surrender dorothy.
Last night I watched the Golden Girls Reunion on Lifetime. I knew already that my mom and my sister had watched it, in their own time zone, which is two hours ahead of mine, at an earlier scheduled time, which meant they watched it three hours before I did. I had an algebra class flashback trying to figure out the difference of time in between them eating cheesecake at my sister's house and me sitting in my PJs listening to my husband make flustered noises about Battlefield Vietnam, which he was playing online with headphones so I could hear the TV. (Apparently, when you play online, people can shoot you, even if you're on their side, so they can fly the helicopter. Barbarians.) I wanted some cheesecake, too. And, of course, Dorothy was the one to get married and move away. And it doesn't matter how much I tell myself that I'm sick of that show, I'm just not. I could watch it every day if our apartment was bigger. I laugh out loud every time I watch it.
This morning, on my way to work, I heard part of this story on KCRW. Really, I only heard the beginning. But there they were, this father and son, just talking. About war. About these horrible things. Like being on the phone with your son and having to hang up because he says there's shooting going on behind him and for you not to tell your wife, his mother. And you listen. And yet, it wasn't depressing. Frederick Busch and his son, Ben, had this lovely way of speaking of and to each other that just made me miss my own dad, who has been known to call me out of the blue to tell me about something he heard on public radio that I would have liked. He rarely remembers who anyone was, what show he was listening to, and sometimes he can't tell me what it was about. Just that he thought of me. I never want any more than that anyway. A couple of times he's remembered and given me books he's either heard reviewed or heard the author talk about. And they've been good. Because NPR has good taste and my father knows mine. So, I missed my dad a lot today. But this interview was great because of the way this elloquent marine described his own insights into his father, a novelist, listening to his son over the phone being, basically, shot at, and knowing what this novelist father would imagine was happening because (and this is the line that made me stop breathing) "fiction is the focus of his life." I love when phrases like that pop out of conversation or off a page and fly around in front of me, like something beautiful I wasn't expecting. Like butterflies. And I do stop breathing for a second.
But I've been breathing again for hours and hours now. I'm listening to the Garden State soundtrack and am about to start reading Shopgirl, which I'm about halfway through, while I wait for John to come home from his dismal temp job. Cross your fingers. We need something to happen.
Have you ordered your 2006 lauraslens.com calendar yet? There are always good things waiting on the pages of another year.
This morning, on my way to work, I heard part of this story on KCRW. Really, I only heard the beginning. But there they were, this father and son, just talking. About war. About these horrible things. Like being on the phone with your son and having to hang up because he says there's shooting going on behind him and for you not to tell your wife, his mother. And you listen. And yet, it wasn't depressing. Frederick Busch and his son, Ben, had this lovely way of speaking of and to each other that just made me miss my own dad, who has been known to call me out of the blue to tell me about something he heard on public radio that I would have liked. He rarely remembers who anyone was, what show he was listening to, and sometimes he can't tell me what it was about. Just that he thought of me. I never want any more than that anyway. A couple of times he's remembered and given me books he's either heard reviewed or heard the author talk about. And they've been good. Because NPR has good taste and my father knows mine. So, I missed my dad a lot today. But this interview was great because of the way this elloquent marine described his own insights into his father, a novelist, listening to his son over the phone being, basically, shot at, and knowing what this novelist father would imagine was happening because (and this is the line that made me stop breathing) "fiction is the focus of his life." I love when phrases like that pop out of conversation or off a page and fly around in front of me, like something beautiful I wasn't expecting. Like butterflies. And I do stop breathing for a second.
But I've been breathing again for hours and hours now. I'm listening to the Garden State soundtrack and am about to start reading Shopgirl, which I'm about halfway through, while I wait for John to come home from his dismal temp job. Cross your fingers. We need something to happen.
Have you ordered your 2006 lauraslens.com calendar yet? There are always good things waiting on the pages of another year.
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