An Emotionless Wonder

In the interest of watching as many tearjerkers as emotionally possible ("Mellodrama," June 9) Winifred and I watched Grave of the Fireflies. We tried to watch The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants but couldn't find it, but I found this and The History Boys, which seemed to at least cover a few bases (teens, drama, angst) but to my surprise we chose the 1998 Japanese animated happiness killer that Charlotte "warned" us against.
Allow me to digress: Charlotte told me to see this movie years ago, against the protest of her now-husband. (See "now?" That's how long ago it was!) She warned us repeatedly that we should plan wholeseome uplifting activities to follow (I've found that my father owns Blades of Glory) that may or may not lift my temporary grief. Actually, it's not that bad. It's that Winifred isn't affected.
Her defense is fair: "I thought I had another 90 minutes to go," she says. Our DVD said 159 minute run time and when we hit the pinnacle of the sadness (mind that I was fighting tears from the first ten minutes, and I've now seen the first 40 minutes twice) it wasn't even an hour and twenty minutes into the film. So Winifred had braced herself for more devastation than had already occurred, and after a montage...the credits rolled. And the end, she called her daughters and chatted gaily and just moved on.
Maybe I'm not being fair. Winifred found several heart-wrenching notes that were written when Emily and Charlotte were little. They include


Can you avery gave me a bark? I'm the only little girl for a littele time.
(the back: 23 Oct 85 Can you ever give me a break? I'm only a little girl for a little time. [Emily])

and this one, which forced Winifred to call Charlotte as soon as it was read, or, "I just would not sleep tonight."

Mom- I still want a blond corn-silk kid. Love, [Charlotte]
(dated Oct 1986)

Huh. Still.
Oh, Part 2? I would have presented it tonight, but in light of Winifred's heartlessness, a positive post seems, I don't know... inappropriate.

[Update: It's been about two hours and I haven't thought about the devastation for at least fifteen minutes. Maybe I can see Dancer in the Dark and live to tell about it. By the way, have I made it obvious or mentioned it? I cry through animal movies, too.]

Mellowdrama

Winifred and I kicked off the summer Saturday by watching our first melodrama of the season. Every summer in the Quimby home includes a marathon of black and white dramatic talkies. In 2003 we plowed through nearly every Hepburn movie we could as a dedication to Katharine Hepburn's pants-filled legacy, a filmfest I consider a tremendous victory because most of her movies were filled with laughs (and bonus feminism) instead of tears (Philadelphia Story and Woman of the Year were the focus).
Unfortunately the crux of a melodrama is that it will break your heart, toy with your emotions, crush your soul, and force you to question all that you truly know about humanity. Fortunately Winifred allows comedies (classic, of course) to soothe my fragile emotional state.

We started with Leave Her to Heaven, 1945 technicolor classic that is part of my personal collection. (It's beneficial to alphabetize your VHS and DVD collections! Who knew?) Delightfully over-the-top, Leave Her to Heaven is based on a novel of the same name by Ben Ames Williams. The trailer:



During the movie I tried to compile a short list of films for us to watch as the summer continues. We usually go to Charlotte, who holds a Masters in film criticism, but the truth is that we never get to the movies, and then we hurt her feelings, and we don't like letting her down. (Moreover, the films on the list have been reccomended by Charlotte before.) It was several years before we watched The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and if only we'd rented when she told us to we wouldn't have waited years for our lives to change forever.

In Alphabetical Order:

All That Heaven Allows (allegedly part of the inspiration for another family favorite, Far From Heaven)
Back Street (1961)
Rules of the Game (1939)
Touch of Evil
Wings of Desire

We're watching Back Street again, though it will most certainly kill me. IMDB alludes to three versions of the Fannie Hurst tragedy, which seems unfathomable that the ultimate heartbreaking film could be re-made and re-made. With that much dedication over the centuries you'd think someone would have stepped up in the 90s and made another. I'd work on getting it financed but I feel too conflicted. First, if a Fannie Hurst movie is going to be made into a movie for wide release in our modern world, I'd nominate Imitation of Life first. (It's marginally less emotionally devastating.) Second, I feel conflicted over Back Street. Our heroine is a feminist icon yet she sacrifices her personal life for her career--not a message I'm willing to promote--and then suffers again and again at the hands of the man who loves her--but is unable to shrug his wife (a character who demeans the image of women everywhere) and her prize for her undying love is some other dude's kids! Oh, GAWD, WHERE ARE THE TISSUES, I CAN'T HANDLE THIS.

My retribution for the intense pain I've agreed to again withstand is forcing--if I can--Winifred to watch Rules of the Game. It's not really a melodrama, instead it's a strong, passionate film exploring social class, war, impending doom, government...a movie that leaves me empty yet full of dispair. It's probably an unhealthy obsession, yet on par with Winifred's love for all-things-Fannie Hurst which seems, ya know, fair:



Didya see that trailer? Mystery! Intrigue! That comes pretty close to the sensationalism of a melodrama, no? Post-script: a big part of a melodrama are indiscretions and adulterous affairs built on True Love, which just happens to be a major plot point of Rules of the Game. (I WIN.)

We could watch melodramas intermittenly through the year, too, but it's not nearly as much fun. (When I had the flu Winifred and I watched Martian Child and under the influence of medication it was as emotionally destructive as a melodrama, so we can win with that, right?)

As for Touch of Evil, any film the Coen brothers call "disturbing" sounds like a great idea to me. Wouldya look at that typeface? It screams drama! Plus the trailer includes explosions with its mystery, intrigue, and hysterical screaming. I think it's a tease to show an introdcutory film class the opening of the film and not the rest of the film, but I'll willingly do the same to you:



I know that's a lot of videos I've forced you to watch but it's still June and I think we can do it. There are other movies too, and we've promised Charlotte to wait for her. (But I can't find those few movies right now.)

CAROLE EXPLETIVE KING

I've been fired up about everything this week and deliberately shutting myself from political commentary. Daily Show is on? Gotta go play Nintendo. Countdown is on? I think I should make cookies and listen to Moby. (Fear not! My obsession with Google headlines continues!*) When I sat down with dinner this evening the television found Comedy Central on its own and was re-playing last night's Colbert Report. I've already made no secret about my love affair with the sixty minute block of political irreverence on Comedy Central. I was going to change it though, because when I get stressed I get hives, and oh my god, I just can not deal with that right now, when Stephen promised me Carole King.

Carole Expletive King! I stayed.

For the sake of brevity I'm not going to argue that Carol King rocks. I don't think I need to, and if I do, you might need to seek another blog (or stick around and find common ground another day!).

A few Christmases ago, Charlotte came home with two copies of Tapestry. One was for Winifred, for reasons still unknown to me, was unfamiliar with the Queen of Songwriting. I was knee-deep in love for King, having enrolled in a history of rock and roll class with a professor who had dropped out of college at 20 to become a singer/songwriter before finding success and quitting the industry at the height of her career to get a doctorate in music ethnology and teach young, hip, 19-year-olds about Joan Baez** and how much pop music owes Carole King. This was the same year I started to commit myself to watching Gilmore Girls on Tuesday nights, so I'd leave class just before the show started to walk back to my dorm room and watch Carole King after spending a few hours talking about her.
Charlotte had already tried this with me though, when King and her daughter were on a Christmas Gap commercial when I was in high school. I know, Gap! I haven't forgiven Dylan for his dive into commercialism, but my love for King runs so deep that I don't care. Her moments have always been deeply touching. Also, I want to believe that as proprietor Sophie Bloom on Gilmore Girls, King would really help Lane find her footing in music against Mrs. Kim's knowledge.
Thanks to Charlotte, my happiness was heightened when King was on Colbert. I don't know what I love most about this interview, but I think it's that King openly says the label just wants more money from her:



If you don't mind I'm going to go eat some cookies and defeat Slash on Guitar Hero III. If I don't beat medium all I'll have to show for these six days of Spring Break will be all of the real work I've accomplished and we can't have that.

*And now I'm mad at Joe Francis for new reasons.
**Interesting side note that will embarass my family: At the time I was also knee deep in love with a boy I'd known--and been In Like With, Like Oh My God--since I was 12 and we started a passionate debate about Joan Baez. It ended with us agreeing, if you can believe this, "I totally wish I was Bob Dylan, because I'd be doing the hottest babe in the history of rock." (You're hot too, Wendy O., but you died, and ten years later I'm still kind of upset.) Winifred doesn't like Joan Baez--or Bob!--and that always bothered me, because Winifred was a babe, and she's just as mad as Joan, and I like to think they could have met at a cafe and had a Coke while talking about politics before Winifred went back to base and Joan met with Bobby to share a spliff.

THURSDAY ROUND-UP, YEHAW

This is post #51 and Winifred has still failed to login herself and share these things with the web. Just sayin'. It's been a gender discriminatory two weeks, and I've been an aggressive monger this week. So have the other Quimbys, and my inbox is bursting with material to share.

Let's start with my most recent e-mail from Winifred. She wants us to check out wowowow.com and read Marlo Thomas and Julia Reed's responses to yesterday's Question of the Day (Should Silda Spitzer Stand By Her Man?)

wowOwow is a "website created, run and written by Lesley Stahl, Peggy Noonan, Liz Smith, Joni Evans, Mary Wells, Sheila Nevins, Joan Juliet Buck, Whoopi Goldberg, Julia Reed, Joan Ganz Cooney, Judith Martin, Candice Bergen, Lily Tomlin, Jane Wagner, and Marlo Thomas." It launched last Saturday. I'm not so keen on Whoopi but I'll hold my breath that this doesn't go downhill. I'm all for women on the internet, and hey guess what! I'll get to that next.

Here's what Marlo has to say:

It is her decision whether she wants to stand by him in the long run — but for God’s sake — why must these women have to stand next to them when they confess their sins?

I really didn’t mean it to be funny. I think it’s painful to see these women, time and time again be dragged out to these press conferences to stand there by their man. I’d think more of Spitzer and any man who refused to make his wife stand there in humiliation with him.

and Julia:

I can’t imagine Silda staying with her husband after so public a humiliation, but she wouldn’t be the first woman to do it. Just last July, when Louisiana Senator, David Vitter, was caught in almost the same situation, his wife — another attractive, highly intelligent, auburn-haired lawyer — stood with him by the press conference podium in a photo that looks exactly like the one today on the front page of the New York Times. So far, Wendy Vitter is still standing by her man and he is still in the Senate, but either of these women are made of far sterner stuff than I…or they are nuts. I still remember the awful stone face of Lee Hart in the wake of Donna Rice, and Silda’s face was heart-breaking. She was just so obviously thrown. As Candice said, Bill Clinton’s philandering did not come out of left field like this. And whatever bizarre pact the Clintons may have, Hillary has her reasons for sticking it out. I would have a far more difficult time, especially since these guys are not just unfaithful, but so arrogant. Gary Hart went so far as to challenge the press to follow him, and then he led them right to the monkey business. Did Eliott Spitzer honestly think he would never be outed as client number nine?

Okay, I lied. I can't hold back from wowOwow. I just. Can't. Do. It. The website includes a piece titled, "PRINCESS DIANA! Remember Her?"Liz Smith alleges, claims, and shouts that America has forgotten Princess Diana and that her former lover, Dr. Hasnat Khan, has gone unheard in American media ("And nobody stateside seems to have printed what this man said.") REALLY? BECAUSE EVERYWHERE I TURN HIS CLAIMS ARE REPEATED. Smith doesn't expound on The Pill (hopes dashed) but how we've "forgotten" Diana in the Democratic nominee goings-on and Spitzer scandal. Smith, I've got a tip for you: Turn on E! Check Google headlines. I promise you'll change your mind. What's your point, anyway, Smith? You've only regurgitated what Khan has said. And Khan's testimony was more than a week ago. Okay. Done now, really.

ABOUT THOSE INTERNETS

This season's issue of Bitch arrived in the mail this week and its theme is "THE WIRED ISSUE" (just in time for me to exasperate over dumbed down websites 'run by women for women') and details "blog bandits" among other tech-related stuff. Charlotte gave me a subscription last year, and it has brought me endless joy because the thing about Bitch is that it tends to arrive when I've found I can take no more from the masses. I find solace knowing that other women are as fed up as I am.
Yet issue #39's "Wack Attack" by Jaclyn Friedman addresses an issue I can't (and luckily haven't had to) relate to (yet). Addressing "blogging while female," gender bias on the internet, and the overwhelming amount of power handed to men in control of the internet, Friedman includes several resources for avoiding and supporting one's words on the internets, so I've added them to The Gospel's links. (And, oh yeah, we're part of BlogHer.)
...So I want to like wowOwow but it looks like it just won't work for me. It's not you, it's me, and I'm sure Winifred will have more she wants to share in the future.

BACK TO GENDER BIAS AND SCANDAL

First: The Vatican has released new sins. I love to sin, so I love to know that my inability to recycle in the apartment (bad habits die hard, I guess) or accept my college's graduation pledge (it's just not your business, degree dispersers) can add more sinful delight to my daily life. That was tongue-in-cheek. Honest. A thorough discussion has been shared by e-mail by the family, but I think Charlotte summarizes everyone's feelings accurately. She wrote, last night:

I have been considering the "new sins." As it turns out, this is just one guy's opinion and not actual policy, but it was telling nonetheless. I am encouraged by the emphasis on the effects of one's actions on others, but why are these specific sins mentioned? It seems that those who bear social responsibility are still disproportionately female.

I also think that it is insane to single out drug use as a sin in general, much less as a mortal sin. Do caffeine and Ritalin count? Was Frank McCourt's father sinning by indulging in alcohol, or was his sin the neglect of his family? Is it a sin to have a mental illness? Why aren't owners of gambling establishments, pimps, or sellers of alcohol mentioned instead? Is this really about targeting pleasure yet again?

I liked this from the BBC: "Father Gerald O'Collins, former professor of moral theology at the Papal University in Rome, and teacher of many of the Catholic Church's current top Cardinals and Bishops, welcomed the new catalogue of modern sins. 'I think the major point is that priests who are hearing confessions are not sufficiently attuned to some of the real evils in our world,' he told the BBC News website. 'They need to be more aware today of the social face of sin - the inequalities at the social level. They think of sin too much on an individual level. I think priests who hear confession should have a deeper sense of the violence and injustice of such problems - and the fact that people collaborate simply by doing nothing. One of the original deadly sins is sloth - disengagement and not getting involved,' Father O'Collins said."

I particularly like that this priest focused on priests' responsibilities toward their parishioners, who should, as Deacon Manley says, be exercising their consciences rather than obeying a catalogue of mortal and venial sins. It is absolutely time for an honest examination of the intersection of individual freedom (and moral agency) and social responsibility. I take comfort in the idea that there are at least two priests who care about the divide between rich and poor. I do wonder what the definition of "poverty" is -- vis a vis, say, Mother Teresa and her views. Is it still okay for nuns and mothers to be poor? Will the Vatican share some of its "excessive wealth" to feed those who heed its warnings against "bioethical" sin? Or are they still receiving "graces" in return for their suffering?

AND FINALLY BACK TO SPITZER

Charlotte used to live in New York. In fact, I've told people that she's "from New York" even though she was raised in the same house that Emily and I were. She's more devastated than I am, and I'm embroiled in my own drama, preventing me from really getting involved.

I am so disgusted by Spitzer. I had been telling people how great he was for years. What a load of CRAP about testosterone. The problem here is not hormonal. It is entitlement to women as products -- as of today's tawdry revelations, we know that he saw them as products whose lives were of no import to him. Clearly the feds are lying about how they caught him, but he knew that there were incredibly powerful people after him -- including "Tammany" Joe Bruno and the entire Bush administration -- and he goes to the Mayflower?? Ugh. I would like to know when we can expect David Vitter's resignation as well.

Also -- Geraldine Ferraro cannot really be that clueless. Why is she making things worse??
Why, Geraldine, why?

Winifred is disappointed that he had to "import" women from DC. (If Winifred had to pick a home-away-from-North Dakota, she'd pick the District.) I've called her three times today about this post, and forgotten each time to ask what she thinks about Dragging These Women Through the Mud with him. So I'll go out on a limb and assume. (Deep breath.) It's not really our business, and while I think it's important to cover every corner of a story, I don't think it was in the best interest of my campus newspaper to report about Spitzer's clients, and I don't think it's anyone's business what these women look like, what they do, how old they are, and what their myspaces say. He did something illegal. They did too, but prostitution isn't really a woman's career goal and maybe it's better to help women then lambaste them for their choices. BUT MAYBE THAT'S JUST ME.

MY DRAMA
Is coming later. It's good. I promise. Charlotte said I had to share, and I typically do whatever she says.

You're Kidding Me, Right? II

BOOK CLUB

While I'm hungry and cranky, I'm going to dive into the Quimby Family Road debacle.
Here are the facts:
1. Emily read it first.
2. Charlotte read it second, and in the Portrait Gallery in January, asked if I wanted to read it.
3. Post-apocalyptic societies are so my thing. I want to know what other people think the End of the World will be like in the way most people wonder about Heaven/Hell. (Actually, I wonder what other people think about the After Life, I can't really prove that anyone wonders what other people think, especially when people are so locked into their own interpretation.)
4. Winifred read it before I did. Subsequently she sent a lot of e-mails. Here is an excerpt from an e-mail:

Who is the man in the yellow/gray slicker near the end of the book. Have we met him before?? I do not recall. I guess I cannot comment any further since KMH is going to read the book. I finished it Friday at work during a slow lull. One of the most enduring images in the book for me though is the finding of food jars in the abandoned farm house. I can see, smell, and hear the [FAMILY NAME] old farmhouse once it was abandoned.

4. I read it next. I liked it. It was grey, it was dark, it was cold, and it moved slowly. I liked that I was fearful that the next page would contain more cannibals, that this would be the last struggle. I liked that instead there was shelter, canned peaches, and an exploration into an unknown. There was constant misery, and the dialog was sparse, but it worked.
4. The King was not a fan. He wrote:

Well I finished reading The Road. I hated the book. I'm already depressed and this did not help whatsoever. Most depressing book I've ever read. Gave me no hope at all.

I tried to talk to The King about this, maybe get a little more, see if we could actively debate, but failed. He's not interested.
5. Charlotte and I feel kind of bad. Actually, I feel kind of bad, Charlotte is crushed by guilt and unenthused to recommend more books.
6. Seeing Charlotte last week, we discussed The Road before dinner. We had several unanswered questions about the cannibals. She posed the plot hole: how can a pregnant woman survive if she's eaten limb-from limb. If you harvest fetuses, isn't that a disappointing meat for end product? And, isn't that a lot of work to keep someone alive for the purpose of fetus-harvesting? Seems counterproductive. In the end I said I thought McCarthy was trying to just make the whole thing scary. Walking for miles endlessly in a nuclear holocaust is scary without raping, maiming, and exploiting women for plot devices, and we both ended the conversation kind of disgusted. So we talked about chicken and waffles instead.

AND ABOUT THOSE SOCIETIES
I need to blurt this somewhere, and my regular blog doesn't want to hear it. You know why? Because they want "happy endings." Also I've been screaming about this abomination since I found out it starred Will Smith. That was more than a year before the movie was released. So, well...I guess it makes sense that they don't want to hear about it anymore. Never mind.

I am Legend did suck. It changed the ending, never mind the location/setting and general message. The best part about these movies, for me, is when everybody dies. Luckily for me, the blogosphere spared most of my pain by spoiling the cinematic release (make sure you check out Baldwin's commentary in the comments). Richard Matheson's I am Legend spawned an entire genre, so its lackluster ending was a disgraceful excuse for film. It did in fact, give us Night of the Living Dead.
Because Winifred hasn't seen Night of the Living Dead, I'll give it away as a means of explaining why I am so angry. Brother and sister Johnny and Barbara drive to rural Pennsylvania (note location and symbolism) to pay their respects to their father's grave. There's some action in the graveyard, and some action in the general area of the town, and eventually we realize the area is besieged by zombies. Mayhem ensues, until there is only one uninfected person, and in the last scene of the film (really, I'm spoiling the movie) he exits his hideout, only to be mistaken for a zombie and is shot dead. And then his corpse is burned with the zombies. It's completely horrifying, and Romero is saying more than oops, I killed the hero. (The character is African American, the film was released in 1968, and sci-fi/horror movies are never about the plot on the surface which is what makes it so awesome.) This film has a tragic ending, which is what should befit I am Legend. Just like last year's Halloween, I am Legend doesn't say anything about American society, and It Is Supposed To.

The film is poised for its DVD release, which includes an alternate ending. This is still a crapshoot:



Because this ending sucks too, and still doesn't say anything. AAAARGH.
Sigh. So much angst. Speaking of the Portrait Gallery, a few days after we went, Stephen Colbert had his portrait hung there.



Don't you feel a little less irritated with me, now? What if I told you Night of the Living Dead is tagged on IMDB as "Tragic Ending" and I've found a loot of movies tagged the same way? This is a goldmine, Quimby family. You may remember how much Winifred loves sad movies.

Busted!

In another post that isn't actually about Winifred's gospel...



I went to Favorite Bar this week with my friends to see a semi-local band's reunion. They broke up two summers ago after years of touring, a record or two, and an endless stream of grange halls. It was a group I saw almost ever Friday my junior and year of high school in the tiny town next to mine; the grange hall had a small capacity and was jam-packed with crusty punks, cheerleaders, hipsters, parents of bands, and curious tweens. And with any local band's reunion, the venue was merrily filled with frat brothers, family, best friends, former promoters, other local bands, casual drinkers, and a few girls who willingly cried during the encore.
Between songs my friend leaned in and told our small group of four that her little sister, fourteenish, had confessed over the holiday that she "loved" this band. Oh! she had cried, I love them! My friend was aghast as her little sister then professed to love my friend's other favorite bands: Dashboard Confessional, Jamison Parker, and various pseudo-indie rock bands who had hit the pinnacle of their critical and underground stardom wallowing angst when we were seventeen. She's almost fourteen, my friend hollered as the next raucous jam began, and we giggled at her sister's tenacity.
I turned back a few minutes later and confessed, I do that all the time! It was in fact, the force that pushed me into several subgenres before my peers and bands I would find I loved. What, Charlotte? Yeah I totally love Belle and Sebastian, too!
I do like them, but it's possible that I may have overstated my preference for the sake that my sister would think I'm Really Cool.

I Knew You Before You Were Born

Winifred has been lovingly nagging me for two weeks to bundle up against the cold weather in preparation for my birthday. I turned 2X today, and am on day two of nasty cold and day four of "Oh my God, I shouldn't feel that woozy when I stand up." Because the worst thing you want to happen at your local dive bar when seeing your friends, who you haven't seen in more than two years because they have real jobs and live in a van that tours the country, is passing out from exhaustion and Mysterious Illness. (And now you know what to avoid!) I heeded this advice--and I was chided by my roommates before leaving my apartment too--in multiple layers of clothes, hates, mittens, scarves, and "long johns." But pre-finals won out, and here I am, a snotty mess on Winifred's hands. Still, I'd like to iterate that I went to two "concerts" wherein I was not only the only person undefined as a "crusty punk" but also the only one wearing more than long sleeves. I also wasn't leather, and that's what the dirty looks were for, but that is not the point.

I am sorry, Winifred and The King. I promise to keep myself properly hydrated tomorrow on Our Grand Adventure with Coca-Cola, quietness, and naps. I also promise to self-administer cold medicine as needed so that when we hit the many pinnacles and penultimates of tomorrow that I am properly irreverent, witty, and engaged. Given tonight's irreverence over ER while eating cake, I think you can believe me when I say my promises are true. I cannot promise I will be quiet for any extended period of time, even when I am sleeping, as sleeping under the influence of germs provides some strange dreams, but I will promise to do my best to behave. Which is more than I'll give anyone else, that's for durned sure.

I feel weird about birthdays. I love other people's--for my roommate's, I decorated the apartments, bought party decorations in a central theme, and baked cupcakes from scratch. I love giving gifts more than I like getting them, and I think going to the bar for one beer in celebration post-21 is mandatory. But I don't like celebrating with anyone who isn't my family (and incidentally, my roommate, but she doesn't really count, right?) I like celebrating with The Quimbys--which includes the brothers-in-law--because I like them. And birthdays it seems, are a good reminder of why we like each other.

For this birthday I was mandated to drive straight home from school. Which I did, when I finished my homework, and when I pulled into The Quimby Drive an hour later, was greeted with a car that looked suspiciously like Emily's. I knew that Emily and The King both have the same type of car. Yet for a fleeting moment I wondered, is this the surprise? But I knew, no, that Emily could not drive from across the country to our small hometown just as I knew that the tags were in-state, and not the Great Pacific Wonderland from where she now hails. And my heart sank for several moments, because the downside of liking your family is the immense loneliness you share when you are apart for birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and mandatory Catholic holiday mass. (Who else will share my irreverent church giggling? I am already in trouble with Winifred for wearing red Chucks to Christmas Eve mass last year. And not because they clashed with the green polo and navy blue pants.)

Emily's Thing every November 15 has been usurped, it seems, by Winifred. The thing about my birthday, that will always make it special, no matter how curmudgeonly or apathetic I become to my birthday is that The Quimbys will re-tell the story of my birth. The TLC Channel version is not a part of the story. You will not find us watching A Baby Story but you will find everyone giving their own account of how I Changed Everyone's Life Forever and how I was (according to Emily at least), "The Best Thing that ever happened to me."

The story, in short, was this: Emily and Charlotte were pulled into the kitchen for a pre-arranged meeting, in which they were told they would have a sister. According to the two hooligans, this was something they'd been hoping for (why is beyond me), and they were immediately "over the moon." From then until November, there was agony for only Winifred, and delight, for Emily and Charlotte, who insisted on my name (which is after our great aunt), and several other characteristics: I would be smart, tall, fun, charming, and special. There are surely more, but smart and tall was definitely in their priorities, which is well known as I've managed to live up to those.
They knew what day I would be born. Winifred packed lunches that morning with notes that said, "When you read this your sister will be born." There were pretty pencils with pencil toppers, Hershey bars wrapped with pink ribbons, and assorted toys. The sort of toys you look at now and wish were still available in bubble gum dispensers. There is an 80% chance that if I snooped in Emily's childhood bedroom that I would find a small wooden box with the note, the trinkets, the pencil topper. There's probably an equal chance that it is in her underwear drawer in the Pacific Northwest. I'd snoop, but I'm afraid she'd know as soon as I crossed the threshold that I was not looking for a University of X State sweater but seeking something more private.
That night they had McDonald's for dinner, something oddly special as we aren't much of a Shut-Them-Up-with-a-Happy-Meal family. We're a meat and potatoes around the nightly news as a family group. And not what Lindsey Lohan has done family, what's going on in the Middle East family. We're those people.

Winifred's excitement to tomorrow's grand adventure has included a countdown. As an example, she sent on Tuesday:

Good Morning!

Only ONE more day to the big birthday! Twenty [X] years ago today Charlotte and Emily were too excited to sit still. Hershey bars were beribboned in pink. The next day was a glorious day!

Love, MOM

I think most people wait their entire life to meet one person who might think, even marginally, that much of him or her. Maybe the reason I've never being concerned with finding a guy that would think that of me is that four people already think the world of me, so why bother rushing now?

In their style, the Quimby Parents have packed a pink knapsack with bite-size Mr. Goodbars and an invisible ink coloring book (among other things) for the three hour drive to tomorrow's Destination. Some things never change, and I like it that way.

The Other Winifred, Round II

I had my own personal adventure this week, traveling from My Fair City, to Charlotte’s Fair City, where I was scheduled to interview my favorite indie rock band. It took a local bus, local train, Marc train, and another local train to get there, but it was worth it. There was thai food, peanut sauce, thai beer, time with Charlotte, and music.
The interview was cancelled before the date of the show, and with Charlotte’s birthday the day before, I set out for dinner.
And before I could get there, I was hurled the dreaded family comment. Talking to Emily before boarding the Marc she asked, “Are you going to blog about this?” It wasn’t a pleasant tone, per se, and it wasn’t the kind of disgust Heather Armstrong weathers on a regular basis, but there was a thread of regret. Which is unfortunate, because I haven’t even begun to drag the family through the mud in my literary quests. And, I think Emily is the only one reading, anyway.
After that Emily asked me why Charlotte hadn’t been mentioned much, and beside, what was her name going to be, anyway? Sophie? No, that was unfair, I argued, I’ve used it too much at Starbucks as an alias, and Charlotte likes that name for children. I thought Charlotte might be nice, but feared it was too Sex in the City.
After we talked, I boarded my train, Emily ate lunch on the opposite side of the country, and hours later, I met Charlotte for book browsing. Then I declared, irrelevant to dinner options, that a life without peanut sauce is a life not worth living. Moreover, I can not marry a man who can not revel and appreciate peanut sauce as I do. (Or, I can, but he’d better be liberal and never mention nary a negative word about the glory that is peanut sauce.) Oh, my goodness, I am salivating. How unbecoming.
Hungry for peanut sauce, Charlotte suggested we try a new restaurant. A restaurant that uses white table linens. A restaurant, not a diner, where you are served, there is not a counter, or white Styrofoam cups, that doesn’t serve soda, that has gone out of its way to design a clean, modern, and trendy atmosphere. I was wearing nice jeans, so it did save me in some ways. Not that Charlotte would have minded; she never has.
Charlotte is ten years older than I am, and in those ten years, has gone out of her ways to spoil me rotten. Birthdays have been spent in the metropolitan city she used to inhabit (and in some ways, still does). She has taken me to museums, silent films, exposed me to epicurean delights, and let me stay in her guest bedroom multiple times. Her currently un-aliased husband has participated in these spoil-fests, so I have two sisters and two brothers-in-law who provide endless fun.
We went to the National Book Festival two weeks ago with Winifred to see Joyce Carol Oates speak; she said everyone has one person who loves you unconditionally—no matter how bratty you are—and she was given her grandmother. I, on the other hand, have gotten two sisters. Which is almost unfair because I am a little shit sometimes.
But moving along, over dinner, we discussed [Queen] Winifred and The King, and concluded and deliberated the following points (whilst I shoveled chicken pad thai into my mouth):


1) Winifred’s constant and seeming unverifiable claims that what we did at ten through seventeen (and present) would come back to haunt us. Police blotters, political campaigns, and court records aside, security clearances, Google, and tattle tales really do come back to haunt you. Luckily for us, only eye rolling followed these admonishments, and none of Winifred’s daughters have participated in any activities unbecoming of a Quimby. Winifred’s standards are high, which certainly helps.
2) I wonder (mused, with head nods and commentary from Charlotte) what careers Winifred and The King would have chosen if they were in college now. Charlotte and I are hell-bent on making a contribution to society sans children. My arbitrary marriage age is 28 (minimum) and child-bearing age is 35 (but adoption sounds painless). But I (we) aren’t criticizing our parents and more than anything, are glad Winifred is not demanding children, or marriage (though I am now the only unmarried daughter).
3) Our parents are not only good people, but good to us…especially in public. I share a night class with an adult mother, with two teenage daughters and one son. She complained last week, and twice this week, that her daughters are interested in posing for photography homework for no more than fifteen minutes. (Truth be told, I can’t even participate for that long, either.) Then she added, “She’s a little shit. I hate my kids.” The comment received a few giggles, but I was horrified. I’m sure Winifred hasn’t told anyone she hated her kids before, I thought. I’m sure—I even hope—she’s complained in other ways. To her sister, maybe close friends, that her youngest is kind of a pain in the neck sometimes. Her music is too loud, her politics are a little weird, she hates math, but I don’t think Winifred ever said she hated me. That the woman said she hated her kids wasn’t necessarily horrifying because she was a mother—neither Charlotte or I think a parent is bound to loving their kid unconditionally, and we’re both grossed out by Helicopter Parents—but it was scary because her kids probably don’t know thirty twenty-one year olds are privy to this information. Charlotte agreed we were safe in knowing that neither Winifred or The King would share that with strangers. First, both are private people (surprised! you’ve been blog’d!); second, they like their kids, which works out well because we like them too. Third, they wouldn’t share information with a group of kids. It’s weird how college makes you realize how much more awesome your parents seem than they did before.
4) It’s probably weird that I check the court records database before I date a boy long-term. Probably true.
5) Winifred is a smart, engaging, charming, and fiery woman who should contribute by writing her own posts to The Gospel. I have never seen Charlotte agree with such fervency than when she began to laugh, “Mom should blog!” She has a lot on her mind! And a lot to say! Agreed, Charlotte. Now that we’re older, other inhabitants of Planet Earth need to be harangued about proper footwear, politics, women’s rights, current events, historical accuracies, and the secrets to successful baking. Probably not the last one, actually, because I like being the only twenty-one year old in town that can make baked goods from scratch.

After all of this we discussed aliases and Charlotte listed names she likes. Most of them were French and for hypothetical children. I only mentioned Henry, but not Rocket. She said that if our sister was Emily, then she should be literary too. I said Jane didn’t fit—even if I loved Jane Lane for being outspoken and a little weird—it was too common. We didn’t commit, but for now, Charlotte Bronte is appropriate.
Then Charlotte paid the bill, I went to rock out, and we spent the next morning procuring Coca-Cola imported from Mexico.