Another quiet night for Miss Edith and Notarius.
There we were, on our luxuriantly upholstered furniture, watching a re-run of Gilmore Girls, which pretty much hit the skids when Rory went off to Yale, though up to that point we’d both been pretty slavish in our devotion to it; Tuesday nights were sacred in our home.
We gave up on the show long enough ago that we’d totally lost the plot and, worse, had forgotten the names of some of the characters. Came a scene where Rory was trying to serve breakfast in bed to her boyfriend, who seems to’ve graduated from college and turned 25. (When did this happen, exactly?) Notarius and I tried to remember the character’s name but just could not.
“What the hell is his name,” Notarius muttered.
“Caleb?” I proposed.
“It’s not Caleb,” he said snottily. Wounded, I fell silent.
“Magruder,” Notarius said. “It’s Macgruder.”
“It is not,” I said petulantly.
“Fritz!” he crowed.
I pondered this. Why isn’t any named Fritz anymore?
“AH!” Notarius said, triumphant: “Logan!”
Logan it was, too. How quickly we forget.
But I still think people, if they’re going to insist on having children, should seriously consider revisiting the name Fritz. Folks are missing out on a good thing here.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Miss Edith Wants To Tell You: This is a Nice Book.
Some time ago, I noted that I was reading Calvin Trillin’s Tepper Isn’t Going Out. I was enjoying it, you may recall.
I’ve finally finished reading it – it became my bedtime reading because, I found, I was enjoying it so much that the best way for me to appreciate it was to read it in very small installments, a tiny bit at each bedtime. I won’t say that I’m in love with Tepper, the way I have fallen in love with other books over the years, but I really did enjoy it. Trillin’s got a tone, a – bear with me here, there’s a reason I’m using this phrase – a nice, light tone, wry, but realistic – that I found very soothing at bedtime, and occasionally I chortled aloud as I read, prompting Notarius to ask, “What?”
One such segment came early in the book, on page 32. Tepper is sitting in his parked car outside of Russ & Daughters, which Trillin fans know is a place that the author has a kind of obsession with. This is where you go to buy your lox, your whitefish, and things like that. An appetizing store.
So Tepper’s sitting in his car outside Russ & Daughters and the counterman from the shop comes outside to see if Tepper needs help or something. The counterman’s concerned that Tepper maybe can’t get out of the car for some reason, that something might be wrong. Tepper assures him that everything’s fine, he’s just sitting in the car, and the two fall into conversation. I love Trillin when he does stuff like this. I just love it:
Finally, the counterman said, “You know, it can get pretty irritating with some of those customers.”
“I’ll bet,” Tepper said.
“They’ll say, ‘Gimme a nice whitefish.’ So I’ll say, ‘One whitefish, coming right up.’ Cheerful. Pleasant. And they’ll say, ‘A nice whitefish.’ Can you imagine? This happens every Sunday at least once. I could prevent it, of course. I could head it off. You know how I could prevent it…”
“Well,” Tepper said, “I suppose –“
“Of course! I could just repeat after them exactly: ‘A nice whitefish.’ But I won’t. I won’t give them the satisfaction. What I really feel like saying when they correct me – when I say, ‘One whitefish, coming up,’ and they say, ‘A nice whitefish,’ – is, ‘Oh? Well, I’m glad you said that, because I wasn’t going to get you a nice whitefish. If you hadn’t said that, I would have looked for a whitefish that’s been sitting there since last Tish b’Ov – an old, greasy, fershtunkeneh whitefish. Because that’s what we serve here mostly. That’s out specialty. That’s how we’ve managed to stay in business all these years. That’s why the Russ family is synonymous with quality and integrity in this city for maybe seventy-five years – because they sell their steady customers rotten, stinking whitefish. That’s why the boss gets up at four in the morning to go to the suppliers, so he can get the fershtunkene whitefish before his competitors. Otherwise, if he slept until a civilized hour, as he maybe deserves by now, he might get stuck with nice whitefish.”
I loved this segment. It captured perfectly the way a certain type of person speaks. Someone with a Jewish, urban background; someone who’s been in the service industry a long time. Someone who takes pride in what they do and is mortally insulted by some pinhead’s unconcerned dissing of their profession. Having worked in retail for so long, I understood how the counterman felt. And I know – I know – that I use the word “nice” in this way sometimes. What slayed me was that… well, it’s like the word “nice” becomes Yiddish, in this context. Everyone uses the word but somehow it takes on an extra layer of depth when it’s used by alter cockers and demanding ladies standing on line in a store somewhere. The word becomes different, somehow.
It’s sometimes also used to convey the idea that one is taking pleasure in something beyond what one would expect. “Nice” can be used to modify or emphasize words unexpectedly, in a way that doesn’t sound right if you take the phrase at face value, but which makes total sense if you speak this weird language – which I want to call a Jewish urban language, but I’m not entirely sure that that’s fair. It might just be a generational thing. But I suspect that those of us who were raised in families where people used the word “nice” this way will carry it on to future generations. My niece, for example, who’s a mere child, and who seems to lean on “like” a lot more than “nice,” is a child who, someday, may be an adult who stands in a deli and asks the counterman imperiously for a nice whitefish. If she eats whitefish, which she might not. I suspect she’s a kid who’ll only go for belly lox and call it a day.
Later in Tepper, our hero falls into conversation with another person who visits Tepper in his parked car. They discuss how the visitor’s wife, an aspiring writer, writes things that the visitor finds completely mystifying. He just doesn’t get the stuff. He eventually admits that she’s really great at one thing in particular, which is describing serpents. He goes on for a while, saying how great the serpents are, even if the rest of the writing is just gobbledygook to him. Tepper considers this (I could just see him nodding his head thoughtfully) and comments:
“I like seeing a nice serpent now and then.”
A nice serpent. Man. I just about died.
Niceness, as a quality in people, may be overrated, but Miss Edith has to admit, there really is nothing like a nice serpent now and then.
Incidentally, one of my initial pleasures in reading Tepper Isn’t Going Out was reading the descriptions of how sales leads were generated by Tepper’s company, which is called something like Worldwide Lists. These little asides, which Trillin tosses throughout the book bit by bit, kind of like how in a salad you occasionally get a mouthful with a particularly tasty tidbit – a candied walnut, or a bit of pear, or whatever floats your boat – are definitely one of the reasons this book is a small joy. I don’t know if everyone would find this stuff entertaining, but god knows I did. In conclusion, I just want to thank Calvin Trillin for Tepper Isn’t Going Out; it was a palate-cleanser for me, a nice read.
I’ve finally finished reading it – it became my bedtime reading because, I found, I was enjoying it so much that the best way for me to appreciate it was to read it in very small installments, a tiny bit at each bedtime. I won’t say that I’m in love with Tepper, the way I have fallen in love with other books over the years, but I really did enjoy it. Trillin’s got a tone, a – bear with me here, there’s a reason I’m using this phrase – a nice, light tone, wry, but realistic – that I found very soothing at bedtime, and occasionally I chortled aloud as I read, prompting Notarius to ask, “What?”
One such segment came early in the book, on page 32. Tepper is sitting in his parked car outside of Russ & Daughters, which Trillin fans know is a place that the author has a kind of obsession with. This is where you go to buy your lox, your whitefish, and things like that. An appetizing store.
So Tepper’s sitting in his car outside Russ & Daughters and the counterman from the shop comes outside to see if Tepper needs help or something. The counterman’s concerned that Tepper maybe can’t get out of the car for some reason, that something might be wrong. Tepper assures him that everything’s fine, he’s just sitting in the car, and the two fall into conversation. I love Trillin when he does stuff like this. I just love it:
Finally, the counterman said, “You know, it can get pretty irritating with some of those customers.”
“I’ll bet,” Tepper said.
“They’ll say, ‘Gimme a nice whitefish.’ So I’ll say, ‘One whitefish, coming right up.’ Cheerful. Pleasant. And they’ll say, ‘A nice whitefish.’ Can you imagine? This happens every Sunday at least once. I could prevent it, of course. I could head it off. You know how I could prevent it…”
“Well,” Tepper said, “I suppose –“
“Of course! I could just repeat after them exactly: ‘A nice whitefish.’ But I won’t. I won’t give them the satisfaction. What I really feel like saying when they correct me – when I say, ‘One whitefish, coming up,’ and they say, ‘A nice whitefish,’ – is, ‘Oh? Well, I’m glad you said that, because I wasn’t going to get you a nice whitefish. If you hadn’t said that, I would have looked for a whitefish that’s been sitting there since last Tish b’Ov – an old, greasy, fershtunkeneh whitefish. Because that’s what we serve here mostly. That’s out specialty. That’s how we’ve managed to stay in business all these years. That’s why the Russ family is synonymous with quality and integrity in this city for maybe seventy-five years – because they sell their steady customers rotten, stinking whitefish. That’s why the boss gets up at four in the morning to go to the suppliers, so he can get the fershtunkene whitefish before his competitors. Otherwise, if he slept until a civilized hour, as he maybe deserves by now, he might get stuck with nice whitefish.”
I loved this segment. It captured perfectly the way a certain type of person speaks. Someone with a Jewish, urban background; someone who’s been in the service industry a long time. Someone who takes pride in what they do and is mortally insulted by some pinhead’s unconcerned dissing of their profession. Having worked in retail for so long, I understood how the counterman felt. And I know – I know – that I use the word “nice” in this way sometimes. What slayed me was that… well, it’s like the word “nice” becomes Yiddish, in this context. Everyone uses the word but somehow it takes on an extra layer of depth when it’s used by alter cockers and demanding ladies standing on line in a store somewhere. The word becomes different, somehow.
It’s sometimes also used to convey the idea that one is taking pleasure in something beyond what one would expect. “Nice” can be used to modify or emphasize words unexpectedly, in a way that doesn’t sound right if you take the phrase at face value, but which makes total sense if you speak this weird language – which I want to call a Jewish urban language, but I’m not entirely sure that that’s fair. It might just be a generational thing. But I suspect that those of us who were raised in families where people used the word “nice” this way will carry it on to future generations. My niece, for example, who’s a mere child, and who seems to lean on “like” a lot more than “nice,” is a child who, someday, may be an adult who stands in a deli and asks the counterman imperiously for a nice whitefish. If she eats whitefish, which she might not. I suspect she’s a kid who’ll only go for belly lox and call it a day.
Later in Tepper, our hero falls into conversation with another person who visits Tepper in his parked car. They discuss how the visitor’s wife, an aspiring writer, writes things that the visitor finds completely mystifying. He just doesn’t get the stuff. He eventually admits that she’s really great at one thing in particular, which is describing serpents. He goes on for a while, saying how great the serpents are, even if the rest of the writing is just gobbledygook to him. Tepper considers this (I could just see him nodding his head thoughtfully) and comments:
“I like seeing a nice serpent now and then.”
A nice serpent. Man. I just about died.
Niceness, as a quality in people, may be overrated, but Miss Edith has to admit, there really is nothing like a nice serpent now and then.
Incidentally, one of my initial pleasures in reading Tepper Isn’t Going Out was reading the descriptions of how sales leads were generated by Tepper’s company, which is called something like Worldwide Lists. These little asides, which Trillin tosses throughout the book bit by bit, kind of like how in a salad you occasionally get a mouthful with a particularly tasty tidbit – a candied walnut, or a bit of pear, or whatever floats your boat – are definitely one of the reasons this book is a small joy. I don’t know if everyone would find this stuff entertaining, but god knows I did. In conclusion, I just want to thank Calvin Trillin for Tepper Isn’t Going Out; it was a palate-cleanser for me, a nice read.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Miss Edith: Out of Town, But Back Now, With a Remarkable Set of Pajamas...
Miss Edith apologizes profusely for not having posted anything in so long. It’s not, I realize, that this is unprecedented, but it is nonetheless frustrating for the few loyal readers among you (for whom I am grateful, by whom I am, I admit, a little mystified; haven’t you got anything better to do with your time?). But it is, honestly, the case that Miss Edith’s been spending an awful lot of time away from her computer and away from home. This puts a crimp in the writing schedule.
Last weekend, for example, Notarius and I went to Vermont again. He was determined to climb a mountain somewhere – he’s prone to these attacks of Virtue in this way; Outdoor Activity is not something from which Notarius shies away, unlike yours truly – and it was arranged that, similarly to the plan a couple weekends ago, we would go stay in Vermont while he and a pal hiked some mountain or other. This time, instead of camping out at a remote farm with nothing but spiders, chickens, and other assorted wildlife and books to keep me company, I was delivered unto the fine little city of Brattleboro.
It is easy to enjoy Brattleboro. The place is compact and friendly; there are a surprising number of stores where it is quite pleasant to dispose of one’s disposable income. There are several excellent bookstores, two nice cafes, and, considering the size of the place, a lot of very good dining options. I’m a fan of Brattleboro. So to be left there and told to spend the day occupying myself nicely was not a burden.
I arranged to meet an old college roommate for coffee. She is a tall blonde, an Amazon woman by my standards, who has damn near nothing in common with me. Upon first meeting her in 1992 or whatever year it was, I apparently terrorized her by letting her know in no uncertain terms that she should never touch any of my belongings. This is not, of course, an auspicious beginning, and I recognize that I was not being a friendly person, but the fact is that the Blonde* became one of my best friends very quickly, and we’ve stayed in touch all these years. How these friendships form, between unlikely pairs – it’s really strange. For example, I will never ever admit to having played volleyball. The Blonde not only admits it but has even told me that she thought it was fun.
Wonders never cease.
The Blonde is now an extremely put-together happily married mother of two living in New Hampshire. Being the organized person she is, she received my email saying "yo -- wanna get together?" and apparently dropped everything to come meet me in Brattleboro (her husband, wisely, encouraged this reunion; god help the man who tries to prevent college roommates from getting together to gossip). We met at Mocha Joe’s – a landmark, now, in Brattleboro, though when I was spending serious time up there it had only just opened – and after consuming a fair amount of caffeine we ambled around town and, most importantly, shopped.
I know it’s common to make fun of rich New Yorkers (Jerseyites; Connecticut matrons; whathaveyou) who go to Vermont and New Hampshire and Maine ostensibly for the clean fresh air and canoeing and so on. I am often prone to such snobbery myself. But here I will cheerfully admit that, should Brattleboro’s retail operations go into a tailspin in the year 2007, it will not be because I ignored their wares. I think I may have single-handedly revived the local economy this past weekend. It’s official: I am a Connecticut Matron. Little Miss Edith – who’d’ve thunk it?
I acquired many remarkable little items over the weekend, few of which can I seriously justify, all of which I intend to enjoy thoroughly. Books – I got books --; and tablecloths – oh, did Miss Edith acquire some delightful textiles! --; and, perhaps most stunningly, an item that I had never thought of before but when I saw it, I knew instantly that I must have it: flannel-lined silk pajamas.
These are, of course, to be worn when the weather turns cold.
These are black silk lined in true red flannel.
If L.L. Bean understood me better, they’d’ve been carrying these for years.
Oh, my.
From a manufacturer about whom I knew nothing when I bought the pajamas, but now see is rather trendy – Mary Green – who makes some really very, very, nice things. They’re not cheap and they may not be to everyone’s taste, but let me tell you: black silk flannel lined pajamas – particularly when they’re on sale, as these were… It’s things like this that make Miss Edith sigh with joy when it’s the end of the day and time for bed.
And – Blonde: if you’re reading this… I know you’re laughing, but I wanted to apologize to you: I bought the last pair of those pajamas. You’ll have to wait for next season’s stock to arrive before you can splurge on your own…
*(The Blonde may be offended by my calling her The Blonde, so if she wants to devise another nom de blog, she should speak up, because it’s early in the morning and I can’t come up with anything better yet; what’s more, as I’m thinking about it, I think the name has a sort of rakish, Lauren Bacall type quality that I kinda like… but, you know, let me know. Certainly no offense is intended.)
Last weekend, for example, Notarius and I went to Vermont again. He was determined to climb a mountain somewhere – he’s prone to these attacks of Virtue in this way; Outdoor Activity is not something from which Notarius shies away, unlike yours truly – and it was arranged that, similarly to the plan a couple weekends ago, we would go stay in Vermont while he and a pal hiked some mountain or other. This time, instead of camping out at a remote farm with nothing but spiders, chickens, and other assorted wildlife and books to keep me company, I was delivered unto the fine little city of Brattleboro.
It is easy to enjoy Brattleboro. The place is compact and friendly; there are a surprising number of stores where it is quite pleasant to dispose of one’s disposable income. There are several excellent bookstores, two nice cafes, and, considering the size of the place, a lot of very good dining options. I’m a fan of Brattleboro. So to be left there and told to spend the day occupying myself nicely was not a burden.
I arranged to meet an old college roommate for coffee. She is a tall blonde, an Amazon woman by my standards, who has damn near nothing in common with me. Upon first meeting her in 1992 or whatever year it was, I apparently terrorized her by letting her know in no uncertain terms that she should never touch any of my belongings. This is not, of course, an auspicious beginning, and I recognize that I was not being a friendly person, but the fact is that the Blonde* became one of my best friends very quickly, and we’ve stayed in touch all these years. How these friendships form, between unlikely pairs – it’s really strange. For example, I will never ever admit to having played volleyball. The Blonde not only admits it but has even told me that she thought it was fun.
Wonders never cease.
The Blonde is now an extremely put-together happily married mother of two living in New Hampshire. Being the organized person she is, she received my email saying "yo -- wanna get together?" and apparently dropped everything to come meet me in Brattleboro (her husband, wisely, encouraged this reunion; god help the man who tries to prevent college roommates from getting together to gossip). We met at Mocha Joe’s – a landmark, now, in Brattleboro, though when I was spending serious time up there it had only just opened – and after consuming a fair amount of caffeine we ambled around town and, most importantly, shopped.
I know it’s common to make fun of rich New Yorkers (Jerseyites; Connecticut matrons; whathaveyou) who go to Vermont and New Hampshire and Maine ostensibly for the clean fresh air and canoeing and so on. I am often prone to such snobbery myself. But here I will cheerfully admit that, should Brattleboro’s retail operations go into a tailspin in the year 2007, it will not be because I ignored their wares. I think I may have single-handedly revived the local economy this past weekend. It’s official: I am a Connecticut Matron. Little Miss Edith – who’d’ve thunk it?
I acquired many remarkable little items over the weekend, few of which can I seriously justify, all of which I intend to enjoy thoroughly. Books – I got books --; and tablecloths – oh, did Miss Edith acquire some delightful textiles! --; and, perhaps most stunningly, an item that I had never thought of before but when I saw it, I knew instantly that I must have it: flannel-lined silk pajamas.
These are, of course, to be worn when the weather turns cold.
These are black silk lined in true red flannel.
If L.L. Bean understood me better, they’d’ve been carrying these for years.
Oh, my.
From a manufacturer about whom I knew nothing when I bought the pajamas, but now see is rather trendy – Mary Green – who makes some really very, very, nice things. They’re not cheap and they may not be to everyone’s taste, but let me tell you: black silk flannel lined pajamas – particularly when they’re on sale, as these were… It’s things like this that make Miss Edith sigh with joy when it’s the end of the day and time for bed.
And – Blonde: if you’re reading this… I know you’re laughing, but I wanted to apologize to you: I bought the last pair of those pajamas. You’ll have to wait for next season’s stock to arrive before you can splurge on your own…
*(The Blonde may be offended by my calling her The Blonde, so if she wants to devise another nom de blog, she should speak up, because it’s early in the morning and I can’t come up with anything better yet; what’s more, as I’m thinking about it, I think the name has a sort of rakish, Lauren Bacall type quality that I kinda like… but, you know, let me know. Certainly no offense is intended.)
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