While researching The Great Gildersleeve, I happened upon this *cough* truly memorable photograph of Willard Waterman and Stephanie Griffin:
Leave your witty remarks in the comments below. Ready, set, GO!
|
|
||
|
When I was little, my family’s Chevy Citation had a cassette player. On long drives, we’d listen to Mason Williams’ Classical Gas album, or perhaps a tape of the 1940′s radio classic The Great Gildersleeve. Last year, in a fit of nostalgia, my little sister discovered Old Time Radio’s The Great Gildersleeve archives. Being slightly obsessive, I set out to listen to every episode. Otr.net lists 468 episodes, each 30 minutes long.
And so I began listening to Throckmorton Philharmonic Gildersleeve and co. while cleaning the apartment, baking, or filing my nails. Radio: the multitasker’s friend. It’s a great show, well-written and sometimes surprisingly relevant…. but not worth 234 hours of lifetime when all I wanted was to hear that one episode. Now, what was it called? You remember, the one with “Why Do I Love You?” and doughnuts? After a few misses guesses, I tracked down Episode 42, A Quiet Evening at Home. Siblings, you may want to check it out. If you have boxes to unpack, a floor to mop, or a tub to scrub, visit Old Time Radio and multitask to your heart’s content. I have returned from guarding the piano, accordion, three cats, treehouse, garden, fruit trees, badminton net, basketball hoop, a Wii, great Lego collection, movies ranging from Gilbert and Sullivan to Eddie Izzard, and maybe a thousand books. The man next door DID share his pool; he even dropped by twice to remind me to swim. True to my word, I wore absolutely nothing worth photographing. In fact, I wore so little— desert summers are vicious— that I had to scramble desperately for clothes any time the doorbell rang. Color me shy. Meanwhile, Mr. Jaunty has spent the past ten days helping Jean move from Arizona to Oregon. He’ll be home in New Mexico at 2 or 3 AM. I am now sitting in my [dismally] humble apartment, suffering slight cat withdrawal and awaiting Mr. Jaunty’s return. Consider yourself up-to-date on the endless roller coaster of thrill that is my life. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to watch the dishes dry. Today, Sal‘s link to the Jezebel’s catalog fantasies post took me back to my not-so-distant youth. In the late 90′s, my mother, little sister and I lived in a li’l southern Indiana town with two traffic lights. We couldn’t always pay the bills, so occasionally various utilities would be shut off. Sometimes we had a car, sometimes not. My best friends lived at least an hour away, and I felt cut off from the world. Since we didn’t have the internet at home— our computer was so useless, we called it “The Solitaire Machine,” — I relied on catalogs (you remember, the paper kind) to feed my daydreams. Luckily, my family got LOTS of catalogs: Delia’s, Williams-Sonoma, J. Peterman, Alloy, Land’s End, the Vermont Country Store, Sundance, Signals, JC Penney, the now-defunct Zoe, Smithsonian, L.L. Bean, Pyramid Collection, Things You Never Knew Existed, Musician’s Friend, Wireless… sometimes we even got Hamakor Judiaca: The Source for Everything Jewish. We are not Jewish. In reality, I was a frumpy, frizzy-haired, depressed teenager who dropped out of school after 5th grade and wore men’s clothes. I chose to live mostly in my head, where I was the kind of edgy chick who’d wear the barbed wire chokers shown in Delia’s, the then-trendy bootleg corduroys from Zoe, maybe that $30 silver hair clip from Sundance. I’d throw slumber parties in my perfectly-coordinated bedroom, lounging carelessly in a hand-shaped chair.
Soulful-looking boys would long for my touch. Popular girls, though intimidated by my breezy charm and wholesome good looks, would want to be my friend. Mind you, I cared about more than clothes and decor—I also needed the Williams-Sonoma toaster (available in an array of Easter-y pastels!) complete with two bagel slots and a THIRD slot for a sandwich-toasting rack. Clearly worth $115. I wanted old-fashioned candies from Vermont, and practically everything from Musician’s Friend. Hell, I even wanted pretty yarmulkes. If I had nice things, maybe I’d have beauty and success to go with them. I’d have loved to live in a catalog. A lot has changed since my teen years; I no longer subscribe to any catalogs, and that same Sundance hair clip now sells for $90. But sometimes I still expect beautiful clothing/jewelry/instruments/kitchen appliances to transform me into someone new, someone with an air of mystery and fewer stretch marks. No luck so far. Have you ever had a catalog-fueled fantasy? Andrew showed this to me weeks ago, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. What do you think? “The common belief in our culture, with its Protestant work ethic, is that play and successful work are antithetical. This is a perversion of the natural order. The truth is that nature bestows superior work and problem-solving skills on creatures that love to play. “I once saw a series of National Geographic photos that showed a raven trying to crack open a walnut. The stakes were high, because it was winter and food was scarce. The raven stood at the top of a snowy hill, holding the walnut with one claw and prying at it with his beak. He worked so hard that he finally fell right over on his back and skidded, headfirst, all the way down the hill. At this point, the raven forgot all about the nut. He spent the rest of that afternoon walking up the hill, rolling over on his back, and sliding down again. This, my dears, is nature’s way.
“My clients usually believe that in late Square Three*, as work pressure mounts, they should reduce the time they spend playing. Actually, the opposite is true. The more intensely you have to work, the more you need to take play breaks. Playing improves your creativity and problem-solving skills, minimizes burnout, and maintains high-level performance. Iron-willed self-discipline may be just the thing if you’re planning to be a ruthless psychotic despot. Otherwise, let the games begin. “When I was teaching business school, I’d often assign hardworking students two hours of play every day during final-exam week. They invariably reported that their performance improved as a result. The reduction in study time was more than compensated for by a dramatic increase in the speed and effectiveness of their work. I’d like you to do the same thing this week; two hours a day not just vegetating or fulfilling social obligations but having genuine, all-out fun. Ask your essential self what it wants to do during playtime. See how much your productivity increases and your desire to commit mass murder recedes.” - Martha Beck, Finding Your Own North Star, p. 336-337 *term from the book. Miss me? Mr. Jaunty and I will be house-sitting for a few weeks. The home in question has a piano, accordion, three cats, treehouse, garden, fruit trees, badminton net, basketball hoop, a Wii, great Lego collection, movies ranging from Gilbert and Sullivan to Eddie Izzard, and maybe a thousand books. A neighbor has offered to share his pool. THAT’s why I missed the last two days of Summer Black-Out 2010: blissful distraction. If you could use some distraction yourself, start with a classic: The blog may be quiet, but don’t worry — my daily outfits are less noteworthy than ever before. Personal hygiene can’t compete with all these luscious distractions. Let’s skip photos, shall we? A lazy Sunday:
Top – Hand-me-down from a friend, no tag I ordered these cuffs as a 25th birthday present for myself— back when I thought I was debt-free and thought I had two summer jobs. The bracelets have phoenixes on the sides, a good symbol for someone who’s felt burned alive and reborn a few times…
I’d like ‘em even better if the phoenixes were right side up. Yesterday, Mr. Jaunty and I went to watch this year’s Raft the Rio event— follow the link for a video of some nifty rafts in action. Embarkment scene. Boy, I’m gonna miss the desert sky:
One heroic man waded halfway across the Rio Grande to rescue a lost [inflatable] orca…
…which is how I learned that some parts of the mighty Rio Grande are only knee-deep. Ha!
Swimsuit – Maxine of Hollywood via Ross, four or five years ago. This swimsuit taught me a valuable lesson: I HATE BULLET BRAS. A profile photo would reveal this suit’s retro pointy silhouette. It’s novel, sure, but the cups tend to dent —- “novel” and “dented” are two mighty unflattering adjectives for breasts. On the other hand, I could stash my keys in there. Maybe a snack and a towel, too.
Here’s what I wore to a small dinner party tonight:
Top- Thrifted, no label. Formerly pewter, I dyed it Not a major triumph. A tighter belt would have helped. I’d hoped to pull off a non-sequitur shoe, but I didn’t realize how shabby these looked. Curses! Looks like they’re demoted to casual events. UPDATE: The velvet hasn’t worn off the sides after all, they only LOOK pale because the material reflects light. Whew!
I’ve given up high heels, see, but still occasionally need dress shoes. Nothing says “party!” like mauve velvet shoes with pointy, bejeweled toes. I hate to see these fall apart. Seen any gorgeous, vegan-friendly, nearly-flat shoes lately? Rhinestones optional. |
||
|
Copyright © 2010 Jaunty Dame - All Rights Reserved |
