To be, or not to be

bridezilla. noun. Definition: "A bride-to-be who focuses so much on the event that she becomes difficult and obnoxious." Etymology: 1995; blend of 'bride' + 'Godzilla'. Usage: slang.

I am not a difficult person. In fact, there have been instances in my life in which I wish I could put aside the ingrained sense of gentility with which I face and interact with the world. More and more these days it seems to me that it is the obnoxious, the brash, the cunning, the ruthless, and the spoilt who get want they want, or at least more of what they want, whether it be their own way, success, material goods, or just attention.

 

[I think this why/how the election of Barack Obama in the United States has been so inspirational and uplifting across the globe. We need to believe that the kind, the gentle, the graceful can come out on top.]

 

I will never forget the time I got in trouble in the 2^nd grade. Pupils in St. Joseph's Catholic School grades 1-3 were not allowed to venture down the hall past the water fountains. Period. One day, I came in from recess to go to the restroom. Three “upper School” girls were at the end of the hallway outside the sixth grade classroom. “Isn’t she cute!” one of them shrieked in my direction. “Come here!” they beckoned.

 

Intrigued, and absent-mindedly forgetting the rule, I crossed “the line” and ventured down the hall. I can only imagine how I must have looked to them, in my tiny, hobbit-sized version of their bigger girls uniform. “You’re adorable!” they said, showering me with praise, and going so far as lifting me from the ground into their arms.

 

The sound of Sister Mary Regine’s voice thundered down the hallway. She bellowed my name, and I froze where I stood. The three upper School girls disappeared swiftly and without a trace, not unlike the three witches in Macbeth, who vanish from Macbeth’s sight like “bubbles of the earth.”  

The long, lonely walk back down the hallway to the 2^nd grade classroom seemed an eternity. I knew what was at hand. Back in those days corporeal punishment of schoolchildren was the approved norm: “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

 

Before my punishment was enacted, Sister asked me if I had anything to say for myself. Which of course I did: I wasn’t my fault. Well, not entirely. Yes, I had broken a rule, but I had been urged, cajoled and encouraged. It was not fair that I was to be punished, while those who had incited the crime walked free.

 

With ruler in hand, Sister looked down at me with loving, but firm eyes, and said words I shall always remember: “My child, I fear that you have a rather unhealthy sense of fairness.”

 

This “unhealthy sense of fairness” has guided much of my life, and driven a hefty share of the angst I feel about a great numbers of things, from the ridiculous to the sublime. (Like the time I tried to “help the starving children” by posting a dozen oatmeal cookies in a large manila envelope marked: “Cambodia”. Without postage.)

 

Fairness. What does it mean, really? What is and isn’t “fair”. And when is it ones place to call breaches of fairness into question, and when to remain silent? I wonder.

 

Last night, The D.E.B., my W.I. chum, Diane, and I – calling ourselves “Shakespeare in Love” – attended the monthly quiz night at The Granville. Last month, we had a fabulous time, and we won! Last night? Not so much. Let me explain. (Or vent, rather.)

 

I’m a very competitive person, I like to win. In fact, I don’t think anyone enjoys losing. But, if I am defeated by a stronger, smarter opponent, so be it. No sour grapes, here. However, I cannot abide cheating! Last night there was a team at the quiz who were quite openly gleaning answers using their iPhones. I was furious with the Quizmaster who chose to turn a blind eye to their misdemeanors. The girls with the phones were a part of a large table of people who had come out together, sat together, but formed two teams. One of their teams won the Quiz Night.

 

All is not fair in love and war! Perhaps I would feel less indignant about this cheating incident if the perpetrators had at least been a little more cloaked or finessed in their foul play. But, to hear one of the girls drunkenly slur: “Oh, the answer’s just coming through now,” was just more than I could take!

 

I looked around the room, and saw several knowing and disappointed faces, but no one said anything. All of us, perhaps, fearing we’d “ruin the fun” by “making a fuss.” “It’s a just a game,” The D.E.B. said sweetly, trying to calm me, by smiling that smile of his. But it was too late. My patina of gentility had finally cracked.

 

I broke the silence of the room by saying, in a firm voice: “You can’t use your phone." And again, "You’re not allowed to use your phone.” I felt very loud and very American.

 

There was a great deal of tutting, teeth sucking, sighing and eye-rolling from the culprit group. But there were also meek smiles, and one or two nods from some of the other players around the room.

 

Was I taking it all too seriously, or was I right to call their actions into question? In these uncertain times, I think a clear sense of the “right thing” in an instance such as this has become skewed. We have become so concerned—and I think sometimes superficially—about being offensive to others, and/or infringing upon others, that we lose sight of the larger picture.

 

In this sort of situation no one wants to say anything for fear of being labeled a “nark,” a “tattle-tale” or a “killjoy.” But, what is to be made of the fact that by their actions these fraudulent players were infringing upon my fun, and killing my joy? There’s no fun in to for me going toe-to-toe with Wikipedia. Wikipedia will always win! As far as I’m concerned, I might as well just save my money and stay home.

 

Ugh. Where is the formidable Sister Mary Regine when you need her? She would have made short shrift of those turkeys! God bless ‘er.

 

The thing that burned me the most about the Quiz Cheaters was their brazenness. Clearly, being obnoxious goes a long way in this world. Especially in a place where people are generally too kind and/or too polite to make a fuss.

 

I confess that I wish I could channel just a wee, tiny fraction of that in regard to some of my wedding planning. Well, chiefly, the music. Don’t get me wrong! Everyone at St. Peter’s has been lovely and helpful. And the music for our wedding is going to gorgeous. The Chief Musician is a gifted and talented man and is very open to what the D.E.B. and I want.

 

We had our first meeting with him a few weeks ago, he’d asked us to create a Music Wish List. Which we did with much, much glee. But here is the rub. I have longed adored Bach’s beautiful chorale “Sleepers Awake,” and have an incredibly beautiful version of it by the singer Sissel on my iPod.

 

After weeks of scouring Google and emailing around the globe, I was finally able to acquire the lyrics of Sissel’s version of this song, and emailed them yesterday to the Chief Musician -- with a plea that this be my Bridal Entrance music. For well over a year now, I have been fantasizing about walking down the aisle to this magical version of “Sleepers Awake.” My hopes were dashed this morning after Morning Prayer.

 

The Chief Musician was very sorry to inform me that it would be hopelessly impossible for me to use this as my entrance music. Lovely though it is, it is far too long. The piece is more than 3 minutes long, and although most congregations are indulgent of bridal excesses, asking people to stand on their feet for a 3-minute bridal entrance might even try the patience of a saint.

 

True to form, I offered polite compromise: Could I have a section, nay, even just a snippet of it? Apparently, not. With so famous a piece, according to our CM, it really must be all or nothing, and all is not an option. And, so, the matter was settled. Bride must go back to the drawing board, and find another, shorter, tune.

 

I was gutted, but smiled sweetly, and remained good-natured. Why did I not, as some other women/brides-to-be would have done: stamped my foot, grounded my resolve, burst into tears and shouted: “But I want it!!!”

 

Because I could never do such a thing, (and I am proud to say that I would not) but, that’s not to say that a small part of me doesn't wish I could be a little like that, just once. For all of three seconds.

 

Ultimately, it’s just one song, one moment of my life.  A very important song and moment no doubt, but still just one moment of many. I need to remind myself of the larger picture, and remember that getting what you want should never out weigh playing fair.

Big pearls and cashmere

I think job interviews are possibly the only experience worse than the British Driver’s Test (which I failed twice). Notably, I failed my first Driver’s Test before we even left the Testing Centre. I will never forget it. My Driving instructor, “The Saint,” drove me to the Testing Centre, gave me a hug and said, “You’ll be fine.” I failed that test so quickly, he hadn’t even sat down properly with his cup of coffee, before the Examiner, “Satan,” and I had returned into the Testing Centre. At best, I had failed that test in under 5 minutes. I stalled the car in the Testing Centre parking area. We didn’t even make it to the road. I was crestfallen. But, my instructor assured me I would have my day.

On Attempt No. 2, I actually made it out of the Testing Centre Parking Lot, a miracle, and felt that the only way was up. Up and down, all around the traffic nightmare that is Stratford-upon-Avon. I managed the “Up hill start,” the “Down hill start” and (my personal favourites) the Three-point turn and the Reverse parking between two vehicles. (I can do these maneuvers now, blindfolded in my sleep!) Just when I thought “Success!” I panicked during my “Emergency Stop” maneuver on the Clopton Bridge. I had failed the test at the painful, bitter end.

My friend, Catherine, will be taking her Driver’s Test Attempt No. 3 in two weeks time, and she is sure of success. I have assured her, too. There is something to the “Third Time Lucky” phenomenon when it comes to the British Driving Test, and even romance, but job interviews? No, you only get one shot at those to Pass or Fail.

Wouldn’t it be helpful if job interviews were more like the Driver’s Test? You have a go, have a chance to get some critical feedback from your examiners, then you go away, have a think and a cry, practice, practice, practice, and then come and try again. And again, until you get it right. To be sure, this would hardly be the most cost-effective or time sensitive way of screening applicants, but how much more humane then the “Act now!” shot-in-the-dark approach we all have come to accept and endure.

To their credit, the English are at least very efficient in their interviewing processes.  I recall an interview I had for a Drama Lecturer post in Chichester several years ago. I was still a lowly Ph.D. student, and considered myself quite lucky to even get the interview. The letter I received informing me of my selection, also informed me that I was one of three candidates being invited along to interview. I was even informed of their names. (!!!!) Imagine that, I thought. (Alas, that this happened in those heady days before Google, so I was unable to ‘google’ my competition, as one could now.) What I could never have imagined was the shock I encountered when I arrived in Chichester at my designated interview time, only to find the other two candidates arriving as well. Yes, the three of us were in fact being interviewed together. And believe me, it was as much the nightmare scenario as you imagine. A situation I would not wish upon anyone. Any-one.

The significance of three keen seekers being forced to cat-fight for the golden egg was not lost on me, Shakespearean that I am, I knew immediately that I had been woefully miscast as "Cordelia" in a low-budget production of King Lear. And like the ill-fated Cordelia, I had hoped that my grace, charm, (and my big pearls and cashmere) would see me through, and win the day, whilst my competitors “Goneril” and “Regan” clawed out each other’s eyes. 

Chichester is 102 miles/165 kilometres from Stratford-upon-Avon.  That’s over 5 hours, 37 minutes, and four changes/transfers via train on British Rail. Anyone who has taken British Rail anywhere in this country will agree that train journeys, however enjoyable, are quite often a saga in themselves. One finds one’s self waiting (and waiting and waiting…) on cold, windy platforms, for trains that are inevitably and often indefinitely delayed, and then endlessly transferring from one train to the next, and the next, because getting wherever it is you want to be can’t be accomplished by traveling in a straight line.

Eventually, bone tired, battle-weary, and emotionally drained, I ambled home from the Stratford-upon-Avon train station. As I walked through the door, I noticed my answering machine’s angry red light blinking in the darkness. With my last ounce of energy, I dashed across the room and pressed the button. From the machine came the sonorous tones of the Chichester Department Head who had (gleefully) enjoyed the role of King Lear all day. Efficient to the last, his message was short and direct. No “Hello,” “Thank you,” or any other customary niceties, just simply: “We’ve given the job to Jessica.” Keys and Gucci briefcase still in my hand, wet raincoat still hanging about me, I just sank and wilted onto my settee (couch), and didn’t bother to turn on the lights.

By contrast, my experience of American academic job interviews has been the opposite extreme. Once, I interviewed for a post in a small town in Michigan, and I was there on site for nearly a week! And it was five days too long. I mean, of course after five days you would indeed have a “real sense” of a place, and its people, but really, oy vey! I mean, five days? That’s long enough to meet people, get to know them, fall out with them, and draw battle lines.

Of course, that’s an extreme example, but it does seem to me that American academic job interviews go on (and on, and on, and on…) in a tiresome parade of meetings, handshaking, and endless meals wherein the job candidate is the beggar at the banquet, or the fool at the feast, forced to talk and entertain, whilst everyone else digs in and chows down. It’s almost as if American academic interviewing committees have developed some strange strategy wherein, the thinking goes, that the longer they keep you smiling and tap-dancing in one place, depriving you of food and sleep, the more likely you are to reveal yourself to be a raving lunatic, homicidal maniac, or both.  Given the choice, I think might prefer the more brutal, English “King Lear” approach. Sure, it’s lacerating, but at least it’s swift.

Thankfully, my interview yesterday at The Shakespeare Institute, another big pearls and cashmere day, was neither a “King Lear experience,” nor a “Five Day Sojourn.” I would say it was more like facing a friendly Firing Squad. It was an utterly surreal experience for me, having been a graduate student there years ago. I kept hearing that Janis Joplin quote in my head: “You can never go home.”  And a homecoming it was in many ways, but I tried not to focus on the metaphysical, full circle-ness of the moment, but rather deal with the task at hand as best I could.  The Institute has changed significantly since my days there as a student. And perhaps, for all my youthful exuberance, I may indeed to be too much of a harbinger of the past, too “old guard” to meet their present and future needs. The Shakespeare game has changed a lot since I was a grad student, and The Shakespeare Institute now has far more competition than ever before. Notably up the road in Warwick. Everyone is striving to have “the edge,” the upper-hand. 

The other “sticky wicket” in all this is my own indifference. On one hand it is everything I have ever hoped for, trained for, prayed for, dreamt of; while at the same time, I am terrified of losing the new found and hard-won freedom I now possess. I fear that I am only erecting yet another obstacle to fulfilling my dreams of writing. Perhaps, I don’t even believe I can cut it as a writer. So, I faced yesterday very torn. I wanted to do well, of course. But I’m not sure this is something I really want. I mean, of course it is! But, it also isn’t... Not the best state of mind to be in when one is trying to make a good showing at an interview. The way I see it, let the fates decide. It will be a “win, win” for me either way.

The D.E.B. is as loving and supportive as ever. He just wants me to be happy, and wants me to do whatever will, in his words, “fulfill” me. I just don’t know what that is anymore.  Some days, I relish the idea of being just another “country wife,” as it were, here in Barford: doing laundry, quilting, gardening, etc. I went to my first Barford “Coffee Morning” at the Machado Gallery last Friday. And there I met two lovely women from the village, and we started hatching a plan to create a Barford writers group. I don’t want to miss these organic, spontaneous life opportunities, opportunities that may in fact lead nowhere, professionally, but offer moments of connection. Moments that don’t require big pearls and cashmere, but would be all the more enjoyable in them.

 

"We all love the Sexist Alpha Male"?

“Be honest: we all love the sexist alpha male.” – India Knight, Sunday Times, 28 Sept 2008

Finding myself newspaper-less in Barford, (I used to get The New York Times delivered to my apartment every weekend…sniff, sniff.)  I started flirting with The Times (same name, different paper). In it I discovered a very intriguing weekly column by India Knight. 

Interesting...

Far be it from me to deny anyone the right to have their opinion; and be it even farther from me to agree with one such as this. Oh, India, India, India. How wrong you are!

There is no way that India Knight has formed her conclusions based on personal experience. If she were, surely, her brutish Alpha Male would have her chained so tightly to her cooker, it would be impossible for her to produce her engaging weekly column. 

No, India must be dreaming. Fantasizing about someone dragging you by hair into a cave is one thing – living with a Caveman is quite another. Take from me, India, love in “Neanderthal Land” is not all that it is cracked up to be!

Reading this piece, I began to wonder how my opinion could differ so markedly from India’s. We are roughly the same age, have similar education and life backgrounds (Thank you, Wikipedia – how did we live before Google?), so we are generationally, educationally and socially similar. 

Could this be yet another US-UK cultural difference? Quite possibly. I don’t mean to suggest that the US holds exclusive rights on the Neanderthal man – certainly bone-headed oafs come in all national varieties.  What I mean is, well, the grass is always greener, and we often hold in disdain things with which we are most familiar.

An example. My junior year of college, I had an English friend, Meggie, who grew up in what she described as a “very English” household. Every morning, her father would get up, and make cups of tea for everyone: Meggie, her brother, her mum and himself. 

He would then take tea to each person’s room, and leave it for them on their bedside table. What a lovely way to start the day! I was so fascinated by this ritual. So tender, loving and domestic. 

Then, I will never forget, I spent the weekend at Meggie’s parents’ house. Early each morning there was a light knock on my door, and after I answered, Meg’s dad came in, and brought me a cup of tea. He placed it gently on my bedside table and whispered softly, “Good morning.” 

What’s not to love about that?! That was a pivotal moment for me. I have no doubt that that experience shaped my attitude about men, and Englishmen in particular, and although I had no intentions towards Meg’s dad (!!!) I knew that he was the kind of man I wanted to eventually find.

By contrast, though she loved him dearly, Meg viewed her father, and men like him, as “wet,” and avoided them like the plague. She preferred what she called “the rough, tough, silent types,” and thus began her countless tales of “love-'em-and-leave-'em” woe. Maybe it’s a matter of what you are used to, what you grow up with, &etc.

“Mister Rogers." That is where my love of the Beta Male began. (PBS has a lot to answer for.) He was neat, caring, tidy (always took off his outdoor shoes, hung his coat up neatly on the hook, and put on a fresh cashmere sweater/jumper every time he came into the house). 

He shared. He was loving, and personified gentleness: “Won’t you be my neighbo(u)r?” Brainwashed at the age of 5. Mister Rogers and cashmere. My life would never be the same.

After years in the wilderness, I have finally found this sort of man in real life, and now that I have, I could never, ever be without him! 

But, it is more than the fact that he wakes me each and every morning with a kiss, and a cup of tea on my bedside table. Or, that he brings me flowers when I’m feeling “poorly” or ‘just because’; or, that he still thinks I’m sexy, even when I’m wearing Vick’s Vapor Rub instead of Victoria’s Secret; or, that he confidently wears pastel colo(u)rs and makes them look masculine (and hot); or, that he cuddles me, as I cry during the sappy part of the chick flick I’ve chosen for us to watch; or, he when I knows that I have waited until the very last possible minute to meet a project deadline, he rushes home from work, cooks dinner, walks the dog, and does the washing-up, so I can type my way through the night – it is all these things, and more. Much more.

No, India, no! We shall honor and celebrate the Beta Male! That sterling gentleman, with his heart of solid gold. We shall crown him King, and revere him as our lord and master! And I know I am not alone in thinking this way. I’m not the only woman out here who spent a better part of the 1990s with Ralph Tresvant’s “Sensitivity” on continual play loop, as I cried into my beer, doubting that my Prince Charming would ever come along.

Poor India, you have no idea what you are missing! Incredible passion comes from great sensitivity. The Beta Male, that you coldly dismiss as a dear soul who quote, “sympathises when you have period cramps and offers to make you a nice cup of camomile,” but, whom you’d overlook “when picking a boyfriend rather than a friend,” in favo(u)r of a more primitive primate, has so much more to offer. 

And besides, a nice cup of c(h)amomile is just thing one needs -- after one has been playfully dragged into a very tidy cave.