of Great Mogul Shah Alam II. He accumulated great wealth, married "a descendant of Genghis Khan," before returning in triumph to his native France. Alas, as he was transporting a portion of his treasure back to France, his boat encountered a storm and was sunk to the bottom of the sea.
Mostly I’m grateful to my family their role in my sense of identity, however twisted it might be, and for their story-telling ability. One day, I hope to perfect this art myself. In the meantime, I’m off to learn more about l’Emmerdeur, the incomparable Jack Shaftoe, and his lady love, Eliza, Duchess of Qwghlm and Arcachon in "The System of the World," book three of Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle.
Quotes: "The Story of your life is not the story of your life, it's your story." From my sister-in-law, Carmela, would be grateful to anybody who can help me source this one.
"Success is a complication in the disease of ambition"--attributed to her father by JS Van Buskirk in Facebook update, possibly source-able elsewhere, as well.
It's that little souvenir of a terrible year which makes my eyes feel sore... from Here’s Where the Story Ends by the Sundays
Adapted from a letter to a good friend
… the work and adrenaline keep you from thinking too much. Sometimes, that’s a good thing. It’s the down time, you’ve got to watch out for, the slow-growing doubts and anxieties that creep in the void. After 5 years of building a company--eating, sleeping, living and breathing that entity, and caring a lot about a lot of the people we worked with, selling it felt like selling a child. If the purchasing entity’s culture is radically different from your own, and (you may feel in your less charitable moments) represents everything you built your company as a reaction against...that feeling is compounded. You can out-do the haters, writing your own epitaph. Not that this maudlin navel-gazing will generate much sympathy among your friends and acquaintances, either. You sound like the jilted ex-wife, complaining about the new wife coming in and redecorating the house and yanking the children out of their expensive private schools, etc. People's reaction is pretty much "Take your big-ass divorce settlement and move on." One person, in the industry, to whom I wrote, could relate. He wrote that selling his first company felt that way, but that "it gets easier each subsequent time..."
…my experience (with the meds) is that they don't "make you happy"--as I thought they would, until I tried them. What they do (when they work) is "take the edge off" and "help you cope." When I think about how I feel now versus back then, the biggest change is what (now) seem like relatively small things, used to really upset and overwhelm me. I couldn't let go or put things in perspective. I’d seize on some issue or thought pattern and gnaw away at it, like a pit bull with a bone. Things still upset me and I still get the blues, but the difference is that this is occasionally, not most of the time. Mostly, my baseline mood is a lot more calm, at peace…I don't necessarily like these people, but now I can accept them--along the lines of "They is what they is; and they ain't what they ain't…"
It's not just the lows that are more infrequent, but I can also recognize and appreciate more frequent moments of happiness…it hasn't been easy...I can recognize some of the bad old bad habits coming back. Maybe this will work now, maybe it will work later, I don't know. The good thing is that I know that, at least, there is something that will work.
What helped me a lot were two changes in my life: moving and starting a new creative project. Home was very connected in my mind with the productive start-up years, so living here felt very anti-climactic once we sold the company. Right now, I like the detached feeling of living in another country. Nobody knows you or gives a damn who you are. And, even if they did, nothing about who you were or where you came from in X is relevant in Y. This doesn’t just work with geography, but changing industries or careers, as well. Ironically, having strong roots and family ties makes it easier to let go of everything and feel at home in totally foreign places...because I can (and usually do) always go back. A cheesy reference, but the line from the movie Fight Club: "Don't let the things you own, own you" makes a lot of sense to me.
As for writing a play, I am somebody who is essentially happy when doing creative work. In my case, what I enjoy is writing. I think I read and write, in the words of C.S. Lewis: to know that I am not alone. I wrote the play with a new friend--who like so many people living parallel lives that I passed on a daily basis, I’d never gotten to know before. Working on a new creative/collaborative project has helped pull me out of my isolation, feel like I am moving forward with a positive, fun, totally different phase of my life…I am unhappy when I cannot control circumstances. What I like about writing is that I have complete control of this entity and can take all the things that have frustrated me in my life...work them out on my own terms, and have the last laugh.
it's that little souvenir of a colourful year which makes me smile inside so I cynically, cynically say, the world is that way surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise here's where the story ends ooh here's where the story ends
I first heard this song waiting for carpool pick-up in my Volvo SUV☺ Not very nice to mothers are you Bowling For Soup? In cheesy recent pop, we much prefer Fountains of Wayne’s “Stacy’s Mom (has got it going on)” thank you very much. While I did (and still do) enjoy a lot of 80s music, I was also happy to put that decade behind me—no snakeskin miniskirt, boyfriend, or Duran Duran concerts to wax nostalgic about there. 
