Talkin' Shop

This conversation was intercepted by Pakistani authorities (thanks to NPR for the transcript):

Maulvi Sahib: They were our men there.

Mehsud: Who were they?

Maulvi Sahib : There were Saeed, the second was Badarwala Bilal and Ikramullah was also there.

Mehsud: The three did it?

Maulvi Sahib: Ikramullah and Bilal did it.

Mehsud: Then congratulations to you again.

Maulvi: Where are you? I want to meet with you?

Mehsud: I am in Makin. Come I am at Anwar Shah's home.

Maulvi Sahib: OK I will come.

Mehsud: Do not inform their family presently.

Maulvi Sahib: Right.

Mehsud: It was a spectacular job. They were very brave boys who killed her.

Maulvi Sahib: Praise be to God.

Do these men truly believe what they're saying to one another? Aren't there tiny voices in their heads telling each of them that they're full of crap?

To me, there's a silver lining to Bhutto's death and it is this:

What pissed these murderers off more than anything else was that Benazir Bhutto was a woman.

God bless you, Benazir! You can rest easy knowing that you agitated these men daily with your brilliant mind, your courage, and most of all, your gender.

Sloth.

On a Discovery Channel special about these creatures, Ralph Fiennes memorably and beautifully pronounced the word "sloth" with a long o, rhyming with "both", rather than the nasal American pronounication of "sloth". When I am in the midst of bout of sloth, it should be pronounced the American way; ugly and short: "slaaaaaaaahth".

Sloth is a sin of omission, rather than a sin committed in action (see keying of mailbox below in Wrath). It's a state of being in which one is careless and lazy. The modern definition of sloth includes the possession of talent in any form and leaving that gift untapped and unused.

Sloth is a byproduct of melancholy and depression. Walk into a slothful person's living space (like The Hovel) and you'll see dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing trashcans, sticky floors, dirty laundry, dusty furniture and general disorder.

Day-to day duties are neglected. A slothful state creates piles of paper, like unanswered letters and unpaid bills. Phone calls aren't returned. Science projects flourish in the fridge.

Forget about completing an ambitious project, like filing a month's paperwork into personal files, balancing a checkbook or refinishing a cabinet. As long as one is slothful, these projects will never be completed. If they are, it's with sheer willpower.

I've a few talents-- singing, drawing, painting, and am an engaging conversationalist. Do I use these talents? No. I feel much worse about this aspect of sloth than any other.

Can you tell I'm well-acquainted with this deadly sin? I'm usually in sloth mode rather than out of it.

I am fully aware this is a result of clinical depression, and trust me, I fight it. I hate living in a dirty house. Usually I'll wait until it gets so bad that I cannot stand my surroundings any more, then I take a deep breath and dive in to complete whatever it is that needs to get done. Sometimes I'll experience a burst of inspiration and indulge myself with a creative pursuit, such as sketching an amateurish still-life or an even worse, a watercolor or pastel picture. Afterward, I look at the thing I've created and tell myself, "Well! You're not that talented after all!", then slide backward into creeping slothfulness.

Wrath.

There is a fine line between love and hate. I'm ashamed to say that a person whom I love very much and who was instrumental in shaping the woman I've become, is also the person with whom I was most angry in my life.

Michael and I met in the smoking section of our office building. We were the two loser-tobacco-addicted-holdouts in our tower, otherwise filled with healthy Southern Californians. We quickly fell in love, and I moved into his condo. After seven months of living together, I noticed a definite cooling of Michael towards me. What followed was something I didn't expect in the world of love between grown-ups where people are supposed to talk about their problems and solve them in a sane, civil, and adult manner.

One night, Michael and I went out with friends to hear some live music. It was a crowded bar, and we got separated. After awhile, I was tired, slightly drunk, and annoyed that he had disappeared. So I decided to punish Michael by leaving without him. That'll show him! I thought stupidly.

I went home and fell asleep. Waking up the next morning, I looked at Michael's pillow, which was devoid of his curly-haired head. I got up and walked through the house, thinking he'd fallen asleep in one of the other bedrooms. No Michael. I went into the garage; his car wasn't there.

Panic.

I ran upstairs and called some friends. "Is Michael there?" I asked embarrassed, realizing that I sounded like a dumbass for not knowing where my own boyfriend was. After exhausting that option, I started calling the hospitals, the police station. No Michael. So I sat down in the living room in my robe and waited for the phone to ring, watching some insipid Danny DeVito movie where he was playing a mentally-challenged guy. I got angrier and angrier as the minutes ticked by (not at the movie-- at Michael). What the fuck is going on?!?

The phone rang. It was Michael calling from the car. "Are you alright? Where are you?" I quizzed him, worried sick.

"We need to talk," he intoned.

Oh, here we go.

"Right now? On the phone?" I said sharply. "Ohhhhhhh no you don't. Come home and tell me to my face." I slammed the phone down and laid on the couch.

Ten minutes later, Michael came in, wearing his clothes from the night before and sporting his sunglasses. He slumped in a chair. I sat up, hyper-alert, and lit up my millionth cigarette of the day. "Well, Michael? Talk," I snipped.

"I'm not happy. I want you to move out."

God. The adrenaline that flooded through me!

"Is it because I left last night? I was tired, so Glen gave me a ride home. Is that why you're saying this?" I quavered.

"No." A stone.

"Do you have someone else, Michael? Where did you stay last night?"

"I was at a friend's house. No, there isn't anyone else."

"Bullshit, Michael," I said, chuffing smoke like a train. "I don't believe you."

He sat looking at me, without taking off his sunglasses.

"For God's sake. Take off your sunglasses!"

He didn't. There he sat, immobile, silent.

"What am I supposed to do, Michael?"

Nothing. Like the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, he was. All's he needed was a black hood.

I stubbed out my cigarette. "Okay. I'm going to take a shower. When I come out, I want you to be gone."

I got into the shower, scared, hurt, furious. Crying. Jesus Christ. Why won't he tell me what the fuck is going on? What did I do?

When I got out of the shower, robe on, hair in a towel, he was still sitting in the same spot, a fixture.

Michael said quietly, "I'll pay the deposit for your new apartment. I'm also going to pay your moving expenses. I'll give you the money when you figure out how much you need."

I stared at him. God, he really wants me to disappear. And he's giving me the money to do it. "Fine," I snapped. "I'll call you. But you're not staying here, Michael! You're staying with your 'friend' until I leave, whoever that is. You won't be here when I am. You aren't gonna just stop by to pick up some stuff. You'll call me beforehand and I'll make sure I'm not here when you come by." I kept staring at him, waiting for him to say why he was doing this.

"Okay," he answered. With that out of the way, he got up and left.

That was the moment I became certifiably insane. It lasted for the next four months.

Anticipating my future pharmaceutical needs, Michael tactfully left a full bottle of Xanax in the kitchen cupboard. I took two of them each night and washed them down with (at least) a six-pack of beer, just to get to sleep. I packed half-heartedly. I looked for an apartment. I listened to Van Morrison and Beatles CDs. I obsessed. I fumed.

When I drove deeper into the city limits of Crazytown, I became vengeful. With a key, I scratched out my recently-engraved name on our mailbox. I tried to make Michael's day-to-day life as miserable as I possibly could. I would see Michael out around town and glare at him, just to make him squirm. I accessed his personal voicemail account and erased "important" messages. I timed my smoke breaks to coincide with his so I could ride in the elevator with him to glare and say bitchy, crazy shit. I looked through all his clothes for clues as to why this was happening-- it's a girl, it's gotta be some slut he met, there's gotta be a phone number around here somewhere. I accused him of coming over and moving stuff around the apartment when I wasn't there: "Did you come over here today? The reason I ask is because I can't find the fucking T.V. remote. I know you were over here, Michael! Did you hide the remote?!?"

God, I was so awful. I hated myself for hating him. I hated him for not loving me any more. I hated how I felt. There was a typhoon of loathing and desperation that whirled around in my brain, unrelenting, unstoppable.

Finally, I realized I needed help quickly or something bad was going to happen. I made an appointment with a shrink and told him the whole sordid, messy tale.

"What do you need to make yourself feel better about all of this?" he asked gently.

"I need to have Michael dead. That would make me so happy. I would like to see him suffer." I remember saying this and noticing the shock in the shrink's eyes.

I was so blatant, heartless, and evil. I'd become a monster.

****
This was, thankfully, many years ago. He and I have both moved on. One night we talked about this whole mess. I told Michael everything I'd felt during those months, except the fact I wanted him dead. I've never told him that.

Michael, if you read this, sweetie, I'm so sorry.

Pride.

A bit of genealogical background on our old friend, Mimi Van Wyck, from the loathsome Harper's Bazaar "A Fashionable Life" issue:

Mimi, her mother, Mary Lynn, and her brother, Bronson, share an antique name dating all the way back to when New York was known as New Amsterdam.

Big deal. I've got it all over Mimi in the antique name department.

This is the Howard University standard. HU was founded by one of my ancestors, General Oliver O. Howard.

This is General Howard, looking suitably dignified and generally general-ish. O.O. graduated 4th in his class at West Point, lost his arm at Fair Oaks and had three horses shot out from under him during the Civil War. He went on to found Howard University, and was later appointed to spearhead the Freedman's Bureau, where he treated the Native Americans abominably, I'm sorry to report.

Here's O.O.'s monument at Gettysburg!

I'm guessing there aren't any Van Wyck memorials at Gettysburg, or anywhere else, for that matter. Heh heh!

This is Castle Howard, Suffolk, England.

Sadly, these particular Howards are somewhere in my tree, but certainly not on my branch. I'm just throwing it in here because let's face it-- that is one gorgeous castle.

Prior to their trip across the pond, the Howards populated England for many a century. The Howards landed on these shores around the same time the Van Wycks showed up. Maybe they were neighbors and had barbeques and stuff! Maybe not.

Another branch of my family, the Suttons, settled in England (via France) before the Howards. In fact, the Sutton crest bears the motto (translated from Latin) "Puttin' the 'Anglo' in 'Anglo-Saxon' since 1066".

That newbie Mimi Van Wyck may have an old name, but mine are older, thank you very much.

Envy.

I think envy is different from jealousy. Jealousy is when you want something someone else has which you used to have, like your otherwise awesome boyfriend you dumped because he called too much, or your beautiful house you had to give up because your mortgage rate went through the roof. Envy, on the other hand, is wanting that which another person has. Whatever it is they have, it is something you will never have, have never had in your life, nor could you ever hope to have.

Exhibit 1: Kelly Wearstler.

Kelly is featured on the cover of the Fall 2007 issue of Harper's Bazaar's "A Fashionable Life". Looking at her photo conjures a black wave of hateful envy through my brain; chestnut waves cascading around her shoulders, wide cheekbones, feline eyes, golden skin and Christian Louboutin pumps (one pair of "dozens" in her closet).

It only gets worse on page 47, where Kelly's story begins.

Kelly Wearstler, in a chocolate crepe Tracy Feith sundress, pancake-flat Chanel gladiator sandals, and oversize Marc Jacobs aviator specs, curls into one of the glossy black wrought-iron patio chairs between the pool and the pool house she has converted into a home office of her estate, on the Beverly Hills side of Sunset Boulevard (of course!- T.). Wearstler has flopped down out of not so much exhaustion as ease-- although this mother of two small boys, Elliott, age 4, and Oliver, 5, and the captain of a burgeoning global empire would be forgiven if it were the former.

I wouldn't forgive her. I would laugh at her.

Poor Kelly-- not only is she renovating her home, she's redoing her office space too. Stress! A nosy neighbor "caught" Kelly running her business out of the old bungalow space during the renovation of the new office on La Cienega. The City "totally came down on us" says Kelly, and adds: "What do you expect? This neighbor has metal exterior shutters." What a loser!

You want to design clothes too, Kelly? Along with your interiors business and your boutique on the 7th floor of Barney's on Wilshire?

"Why shouldn't I do clothes and anything else? I mean, look at all the inspiration I'm surrounded by*. We just got back from Uruguay and Argentina, and we're going to India and Japan this winter." How weird! Me too!

* Never end a sentence with a preposition, Kelly (T-Bone's Mom).

Exhibit 2: Mimi Van Wyck.

Mimi is an event planner, putting together weddings and parties for the rich and famous. When she and Ray Hamilton "Ham" Morrison III decided to get married, they wanted their day to be extra-special. The venue? Charleston, South Carolina. They thought it would be fun to have a Mardi-Gras themed wedding reception!

Zipped into a white sheath hung with chains by Alexander McQueen and sci-fi jewelry by Kara Ross, (Mimi) is a punk-rock Princess Leia. "Bronson has me changing at least fi-ii-ive times at the wedding," she says, sounding just like what a magnolia would sound like if a magnolia could talk. "It's cray-ay-zy."

Grrrrr.

Ham had been thinking of becoming a pro stock-car driver. (Mimi urged him to, well, think again.) Instead, Ham now restores Charleston's creaky historic residences...

I'm choking.

The wedding day!

Morning arrives, and Mimi climbs behind Ham on his British policeman's motorcycle, off to fetch croissants and orange juice.

The story goes on from there, but I'll spare you (and myself). Suffice to say the article concludes with a full-page photo of a radiant Mimi 'n' Ham at the airport, ready to jet off to the Grenadines for their honeymoon. Mimi's diamond glints as her hand clutches her Hermes briefcase. Ham, in a blue blazer, looks impossibly handsome.

************

Now folks-- that's envy.

The Seven Deadly Virtues

Before bursting into song, I will let you know, dear readers, that I dabbled in "diligence" this evening; I washed one-third of my bathroom floor.

Then I said to myself, "Aw, fuck it. This is boring."

Mordred:

Virtue and proper deeds, Your Majesty?
Like what? Courage, Milord?
Purity and Humility, my liege?
Diligence? Charity? Honesty? Fidelity?
The seven deadly virtues? No, thank you, Your Majesty.
The seven deadly virtues, those ghastly little traps,
Oh, no, Milord, they weren't meant for me.
Those seven deadly virtues, they're made for other chaps,
Who love a life of failure and ennui.
Take Courage! Now there's a sport.
An invitation to the state of rigor mort!
And Purity! А noble yen!
And very restful ev'ry now and then.
I find Humility means to be hurt;
It's not the earth the meek inherit, it's the dirt.
Honesty is fatal and should be taboo.
Diligence? A fate I would hate.
If Charity means giving, I give it to you,
And Fidelity is only for your mate.
You'd never find a virtue unstatusing my quo,
Or making my Beelzebubble burst.
Let others take the high road, I will take the low;
I cannot wait to rush in where angels fear to go.
With all those seven deadly virtues,
Free and happy little me has not been cursed.

- "The Seven Deadly Virtues" from "Camelot" by Lerner and Loewe