Tuesday, July 27, 2010
I never thought I'd have a cat, or any domesticated animal, for that matter. And it's not as if the cat is mine. It's David's. Sadly, it was given the name Misty; as her name indicates, she craves attention and behaves much like a stripper from New Jersey. Oh, what's in a name?!
I came home from an unpaid (in terms of monetary value) sabbatical in the Homeland last night, and Misty has scarcely left my side since. She slept on my back last night, which was stifling, but also suffocatingly cute. Until it dawned on me, Oh my God, have I become a cat lady?
I awoke late this morning to find Misty still curled on my perspiring back. I also awoke to a text from David, suggesting we get rid of the cat sooner rather than later. At first I looked at the ball of clumped fur beside me and was outraged, Misty is a living being! I though, "You cannot just pawn a living thing onto someone else!" until suddenly I realized how reasonable I was being and quickly changed views. Of course we need to get rid of her!
It's not as if we're backing out of a pet because we can't stand her, we simply have come to learn that we are not the proper caretakers for a cat. For one, we travel too much to properly love Misty. Also, I can't actually stand the thought of consciously touching her for a prolonged space of time.
SO, this is an advertisement! If you live in the Boston metro area and want to acquire a loving, beautiful cat, please let me know and I'll arrange to drop Misty on your doorstep (or in your living room) at your earliest convenience. Misty is a truly gorgeous feline, though I think she may be in need of a new name as well as a new environment and maybe even a buzz cut.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
And so begins another summer punctuated by tennis tournaments. For as long as I can afford to, I will arrange my schedule so I can watch my favorite players and be lulled into afternoon dozes (but only during the boring matches, of course) by John McEnroe's lazily authoritative commentating.
Roland Garros is a true indication of summertime, just as a gin and tonic on the back patio and flicking june bugs off the screen door are. It's the beginning of something great, in which the outcome is unknown but the energy of expectation pulses like thunderstorms in the bloodstream. Tennis is simultaneously relaxing and straining, methodic and unpredictable, mental yet physical. It's a sport with a narrative not about a team, but about a single player, a character, a champion- and as such the experience between viewer and competitor is intimate like getting to know a new lover, and sometimes tumultuous. Rivalries run deep, and compassion arrests the heart at the most surprising moments as players forfeit their dreams of winning a championship over a mental melt-down or unplanned physical strain.
It's a beautiful game, and I will enjoy watching the French, then Queens, Wimbledon, the US Open and whatever else comes in-between. And as I watch, I'll entertain thoughts of hitting a winning passing shot, of tensing, planting, then releasing and, with a burst of concentrated energy, moving a ball forward with the drive of perfection.
Monday, May 24, 2010
I've mentioned it once and I'll probably mention it again and again and again, for it's worth repeating: I adore Jack White. Begrudgingly (my disdain exists for no reason apart from the fact that she is his wife) I also adore Karen Elson. Ergo, I love this photo. It's intimate, voyeuristic and a little bit weird. They're so cool.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Perhaps we're more noncommittal now than decades before, or maybe a globalized culture has instilled in us a kind of career schizophrenia- whatever the reason, people these days seem to be juggling a handful of jobs, not out of necessity, but because they want to. Whether they're moonlighting as a freelance photographer while working a 9-5 in human resources, or tending bar while working mornings as a yoga instructor, I'm fascinated by the different ways in which people choose to make their money. Particularly, I'm interested in the seemingly divergent second career paths of the middle-aged. For instance:
During my internet strolling this morning, I stumbled upon Bjorn Borg's self-named fashion label, something that until just now I've been completely oblivious to despite being a loyal tennis fan. On top of being a tennis icon/mastermind/superhuman, Borg is always one of the best dressed men in a tennis stadium and his hair... Oh! His hair is gorgeous! so his trajectory into fashion is not particularly surprising, though some of his underpants styles are: (ahem).
Meanwhile, I have yet to embark on my initial career path/way to earn a satisfactory income. As I consider how I progress, I'm continuously encouraged by people who do what they love and can still feed themselves, especially if they have a handful of tennis titles to boot.