First Person Singular by Wendy Braitman

Recycling Old Boyfriends

Have you ever fantasized about boyfriends whom you’ve gotten rid of (or worse, have gotten rid of you) and wondered, are they worth another try?

I have. I looked one up, just the other week. We met for coffee. And the answer is, NO.

When Words Make a Difference

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

These 27 words give me courage, and I come back to them on a regular basis. They’re written by the great poet, Mary Oliver, seen here reading to her dog Percy (who looks an awful lot like my Rose). Mary Oliver is 74 today.

The Incomparable Maira Kalman

Have you been following the amazing visual blog, by Maira Kalman, the great illustrator, writer and designer? I first noticed her work on the elevator walls of Barneys, the luxury department store, then in The New Yorker, and have since purchased her collaborative effort on the essential grammar book, The Elements of Style, packed with gorgeous illustrations.  A few weeks ago, I posted a photo of Fred and Ginger. This version by Kalman is a treasure.

Playing the Name Game

In the seventh grade, I learned a game, “Love, Marriage, Friendship, Hate,” which could predict whether a boy I had an insatiable crush on, would end up as my husband. I believed in it. Here’s how it worked. On a sheet of paper, I’d write down my first and last name in block letters (middle names were used only if I wasn’t happy with the outcome.) Underneath this, I’d write down the first and last name of that dreamy classmate I couldn’t get out of my head. Feel free to try it now, and test it out for yourself. For example:

WENDY BRAITMAN
JOHNNY DEPP

Cross out each letter you and your potential beloved share in common (in my case, I would begin by crossing out the “E” in WENDY and DEPP). Here’s what is left:

WBRAITMA
JOHPP

For each letter that remains, recite in order, one of these words: “Love. Marriage. Friendship. Hate.” (w – love,        b – marriage, r – friendship, a – hate, i – love) and so on, until you’ve cycled through both names. At the last letter of the last name, whichever noun you end up with, is how the relationship will fare. So in this example, Johnny Depp and I are destined for “love.” (See what I mean. It really works!)

But here’s the embarrassing part. As recently as a few months ago, I resurrected this silly game, because of a man I liked. Outcome: marriage. And to my surprise and disappointment, for the first time, it was wrong.

A Holiday Weekend at the Movies

Going to the movies alone, especially on a weekend, is an acquired skill, which took me years to develop. Now, it’s my favorite way to go. I love being able to choose the film, the theater, the screening time, and my seat, without compromise. There are no distractions from worrying if the person I’m with is bored and annoyed that he was dragged to the movie in the first place. When I’m facing a long holiday weekend ahead with no real plans, it’s a perfect activity. That’s how I came to see Amreeka, a wonderful film by Cherien Dabis, about a middle-class Palestinian woman and her teenage son who immigrate to a small town in Illinois to make their way in America. Don’t miss it!

Pet Therapy

I was never much of a pet person. Our family had a brief fling with a dog, but Lucky bit a neighbor’s hand, and had to be sent back to the “farm.” Now that I think about it, Lucky was actually the name of our bird, who was the first to teach me about heaven, when, one day after school, I found him on his back with his legs up, stiff as a board. We buried him in the backyard. Ever since, I’ve been dander free.

Along the way, I learned to be a pet diplomat, by never ignoring my friends’ animals, and lavishing attention on the dog or cat of any man I was interested in. But my heart wasn’t in it.

And then, I adopted Lily and Rose, and fell head over paws in love with them. (See what happens when you’re smitten. You get corny, and show their photos to everyone. Incidentally, that’s Lily. Isn’t she precious?) Now, I can sit for hours and watch them sleep. I arrange play dates, take them to the vet, put away their toys, wipe their butts. I could go on about my beautiful girls, why I’m happier because of them, and how a lonely Saturday night isn’t lonely anymore. But I gotta go. Rose is barking, and it’s time for her walk.

Oh How I Love Foreign Affairs

On a cold blowy February day a woman is boarding the ten a.m. flight to London, followed by an invisible dog. The woman’s name is Virginia Miner; she is fifty-four years old, small, plain, and unmarried — the sort of person that no one ever notices, though she is an Ivy League college professor who has published several books and has a well-established reputation in the expanding field of children’s literature.

— from Foreign Affairs, the 1984 Pulitzer Prize winner for fiction, by Alison Lurie, who is 83 today. This family photo of Lurie and her dog, Sliver, was taken in 1947, in White Plains, New Jersey.

Why I Hate Baby Showers

I had no choice, so I dragged myself on Sunday to a baby shower. Can you say no to these kinds of events, without being called bitter?  This one was for my next-door neighbor, so I couldn’t pretend to have a prior engagement, since they could see me lounging in the backyard.

I was one of the few women in attendance who didn’t have kids, who wasn’t wearing a sundress, and who couldn’t score points in the party game, “guess what’s in the baby food jar.”  (Mothers, how do you tell the difference between puréed sweet potatoes, carrots and acorn squash without tasting it first?)

I oohed and aahed appropriately during the opening gifts ceremony. Those tiny booties with animals on them are really cute, and after all, they’re shoes. But as the rest of the guests chimed in, “oh, you’re going to love those burp pads,” and the “Baby Bjorn is an absolute MUST,” I sat back on the sofa and felt like an alien.

It was not all a bust. The scones and tea-sandwiches were tasty, and I got lavender body lotion as a parting gift.

Can We Have It All?

A cartoon by Barbara Smaller from this week’s The New Yorker:

I Miss You, Molly Ivins

The warm, funny, insightful political writer, and all-around truth teller, Molly Ivins, would have been 65 yesterday, the perfect age to wade into the national health care debate. Not that wading was her style. She was good at cutting through the crap.

Ivins was an unapologetic “lefty,” and famously coined the name, “Shrub,” for George W. Bush, whom she first met while they were in high school. She was a towering presence, figuratively and literally, at 6 feet tall, born in California, raised in Texas, and educated in elite schools in the Northeast. She had a brief tenure at the New York Times, but it was not a happy marriage. She was stifled at the paper, and it drove her crazy. She returned to Texas to write, and made the legislature (or Lege, as she called it) one of her favorite targets.

Molly Ivins described herself as a “left-wing aging Bohemian journalist, who never made a shrewd career move, never dressed for success, never got married, and isn’t even a lesbian, which at least would be interesting.”