Valancy's Place

 I have made a beautiful mistake: the sweater I ordered is in fact an enormous, thick, heavy Irish shawl. For many people, this would be infuriating, but I am ecstatic. It is pure wool, long, heavy, black. It layers perfectly over my black-and-brown turtleneck; it lays elegantly on the back of my chair.
Tossed on, it conjures the very best memories of the Spanish woman (late 50s, early 60s?) I lived with half the year in Spain, who set my standard for a life well-lived as an adult. (The friends! The events! The joy of the city! The children who adored her! A woman always with plans.)

While her shawl was the classic thin Spanish one--one I also love--this, though thick, has that same elegance and maturity, a shawl that says you know exactly who you are and you are precisely the age you mean to be.

It is warm in a way that only my recently purchased cashmere sweater is; a warmth built of real fibers, something whole and healthy and good about it. (I remember reading interviews with Outlander cast members; all the cast were absolutely comfortable, in period-perfect wool and silk, in the cold and wet of Scotland. [Wool is warm wet or cold, unlike killing cotton.] The crew, in their technical vests and jeans and even I think someone in snow pants, were utterly miserable.)

It's enough to entirely put me off synthetics forever, which I have been huddling under, shivering under, for winter thus far. Five minutes in this shawl and I turn off the heater and throw on some lipstick, pleased with my elegant, cozy self, and can hardly believe I will ever catch a cold again.

I overexplain things in all the stress.

I'm sorry his teeth aren't great, I said to the vet. I separated from my husband a year ago and then he nearly died and moved back in and then out again and now he's back and that was the one thing he did, brush the dog's teeth. And it's been chaotic.

That sounds like a telenovela, the tech said.

It feels like a telenovela, I said.

The vet changed the subject.

I saw a picture today of a dear old friend from Spain; someone I have mentally cheered along all the way though we effectively never talk, pursuing an amazing human rights career. After seeing her go through many fashion phases, she looks almost exactly like she did in college, sans a little punk color in her hair: the black leather boots (though more motorcycle than Docs style now), the short skirt, the tight t-shirt. I wonder if this is like the bluebird of happiness, where we spend years around the world only to find ourselves at home: returning to our true college selves. Or maybe it just pokes its head out now and again, like a baby bird in its nest, hidden but essential, core.

Jason, one of C's oldest friends, recently moved to New Mexico. Both C and I are ecstatic. Jason is amazing with kids, handy with everything, and generally cheerful, sweet, and enthusiastic. He was, in fact, C's roommate briefly when C and I were dating. Most importantly to this entry, he has a killer back yard.

A moderate block of a home with no pretensions to anything, the back enclosed patio - perfect for large parties - opens to wisteria on the porch and a broad view of the city. Climb the expansive hill in his very large yard adrift with sand and pretty New Mexican scrub, and there's a second porch overlooking the city. It's utterly brilliant, the kind of porch you're half-tempted to move into. We strongly suggested he throw the annual Independence Day party for our little community of friends, and somewhat terrified, he agreed.

Never having thrown a party (and in his forties!), we jumped to his aid--admittedly rather necessarily, considering we'd put him in this situation. We made bean salad and potato salad, brought salsa and chips and plates and platter and beer and more, helped him shop and prep his list of meals, arrived early and made drinks and served them while Jennifer helped guide him in his first grilling experience on his brand-new grill that C had helped him put together not three hours before. Food piled up as friends dropped in, including K, recently out of the hospital and looking much better.

It was the kind of perfect fourth you dream about: fireworks, kids, old friends and new, even a random acquaintance dropping by to add to the fun of it toward the end. We started with Glenn Miller and moved on to a wild tailored soundtrack courtesy of C while I poked about and took pictures. Koko bounced around ecstatically, enjoying free reign in the yard, scampering in and out and up and down the long and charmingly lit pathway to the second porch. KL turned her dress ruby red with watermelon juice as twilight came in and we sat down to a feast before moving back outdoors to drink and admire the sky. Little cousin Mia nearly burned herself several times with fireworks--definitely not something I'd planned on, unnerving, but admittedly delightful--and everyone else watched as she burned through her pile of goodies, all amused at my fretting.

I went home, disappointed only because I hadn't wanted to leave.

My library purchased both books I sent in on their request list.

Everyone should post their ten most CRUCIAL CRUCIAL CRUCIAL movies, like the movies that explain everything about yourselves in your current incarnations (not necessarily your ten favorite movies but the ten movies that you, as a person existing currently, feel would help people get to know you) (they can change later on obviously).

Quick list:

Return to Oz
Rear Window
Clash of the Titans
Time Bandits
To Catch a Thief
Unico in the Island of Magic
Logan's Run (original)
Return of the Jedi
Sense and Sensibility (Emma Thompson's)
Xanadu

Edit: Probably should have The Last Unicorn and certainly The Dark Crystal. So many great movies.

I have hardly listened to anything new of Crow's - my fault, not hers - but I am ridiculously attached to her Tuesday Night Music Club. I don't know if anyone remembers Run, Baby, Run, but it always leaves me teary and yet inspired. It's a great writing song; one of those songs that pushes you into a great tempo, a song I know the lyrics to perfectly, so I don't really need to actively listen, just hum softly along with the defiant sadness.

Great song. Just great.

Why is it that people say, how wonderful, the Swiss speak 3 languagues!, yet so many people react badly to the concept of having to learn a second language in the United States, or the increasingly prevalence of Spanish in the southwestern U.S.?

(I think this is obvious why; perhaps mostly rhetorical. Alas.)

A bit back, I read R's entry about her feelings about Superman, her identification with him that ran on a deep level. It was perhaps not too surprising that she linked to an article discussing the disservice the latest Superman movie does to the character, as it links him with violence as a solution for the first time--basically the antithesis of Superman--and shortly thereafter discussed her renewed respect for and commitment to nonviolence. It made me think about my own heroes. Unsurprisingly, I feel very proprietary about Buffy.

It's a little funny that my chosen character is, at least on the surface, pretty much Superman's opposite. Sure, they're both committed to saving the world, and there's a certain amount of superstrength in common and a longing for a normal life and human connection. But it pretty much stops there. Buffy's not just accepting of violence, she's committed to it. She works in a team, not alone; she worked under the tutelage of a teacher for much of her Slayer career; and she has a habit of sleeping with the enemy. Even in the mythos of TV and comics, Superman is forever rebooting, forever young; Buffy has steadily aged, and death is always around the corner.

But almost from the first time I saw her, she's been my girl. Not because it's my formative fan experience, though it is, or because of the actress (SMG frequently drives me crazy), or even because of the writing--after all, I don't even think Buffy is Whedon's strongest series. It's because Buffy, the character, is an incredibly rare creature in fiction.

Buffy is everything Superman isn't: average. She's smarter than she seems at first glance, but not by too much. She's not the most compassionate, either; in fact, Buffy's selfishness often bites her in the end. She's not even the best leader; she makes many bad decisions (partly abetted by some strange writing decisions). Buffy is the could've-been-popular girl that wasn't, and pretty, but not beautiful, with a hit-and-miss home life that's not ideal but not so bad you can really applaud her for overcoming it. Even her superpower life is unexceptional: she's strong, but never strong enough that it really helps her in a fight against the Big Bads. Sometimes it's hard to see why she's a hero at all; certainly there was never any indication she was chosen because she was tougher, braver, etc.

Which is the point. The real reason Buffy is a hero is because she shows up.

I love that. For all that she's supposedly the chosen one, she could pretty much walk away. She doesn't. Buffy shoulders the responsibility, takes the blame, and fights the battle. Not because she's the best person around to do it, not because she's the smartest, and not even because she's the bravest, but because she sees the need, and she shows up.

I know Buffy. She's pretty average--but she tries anyway. And that is great.

Unfortunately, most days go like this:

- Baby wakes. Breastfast for her. It's 5amish.
- Get to work by 6.
- Work until 5, 530.
- Make dinner until 6, sometimes 630. (Takes full hour or more as many baby interruptions. Fussy time starts around 5.)
- Eat dinner until 6:45.
- Get baby ready for bed/nurse to sleep 6:45-7:30/8.
- Clean up house, dinner 730-830.
- 30 minutes to self, then bed.

In this 30 minutes, sometimes hour if I'm wild and stay up late, I try to writeeditreadcleanorganizeplan. Then I brush my teeth and wash my face and go to bed and start over.

Sometimes I get stuff done by simply staying up until midnight and working on virtually no sleep. But that's rare. I like sleep. Mostly I just wait for the weekend, where I might get 2 hours a day to myself when she naps.

I'd like to write interesting things, but as you can see, pretty much every spare bit of time and talent I have is spent elsewhere at the moment.

I'll be back when I can be.