Ruth Yunker's Blog, page 3

Paris and Chess

Chess Players

My father was chess champion of Pittsfield, Massachusetts when I was nine years old.  This was a defining event in my childhood.  Because I was the only kid in the house (and there were five others) who wouldn't play chess with Dad.

Oh, he tried to teach me, but beyond the bait of the pieces being called fairy tale things like queen and  knight, the overriding issue was the fact that at the end, there would be a loser.

I don't do loser.  I am a terrible loser.  Infantile.  Even at nine I knew this.  And I knew the solution.  It was to (almost) never get involved in any game or sport in which a score is kept.  And I've maintained a pretty good track record of Just Saying NO.

Until last week when I got suckered into playing Scrabble on my iPhone with one of my sisters.  "It's fun," she had squealed, one night, over for dinner.  She waved her brand new iPhone about.  This is why she was squealing in the first place.  She was still on that pink cloud of new iPhone ownership.  When all the world is suddenly available at your fingertips, like anywhere, including in stop and go traffic on the freeway.   She is also a fanatical 'score keeping' game player.

I've dutifully tried Scrabble in the past.  But always reluctantly.  Because there's that 'score' issue, right?  And there's another little problem.  Even though I'm a writer and therefore know every word in the world, I always freeze up and can't think of a single word that wasn't in "Playing with Dick and Jane".

The first game we played together, in the same room.  It was kind of fun. There was good banter. And I even almost won.  But then she had to go home, and again squealing with delight at such electronic magic, said "Let's continue play.  Works like a text message thing."  I said okay, thinking to myself, I'll slay her.  I had come close.  I could taste blood.  She's younger than me too.  And not a writer.  I'd win!!!  I knew it!  Maybe I did like games in which scores are kept!  Maybe even chess–

I lost.  No, I was beaten to a pulp.  Flattened like road kill in Florida.  I staggered through three games to show I was a good sport, which was easy to do when the opponent was at her house, and I could throw things and scream, in mine.  Then I withdrew as graciously as a text message would allow, and the next time we were in the same space, my sister didn't bring Scrabble up, nor did I.

I watch these men beatifically playing chess in the Luxembourg Gardens, rain or shine, every time I'm in Paris.  And I think one thing and one thing only–what a fabulous photo op!

 

WSJ Does Fashion

WSJ reported today that women wearing shorts to work is okay.  That wearing shorts to work is chic, au courant, and indeed, posh.  I just loved reading the word 'posh' in the Wall Street Journal.

They meant shorts suits, of course, and were quite serious about it.  Not a smile crossed their faces as they reported that 'as a member of the suit family–however rebellious–the ensemble had a serious side."

The article was accompanied by photos of six foot tall, seventeen year old models striding purposely down the catwalk wearing what the real working woman, and I mean one outside the fashion world, is now supposed to think would be okay to wear to work.

Actually, rather than what her boss might say, or if she's the boss, what her employees might say, I can only picture the scene at home at breakfast, before she leaves for work in her posh shorts, as she encounters her teenage daughter.

"Mom?  Are you kidding?  Is this a joke?"

Mom stops short at kitchen door.  Frankly Mom was hoping just once her daughter had left for school.  Because teenage daughter has a way of making her mother age twenty years, question her right to exist outside the kitchen, and above all shake every ounce of confidence in her fashion choices.  And in particular this shorts suit WSJ has just assured her she can and should wear out of the house.

"It's Jason Wu, for godsake," she says, fighting back, stomach churning.

"I don't care whose it is.  You can't go out like that.  You gotta be kidding."

"Shorts suits are in," says Mom, remembering when she was four and Johnny Come Lately pulled her underpants down and she never wore skirts to school again.  "Wall Street Journal says so."  Who does this teenage daughter think she is?  Mom happens to be the boss of multitudes at work–

"God, Mom, do you believe everything you read?  You look like an idiot in those shorts and that silly jacket, and don't get me started on the blouse and that flower on your shoulder.  Jeez, this is so embarrassing.  Change before you go anywhere with me."

"Hey, missy, it's me driving you to school," says Mom.  Her voice comes out weak, though.  Damn that teenager.

"Whatever.  Go change out of that right now."  Then daughter's voice softens.  "I know, Mom.  It happens.  I make mistakes too.  But you go change now, and I'll wait for you right here."  Daughter smiles kindly at her mother.  She nods her head.  She flutters her hands in encouragement.  In spite of herself, Mom backs out of the kitchen, and turns for the stairs.  She knows the backs of her legs look fab anyway–

"And Mom, how about that cool maxi suit from Donna Karan.  You know the one.  The one that cost more than my high school education?  You look gorgeous in it."

Katie Couric?

Are you the woman who wants to watch Katie Couric with your afternoon tea and cream?  Somebody out there seems to think so.  Somebody out there seems determined to keep Katie Couric on tv, in spite of the fact no one watched her on her most recent gig.

I don't get Katie Couric.  I don't get Katie Couric's hold on tv people.  Or, as they would like to believe, her hold over the masses of tv (I presume, female) watchers.

There for awhile she was popular somewhere.  Was it morning tv?  But that night time gig didn't work out, did it?  Except for the wonderful interview she did with Palin during the campaign in which she skewered the Alaskan.  That was a very popular moment–

But tv seems determined to keep her in front of our faces.  It can't be she needs the money.  Nor does she seem to want to spend more time with her family…

It can't be there isn't anybody else to slide in and take over Oprah's huge contingent.  I mean, what about the Trump daughter, Ivanka, for instance?  She has the connections, looks, brains, and willingness to fill the Oprah vacumn.  Or how about some hot, powerful and okay, let's really go for it…articulate guy.  Elliot Spitzer!  Oh wait, he already has a talk show.

I just don't get Katie Couric.   She's too short, cute and weirdly driven, a Sally Fields does  Everywoman with a Fifth Avenue penthouse and Laboutins.  But it doesn't matter what I think, quite obviously.  Because here she is.  Again.  The tv person who never goes away.  Katie Couric , all yours, every afternoon.  Just your favorite best friend dropping by for a worldly chat–

Oh dear.

 

 

 

Title

I just saw "Midnight in Paris", Woody Allen's latest, less than wonderful movie, and could barely get passed the shoes the fiancee and her mother wore throughout.  High heeled, wedges, stilettos–none of which would be possible to wear in Paris, unless you were either born and bred in Paris, or you were carried around by large henchmen.  Furthermore, these two ladies obviously never got that famous tourist syndrome–the blister-that-never-goes-away.

The last trip I took to Paris, one during which I wore broken in shoes, I got the perfect blister that never went away.  I couldn't believe it.  It was hell.

Eventually I tried to deal with it like a Parisian.  I went into a perfectly respectable looking drugstore, and from the huge array of podiatry flim flam, and with the help of my friend who lives in Paris, so she knows, right? I chose the box with the blister cure in it.

It didn't work.  To be precise, these band aid things made the blister worse.  But since I couldn't believe this was happening, I continued to use them.  I told myself this method was healing the blister from deep within first, and somehow when it was healed all the way to the surface I would have a King Fu spot on my foot that would never entertain a blister again, particularly one gotten from well-worn, walking shoes which knew how to traverse a cobblestone or two, or ten miles a day of them.

The green chairs in the Jardin Tuileries are the perfect chair upon which to sit, so that one, instead of enjoying the view, may comfortably remove one's sock and shoe, the better to peruse the screaming blister, maybe applying more bandaids etc.  I got to know these chairs well.  One can sit on them with ease.  One can even nap in them.  Unlike the ubiquitous green benches which require a certain amount of practice before one can actually sit rather than slide, rear first, all the way through them.

I took this picture of this particular chair because this is the chair upon which I sat when I checked my blister, in the sunlight, so I could actually see it clearly for once.  And that day I saw that the blister that wouldn't die, was gone.  I felt a confused sort of triumph–

I had thrown out the French blister aid, see.  I did apologize to the bandaids before doing so, assuring them it was the fault of my very American blister for failing to respond properly to their healing ministrations.  And then I'd gone back to my tried and true, which was to use a regular bandaid, and look the other way.

I don't think I totally panned Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris" because he got it so utterly wrong with the women's shoes, but…well, maybe I did.

 

The Art of Suitcase

The open suitcase in this photo died last week.  The large one in the photo still lives and breathes, but I'm in mourning.  That smaller suitcase went everywhere with me.  And in the case of certain destinations (Macomb, Illinois, to be exact), it was the only suitcase welcomed by my hosts.

Now what?

Shopping for suitcases isn't my strong point.  And since they usually last me a long time, and I'm talking ten years at a time, it's not often I've had to shop for suitcases.

But now I have no choice but to move forward.  Travel season is coming up.  I need a new bag.

My old bags are/were some kind of name (ish) brand.  Not cheap.  Not Louis Vuitton either.  But they were a set.  The day I bought these bags, I felt good knowing for the first time in my peripatetic life I had matching bags.

Am I going to go out and buy a whole new matching set?  No.  No, I sure as hell am not.  I'm going to remember the brief period of Camelot when all my bags matched.  I'm going to remember those days with terrible fondness, but I will move forward.  At least three people, including one who could get his bags from Louis Vuitton if he so desired, told me the place to go for luggage is TJ Maxx.

So okay.  I'll go into the nearest TJ Maxx, which is conveniently next door to a Barnes and Noble and a big movie complex.   And, while undertaking the onerous task of replacing the best piece of luggage I ever had, I will ease the pain with the purchase of some new books and the viewing of a movie while eating buttered popcorn.

Everyday Is Travel

Couldn't upload my photo of the Obamas shining in London, so this beacon will have to do.  One day WordPress and I will be friends…

But this is all about those handsome Obamas!  And how happy Europe is to see them!

I was in Paris when Obama was elected.  I cast my vote for him from there.  In fact, that day at the busy Parisian post office, my reason for being there got me to the front of the line.   I had explained what I was there to mail, and added that I was voting for Obama.  The post office manager's had eyes lit up.  "C'est tres important," he said,  ushering me to the front of the correct line.  I didn't even bother to demur.  Hell, I agreed.

The day after Obama was elected was the first time the neighborhood magazine kiosk guy acknowledged my existence.  I stopped in to get the paper.  There was Obama's beaming face on the front page.  I held it up to the grim magazine kiosk man and wooping (very quietly, bien sur) I gave the victory sign.

Well, the magazine kiosk guy turned into a different man.  I suddenly could see the man with whom his wife had fallen in love.   He grinned, and omigod, he had dimples.  Who knew!  Who knew dour French kiosk men could even have dimples.  Is there a word for 'dimple' in French?  Yes there is.  'La fossette'.  But so, okay, the magazine kiosk man dimpled up with delight, made the vee sign with both hands, and pronounced  "C'est si bon pour vous Americains."

I agree.

Everyday Is Travel

Mother love is much on my mind these days as I contemplate getting a small apartment up in Oregon.  My daughter lives there, and I'd like to see her more often, without being the  houseguest who smells in three days.  I mean, what kind of trip is three days anyway.  A waste of time, that's what.  So I need a room of my own–

(Thank you, Ben Franklin and Virgina Woolf).

A likely apartment has been found.  I need to snap it up sooner than I planned–

And so I will.  No one's going to call me a wimp.

Oregon–about which I hear nothing but good.  Maybe even a little too good for the likes of me, coming from the mean and gritty streets of Newport Beach, CA.  I mean we're pretty green here, pretty up on the importance of doing the right thing ecologically, once we've made sure there are enough parking spaces in our carports at home.   But nothing like the earnestness I feel emanating from Oregon.

I have good friends, though, who adore Oregon, to the extent they go up there from down here, to a condo they've bought, every week-end, to shake off the stress of living in SoCal.   Their lucky dog gets to go.  The cats have to wait at home, given their adverse response to shifts in the daily routine.

I've lived a lot of places.  Usually I've blown there because of  life's happenstances.  Left to my own devices I wouldn't be able to pick a specific spot to live or visit for an extended period of time.   And in the end, where ever it is, including even, Northern Florida, I have found a wonderful place.  A place with every nook and cranny worth exploring.

So now I'm adding Oregon to my roster of places I will eventually know really really well.  I've looked up which months are the sunniest. I already know I intend to be there when the lilacs are in bloom.  I will come during the dreary months too because I'm no wimp…have I mentioned this?  I wish it snowed up there, but I hear tell it doesn't much, certainly not to the extent where one should rush out and invest in skis.  The dog park, where my daughter lives, is the most picturesque I've ever seen, except for the ocean/beach dog park in Huntington Beach–

I'm like, so packed already!

 

 

 

 

 

Everyday Is Travel

Purples R Her

I read, in the Sunday paper, that Marrakesh is now Miami in a caftan. I took umbrage.

What's wrong with caftans?  What's wrong with Miami?  What about Miami could possibly remind anyone about Marrakesh?  I mean, hey–I don't believe I ever saw Marlene Dietrich in Miami.  In Marrakesh she was stunning!

Marrakesh and Miami don't work in the same sentence, let alone adding the worthy caftan to the mix.   What I got from the statement was there is something silly about Marrakesh now, implying it's gone American, god forbid, all cleaned up and fresh.  Like…Miami?  Poor Miami, minding it's own business.  Who are these newspaper people, glibbly picking on the innocent stander-by?  Including the venerable Marrakesh.

Because the article was actually about Tangier, and stated that now Marrakesh has gone to seed in its caftan,  Tangier is the place to go.

So now I have this strong desire to go to Miami.  I like Miami.  I approve of Miami.  When I'm in Miami, I always feel like I'm in the LA of fifty years ago.  All blue skies, white buildings and pink GTO's with flamingos painted on them.  Like both places have just had their evening bubble bath.

The caftan part?  Let's face it.  This is the perfect description of Palm Springs.

 

 

 

 

 

Tidy Saturday

Napping

Today my newspaper's astrology person informed me, in no uncertain terms,  that I, and all other Leos, need to organize our workspaces.  That we need to get organized if we are to proceed forward with our lives.

Today was also proclaimed to be the end of the world by some group or other.  I don't know the details so don't quote me.   But all I know is the world obviously isn't ending today…and until I read my horoscope this morning, I felt very good about about that, and  my…well…disordered workspace.

I like a chaotic desk.  I think it's a manifestation of creative creativity.  I like an overloaded studio.  It looks like love.  I like not having enough bookcases for all my books.   I like those colorful (and fading) paintings by my children on the walls. I like those mirrors leaning against the walls, and the sandals and running shoes on the floor, and books and maps and newspapers on my desk, and the fact I have journals going back to 1982.  These come in handy winning arguments related to exact dates of happenings.  I like winning arguments.

But so, where I see exuberance and fun, astrologically, apparently, I should see danger.  I should be filled with the unarguable sense that my happy clutter is not that at all, but is, instead, an immense  block to moving forward.  I want to move forward, right?  Of course I do.

So okay.  Sometimes I can rise to the challenge and take direction.   Today I will.  The newspaper told me to, so I will shift and sort.  I will put some books over there, and buy a new bookcase for over here.  I'll get the maps in one pile.  I'll put all journals before 1995 away…somewhere–

I will get beautifully and blissfully organized.   And therefore I will then move forward.

Life should always be this easy!

 

Dominique and The Wife

An Ode To Marriage

Okay, so I am an American woman, and therefore am having a totally uncool reaction to this um…situation.

I think, natch, that DSK is scum, and am all the more put off by the fact his behavior towards women has been a well-known secret in Europe for, like, years.  So uncool of me.  So totally, priggishly uncool of me.

And then there's her, the wife.  In this case a raging ego-maniac…I mean heiress-former-Oprah-of-her-country, who has all kinds weapons to throw at the situation.  Including piles of money.  And that absolutely hilarious phrase "He didn't do it."  My lack of sympathy?  So unempathetic of me.  So…prudish of me.

I despise men who behave how DSK has acted.  Natch.  I'm an American, and just can't see my way clear to thinking there is something sophisticated or cute or boyishly over-enthusiastic about a grown man (with four daughters to boot) who thinks his penis is worthy of all that unwanted attention.  I suppose I could drum up some empathy if I pursued the notion that he is mentally ill, but DSK would vigorously deny that slant.

As far as the wife is concerned, I just can't fathom it.  I just can't fathom any wife (read Maria Shriver) who looks the other way when her man actively and unpleasantly, feels entitled to paw any woman who happens to turn up in a room alone with him.   In this case, Annie (wife of DSK) apparently wants to be First Lady of France (And why not?  She seems to have everything else except a man who actually wants her).  And to this end, she's been using DSK to get there.  Just as Ms. Shriver defended her groper…I mean husband, way back when he was first running for governor of California.

I understand that in France there's much disgust at the way the uncool and immature Americans have dragged their oh-so-important guy through the mud.    Well of course.  Obviously the men over there have got a good thing going.  And none of them wants it messed with, particularly by us prim Americans who are wantonly treating one of their poster boy philanderers like a loser molester.

But the women?  What are they really thinking when they look at their philandering husbands?  Are they keeping in mind their own affairs of groping?  Are they thinking about the cozy checking account? Or that very necessary position in society?

Over here in puritanical and very uncool America, they begin to look like a bunch of cartoon characters, very stuck in "the way it's always been done."

Which in America gets you laughed out of the room.