Hillary blamed for her husband’s affairs — as a co-conspirator, an apologist or, worse, the root cause of his philandering?
I’m writing this even while at a loss for words about how wrong this is. Fortunately, Michelle Goldberg, at Slate, is more coherent: “Hillary was a betrayed woman who nevertheless fought to salvage a marriage and political project she believed in. Perhaps she shouldn’t have. But the Times editorial casts her as an icy schemer stage-managing her hapless husband’s misdeeds. It turns her from The Good Wife’s Alicia Florrick into House of Cards’ Claire Underwood, from victim to villainess,” writes Goldberg.
You have been warned: I’m going to write more on this when I can find the courage to read Trump’s take on it.
Saw this movie on a chill, dark day, snow falling softly, the first of the year. Likewise, the movie was quiet and dark, nothing to inspire a flare of awe or any kind of feeling in me, actually—just a story of two people in underlit rooms, and, they learn, an underlit marriage, even on the eve of celebrating its 45 anniversary.
I looked longingly at Charlotte Rampling. C’mon, you’re a beauty. Dazzle me! You play a deeply intelligent and proud character! Surprise me!
But she refused to be a circus monkey, entertaining on command. Laudably, I suppose. Her gaze was obscured by heavy lids. She wore unflattering cotton shirts and ill-fitting jeans. She smiled wryly at times but otherwise seemed joyless. Again, commendable that she stayed true to the appearance and mood of her character. Here, she is in the prime of her beauty, without the gloss and glamour typical of the film stars of her day.
What’s most revealing about this process is discovering the foods I really crave and those I never think about. Meat, for instance: Don’t need it, never crosses my mind. Cheese, pasta, bread and sweets (except for a brief infatuation with a slab of fudge last night): same.
Wine, though, a deep red on a winter’s night, or a fizzy Vinho Verde after work. I miss the way it alters my mood, mellows my jangliness. I imagine a Friday without a nice glass of something and it feels like a desert of virtue. Work, followed by more work, followed by finally folding myself into my covers, as sober as a vicar. I think I’m a wino.
Tagline should be: And you thought your family was nuts.
It’s a ritual of mine to helpfully help people and machines select vows to better themselves. You’re welcome!
Standing in line to not have someone help you. That’s what I feel like, Shop Rite and American Airlines, at your self-service check-outs and kiosks. Why call it service at all, why not just “self” as there is no service now is there? I am also looking at you clunky SAAS platforms that Time Inc. uses so it know longer needs to employ actual service providers like HR, IT and payroll employees, and that don’t talk to each other so you have to bounce among them inputting the same data all over the place. Even worse, they don’t change the error messages from alerts such as “cell value does not match data field” — which might more helpfully be translated as “use all four numbers to enter year of birth.”
File this under “New Year Resolutions for Other People” (see post) and also “Things I Am Supposed to Like But Do Not Like All That Much.”
I start with the incalculable enthusiasm, untempted by coffee and, as the evening beckons, wine. Chai with soy milk for breakfast, a Kind bar for the plane. The rules, lest we’ve forgotten:
This book from Lily and, along with Anne Lamott’s Small Victories, I am inspired to write again, after a long dormant spell. The change of scenery helped as well — a week in the desert with views like this every day:
Here is what I wrote poolside at the Desert Hot Springs Spa, courtesy of Lamott and triggering a vow from me to leave them behind: Resentments are wire-monkey mothers, something to hang onto because we believe we have — or deserve — nothing better.