Un Anniversaire for the Grownups

When I was One,

I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three
I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
But now I am Six,
I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

This past weekend, I reached the breathtaking age of 25 years. There were no birthday cakes, or candles, or party hats. I think it was the most adult birthday I have had thus far.

What there was follows: An Englishman. A Mini Cooper, and a lot of tootling up and down the coastline of Big Sur. Plenty of Eggs Benedict, buttermilk pancakes, bacon, and Earl Grey. A wood fire stove and lots of reading in bed. Cliffside hot springs and massages. And when we finally staggered home, tired and happy, there was large brown package leaning against the front door, which contained a big, beribboned box stamped with the name Kate Spade.

Though I may still feel like an impostor perusing a wine list, it occurs to me that adult birthdays are really not all that shabby.

Ballistics Experts

"There's all this stuff on the floor!" Julie Powell [sprawled on the kitchen floor, crying, next to a turkey carcass], Julie & Julia.

Sometimes, I walk into my boss's office, and she'll clearly have been working on a physical manuscript, before being interrupted by an email. Pages slumped on lap, shoulders hunched, there she frenetically types away, pen or pencil clenched between teeth. The image strikes me because it represents, to my mind, such an utter and unremitting urge to keep writing: she has to write the email, but refuses to stop working on the book. Like she can't decide between the two technologies. Like words just cannot possibly get out of her fast enough.

I have never thought of myself as a particularly relaxed or dignified person, but in moments like these, it gives one pause to stop and consider. Is this what the future looks like?

When my youngest brother Bruce was about 10 years old, he was bemused to learn the meaning of the phrase "going ballistic." (My personal favorite illustration of the subject comes from the John Hughes' classic Ferris Bueller's Day Off: for fans of the film, please recall the scene in which the disaffected younger sister, played by Jennifer Grey, drop kicks Principal Rooney to the face and runs screaming up the stairs.) Bruce learned the term from our next-door neighbor Sina, who was using it in reference to his mother. Mothers, I allow, are experts in the field of "going ballistic." Ballistic, as any good English major can tell you, comes from the root word for the science of guns and explosions. The association, I think, is a great one, and it's a great turn of phrase. And, as Miss Grey and mothers bring into the mix, I think it's a particularly apt descriptor of hysterical women.

Which brings us back to the romcom genre. In every romcom there has to be a reason why a perfectly attractive and successful girl is single, right? Hence the character type: the uptight single girl. She works in writing or editorial, she's hyper organized, she flosses a lot, she hasn't been on a date in a really long time, etc. And her easily-tripped threshold of uptightness provides the writer and director with plenty of options to have her "go ballistic" in any number of sitcom scenarios.

All further proof that I was destined to be a romcom heroine. As a professional editor, I get paid to be anal retentive. Which is why I feel so terrifically lucky to have a job that I really enjoy. I've started recreationally proofing menus at restaurants, and pretty much any advertisement I read, I rewrite the tag line over and over again in my head until I'm happy with it. I make my boyfriend endure all sorts of hysterical fits, such as, say, bursting into tears over a failed chicken pot pie (they were very expensive wild mushrooms, for the record), or accidentally lighting one's own cookbook on fire. And I'm not particularly proud to admit that I've started down the path of compulsive cleaning. Which is just a tad disturbingly similar to my mother, enthusiastic organizer of sock drawers.

Next thing you know, I'll be hunched amid piles and piles of papers and words, pencil clenched in teeth, maniacally typing away. I'm not arguing that this is healthy. I'm just saying, well, first of all, it's inevitable, and second of all, isn't it just a tad... romantic? In the really uptight, but still adorable kind of way?

Thriving on the perfection of the details: it may seem like minutiae to the rest of you, but rest assured, for us lowly assistant editors and aspiring romantic stereotypes, well! I dare say it's a lifelong passion.

Miss Austen

First of all, in follow up to my rather angsty post from rather (ahem) a while ago, yes, in fact, I have now moved to San Francisco and have been living here yea so many months. If you will permit a gush: it is absolutely lovely. In addition to getting to pretend that you are like Jane Eyre walking out into a bracing onslaught of summer fog every day upon leaving the office (not great for the bangs, but one must compromise), I also feel that I have reached the closest degree that I perhaps ever shall in my life of resembling the heroine of a romantic comedy--or romcom, as my brother Jason, who knows such things, calls them. I submit the following evidence: I am a twenty-something educated woman. I work in editorial (I am delighted to conclude that nearly all romcom heroines work in either newspaper, magazine, or book publishing--consider your favorite films, and prepare to be amazed). I am fairly uptight, another key characteristic to many of these women (I'd like to think charmingly uptight, but won't push it). Clearly nothing is left but for me to start dressing in suspiciously unaffordable designer clothing, get put on a ludicrous writing assignment or get my stiletto stuck in a steam grate, and prepare to be swept off my feet by the man of my dreams who I don't actually like that much at first but ends up irresistably stealing me from my current boyfriend anyways meanwhile all of the subplots with my quirky friends wrap up in similarly satisfactory manner. Not that I've been, you know, thinking about this too much.

Ah, the delights and delusions of romance! Which brings me back to perhaps my favorite, dare I say, pioneers of the genre: Miss Jane Austen.

My dear friend Killeen, fellow English major now staggering through the world at large, invited me, roughly a year ago, to join a Jane Austen book club. Who could refuse such an offer? Someone made of stronger stuff than I. It was readily accepted, and six novels and six meetings later, I now delight in telling people that I have read the complete works of Jane Austen. In fact, I slip it into conversation whenever I can. I dare say it feels so good that I may start reading the complete works of other authors, so I can start saying that, too.

Despite feeling a bit like my mother (member of two book clubs), the experience on the whole was pretty top notch. Suffering from some withdrawal from the classroom, it was a delight to whip out the critical editions, start perusing introductions and footnotes, and underline and annotate away. Moreover, the novels themselves are such a pleasure--there is no other word for it--that left me, for one, audibly gasping, giggling, and in general severely annoying my boyfriend, who always wanted to know what had happened and was inevitably disappointed with the results.

"Mr. Elton is 'violently making love to her' in the carriage! Oh my god oh my god oh my god!!"
"Wait--what? I thought they couldn't do that in these books."
"No, no! Don't be an idiot. He picked up Emma's hand and told her that he is madly in love with her!"
"He just picked up her hand?"

And so on.

We chose to take the roughly chronological approach, meaning we began with Northanger Abbey, and proceeded with Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, and finally Persuasion. Northanger reads a bit young, although still charming. By S & S, I was sure it had to be my favorite. By P & P, I knew that I had been a complete dunce and clearly this was my favorite. I was a bit shocked to find that my club members preferred Persuasion to Emma (seriously, no contest in my mind), but we were all in accord when it came to Elizabeth Bennet clearly being the most easily imagined as one's best friend, and the outrageously arrogant Darcy reigned among our hearts. Personally, I place the wise Mr. Knightley second.

Reading (and becoming completely entranced with) Austen, I find myself wishing for the same delicacies today, where crossing a room can be a statement, visiting or not visiting a certain person at a certain time a huge affront or unanswerable kindness, and a short note containing but a few words can mean the absolute world. Austen's characters are so measured in what they do and what they speak; every word and phrase and gesture is important. It is a drama of the details, and when I sometimes think about what little care people seem to put into the emails that they write, and in general our comportment towards others, nowadays, it makes me wonder if Austen would share my occasional frustrations. What would Austen think of my friends who don't return phone calls, or make themselves presumptuously difficult over invitations, hm? Her relentless harping on faults of character gives us license to indulge in a critical eye ourselves, although, to be fair, her fascination with improvements of character probably ought to keep us a bit in check, as well. I favor the former over the latter.

Ah, but the pleasures of novel reading! All of these details culminate in such sighs and moans and ecstasy, that if you are one to subscribe to the drama of blushes and loaded glances across drawing rooms, it is a potent combination indeed. There is an unapologetic commitment to pleasure, that I adore in Sense and Sensibility in particular--in the way that Marianne Dashwood cannot be persuaded to stop going on long, moody walks in bad weather, or in my favorite speech performed by the scandalous Mr. Willoughby: "I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon: he has threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine, he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare." [Sense and Sensibility, p. 53, Penguin Classics 1995]

It is gripping, swoon-worthy stuff, and I hang on every word of Miss Elizabeth Bennet's, as she really lets Darcy have it following his outrageously offensive (first) proposal of marriage:

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry." [Pride and Prejudice, p. 188, Peguin Classics 1996]

How wrong she is! How right she is! And then Darcy continues to be awful but you love it and he leaves and she's torn and I crumple into a fit of agony and delight upon the floor.

My dear Miss Austen--forgive us our vulgarities, our indelicacies, our live-in boyfriends. Because we are, ever faithfully,

Yours,
Becky Duffett
Terminal Romantic and Fool in Love

An Ode to Craigslist

We others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses, have not even proper terms to express an animal's inter-communications with his surroundings, living or otherwise, and have only the word "smell," for instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills which murmur in the nose of the animal night and day, summoning, warning, inciting, repelling. It was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly reached Mole in the darkness, making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal, even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.

Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found the River! And now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in. Since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him. 

The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

*   *   *

I had a dream in the last few minutes before waking up this early morning.

It was dark and I was waking up in our Menlo Park apartment, and Stephen was out of town (Stephen is actually, in waking life, out of town). 

I got up and walked into the dining room. I reached for the blinds to try and peer out. Apparently, in my dreams, I also morosely wish I could go jogging, despite the rain and dark.

As I touched the blind, I started to notice that things were horribly different and wrong. In the darkness, I made out that our dining room table had been splintered in half, and one of the legs had been wrenched off. Articles were strewn across the living room. 

I started to panic, looking for laptops and other items of importance. I ran to the front door. It was ajar, and droplets of rain were spewing in. I hurriedly shut it and flipped the lock. I ran to the back door, which was also open. Rain soaked into my pajamas as I stepped outside to pull the screen closed, before shutting the door and drawing the chain. 

My wallet was sitting out on the dismembered dining set. All the cash was gone, and I couldn't quite make out which cards were still there. Turning the wallet over, I realized that the pink Scottie dog emblem had been cut out of the leather. I found it lying on the remains of the tabletop, a tiny frayed fragment.

At this point, it occurred to me that I might not be entirely safe. Whoever had done this might be coming back for more. I crawled under the covers with my cellphone, and desperately tried to dial 911. My fingers kept misdialing--9911. 9115. 915. 91155. Once I managed to dial through, but reached the police in Portland, Oregon. Somehow I also had Stephen on the other line through this, and I was trying to whisper to both of them: "No, Menlo Park, California." "Tony. Tony. We've been broken into." No one could understand me.

Thankfully, this is when I woke up. It was an unsettling but not a terrifying dream, and a few bright lights and a tour through the apartment had me mostly assured that all was well. 

*   *   *

Stephen and I are apartment hunting again. As always, it is a wretched, anxiety-producing process, and there's no doubt in my mind that this, at least in part, must have played into the burglary dream. The things that were the worst victims in the dream were not, in fact, items of any real value. Our dining set is an absolutely worthless piece of crap, which we picked up for free off the street. The wallet, likewise, I hardly noticed the contents of; my attention was entirely consumed with the little dog, which is the feature of it that I really love. The real victims of the dream were of sentimental value, then. Stephen and I reupholstered the dining set ourselves, and it has come to signify, I suppose, our efforts at putting our home together. A resourcefulness which is now being put to its full test, as we look for our next apartment.

One's inevitable conclusion from the experience of apartment-hunting in San Francisco is that Craigslist is the absolute pits. I kid you not. I go through fits of ecstasy and winters of despair. "Ah! this place would be so, so perfect!" alternating with, "Dear God, we are never, ever going to find anywhere." This dark ultimatum may seem ever-so-slightly hyperbolic, but I would submit to you the following: Stephen and I have seen upwards of 10 apartments thus far, and counting. One "beautiful restored Victorian" had no sink in the bathroom, meaning you get to brush your teeth in the kitchen every day. One "gorgeous" SoMa loft was next-door neighbor to a triple X video store. How lovely. Several places had tiny, 24-inch electric stoves in which I would surrender the luxury of baking a dozen chocolate chip cookies at a time, let alone roasting a chicken. I would say that 50 percent of the places we've seen do not have onsite laundry. Better yet, I'd give about a 1 in 4 odds to the people who flat out don't respond when I email or call them to try and see a place. And lest we fail to mention, the charming gentleman who simply stood us up when we had made an appointment to view his place. Ray is a personal favorite of mine. 

Moving to the city, I tried to mentally prepare myself. I expected apartments to be a little smaller, rents to be a little higher. Unrelenting soul-crushing, however, one cannot be sufficiently braced against. Stephen and I have paired up with a couple of friends, and have been looking at a few 3 bedrooms. We all fell in love with one, and we pounced--we got in as soon as we could to see it, we filled out and turned in applications that very same afternoon, assuring the landlord that we were ready to drop off deposit checks as soon as possible. We called two days later. Someone has offered him more money. He's "thinking about it." 

I spent so much time wondering when my job would be secure, and wondering when and how I would be able to move to San Francisco. Finally, I'm ready. No matter how many pep talks I give myself about being level-headed, and waiting it out, I just want to move now. I find it impossible not to get excited about the little details of places. We could have a reading nook in that bay window!  We could totally get a Welsh Corgi and have huge fabulous barbecues in that garden!  Who cares that there's no sink in the bathroom? 

It's the romance and the heartbreak of Craigslist, and a churning, overactive imagination, I believe, is what keeps the apartment hunter up at night. Not to neglect the obvious takeaways, such as it's raining, and I really, really, need to go jogging.