Alice Bradley — FinslippyBloghttp://www.finslippy.com/blog/2012-01-31T16:02:35ZSquarespaceOpen letter to our downstairs neighbors, in anticipation of the Super Bowlhttp://www.finslippy.com/blog/open-letter-to-our-downstairs-neighbors-in-anticipation-of-t.htmlAlice2012-01-31T15:56:31Z2012-01-31T15:56:31ZDear neighbors:
By and large you are a lovely couple to live above. I remain grateful that you tolerate my child's occasional bouts of "dancing" (repeatedly throwing himself on the floor) and that you seem to be happy, well-adjusted, and not abusing each other. Sure, you like throwing parties, but as long as the racket is celebratory and does not leave us wondering if we should call the police, we say: carry on with your crazy young lives!
But once football season fell upon us, I have grown increasingly puzzled by your behavior during games. (Matches? Bouts? What are these things called, again?) I must admit that my husband and I, as well as our son, are not exactly "les amateurs de sports," as the French would say. Oh, sure, we enjoy the occasional game of catch-the-ball, and sometimes we play toss-the-frisbee-and-then-CRINGE-AND- DUCK-when-it-is-returned-because-those-things-hurt. But when it comes to watching any activities wherein people fling themselves into other people and try to make their way in one direction or another on a given field, we know little or nothing. Oh, sure, we've attended Super Bowl parties, but that was only for the queso dip. Who can say no when queso dip is involved? And then we've fallen asleep near the queso dip until the host has asked us to leave. Which we have. (After we got the rest of the queso dip into the tupperware container we brought with us in case there was any queso dip left.)
At any rate, as I said, we have some questions, and as we are anticipating that our puzzlement will only increase this Sunday, we'd like to approach the day with some measure of understanding.
First of all, you're going to scream a lot, aren't you. Don't answer that. I didn't even put a question mark on it. We both know the answer is yes. You're going to scream a whooole bunch. Is "bunch" a unit of screams? Don't answer that either. Conserve your energy for the real questions.
Now: While I'm sure it feels good to cheer on your team, you know the players cannot hear you, yes? I'm just making sure. Do you think that if you yell loudly enough you might be helping in some way? This worries me. I'm worried for you.
Also: you do realize it's not you who's playing, right? Because I must tell you, the waves of euphoria shimmering up through our floorboards while you whoop it up seems to indicate that you believe that you are somehow responsible for your team's goal-making. Do you believe that you're remotely projecting yourself onto the field and invisibly whisking your heroes toward their objective? Again: just curious. Also concerned.
And if you're so happy, why is there so much cursing? I can understand the hooting and hollering (sort of), I even get why maybe you might feel the need to stomp on the floorboards until the building shakes (not really), but why must you then cry out "HOLY FUCKING FUCK THE MOTHERFUCKING BITCH FUCK ME OH MY FUCK"?! (I am paraphrasing.) You seem to be fairly even-keeled otherwise, so what is it about SPORTS! that makes you lose your mind and also educate my child even more than he gets educated around here whenever I step on the cat?
Hey, did you hear during that last game, how I was upstairs shouting, "Sports! SPOOOORTS!"? Scott was annoyed me for doing that, but I was highly amused by my joke and wanted you to be as well. I really don't mind that you love your sporting things. I am pretty sure you're insane, but whatever. You're not murdering each other, and this is all I care about.
Finally: will there be queso dip?
Love, Alice]]>So, hmm.http://www.finslippy.com/blog/so-hmm.htmlAlice2012-01-27T17:43:42Z2012-01-27T17:43:42ZHere is a picture for you. I made it!
(Thank you, all, for your thoughtful and 99.9% non-hurtful responses to my last post. It's been difficult to respond to all the comments or emails, I'm a little overwhelmed, and I'm feeling the need to hermitize--is that a word? that's not a word--for a bit. I'm just going to get into my blanket fort, over here. Which is not to shut you guys up. Let the conversation continue! I'm just going to maybe read Cute Overload for a while, as I do, while re-contemplating daily psychotherapy.)
I always take a photo of something I want to draw and then sketch it at home, because how do people sketch things out in the world? At least around here, the minute you pause to gaze artily at something you know someone's going to sidle up to you and watch you at work. Which, look, this is not a spectator sport. If you watch me draw I'm going to become terribly self-conscious and feel compelled to just scrawl something horrible all over it, like a cartoon penis. A big penis coming out of a building like an awful chimney!
(Oh, now I'm writing about penises again. Goddammit.)
In conclusion, here is a boxer puppy, meeting some cows.
]]>On being an object, and then not being an objecthttp://www.finslippy.com/blog/on-being-an-object-and-then-not-being-an-object.htmlAlice2012-01-26T00:09:43Z2012-01-26T00:09:43ZI keep trying to write this post, and every time I'm taken aback at how angry I am, how very furious, and I don't want that, I want to be positive and have fun and entertain. But oh, there's something I want to say, so I try again, and I'm back to being furious. Well. I've literally been at this post for a year and it never gets any funnier or lighter, but I keep wanting to write it; I have to write it; I have to be done with it. So here we go.
A year ago I was at a family event and a few of my mom's friends--older women all--were expressing amazement that I would let my hair go gray. One of them--a woman I've known since I was born--said, "Men don't mind it when their hair goes gray, because gray hair makes you look more intimidating. And a woman doesn't want to look intimidating."
She was so well-meaning, so concerned about my looking approachable and pretty, and I know she didn't mean anything by it. But when she said this, so much rage welled up in me. So much. I made a joke and changed the subject, but all I wanted to do was scream. Loudly.
Because: do I want to look intimidating? God, yes. I do. Yes, please, I very much fucking do.
As a young woman, I was certainly the least intimidating creature on the planet, and as such I was prey to unwanted attention from men, attention that ranged from annoying to truly scary. I know there are people who dismiss the idea that such attention is upsetting--after all, isn't it flattering that strangers think you're attractive? But it goes far, far beyond that. It was endless and exhausting and I don't think it has a thing to do with how pretty you are. In fact I often felt the comments would come fast and furious on the days I felt particularly bad about myself, like I was giving off signals or hormones, like they could smell my weakness.
But now, I don't know, I may be slightly more intimidating these days, because I am 42. I am middle aged. Being middle aged renders you invisible to the kinds of creeps who dole out harassment, so you're mostly left alone. I'm really enjoying it. Not only do I not miss my youth, I am pleased to be rid of it.
To be a young woman in our culture means that you exist, from an alarmingly young age, for the appreciation of others. Therefore, your every feature is fair game for public appraisal.
It means you become accustomed to a certain kind of gaze: a cold survey of your merits and deficits.
It means you tense up when you walk past a group, any group, of men, because you know they're going to say something, it may or may not be positive, and either way it's not going to leave you feeling good about yourself.
It means you can't look sad or even neutral in public because a stranger, a man, will inevitably order you to smile.
It means you automatically flinch when a guy looking at you passes a little too closely, because you know he's going to murmur something in your ear. You know it. And then he does, he murmurs damply into your ear, and you feel like you need to disinfect that entire side of your head and you turn and shout, "WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME," but by then you're invisible. He's done. He doesn't bother to acknowledge you. No one does.
It means that when you're going out you don't wear the short skirt you wanted to wear or that low-cut dress because you know the comments you'll get, and high heels that look right with the dress you're wearing are out; if you had to break out into a run there's no way in hell you could, and you can't afford to feel that vulnerable.
So: did I want to appear intimidating? So much. If that happens now because I have gray hair, I am all for it. I doubt that's why the public commentary has waned. The fact is, I just don't read as an Object anymore.
It still happens, of course; older women aren't immune to unwanted attention, or worse. I don't put up with it for a second, and maybe that's clear from how I carry myself, so they leave me alone. Maybe my gray hair pushed me over the edge into a new world, one where I'm considered worthy of respect. Or, more likely, I'm not considered at all.
This is just fine by me. As a result, for instance, I rarely have to endure seeing men masturbating on the subway. I'm not sure where all the public masturbators went. Do they magically appear only to women in their twenties, like awful leprechauns? Penis fairies? Because I am telling you, I saw one a week, back then. Granted, I was on the subway a lot more, usually late at night. But wherever I went, there they were. An old man reading the newspaper grinned at me, and then I saw what was going on underneath his Daily News. A middle-aged guy wearing bike shorts, of all things, whipped it out right by my head. On a crowded F train into Queens, a very large man I never saw stood right behind me and humped my back, and I was frozen, trapped, unable to believe what was happening. He kept going, stop after stop, and I stood there, realizing I couldn't move or speak, that I was too afraid and freaked out to move, and what's worse, he knew it.
I still can't get over the fact that I never screamed. I never said anything. I just wished it would stop. Which it did, of course, eventually, only it's still going on, when I think about it, inside my head.
There were other incidents, too; so many incidents. Every one underscored the message that I wasn't safe, that I deserved whatever was coming to me, because I was young and a woman and that was how it was and also I should appreciate it. I tried to look unapproachable, but I don't think my face works that way; I just looked sad and then men barked at me to cheer up, to give them a smile. I wanted to look hard and angry. Lord knows I wanted to be intimidating. It just didn't work.
These days I feel like I'm off the hook. Like I'm free. I still do want to be intimidating, though. There are days when I want to be terrifying.
A while back, a postal worker called out to me from his truck, in this creepy sing-song, "Little girl… little girl…" I couldn't believe he was talking to me, but there was no one else around, so I turned to him and said, "Excuse me?" He looked horrified and stammered, "I…I thought you were a little girl."
What could I do? I told him he was a fucking creep. He took off, and I prayed for little girls everywhere.
]]>May I Gently Suggest, #2http://www.finslippy.com/blog/may-i-gently-suggest-2.htmlAlice2012-01-23T16:21:52Z2012-01-23T16:21:52ZGood morning! It's rainy and bleak and I had a long unhappy dream last night about my hair turning into an afro? (edited to add: my unhappy feelings re: afros are only limited to when and if they appear on my own head; such a hairstyle would not be flattering on me, as I have the facial bone structure of Stan Laurel.) My hair is growing out, you see. It is awkward. It looks nothing like an afro, but clearly I am having deep, complex Feelings about my hair. My God, but I am multi-faceted.
I've changed the title of this feature from "Suggested Reading," because I intend to issue suggestions for non-book items in addition to suggesting books. That was awkwardly phrased. Moving on!
I can't believe I didn't read this earlier, but there it is. I am a big ol' fan of Julie Klausner, Funny lady with a Heart of Gold. From the Cat Whisperer to her podcast, every thing she does is, to me, glitter-dusted magic. I am loving this book even more than I thought I would, which is saying rather a lot.
I am not yet done with this book, but so far it's astonishing. The way Peter Carey writes, it's like a magic trick. I don't get how he does it. I want to tear the book apart to figure out how it works, but they're just PAGES, just like any other book. It's the devil's work!
This book was recommended by dear commenter DGM. I have a long list from last week's reader recommendations, bless your hearts. I'm waiting for the Brooklyn Public Library to magically teleport many of them to my Kindle.
I had a galley copy of Jenny's book IN MY HANDS just this weekend, but then she wrested it OUT OF MY HANDS and into the mitts of Evan from Obscura Antiques, so now I am sadly bereft. Jenny claims she's going to have her people send me another copy. Despite this blow to my dignity, I am compelled to strongly recommend that you pre-order her book. Jenny read three chapters out loud to me, and I laughed so hard that I am still soaking my pants with urine. (I'm exaggerating. I am a Kegel Master.)
In non-reading suggestions, you will watch Bill Cunningham New York. It is mesmerizing. Fashion-indifferent Scott was just as entranced by this as I was.
Finally, if you're at all interested in the Paleo diet, you must follow nom nom paleo. Her recipes are glorious. GLORIOUS. Every one I've made has been a winner. Last night I made her slow cooker roast chicken with gravy, and the angels descended from heaven to see if they could get a taste and I booted them the fuck out of here because it is MINE MINE ALL MINE. (Also, I guess, Scott's. Henry refused to try it because he is clinically out of his tree.)
P.S.: If you are having problems with leaving a comment, please be assured that I am not blocking you. I promise. Unless you were going to write a comment that was one page of ALL-CAPS SELLING OF SHOE PRODUCT, I am not blocking you. Squarespace is experiencing some hiccups. You should not be seeing a request for you to fill out a captcha form. If you do, I share your frustration and I hope to get this cleared up quickly. Thank you for reading all of this. You are adorable.
P.P.S. All book links to Amazon include my affiliate code.
]]>This cat diet is really coming alonghttp://www.finslippy.com/blog/this-cat-diet-is-really-coming-along.htmlAlice2012-01-19T15:55:22Z2012-01-19T15:55:22ZAs you know because you are a good and faithful reader, Izzy has been on a diet for a few months now. She is…she's a big girl. But we've been whittling down her food supply and giving her higher-quality meals, and the results are paying off! Here she is today.
As you can see, this is dramatically different from the Izzy from a few months ago.
Or, hell, even last month.
I am never going to stop making this joke.
Anyway, as the photos indicate, she's gone from being a big girl to a big angry girl, who thinks about nothing but murder.
We had to take her to the vet a couple of weeks ago due to a horrifying case of diarrhea. As she is so very large, we had to clean her after each bout. She hissed and clawed as we wet-wiped her butt. I don't think our relationship will ever recover. I think I'm okay with that. Maybe we need to establish some emotional distance, Izzy. Also physical distance. You go sit on the fire escape, now. There you go. Anyway, the vet observed that she has a "thick frame" (have you ever!) and said the best we could hope for is to get her down to 15 pounds (well!). She's now holding steady, since September, at 19. This, despite the strict regimen AND her weird virus, which also caused her to sneeze constantly and shun all foods. And breathe through her mouth and loathe us with every fiber of her being. (That last part is possibly not new.)
I'm supposed to get her to exercise, which I am here to tell you I cannot do. She is too fat to move. I have tried. I dangle a toy above her head and she lies on her back and paws at the air, wheezing. I dose her with catnip and THEN dangle a toy and she lies on her back, marveling at the rainbow trails her paw is leaving. She'll gallop across the room maybe once for something, and then she is done and retreats into a corner to rest up and collect more fortifying fat deposits. If I prod her to move any more than that, she'll hide under our bed and plot my untimely end. The only entertainment that really gets her racing around is a mouse, and I am not about to populate my home with vermin so my cat can get fit and trim. I have my limits!
Meanwhile as I'm writing this she's splayed across the top of the couch behind me, breathing like how Darth Vader would breathe if Darth Vader were a cat. Huuuuh-hoooorgh. Huuuuh-hooorgh.
She could jump on my head right now and snap my neck. Good thing she can't read, right? Stupid cat! HahahaaaaURK
(Huuuuh-hooorgh.)
]]>Suggested Reading #1http://www.finslippy.com/blog/suggested-reading-1.htmlAlice2012-01-16T20:31:20Z2012-01-16T20:31:20ZHere's a new regular feature! I read a shit-ton of books, so why not, I asked myself, share the ones I like? Why not?
This week I read more than usual because of my brain's decision to keep me from falling asleep. Thanks a lot, brain. I don't think these choices helped me, particularly. In the future, I need to choose more boring books. Which I will then not recommend to you. Unless you are also suffering from insomnia. I think that's going to have to be a different feature, however. This is getting really confusing. Or is it just my sleep deprivation?
Lovely. The moment I finished I wanted to re-read. It was 4 am. I decided to hold off for another day.
Sarah Silverman loves doodies and farts, and I love her.
Reaffirming my decision to never ever climb anything higher than a few flights of stairs.
Aaand now I'm all out of books to read. So. What are you reading? Gimme. Ideas, that is. You don't need to send me books.
Note: links to books contain my Amazon Affiliate code, which means I get a small percentage from any books you might purchase using those links.
]]>Noises you do not want to hearhttp://www.finslippy.com/blog/noises-you-do-not-want-to-hear.htmlAlice2012-01-13T21:07:00Z2012-01-13T21:07:00ZWell, kids! We woke up this morning to bam-bam-BLAMPH-bump-bump-bumpity on the roof and since it was raining, I naturally thought, "Oh, dear, the roof deck furniture has taken flight again," and then Henry called from his room, "Something fell off the roof!" which seemed to confirm it, and as I wondered if we had killed anyone this time, Scott spied a MAN shimmying down a tree in our backyard. So it was not a furniture, but a person. Who leapt from a neighboring roof to ours, like he was some kind of super-villain. Good morning!
Henry was full of criticisms for the alleged criminal while Scott spoke with the police and I tried to give Henry the comfort and reassurance that he did not require.
"I bet he thought people wouldn't hear him because we'd be asleep. Well, guess what, idiot, there's school." "The important thing to remember is, look how fast the police showed up!" "Do you remember school? I bet not." "And let's remember, he was just running away from something, he wasn't trying to get in." "Plus, duh, we have windows! And we could look right outside and see him right there! Hello!" "We're all safe, honey. You may now hug me."
At any rate, the police officers wandered around the backyard and trudged up to the roof and peered up at the trees as if they would yield clues, and then they left and I have no idea what happened. I hope this man was only engaged in some wacky adultery hijinks and not fleeing from a crime scene, and I bet that's not the case so I'm just going to hope no one was hurt.
AND THEN:
Okay, I was WRITING THIS VERY POST and had in fact just finished writing the word "hurt" when there was ANOTHER eruption of noise, NOT A JOYFUL NOISE AT ALL. This one was a rrrrrrrrrrrrwwwhROOOOOOMPH and it was louder than anything should be, and I thought, oh, hey, the building's coming apart. So this is a good day! Of course if a wall fell off or the roof collapsed I would have, you know, seen it (that's the advantage of having all four walls of your home within sight at all times) so after I ran in circles for a few seconds (I am excellent when an emergency strikes) I hurried to the back window, where I saw THIS:
That is a tree that fell into our yard, causing the roomph noise. This is a tree whose branches are sitting in our gutters. That is a tree that came THISCLOSE to killing us all. Okay, not really. It's amazing to me that the tree didn't come down forever ago, since it's been dead since we moved in (it's in the empty lot just behind us, the lot entirely populated by romance-minded kitty cats). It might have come down when the (alleged) ne'er-do-well was climbing it this very morning! Oh, that would have been a story.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take a Klonopin and practice my deep breathing.
]]>I am good at some things but not othershttp://www.finslippy.com/blog/i-am-good-at-some-things-but-not-others.htmlAlice2012-01-05T23:23:22Z2012-01-05T23:23:22ZOh, you guys said some lovely things about my sketch-paintings. Thank you! My heart is warmed. Now I have Hot Heart Syndrome. The doctor said I'll be okay, as long as I'm not startled or upset, ever.
So listen, I would love to illustrate whatever, but I can't draw anything that isn't right in front of me. This is my terrible secret. Seriously, I have no visual memory. I can't even really picture what an elephant looks like right now, much less draw it. (It's gray! And…and looks like a briefcase! Wait, no, that's wrong. Four Ionic columns and a cloud?!) If I were to illustrate, I'd need to see everything I needed to represent. This could get tricky for, say, a children's book. "Listen, I'm glad you want me to illustrate Mr. Wubs and the Tricky Mubbles, but unless you get them all to my apartment and force them to stand still, I really can't do business with you. Yes, the Mubbles too. I understand they're tricky. Not my problem."
The End.
Changing the subject awkwardly: On Christmas day, my parents gave me a pair of warm mittens. They are adorable, in addition to being warm. (It was not the only gift from them. My parents are nothing if not overly generous.)
ANYWAY, after we were done gifting, my mom said, "By the way, the mittens came with a hat, but I think there's something wrong with it." She showed me the hat, which appeared to be perfectly acceptable and something I would happily place on my head.
But then I tried it on:
"You see?" she said. "I don't know why it looks so goofy." "I can't see," I said. "I'm so confused. Everything is dark. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME." I stumbled around and my mom laughed a whole lot. I suspect this was a Christmas gift to her.
And then my sister walked in and said, "Yeah, you have it on backwards. Also, don't tie it, oh my god."
RIGHT.
This reminded me of this one summer in college when I worked as a bank teller, and I was terrible at it, just awful, and a fellow teller said to me, helpfully, "There are different kinds of smarts. You have book smarts. You just don't have…life smarts."
It took me this long to discover that I also don't have hat smarts. At least in this case I can blame my mom.
]]>2012!http://www.finslippy.com/blog/2012.htmlAlice2012-01-03T15:28:27Z2012-01-03T15:28:27ZHappy new year! Did you all have a good Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Druidic solstice ritual? Anyone burn a Wicker Man? It's okay. I won't judge your insane pagan rituals.
We sure as hell had a good time. We hosted a Christmas brunch for my immediate family, somehow managing to cram the whole clan into our space-challenged living room. (Note to myself: become a millionaire, purchase luxurious townhouse. Maybe a resolution for 2012?) Both my nephews couldn't join us, and they sent me regretful emails and I was all THAT'S FINE OKAY BYE NOW because listen they take up a lot of space.
It wasn't my idea for them both to grow up so tall and musclebound.
Henry had an amazing day despite his cold, but the good news is he managed to transmit the virus to both myself and Scott. I was feeling pretty smug about how healthy I've been since adopting the Paleo lifestyle, so obviously the Lord (working through my Only Son) smote me. He does stuff like that when it's his birthday.
Last week we did nothing and it was pretty much the best thing ever even though my throat hurt and I whined a bunch. I have no problem sleeping until noon and not ever getting out of my pajamas--I mean LOUNGEWEAR. Note to self: become reclusive millionaire.
But this book, you guys. This book inspired me like no one's business. I got out a sketchbook and my watercolor set and brushes, and I went to town. "Town" being my living room, where I sketched everything around me.
This is pretty much all I did all week. I've missed it SO DAMN MUCH.
I did go outside once, where I sketched my dog peeing. It was a moment crying out to be captured!
I'm now so in love with this daily sketch habit that I decided I was going to start a WHOLE NEW BLOG and POST MY DAILY SKETCHES ON IT and etc etc ALL CAPS BIG IDEAS. But then the coffee wore off and it occurred to me maybe not to make this a big-deal project but instead just enjoy myself. And occasionally share my sketches with you! I like you.
Henry is down with a cold. A marathon afternoon of Futurama was the only thing keeping him conscious all afternoon.
Charlie was concerned. Or sleepy. It's hard to tell which.
During dinner we watched Scrooged, which may very well become a holiday tradition around here. Henry was a fan.
I suggested we put a plate out for Santa, and I thought Henry was going to scoff at the idea--he's a BIG KID, you guys. But then he said he'd write a letter, too. It's pretty great.
(Okay, we're ready in every way except for not having an unbroken cookie in the house. We're hoping the chocolate makes up for it.)
We hope you all have a joyous Christmas. I'm so thankful to all of you for reading and commenting. You've changed my life, truly.
