First day of my at-home vacation. Spent the morning reading self-help books. This is such a cliche, as I have an entire library full of quasi-spiritual texts with words like "quantum" or "light" or "thin thighs in 30 days" in the title.
I should probably stop reading so damn many self-help books. Maybe I should get a book on the subject? My typical solution to virtually any problem or neurosis - everything from anxiety to toe fungus - is to run to the new age section of Barnes & Noble.
At any rate, it's been a delightful day. I love sitting around the house alone. When alone, it's much easier to sustain the little illusions we all like to maintain about ourselves. The problem with other humans is that they hoist their own opinions and perceptions upon us. For instance, this morning I went to the corner bakery without brushing my hair or teeth, or putting on any makeup and/or pants. We live in a rather snooty neighborhood, where people are expected to wear pants (or shorts, or a skirt, or some form of trouser) every time they go into a place of business. People on the Upper East Side are SO uptight.
Back home, sitting on the couch in my underwear, staring intently at the wall -- who's to say I'm not a genius? And a very snappy dresser? Francis and Seymour are asleep, and even if they weren't, I can assume they would agree. And if they don't, well - they're cats.
I just had a lunch of chinese food (lunch special, Rainbow Shrimp), enjoyed on the couch, without the burden of clothing. Eating while naked really does make you eat less. This is a good diet strategy, but one that would be harder to pull off at work. Most of my co-workers are French, so we could probably get away with being topless, but full-on nakedness might raise some eyebrows.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I'm sure that, if not for work, I wouldn't enjoy not-working this much. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. Even though it's a lie. I love not working. Some people aren't good at doing nothing, but it's kind of my "core competency." If doing nothing was an event at the Olympics, I would be a medalist. And that would be impressive, considering the French would probably sweep that category.
After reading my self-help books, I decided to read some of the fiction of Robert Benchley, from The Complete New Yorker (the cd-roms of all the New Yorker issues, ever, from the beginning -- way cool). New Yorker fiction hasn't changed all that much since the 1930's. And the cartoons didn't make any more sense back then, either, which is strangely comforting. And if you fill in some (slightly) different names, the gossip and goings-on-about-town are all more or less the same as they are today. For instance, you can just substitute "Bush" for "Mussolini" in the politics section, and you'd have a perfectly salient commentary on current events in 2006.
Strangely, I'd never even heard of Robert Benchley until recently, but he was basically the proto Woody Allen. Except in the sense that one of those hard-to-pronounce characters from a Greek tradgedy* was the proto-Woody Allen.
As coincidence would have it, I'm going over to the New Yorker offices later this afternoon. I'm going to have a drink with a friend of mine who works there, so I have to practice talking without moving my back teeth, a la George Plimpton. I love going to the New Yorker offices. Last time I was there, I saw not one but TWO dudes under the age of 40 wearing - and I shit you not - argyle sweaters. And no, they didn't mean it ironically. Who wears argyle sweaters? Dudes who work at the New Yorker, I guess. It's simultaneously so awful and so cool ... an irresistable force vs. an immovable object ... My head hurts just thinking about it.
*such as the little-known tragicomedy, Clytemnestra and Her Sisters
I should probably stop reading so damn many self-help books. Maybe I should get a book on the subject? My typical solution to virtually any problem or neurosis - everything from anxiety to toe fungus - is to run to the new age section of Barnes & Noble.
At any rate, it's been a delightful day. I love sitting around the house alone. When alone, it's much easier to sustain the little illusions we all like to maintain about ourselves. The problem with other humans is that they hoist their own opinions and perceptions upon us. For instance, this morning I went to the corner bakery without brushing my hair or teeth, or putting on any makeup and/or pants. We live in a rather snooty neighborhood, where people are expected to wear pants (or shorts, or a skirt, or some form of trouser) every time they go into a place of business. People on the Upper East Side are SO uptight.
Back home, sitting on the couch in my underwear, staring intently at the wall -- who's to say I'm not a genius? And a very snappy dresser? Francis and Seymour are asleep, and even if they weren't, I can assume they would agree. And if they don't, well - they're cats.
I just had a lunch of chinese food (lunch special, Rainbow Shrimp), enjoyed on the couch, without the burden of clothing. Eating while naked really does make you eat less. This is a good diet strategy, but one that would be harder to pull off at work. Most of my co-workers are French, so we could probably get away with being topless, but full-on nakedness might raise some eyebrows.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I'm sure that, if not for work, I wouldn't enjoy not-working this much. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. Even though it's a lie. I love not working. Some people aren't good at doing nothing, but it's kind of my "core competency." If doing nothing was an event at the Olympics, I would be a medalist. And that would be impressive, considering the French would probably sweep that category.
After reading my self-help books, I decided to read some of the fiction of Robert Benchley, from The Complete New Yorker (the cd-roms of all the New Yorker issues, ever, from the beginning -- way cool). New Yorker fiction hasn't changed all that much since the 1930's. And the cartoons didn't make any more sense back then, either, which is strangely comforting. And if you fill in some (slightly) different names, the gossip and goings-on-about-town are all more or less the same as they are today. For instance, you can just substitute "Bush" for "Mussolini" in the politics section, and you'd have a perfectly salient commentary on current events in 2006.
Strangely, I'd never even heard of Robert Benchley until recently, but he was basically the proto Woody Allen. Except in the sense that one of those hard-to-pronounce characters from a Greek tradgedy* was the proto-Woody Allen.
As coincidence would have it, I'm going over to the New Yorker offices later this afternoon. I'm going to have a drink with a friend of mine who works there, so I have to practice talking without moving my back teeth, a la George Plimpton. I love going to the New Yorker offices. Last time I was there, I saw not one but TWO dudes under the age of 40 wearing - and I shit you not - argyle sweaters. And no, they didn't mean it ironically. Who wears argyle sweaters? Dudes who work at the New Yorker, I guess. It's simultaneously so awful and so cool ... an irresistable force vs. an immovable object ... My head hurts just thinking about it.
*such as the little-known tragicomedy, Clytemnestra and Her Sisters
posted by Marguerite at 10:55 AM
3 Comments:
Brian would agree with you on the not working issue, I on the other hand would have to be doing something. I can't not go to a job every day or I would either become suicidal or homicidal. Actually I was a little bit of both during that damn maternity leave that my job makes us take. Hope you have a great time off by the way!
I don't think staying home would be relaxing at all if it were on maternity leave, due to the whole "taking care of a newborn" aspect. Kinda scary. However, if you ever get bored and want to come do my job, I'm sure nobody would mind. Possibly they wouldn't even notice as long as the desk was filled.
I might have to take you up on that. If ever I visit New York I promise to stop by and do your job for a day. You know, just for a change. :)
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