"John," she began, "I just hate to think that there could ever come a day when I'd have to fall asleep without your arms around me."
"Well, Maxine, I want to keep you happy...
You'll just have to die first!"They fell asleep, laughing.
***********************************************************************"John and I were married 57 and a half years."
Unsure of what to say, of how to guide her through this, I stretch my legs wide in front of me and bend over, placing my head between them in a semi-Yogi pose I'm sure I learned somewhere... convenient for pulling off the un-dainty immaturity of a 13 year old while effectively hiding one's tears. Dirty blond hair flipped upside down, temporary bronzer mixed with salty water staining my hands. On day 3, our Unitarian Universalist God made waterproof mascara, and with his strength, I re-emerge to listen to her speak. He comes to her in dreams, she says. Oh, two to three times a week, or so..."And how I treasure those dreams."
I await the humorous ending that
accompanies so many of their stories. The witty denial of circumstances
and appreciation of shortcomings that was unique to his outlook
on life, essential to pushing us through. But it doesn't come. The strong determination in
her voice has never felt so searing, her acceptance so sure. Without
Granddaddy there to help, I let my eyes wander and contemplate the
concrete awning above us, the bushes around us, the driveway in front of
us, convinced he left a punchline hiding here somewhere.
My vision is blurred and hers fading, but just like the impossible Easter Egg on a warm spring day, I promise her we'll find it.
It's not that she was colorblind, just slightly awkward... somewhat unobservant. After all, liberal he may have been, but black he was not. A Washingtonian WASP, born and raised. Drawn to her blond, blue-eyed, hourglass figure. Apparently drawn, as well, to the thought that they might be compatible enough to bear children. Ready to settle down, with a hometown girl who didn’t speak of offspring with the same casual excitement as his niece did of Bratz dolls.
"Dessert?" she offered, meekly attempting to fill the silence.
First dates are overrated.
Luckily, chocolate never disappoints - regardless of the color.
Her: I mean, it's like eating cookies, right? You're so excited because you've been on a no carb diet for months, and then all of a sudden you can delve right in and savor them one by one, the chocolate chips, the white chocolate macadamias, the oatmeal raisins, the snicker doodles, the whole box of thin mints, and you're so overwhelmed and high from suger land and they taste great...
Me: ... and then all of a sudden you eat one too many and you get a stomachache
Her: Right! and you're like ooooooohhhhh I wish I had eaten a more legitimate cookie...
Let's raise a glass of 2% to that.
It's been awhile since I've had a celebrity crush.
FUCK, though. (Don't curse). If there's anything more heart-wrenchingly beautiful than watching the man of your dreams tear off his shirt and do the Achy Breaky in front of a thousand adoring women, it's watching a sitcom actor that had barely crossed your radar humbly, seemingly effortlessly, captivate your heart and mind for hours straight.
I'm hardly a film critic. But last Saturday night, at the screening of happythankyoumoreplease, I remembered what it's like to be so utterly enamored with and inspired by someone's work, that you practically lose your voice searching for words to do it justice.
The director of SFIFF forewarned the audience that watching the film would make you want to have sex, over, and over, and over again. For my fellow movie-goers that night, I can only hope the molecules on the face of the person sitting next to you rearranged themselves as needed. For my part, it was if the hustle and bustle of my technology-driven life had disappeared, and all that remained were the city lights above, illuminating a slightly different path than the one I was sure to have set out on... and all I wanted to do was write, over, and over, and over again...
I think I might be kind of maybe ok who am I kidding please don't get another gorgeous celebrity girlfriend and break my heart too soon because I am, officially inspired and in love.
Technorati Tags: celebrity crush, Happy Thank You More Please, happythankyoumoreplease, How I Met Your Mother, ineloquent, inspiration, Josh Radnor, lost for words, love, San Francisco International Film Festival, screen writers, Sundance, Ted Mosby, writers
In the middle of nowhere Arkansas last summer, seated at a corner Starbucks, 9 AM.
Me: It's such a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for taking the time to speak with me this morning.
Him: Pleasure's mine. Tell me, have you had the chance to read my autobiography?
Me (unaware that Mr. Joe Schmoe had an autobiography): Oh! No, not yet, but I'd love...
Him: That's a shame, there's a lotta interesting stuff in there.
I'm sure there is.
The truth is, I've never been passionate about economic principals in the same way that Granddaddy was, though I often pretended to be so in his presence. If I persevered and attempted to understand concepts of macroeconomics, tacking courses into my schedule just for "fun", and eventually majoring in Political Economy, it was to understand a little about how the world works... but moreover, to understand more about my grandfather's work, life, and passion.
C.A. Knox Lovell and Robin C. Sickles brought me one step closer this week in their beautiful memorial tribute, written in prelude to Rice University's Biennial North American Productivity Workshop, to be held in Houston exactly one month from now.
A brief excerpt:
If anyone deserves the appellation of father of productivity analysis, it is Kendrick. He had few predecessors, either analytically or empirically, although he paid particular homage to Fabricant and Hiram S. Davis, then at the Industrial Research Unit of the Wharton School of Finance and Commerce at the University of Pennsylvania.
In our brief discussion of Professor Kendrick’s professional contributions we have chosen to focus on what we consider to be the two most significant of Professor Kendrick’s many contributions to the field of productivity analysis.
Kendrick is best known for his monumental Productivity Trends in the United States (1961), and it is difficult to overstate the impact of this work. Kendrick prefaces a detailed empirical study of productivity from 1899 to 1957 with a discussion of the concepts and measurement of real output, real input and productivity. His empirical investigation reveals substantial variability in rates of productivity change through sub-periods and across sub-sectors of the total economy. He finds productivity growth to account for roughly half of output growth, and more than 80% of growth in output per unit of labor input, capital deepening accounting for the remainder. He also argues conceptually and demonstrates empirically that equality between national product and national income generates a dual measure of productivity change: the difference between the growth rate of output and the growth rate of input is equal to the difference between the growth rate of input prices and the growth rate of output prices. “[T]his is the means whereby the fruits of productivity gains are distributed to workers and investors by the market mechanism.”
Not only was Professor Kendrick a scholar of the first rank, whose contributions to the field of productivity compare to those of Edward Denison, Dale Jorgenson and Zvi Griliches, but he was a wonderful colleague and mentor. One of us (Sickles) had the remarkable fortune to have been a colleague of John Kendrick at George Washington University (not to mention being mentored as a graduate student by Knox Lovell and Peter Schmidt at UNC-Chapel Hill!). John was a warm and thoughtful senior colleague who was giving of his time and professional insights. His influence to generations of scholars and practitioners is profound. His legacy is not only a professional one, however, but for us, a very personal one.He will be missed."
Save for emotional breakdowns during midterm exams, journals of academic research have rarely, if ever, brought tears to my eyes.
I suppose there's a first time for everything.
It was a corny pick-up line.
I sat there staring at my computer screen in a daze, overwhelmed by that once-a-year feeling that only the end of exams can inspire. Wine on my desk in lieu of a senior thesis. Last attempts at an adrenaline rush evidenced by the blasting Lady Gaga from my $10 stereo speakers, the straightedge girl's alternative to the smoke rings blatantly rising from our housemates just below. In those blissful 15 minutes of denial, I deliberately ignored the sudden emptiness of our 34th Street townhouse, as if both the sunrise and the end of our lease were pushed back indefinitely, contingent on my paresse.
Him: So uh, I just sold my bed on Craigslist.
Me: Sweet! Congrats.
Him: Yeah. Can I sleep in yours tonight?
There's an obligatory 30-second period of contemplation that rolls through a girl's head, before she can laugh and accept the fate of indulging a pathetic request from her male counterpart. Except it wasn't one. Just a genuine plea for help from my neighbor down the hall who had kept me laughing when the world came crashing down, be it through Jettie's runs in my beat-up car filled with rotten banana peels, philosophical debates over scare tactics used by Republicans surrounding the swine flu, romantic reflections worthy of How I Met Your Mother, or forced participation in KANE Show antics at 5 AM. A meek admission of faulty logic from a friend whose excitement at a $60 sale led him to forget that he might need his bed one more night. Before graduation, and the like.
Him, cuddled up next to me, 30 minutes later: So, do you want to be big spoon or little spoon?
Me: Shut up.
Toppled by the more daunting, immediate realization that my bed was a simple twin, hard as a rock and cruelly uncomfortable even for one sole occupier, I fleetingly resented him for choosing our house furniture without my input, and instantly regretted that 9 months had already flown right by.
My response came in the form of a sarcastic giggle and the silence that foreshadows the dawning of a real
One year later, I still can't believe it worked.