The Tailored Woman

What to read with a broken heart

2010-04-27T20:00:00.001-05:00

This is a topic I've debated from time to time with literary-minded friends. You want to choose something engrossing--magazines are too lightweight, too easy to toss on the floor after a desultory rifling of the pages--yet nothing that touches on your own emotionally precarious situation. So anything with love in the plot is out. That's always been a tough one for me since it makes most of my beloved 19th century novels, or 21st century memoirs, off limits. I remember selecting Chuck Palahniuk's Haunted during one difficult breakup. It was thoroughly revolting and thus a perfect match for my own churning stomach.

I'm currently reading Nathaniel Philbrick's engrossing historical saga Mayflower, since I mention it in my book proposal. The book is subtitled, "A story of courage, community and war." Nary a word about love. I can therefore confidently recommend Philbrick's book to any fractured heart in need of a tonic. (Added bonus--it will help you sleep!)

Of course, if you just need a good cry and a happy ending, Jane Austen is still your go-to girl. (The real Austen, not the zombie or sea monster versions.) Sense and Sensibility is guaranteed to open up the floodgates, though Emma Thompson improves on Austen in the dialogue she gives to Edward Ferrers (played by Hugh Grant) in the movie version. What woman doesn't want her true love to declare, after many hurdles and misunderstandings, "I've come here with no expectations, only to profess--now that I am at liberty to do so--that my heart is, and always will be, yours." (Swoon!)

But if you'll excuse me, I fear it's back to the dour Puritans for me tonight.

Message for Hugh Monqui

2010-04-26T22:06:00.001-05:00

All of my other readers can talk amongst yourselves right now as this doesn't concern you... but Hugh, I'm attemping to contact you. Do you use your Hotmail account anymore? Send me a message or a smoke signal or something.

Okay, the rest of you are welcome back to the blog now. Thanks for your patience during this temporary interlude. I'll have a normal post tomorrow. (Um, is there anything normal about my posts? Don't answer that...)

Blonde v. Blonde: The Ellen Cover of Shape Magazine

2010-04-25T20:39:00.000-05:00

The best class I took at Sarah Lawrence was on writing the nonfiction essay with Nicolaus Mills. I was the youngest student in the class, a shy sophomore, but Nick saw potential in my writing and acted as a mentor. For years—never mind how many—I’ve held onto a photocopy he gave us of an article from In These Times by Susan J. Douglas. Titled "Blonde Ambition," it's an insightful analysis of the very different ways in which two well-known blondes were treated by Vanity Fair in the magazine's September 1987 issue. (Oops, guess I just gave away how many years ago it was that I took Nick’s class.)

Donna Rice--she of the “Monkey Business” sex scandal that derailed Gary Hart’s presidential run--was portrayed as a grasping, slutty homewrecker despite the fact that she was a Phi Beta Kappa with a career. Diane Sawyer, a former beauty queen turned broadcaster, was on the other hand given a fawning profile highlighting her brains and professional success.

I thought of that article showing how the media pits women against each other when I received the May issue of Shape last week. The cover features a fully clothed Ellen DeGeneres leaning over in a goofy pose that has nothing to do with fitness. Every other Shape cover model dawns a bikini, or at least a skimpy two-piece athletic outfit, that would be equally at home on the cover of a men’s magazine. So I found it interesting that her bare feet are the only skin Ellen displays.

On the inside cover Ellen is dressed in nearly the identical white outfit shilling for Vitaminwater. In the profile section is yet another ad for the drink, opposite Ellen in a yoga pose, still fully clothed. On the next page Ellen jokingly holds up her shirt to display a tiny slice of her stomach, alongside a pull quote that reads, “This is more of my abs than anyone has ever seen.”

In the same issue, Marisa Miller, the Victoria’s Secret model who posed for the cover of Shape last June, is featured in the table of contents section. She wears a barely-there pink one-piece while kneeling alluringly in sand on the beach. The photo directs readers to check out her “get gorgeous” tips on p. 68. I turned to that page to see the same photo along with a list of Marisa’s five top beauty secrets under the title, “Sexy made simple.” (Victoria’s Secret cosmetics are prominently featured. No surprise that women’s magazines are in bed with their advertisers, and since they are so open about it, neither this nor Ellen’s preferential Vitaminwater ad placement bothers me.)

What does startle me is how respectfully Ellen is treated compared with any other celebrity cover model in recent memory. She has apparently transcended the need to prove her fitness by baring her body. Even the then 48-year old Julia Louis-Dreyfus, only three years Ellen’s junior, obligingly donned a revealing bikini top when she posed for Shape’s April 2009 cover.

This is a magazine that cheerfully objectifies virtually every woman in its pages (and yes, I realize I’m complicit by subscribing, but I do find the fitness articles to be well-researched and motivating--even when I can see that the abs in the accompanying photos are sometimes painted on with spray tan). So why the free pass for Ellen, and the worshipful profile that never once dares mention the “s” word, in sharp contrast to the Marisa Miller piece just a few pages away? Actually, the Ellen profile does mention "sexy" exactly once, at the beginning, when making it clear that the term does not apply to the person the magazine deems to be the modern version of the girl next door. The implication seems to be that Marisa, the blonde bombshell model, can only tell us how to be hot, while Ellen, the "cute" towheaded tomboy, has attained an almost Oprah-like stature as she seeks to teach us how to find our inner strength. So a woman can’t be sexy and smart and soulful? Hmm.

I will say that it was a bold of Shape to choose such a different, potentially controversial cover. I’ll be interested to see how well this issue sells compared with the usual bikini ones. (As, I’m sure, will be the magazine’s publishers.)

Keeneland, When I Was Young(er)

2010-04-24T20:56:00.000-05:00

As a follow-up to my post about last week's day at the races, here's a photo of me back when I was sporting short hair, pearls, and one of Keeneland's white parasols. (This was taken just a few years ago...)

A Day at the Races (and a night in Midway)

2010-04-21T21:56:00.001-05:00

This past weekend I traveled to see family in Cincinnati and Lexington. My cousin and I attend Keeneland’s October and April meet every year; we are lucky enough to enjoy her stepfather’s box. Our routine is to have brunch first, then show up by the second or third race. Sunday happened to be military day, so in addition to eyeing the horses as they paraded around the saddling enclosure, we inspected a few uniforms as well.

Keeneland is known as one of the prettiest racetracks in the country--and not just because the ladies wear dresses and pearls, and the ushers offer white parasols when the afternoon sun reaches the boxes. The track is nestled in among stunning horse farms including Calumet, home to such greats as Whirlaway, Citation and Alydar.

We followed our day at the races with an outrageously good meal at Holly Hill Inn, a destination dining favorite in the nearby, very horsey town of Midway (whose equine-loving residents include William Shatner and Sam Shepard.) We stuffed ourselves on the five course tasting menu and I enjoyed my first fiddlehead fern. Sounds country, tastes delicious.

Karma and Book Proposals

2010-04-16T19:58:00.000-05:00

I’ve started sending pitch letters out to my target literary agents, most of whom are so inundated that they take a while to reply. So I’m in waiting mode at the moment. That does leave me free to get back to my first love, reading. I’ve got a nice stack of selections, including a brand spanking new memoir I listed in the Competitive Titles section of my book proposal: Wendy Burden’s Dead End Gene Pool, about growing up as a Vanderbilt heiress.

Writing a nonfiction book proposal is in essence preparing a business plan for your book idea. I’m used to doing competitive analyses as part of my freelance work for investment bank clients, so I enjoyed doing that section of my book proposal. The idea is to research the field and list a number of recent titles similar to your book, along with a brief description of each (and the ways your proposed book differs). It’s actually a good thing if there are current bestsellers or notable books in your field, because this shows an established market.

So that’s (in brief) the business side of book proposals. What I’m doing now is working on what I’ll call the Karmic side. I decided I should support every author I listed in my pitch letters or book proposal by buying his or her books. This means that, to my delight, in addition to picking up Wendy Burden’s memoir, I’m reading Southern humorist Celia Rivenbark’s essays for the first time. (How did I not discover her before?!) The chapter titles in her second book, We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier, made me laugh aloud, to wit: "SUVs Eat the Ozone? Hey, We All Gotta Eat Something and I Got Twenty-Seven Cup Holders."

Of course, were I to use similar titles, they would be along the lines of, “I’m Glad You Can Sleep on the Crowded Blue Line Train, but Can You Please Not Drool On My Shoulder?” Followed closely by, “And Here’s Some Deodorant. You May Keep It. Really, My Treat.”)

That was Laura... but she's only a dream

2010-04-13T21:19:00.000-05:00

Probably my favorite film noir is Laura, the 1944 classic about obsession, famous for the theme song by Johnny Mercer (you know the tune, even if you think you don't). A detective (hunky Dana Andrews) falls in love with the portrait of a woman (Laura, played by the gorgeous and tragic Gene Tierney) whose murder he is investigating. The scene where the very much alive Laura walks back into her apartment, literally making the sleeping Andrews’ dreams come true, is terrific. What’s also nifty is that Laura is a working girl with a thriving advertising career, not just an aimless society beauty.

Well, I’ve become obsessed with Laura lately, and now I, too, am seeing her everywhere. (Except on TCM. Why do they never show it? Why!?)

It started when I read an interview with Martin Scorsese on his recent film Shutter Island. (I haven’t seen it yet so kindly do not spoil the surprise for me. Um, as I just did above.) Scorsese said he had Leonardo DiCaprio study Dana Andrews’ character, a war veteran struggling with haunting memories. After that came another reference in a glossy magazine--I'm thinking last month's Vanity Fair. Finally, the other night I noticed that Retro, a channel I don’t pay much attention to, was airing Laura at 3 AM. I gave some consideration to staying up to watch, but decided instead to let Andrews wait for her alone.

(No, I don’t have Tivo and I haven’t figured out the “R” part of DVD-R. Yes, I am a Luddite, and yes, we are allowed to blog.)

Win a Million!

2010-04-10T11:35:00.000-05:00

Okay, not you personally. But I've officially become a Kiva blogger, meaning I've promised to promote the microloan organization on occasion. Kiva just sent out an email with the below details on how folks can help them win a million. (Since blogging is hard work for which I receive no compensation, though I huddle over my keyboard until my fingers bleed, can you blame me for performing a quick cut and paste operation?)

Kiva is the world’s first online micro-lending website to help the world’s working poor help themselves to alleviate poverty. They have been chosen as one of four finalists in the Sam’s Club “Giving Made Simple” competition, for a chance to win a $1 million dollar grant – but can only win with your help and support! With this grant, Kiva will multiply the impact by 10 by generating approximately $10 million more in loans from the Internet community, to help 25,000 entrepreneurs in the US and around the world.

How is this possible? Kiva historically generates $10 in loans from the Internet community for every $1 they spend building and strengthening the platform. By investing in the dedicated engineering and portfolio staff who make Kiva possible, they can have 10 times the impact of the original grant.

HOW YOU CAN HELP:

--Sam’s Club members can vote DAILY through May 2nd at http://www2.samsclub.com/Giving/About/Kiva.

There are only 24 days left in this campaign, so your daily vote really matters! If you have additional time to volunteer for the campaign, please fill out the following form: http://bit.ly/cEYl0Y.

--If you don’t have a Sam’s Club membership, please spread the word! Send Sam's Club members you know the link to vote for Kiva: www2.samsclub.com/Giving/About/Kiva. Utilize your social media outlets by encouraging others to vote for Kiva on Facebook and Twitter.

Now, the problem for me is that I am not a Sam's Club member. I live in the city, not the suburbs. And what would I possibly do with 200 rolls of toilet paper in a dense plastic-wrapped cube that would require a forklift to transer to my vehicle (if I owned one)? It's bad enough that I whack people on the bus on a daily basis with my big shoulder bag and (reusable, of course) satchel of groceries. Honestly, it would be bad for society if I started making bulk purchases at discount clubs.

But all of the rest of you cat litter-hoarding types should help out.

Curious George Saves the Day

2010-04-08T19:07:00.001-05:00

When I arrived in New York last weekend I told my cousin that there was a museum exhibit I wanted to see. “Let me guess,” she replied drily. “You’re going to the monkey thing.”

Guilty as charged. I trekked uptown to the Jewish Museum at 92nd and Fifth to see “Curious George Saves the Day,” an exhibit about Margret and H.A. Rey and their remarkable adventures, which rivaled those of their most famous literary creation. The Reys were Jewish and fled Nazi-occupied Paris just in the nick of time during WWII. They eventually landed in New York, where their monkey--renamed the more American “George” instead of the French “Fifi,”—made them celebrities. The exhibit was wonderfully whimsical, evoking the spirit of the books themselves starting with the opening arch decorated in the style of the Reys’ illustrations. Midway through the exhibit, children enjoyed a comfy pillow-festooned room where they could curl up and read Curious George books. (I was tempted myself, but thought I might get a few odd looks.)

In the last room a display of hand-illustrated holiday cards from the Reys shows their delight in living in New York over the years, with witty references to circumstances such as gas shortages in the 1970s. But my favorite anecdote was about the couple meeting a young fan at a book signing. He was terribly disappointed in their appearance, telling them, “I thought you were monkeys, too!” In a perfect world they would have been. But theirs was not a very nice world, and the Reys’ triumph is that they took terrible circumstances and turned them into something giving lasting pleasure to generations.

Incidentally, the Jewish Museum is free on Saturdays because employees can’t accept money on Shabbat; special exhibits are open, but the rest of the museum is closed.

Curious George Saves the Day: The Art of Margret and H.A. Rey
March 14, 2010 – August 1, 2010
The Jewish Museum
1109 5th Ave (at 92nd St)
New York, NY
(212) 423-3200
www.thejewishmuseum.org/exhibitions/curiousgeorge

Easter in Old New York

2010-04-06T20:38:00.000-05:00

I spent the weekend visiting friends and family in New York. Since my hotel was downtown, I went to St. Paul's chapel for an Easter service. St. Paul's, located directly across from the World Trade Center site, provided shelter and rest for 9/11 rescue workers. It still has a moving display of memorials from all over the world, and tourists are welcome to move quietly about the churchyard (pictured here) and church itself during services.

Few people today remember that New York was briefly our nation's capital; George Washington worshipped at St. Paul's following his inauguration in 1789. But my favorite story about the chapel is that it was built with its back to Broadway, which even in the 18th century was considered a sinful street. It amuses me to think of those good, staid Episcopalians piously deciding to face their church in the opposite direction. (But I'm glad they did, since it meant St. Paul's could proudly look adversity in the face on that horrible day nearly ten years ago.)

Belated Easter Tidings

2010-04-05T21:03:00.000-05:00

What a cute little girl in her Easter dress. Too bad her mean older brother ran around and found all the Easter eggs before she could.

(Warning: I still make this pouty face when things don't go my way...)

Dear Friends on Fifth Avenue

2010-04-01T21:06:00.000-05:00

Here's a wonderful reference to the Tailored Woman store from the August 15, 1936 issue of The New Yorker magazine:

We remember trying to write a letter to Hunter College & getting stuck because we couldn't think of the proper salutation. A friend of ours got into the same kind of a jam the other morning when he foolishly attempted to compose a letter to the Tailored Woman, Inc. "Dear Sir," didn't sound right, neither did "Gentlemen," "Dear Madam" had a fishy ring. "Mesdames" made him dizzy. He tried "Dear Tailored Woman," "Dear Incorporation," "Dear People," and "Friends on Fifth Avenue." All of a sudden the answer burst on him. "My Good Woman," he began. "May I bring to your attention..."

As for this good woman, I'm off to New York in the morning and will certainly be visiting some old friends on Fifth Avenue!

Please Don't Eat the Daisies (and please don't feed Daisy)

2010-03-29T19:53:00.001-05:00

I love stumbling upon references to the Tailored Woman store. For example, when I opened Jean Kerr’s 1957 classic Please Don’t Eat the Daisies (the basis for the Doris Day movie of the same name) there on the first page was this passage:

I had a feeling all along that this book should have an Introduction... but I was getting nowhere until I received this dandy questionnaire from the publicity department at Doubleday. Now, I'm an old hand at questionnaires, having successfully opened a charge account at The Tailored Woman. But this was a questionnaire with a difference... Of course, there were a certain number of routine questions. List your pen name. (I just call it Ball-Point.) What do you do when you're not writing? (Buy geraniums.) Husband's name? (Honey.) List your previous addresses. (Funny, that's what The Tailored Woman was so curious about.)

Kerr, a playwright in addition to wonderful essayist, chronicled her exploits as a suburban wife and mother in several bestselling books that made the mundane hilarious. Though many elements of her life were glamorous, Kerr wrote in her parked car (a Chevrolet, of course) to get some peace from her brood of six children and their numerous pets. Here's my favorite of her witticisms: "Marrying a man is like buying something you've been admiring for a long time in a shop window. You may love it when you get it home, but it doesn't always go with everything else in the house."

Incidentally, zany married writers Beverly West and Jason Bergund collaborated last year on a book called Please Don’t Feed the Daisy featuring the world’s hungriest Chihuahua. (I assume the dog doesn’t shop on Fifth Avenue, as Kerr did, but one never knows these days. Certainly the average canine in my neighborhood of Lincoln Park is better dressed and sports a cuter pedicure than the average human.)

Hoarders I Have Known

2010-03-28T20:59:00.008-05:00

The hitherto not well understood compulsion of hoarding is having its moment in the sun, what with the A&E show Hoarders and a resurgence of interest in the infamous Collyer brothers of New York, one of whom literally died under the weight of his possessions.

This isn’t just prurient interest on my part. There are a couple of hoarders bowing down the branches of our hereditary tree with their clutter, so holding onto masses of stuff we don’t need appears to be something of a family tradition--along with playing touch football on Thanksgiving, or just missing out on making it big.

The most notorious example is my late maternal grandmother. She was a genuine collector and bequeathed the substantial Howard and Caroline Porter Collection of Modern Japanese Prints to the Cincinnati Art Museum. (When I searched the museum website just now for a link to the collection I couldn't find one, but I was surprised to find that she donated this risque Henry Farny print!)

But paper was also my grandmother's nemesis. Everything was equally important, and she couldn’t seem to discern the difference in value between a Frisch’s Big Boy restaurant napkin (honestly, I found one once) and a tender love letter written from her father to her mother. It all went into boxes, never to be dealth with.

The disorder drove my neat, organized mother to despair. We kids, on the other hand, thought it was kind of cool. You never knew what treasures you might unearth. (And as I sift through the remains of this rubble, now organized and labeled by my mother, I’m grateful to have such splendid excess to draw upon for my research.)

Girard College

2010-03-27T14:56:00.001-05:00

Posting about Laurel Hill cemetery yesterday has Philadelphia on my mind. I spent six years there and always had somewhat of a love-hate relationship with the city; it could be a tough place in many ways, and certainly getting mugged at a train station in the middle of the day did nothing to help that impression. What I miss most is the history; walk down just about any block in Philly and you'll stumble across something of historical or cultural significance. Chicago seems by contrast such a new city, albeit a cleaner and safer one, as well.

My family has a similarly complex relationship with one of Philadelphia's most interesting and controversial stories, Girard College. Girard is actually a boarding school providing an entirely free education to mainly underprivileged children, 80% of whom are now African-American. But the school was created by bequest of Stephen Girard, the fabulously wealthy financier who left $7.5 million (equivalent to many billions today) and no direct heirs when he died in 1831. His will is famous for two stipulations: 1) that no religious figures ever be allowed to enter the campus; and 2) that the school bearing his name be for "poor, white, male orphans" only. Both provisions were famously broken, the latter after much bitter legal wrangling in the 1960s.

My great-great-great-grandfather, Henry Duval Gregory, was Vice-President of Girard College from 1883-1892. According to family lore, Gregory once gave a tour of the school to visiting Chinese dignitaries who spoke no English. He solved the communication problem by talking to them in Latin, a language they all knew. (Is it any wonder that I can be such a bookish geek sometimes, with genes like this?) My grandmother was proud of our association with Girard College and gave me a print (pictured here) of Founder's Hall and the surrounding campus. She was, however, distressed that the will was broken. Her discomfort seemed to resonate less from sexist or racist reasons and more from her belief that one's stated final wishes should be legally binding forever.

I was interested to see that the story of Girard and his will is somewhat buried on the school's website; I had to dig into the Founder's Hall link to find it. But in a Philadelphia magazine interview from last fall, new President Autumn Adkins tackles the issue directly. I like her candor and her commitment to the principles of education for all. I hope she will continue to restore Girard's legacy to prominence, for ultimately it proves that what unites us is indeed stronger than what divides us.

Memento Mori

2010-03-26T20:21:00.003-05:00

Cheery title, no? But I thought the Latin phrase meaning “remember you must die” would be a fitting title for Lent, a week before Good Friday.

I just finished Audrey Niffeneger's most recent novel, Her Fearful Symmetry. Niffenegger is a Chicago resident but also spends time in London, where she is a guide at storied Highgate Cemetery. (So yes, she lives my dream life.) Highgate and its living and dead residents figure significantly in the novel, which I enjoyed very much despite the truly strange ending.

I don’t know Niffenegger, but she appears to be a kindred spirit, as I also adore cemeteries. When I lived in Philadelphia, I spent hours happily searching for my Gregory ancestors in Laurel Hill, a lush, rambling cemetery overlooking the Schuylkill River and Boathouse Row. (Okay, maybe I wasn't so happy the whole time. It was a very large cemetery and the map was vague as to the exact location of my family's plot.)

Laurel Hill boasts a number of lovely mausoleums, some still with the original Tiffany stained glass windows. The cemetery is famous for the Warner monument, an Alexander Milne Calder sculpture of a soul escaping the sarcophagus while an angel stands guard, but my favorite monument belongs to the most handsome (and clearly, most modest) man in America at the time of his death. The park-like setting offers a lovely refuge in the middle of a hectic city, exactly as was intended when Laurel Hill was established.

Probably because it was an age when people died much younger, the Victorians were far more accepting of death than we are today; they didn’t think of it as something to be “cured” by science, or legislated away by overprotective governments and ambulance-chasing lawyers. Instead, our forebears built cemeteries such as Laurel Hill and Highgate so they could commune with those who had departed, sometimes even picnicking at gravesites.

When I finally located those elusive Gregory folks, I didn’t dine with them, but I did sit down under a nearby tree to enjoy the pleasure of their company for a little while. I trust they were equally happy to entertain me.

Photo of Warner Monument courtesy of Fairmont Park Art Association

A Guide to Society Libraries, Part 2

2010-03-24T22:02:00.000-05:00

In yesterday's post about private libraries, I neglected to mention the Mercantile Library in my hometown of Cincinnati. My grandmother used to belong, but the library has long since shed any staid associations it once might have had. Indeed, its website trumpets that anyone may belong, and the very modest annual fee of $45 backs up the claim.

While trolling the library's website, I noticed with delight--and a certain amount of envy, since I live too far away to attend--that Jonathan Kamholtz is leading a series at the Mercantile on literary thrillers. He is one of the smartest and funniest English professors I ever had the pleasure to take a course from. (Oops, I ended a sentence about an English professor with a proposition. So sue me.)

Maddeningly, however, the link to an intriguing member group called the Chic.lits ("fashionable friends of fine art, fine reading and the Mercantile Library") does not work. The elusive Chic.lits, whoever they may be, do not write the Mercantile's saucily-named blog, Stacked. It appears to be helmed instead by a man. But it's a good thing when a library's website makes one laugh out loud, right?

Social Libraries

2010-03-23T21:38:00.000-05:00

I caught a few minutes last week of the reprehensible new reality show High Society starring New York socialite Tinsley Mortimer. I happened to hit on the moment when her mother enters the New York Society Library to look up the ancestry of Tinsley's arrogant and supposedly aristocratic German boyfriend. The show tries to intimate that the Society Library is a snooty social club, or a library full of books about genealogy and social history, but this isn't the case. I remember visiting when I went to college in New York. The library, while private, was very welcoming and had a low yearly membership fee for students.

All circulating libraries used to be private, limiting books to those of means. In the early 20th century, Andrew Carnegie gave an astounding $60 million to found nearly 3,000 free libraries in the United States and all over the world, bringing "books and information to all people." But private libraries still have their uses today, and are adapting with the times.

Here in Chicago, we have the wonderful Newberry Library, which houses a collection of rare books for researchers but is open to the public. On the other end of the spectrum, the Chicago Underground Library collects independent and small press media, including books, magazines, journals, and "zines." The Underground Library accepts and archives everything submitted by everyone.

(Except, one guesses, Tinsley and her pals.)

Look what just popped up

2010-03-17T18:42:00.001-05:00

I had to share this great note I received today from Keith Belling, Founder and CEO of Popchips, the subject of a previous post. While I may not have become a convert (yet), I'm swooning at the company's customer outreach. (Such nice manners these chips have!)

hi there elizabeth. definitely not a handwritten note, but only because we don’t have your address :)

popchips (like most things) aren’t for everyone and we definitely won’t come between you and your bowl of potato chips!!! the good news is we’ve got a growing list of snackers that seem to be enjoying popchips, and like you said, hopefully won’t end-up like that lonely bag of munchos.

and you’re right, snacking is all about taste, and curious to know your favorite(s)? . . . and in the meantime, look forward to enjoying your blog from time to time.

To answer my new friend's question, my favorite things are long walks on the beach, romantic candlelit dinners, and monkeys. Oh wait, he wants to know what sort of chip I prefer. Silly me. Well Keith, I have a weakness for Chicago's own Jiminy Chips, especially their sweet potato and mustard varieties. Heavenly, though not low fat. But I think we can agree that there's room in the snacking universe for all of us. (Tell you what, I'll even try another flavor of popchips, just for you!)

Jihad Jane and Me

2010-03-14T13:12:00.001-05:00

I'm occasionally prone to making kneejerk, conservative sorts of statements, to wit: "When terrorists start to look like me, then I'll understand being pulled out of the security line for a patdown."

Well, guess what? My time has come! Wacky white women are now would-be jihadists. (To quote the great Tina Fey, who is white and wacky but does not, to my knowledge, want to kill cartoonists: "What the what?!")

Looks like I'd better get ready for the full body scanner... thanks, Colleen and Jamie!

Slaves in (my) Family

2010-03-13T10:34:00.002-06:00

Chicago is celebrating St. Patrick's Day today, even though the famous South Side parade was canceled this year. Since I'm a Northsider, have no Irish blood, and descend instead from the English oppressors, I'm avoiding the whole subject (though I already had to dodge a bunch of drunken people in green on my morning run). Instead I thought I would write about something much less controversial: slavery.

I just caught up on last night's episode of Who Do You Think You Are? featuring football (and dancing) great Emmitt Smith discovering that, while he is of overwhelmingly African ancestry, he likely also descends from a white slaveowner. The episode reminded me of the finest ancestral-search memoir I've read, Edward Ball's Slaves in the Family. Ball is a descendant of the once wealthy and powerful South Carolina clan of the same surname. He explores his family's slave-owning heritage on their massive plantation, then tracks down his present-day black cousins, many of whom welcome him into the fold.

When I was growing up, my family talked in whispers about our slave-owning ancestors--the Phelps family of Richmond, Kentucky, who had a plantation called Dreaming Creek Heights. (The house and property have long since vanished.) We have a Phelps will from the early 1800s in which a handful of slaves are named, but in this book excerpt, Samuel Phelps's estate is listed as 2,000 acres with 100 slaves. I cannot explain how my direct ancestors--people who were Christian, highly-educated and charitable--could believe this to be right.

While the memoir I'm working on is meant to be humorous and light in tone, the challenge will be to write about the ugly discoveries as well as the funny ones. As many more talented voices than mine have pointed out, a thin line separates comedy from tragedy--whether one is speaking of the complexities of Irish nationality or of our country's (and my family's) not-too-distant past.

A Guide to Wasp Literature, Part 1

2010-03-10T19:07:00.000-06:00

Sociologist E. Digby Baltzell is generally credited with coining the acronym “Wasp” (for White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), but we don’t read him or Thorstein Veblen (inventor of the phrase “conspicuous consumption”), for that matter. Much too heavy going. Mystery writers such as Agatha Christie, Dick Francis and Josephine Tey are more my people’s cup of, well, tea.

Here are a few other preppy classics, as well as some guides to the species. Curiously, many of these works are now out of print. (Though perhaps that is fitting, since Wasps are a dying breed and may well find ourselves out of circulation soon!)

1. The Great Gatsby. Perfection, though thank goodness the publishers didn’t use F. Scott Fitzgerald’s proposed title, The High-Bouncing Lover. That doesn’t sound our sort of thing at all. Wasps sigh over gorgeously tailored shirts just as Daisy does, are bred to believe in the green light, yet we are all borne back ceaselessly into the past. (Bonus—the book is fairly short for a classic.)

2. The Catcher in the Rye. Prep school perfection, but so revered that it’s impossible to say anything about the book or its late author, the reclusive J.D. Salinger, without sounding trite.

3. Who Killed Society? Those in the know will recognize that the cover is meant to mimic the distinctive black and orange of the Social Register. Readers in 1960 flipped through Cleveland Amory’s book looking for names they knew, no doubt in much the same way they perused the Register.

4. The Preppy Handbook. Often imitated (c.f. The Official Filthy Rich Handbook) but never surpassed. I’m astonished that this has yet to be reissued. Hasn’t aged much at all. (Mummy was right; pastels and tennis do keep one youthful!)

5. First Garden. When I was growing up, young ladies received a copy of this gracious guide to green thumbs by the arbiter of high Wasp taste, the late C.Z. Guest. (Her daughter Cornelia’s 1986 book, The Debutante’s Guide to Life, does not make the list. Nor does Paris Hilton’s more recent Confessions of an Heiress.)

6. The Way of The Wasp. Written during the first, altogether more benign, Bush administration, Richard Brookhiser's book is a plea for a return to values such as civic-mindedness and industry. (It appears that W never read it.)

7. The WASP Cookbook. I’ve cited this one before; I’m a big fan of the author, comedienne Alexandra Wentworth. She is the star of Head Case but is perhaps better known as the “Schmoopie” girlfriend from Seinfeld and the wife of political pundit George Stephanopoulos. (Of course, the real Wasp cookbook consists of recipes from Campbell’s soup labels carefully pasted into a notebook handed down from mother to daughter, for cook’s night out. If that fails, there’s always the local Junior League compilation.)

8. Wasp, Where Is Thy Sting? Scathingly funny examination of preppy mores with a Dixie twist, from Florence King, the author of the perennial favorite Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady.

In Which Super Hot PopChips Leave Me Cold...

2010-03-09T21:03:00.001-06:00

I don't care for chocolate, ice cream or pastries. Mom didn't really believe in serving dessert, so I never developed much of a sweet tooth. But as I've said before, my people do love a good salty snack (perfect for cocktail hour) so don't step between a bowl of potato chips and me!

Since I try to avoid succumbing to high-fat chip temptation too often, I was excited when PopChips were finally available in Chicago. I kept reading tantalizing things about these lower fat chips that are "air-popped" rather than fried or baked. Supposedly they are all the rage on the West Coast with svelte actress types (at least, the ones who still eat carbs). I also love that the company is so consumer-friendly, giving samples away and supposedly even sending handwritten thank you notes in response to fan comments.

Alas, I don't believe I will be receiving such a note. I tried to love PopChips, I really did, but I don't understand the appeal. They strike me as overly salty, and their texture is reminiscent of that of Munchos, the odd "potato crisps" that seem as though they should be low fat (which is to say, they feel and taste like cardboard), yet aren't. Check any depleted vending machine and you'll likely see a lonely bag of Munchos hanging forlornly in the corner, the last choice of a desperate snacker.

I trust, however, that the wildly popular PopChips will avoid a similar fate, even without my support.

Who Does That Dudley Girl Think She Is?

2010-03-07T20:57:00.000-06:00

In my last post I wrote about the episode of Who Do You Think You Are? where Sarah Jessica Parker learns, to her surprise, that she has Puritan roots. She says something to the effect of how strange it is to be connected to early American history.

I played the wanton seductress Abigail in a high school production of The Crucible, but until recently never gave much thought to the fact that I was descended from some of the real women who called each other "Goody" (instead of "Mrs.") and got into a tizzy about witchcraft.

I've mentioned that my family tree includes hapless pilgrims who boarded the Speedwell, the Mayflower companion ship that didn't make it to Plymouth Rock. Another Puritan ancestor, Thomas Dudley, came over later as part of the Winthrop Fleet. Dudley was colonial governor of Massachusetts after his rival John Winthrop, and signed the charter founding a little college called Harvard.

Dropping Dudley's name has elicited interesting responses over the years. Once I was out to dinner with a number of colleagues, including an eminent statistician and his brilliant wife, who had just completed her dissertation on the Puritans. I trotted out Dudley and she said, “Oh, his granddaughter is in my research!” I asked the subject of her thesis. “Fornication in 17th Century Massachusetts,” she replied matter-of-factly, causing me nearly to choke on my filet mignon. (Turns out Marguerite Dudley escaped prosecution and in fact sued her married seducer for paternity.)

Perhaps the thought of their daughters riding around in fast carts with boys is what has the church elders looking so concerned in this painting? (Image courtesy of Wikipedia)

Who Do I Think I Am?

2010-03-06T09:54:00.002-06:00

NBC heavily promoted its "heartwarming" new ancestral-search show Who Do You Think You Are? during the equally warm and fuzzy Olympics. (Alas, it runs on Friday nights, so I'll likely watch it via On Demand.) The premiere episode featured fellow Cincinnati native Sarah Jessica Parker finding out that she has Puritan ancestors, including one who was accused of witchcraft and narrowly escaped the hangman's noose.

Make no mistake, this is a reality TV show, complete with obviously staged moments of "shock" and "delight." (Not to mention lots of conspicuous product placement for Ancestry.com.) When SJP finishes her quest and goes to her mother's home to tell her all she has learned, they beam at each other and even shed a few tears. Hmm. When I was at mom's over Christmas and dug into some of the family papers and photos for my book research, there was a little less beaming and a tad more muttering under the breath (mom) and cursing (me--I couldn't get the stupid scanner to work). Good thing mom and I are not famous actress and mother-of-famous-actress types, and thus have no cameras following us around.

Still, the new show is clearly an improvement over squat women getting punched in bars (c.f. The Jersey Shore). I have high hopes that the nation will be swept up in a craze for genealogy and wacky true family tales, thus increasing interest in my memoir (not to mention decreasing interest in overly-tan people with strange hair and few apparent manners).