Today the Red Death Rays of Judgement Are But a Delightful Sunbeam on a Baby's Cheek

I've already cast back through the sands of time to recommend a book whose quality, by any standards, I'm much too biased to judge accurately.

(Although MG will tell you that no amount of kindness or generosity will spare you from the red death rays of judgement that shoot out of my eyes when I stumble upon an awkward phrase or a clumsy piece of dialogue, no matter who wrote it.)

In any event, things have now calmed down to the point where I can read actual book books, not just biographies of Cary Grant or screenplays written by my classmates. And the first such title to cross my path was the fantastic Prisoner of Trebekistan: A Decade in Jeopardy!, by Bob Harris.

Astute readers will remember from earlier posts that I actually used to write trivia questions for a living, so you might think that the whole Jeopardy! angle had me at "What is hello?" Not so. In fact, writing trivia questions has turned out to be almost as disastrous for my personal growth as answering them on television has been lucrative for Bob. A handful of people can enter into the spirit of the thing, offering the helpful suggestion or directing me to an interesting source of things we're supposed to know but have forgotten. But most people want to play "I bet I'm smarter than the girl who writes trivia questions for a living!" Guess what? You are! I give up!

I'm sorry, where was I? Ah, yes, right! I HATE TRIVIA QUESTIONS! I HATE TRIVIA CONTESTS OF ALL KINDS! HATE HATE HATE HATE!

Yet magically, I really enjoyed Bob's book. Chew on that for a minute.

If you actually like/enjoy trivia questions and contests, this is still the book for you. In fact, I think Prisoner will probably become the go-to text for aspiring Jeopardy contestants. There's all kinds of useful advice about committing stuff to memory, and study techniques, and some tips on staying calm when your body would like to humiliate you utterly. (This is particularly valuable for me, as I keep walking into rooms with people who out earn me by a factor of a bajillion and who could brush away all my financial concerns like so much lint if they so chose.)

But for me, the best part was the story of Bob's journey through the strange and wondrous land of Trebekistan--the friends made along the way, the ways in which his success (and non-success) affected his sense of self and his relationships with people around him. I particularly enjoyed the moment when, just as I was thinking Bob was being a little hard on himself, his sister sighed impatiently and told Bob he was being a little hard on himself. (Wow, it's like she read my mind!) Not many authors will deliberately portray themselves as flawed human beings, and fewer still will walk us through the process of accepting those flaws. It shows a self-knowledge and grace as a writer that I really admire.

(Most writers--and bloggers--prefer to present a face of bland competence, or if they do make mistakes, to write a love song to those errors in judgement. See Frey, James and Bigger Fuck Up Than Me, Nobody is a.)

Judging from the blurbs on the back cover--Ira Glass (!), Joss Whedon (!!), Paul Feig (!!!)--I don't think excerpts of this post are going to find their way into the press kit anytime soon, but I'm a big fan of Harris's blog (not surprisingly located at www.bobharris.com) and suspected I'd like his book very much. Which I do. And lately, his posting has dwindled somewhat, owing to what he describes as "deadline pressures." I can only hope this means another book is on the way.

Also, Consider Making a Roux

My God, how I love the 26th of December! I love the absence of any pressing engagements! I love the normal store hours! I love the decompression from the previous month of unconscious build up to the Big Day!

Yesterday, by all accounts, was a very mellow, enjoyable Christmas. If it had been some random Monday in January, I would have considered it a day well spent. But with all the pressure of the holiday, it ended up feeling a little ramshackle, like the one B- on a transcript full of As.

But we traded some excellent gifts--am I the last person alive to find out about this Amy Sedaris book about entertaining? Oh man, what a great read!--and watched some football, and made some dinner.

The two big challenges of dinner were:

A. How do you tie a roast together when you've forgotten to buy twine?

B. How do you serve four different dishes whose recipes all end with the sentence "Serve immediately."? Especially if your kitchen isn't big enough for two people to stand in at the same time?

Some problemsolving went into Issue A. Some internet searches into the possible toxicity of sisal, which we keep in stock for the cats' scratching post, generated no definitive information. A run to 7-11 and a conversation with a man who did not know the English word "string" was likewise fruitless. But in the end, I was able to slip the pre-tied roast apart without breaking the butcher-tied string, brown it, then slip it back together. Although the experience was not unlike trying to pull control top pantyhose over the torso of a Sumo wrestler.

Issue B was also successfully negotiated, with the help of Michael and his brother Jack and no help at all from frickin' Cooks' Illustrated. Guys, you're supposed to be johnny-on-the-spot with the useful cookery advice, yet no one noticed that your "Dickens Christmas Menu" consisted of four dishes with significant last minute work? Bah!

In the end, the big nailbiter was: Will the yorkshire pudding rise, despite our oven's lack of a reliable thermostat? And the answer is: Yes, they did rise, and subsequently brown, and there was much pumping of fists in the air. Followed by the eating of yorkshire pudding, and roast, and mashed potatoes, and spinach salad and a spectacular gravy. Michael is under orders, should I die before him, to specify in my eulogy that I had a gift for gravy. And indeed, I don't think I overstep the bounds of modesty when I say I make some kickass gravy. I make gravy that could bring civilization to its knees, if civilization as we knew it teetered on the availability of high-quality gravy.

(My secret: Deglaze the pan with wine, then reduce. Also, consider making a roux. Neither are really *my* secrets, as much as they are the secrets of all trained chefs everywhere. But I've come through more than one holiday gathering where gravy prowess was in short supply, and so I carry deep within me a few key tips for producing a delicious meat sauce in under 20 minutes. Literally, it's a file saved on my PDA, along with a recipe for creme brulee and three domestic sparkling white wines that are almost as good as Veuve Clicqot.)

It's a Wonderful Life

Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan! – George Bailey

Merry Christmas, Santa Monica!
Merry Christmas, Third Street Promenade!
Merry Christmas, Clock Tower!
Merry Christmas, St. Augustine By the Sea!
Merry Christmas, Two Hour Choral Mass!
Merry Christmas, Soprano and Baritone Couple Two Pews Up Who Rock Out on “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”!
Merry Christmas, Lady Behind Me in Mass Who Makes Up the Words to Carols When She Doesn’t Know Them!
Merry Christmas, Drunk Girls Who Argue Loudly for Entire Mass About Whether to Stay Until “Silent Night” or Leave Now and Sing It Themselves on the Way Home.
Merry Christmas, Drunk Girl Who Answers Her Cell Phone During Communion!
Merry Christmas, Pacific Ocean!
Merry Christmas, Michael!
Merry Christmas, Cats Who Like to Chew Glittery Ribbons!
Merry Christmas, Mysterious Chocolate Smell in the Hallway!
Merry Christmas, Powers Family En Route to Ireland!
Merry Christmas, Gerber Family Hanging Out with the Dunnes!
Merry Christmas, Freshly Baked Monkey Bread!
Merry Christmas, Delicious Bacon!
Merry Christmas, Awesome Amy Sedaris Book I Got from Jack!
Merry Christmas, Everybody!

Christmas in Santa Monica

I feel like I've just awakened from a coma. From mid-August until last Tuesday, I literally did not have ten minutes that were not filled with either a) obsessing about work and/or b) actual work. My focus was so intense that I stopped dreaming about a month ago, and started brainstorming in my sleep. That's an exhausting feeling--waking up after 8 hours of unconscious story development.

In the last five days, I've finished up my Christmas shopping, cleaned the apartment (with a big assist from MG), rounded up some groceries, called back a friend I'd been trading voicemails with for over a month, and last night, did some laundry. The mind boggles to think how I could have gone from working on my thesis to packing for a trip to Chicago to boarding a plane--I think I would have had a breakdown. So just from a sanity point of view, I'm relieved we're in Santa Monica this week. But that's not to say I don't miss the folks in the midwest. If I were two separate people, I definitely would have sent one of me back to Chicago for the holidays. But alas, I am as constrained by the laws of space and time as everyone else.

This is not our first major holiday in Southern California. We've already spent two Thanksgivings and an Easter, but somehow, this feels more serious. In Greek mythology, Persephone was reportedly condemned to spend half her days in hell after eating a Pomegranate of the Damned. Spending Christmas in Santa Monica feels a little bit like eating the Pomegranate of Southern California. No matter what, we'll be entangled with this city for years to come.

The number one thing I've learned thus far: If you want to leave Santa Monica, get out of town before 3 p.m. After 3 p.m., you're basically trapped west of the 405 until traffic lightens up again after 7 p.m. You think I'm kidding. I'm not kidding. Back in October, Michael and I drove to a bakery located, no joke, 12 miles from our front door. We left our house at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. We stayed off the freeways, which in any event were blocked up in every direction. We stepped inside the bakery at 6:15 p.m.

Other lessons learned:

* Never, never, never go on the 405, except between 10 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. and even then, only if no other route suggests itself.
* Of all things, never, never, never take the 405 to LAX. Get off and take Lincoln.
* The best mall: the Grove.
* The most fun 10 minutes that cost nothing: The twice-nightly fake snow at the Grove.
* Bad times to visit the Grove: Friday nights, Saturdays, Sundays, Black Friday, the day after Christmas, days that end in Y.
* Worst parking lot: Westside Shopping Pavillion. It's like the set of a horror movie that's been converted into a parking lot. Dark, cramped, ramshackle, terrifying. In the event of an earthquake, I can only assume everyone inside will be killed instantly.
* Worst reason to visit the Westside Shopping Pavillion: The Bad Times Nordstrom. The saddest, darkest, dingiest version of the nicest department store I've ever seen. Like Communist Russia Nordstrom.
* Best sandwich: Roast Beef on Ciabatta at Clementine's.
* Best chocolate milkshake: Fatburger
* Best creme brulee: Ocean Ave
* Best tuna burger: Gulfstream
* Most annoying bar/restaurant that is really, really good: Father's Office. Recently busted by the fire marshal, they now make everyone wait in line outside until someone leaves. Is this better than the insane Hobbesian fight for tables that *used* to be the standard operating procedure? Unclear. Yes, the steak frites are awesome, but they're not *that* awesome.
* Least annoying bar/restaurant that's pretty good: Houston's. I'm embarrassed to say that Michael and I are borderline regulars at this chain restaurant. I feel a little bad about it, but in fairness, the locally owned options just don't measure up.
* What the Hell? situation of the year: Why are the desserts in this town so craptastic? Houston's more or less phones it in with a brownie and a warm apple crumble. I haven't had a decent tiramisu in months--MONTHS! I'm afraid to even try to find a cannoli. I was warned by my in-laws, but I thought they just hadn't looked hard enough. I stand corrected. This town has a puritanical aversion to high-fat dairy the likes of which you seldom see outside of an eating disorder support group.

*Best thing about 2006? Feast your eyes on this vision:

Danger: Contents May Cause You to Fall In Love

Waaaaaay back in the mists of time (i.e., 1999), I was surfing on the internet instead of writing trivia questions. (Although, to be honest, trivia question writing calls for a decent amount of internet surfing just in terms of pure idea generation.) Given my job writing trivia questions, I was understandably very taken with one particular corner of the World Wide Web, namely the daily News Quiz feature on Slate.

Basically, it was a do-it-yourself variation of Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update. Editor Randy Cohen (yes, this Randy Cohen) would harvest some obscure-yet-hilarious phrase or quote from the previous day's news, craft a tidy set up and then let readers submit their own punchlines.

Okay, so here's where I'm going with this. It happened that, one day in early February, 1999, that I read a reader-submitted joke on Slate that was so witty, so funny, so original, that I instantly fell in love with its author. In a lucky break for me, the author had a strangely familiar name--a name I thought I recognized from my time served at Oak Park River Forest High School.

So I wrote Randy Cohen--which I did a lot those days, as I also liked to kill time between trivia questions by writing pointless-yet-irascible emails to near/total strangers--and asked him if he knew this "Michael Gerber" and if, by any chance, he went to high school in the western suburbs of Chicago. Mr. Cohen's exact reply, if I recall, was "Hell if I know. Ask him yourself." And then he pasted in an email address for said Michael Gerber.

Fast forward to 2006, and true story, I'm actually *married* to that same Michael Gerber. And yes, he's a fellow Fightin' Husky*, although we never so much as made eye contact in the linoleum hallways of that institution.

Now, I can't reprint that News Quiz joke because if any women were to lay eyes on that short quip, I'd be fighting them off at the front door for the rest of the decade. It's that goddamn funny. But Michael, and his writing partner Jon Schwarz, are nothing if not humanitarians. So for the good of all mankind, they've put together a collection of all their *other* humor writings and published it in an easy-to-carry volume entitled "Our Kampf," which is available for purchase here. (After the holidays, it will also be available from Amazon.com and the like.)

As a favor to me, Michael held back any piece that was likely to draw attractive female admirers to our door, but of course, we applied no such test w/r/t Jon. So be advised, if you buy and read "Our Kampf," you may very well find yourself married to a humorist/policy maven by December 2008. I'm just saying, it's a risk.

*Note: Officially, the OPRF Huskies have no such modifying adjective, unfortunately, but I see no reason to let reality ruin my fun.

Wheee! The Rollercoaster of Artistic Doubt!

I spent yesterday reading my classmates' theses and watching trailers for upcoming movies on the Apple website. Here's how that breaks down:

1. Read classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that I am not that funny. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.

2. Despair that I am a hack.

3. Watch trailer for "Wild Hogs."

4. Feel much, much better about my thesis.

5. Read second classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my characters are no where near as believable or well-observed. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.

6. Despair that I am a hack.

7. Watch trailer for "Music and Lyrics."

8. Feel much, much better about my thesis.

9. Read third classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my plot is an incoherent, sluggish mess compared to the breezy, engaging three acts I've just read. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.

10. Despair that I am a hack.

11. Watch trailer for "Hang Six."

12. Feel much, much better about my thesis.

13. Read fourth classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my thesis has none of the emotional sweep or human warmth of this piece. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.

14. Despair that I am a hack.

15. Watch trailer for "Evan Almighty."

16. Feel even worse

17. Watch trailer for "The Cleaner."

18. Miraculously recover sense of self worth.

19. Read own thesis, now that it's been a day and a half.

20. Discover 14 typos and several misspellings, including nunchucks (my guess: nun-chuks), Mahmoud Amadinejad (or, in my world: Mamoud Amadinajaad.) Plus one giant plot inconsistency involving a Great Dane that appears in one scene and vanishes for 60 pages.

21. Reset self-worth back to zero.

22. Drown sorrows in grande non-fat latte.

The first draft of my thesis is done

The sweetest eight words in the English language right now. Also rans would include: "Hey, let's open this bottle of Veuve Clicquot" and "Season Three of Doctor Who starts tomorrow night."

It would be nice if by "thesis" I meant a short academic work, such as might be published by a prestigious university press, or even a collection of short stories, such as is often produced by graduates of the Iowa Workshop. But no. In my case, thesis means a 120 page screenplay. (And the 120 part is already a problem--my professor was very firm that the screenplay should never be more than 110 pages long. No, don't ask me, I don't know either. But I admit, she has a point. Since I started applying for internships, I have yet to do coverage on a script that was more than 111 pages long.)

But for the moment, I am relieved and ready to let go of it for a while. Ha, actually, I woke up this morning wondering if I could turn the thing into a novel after graduation. But aside from that, I really am ready to take a break.

For the record, this was, essentially, my creative process for the last two months:

1. Write up a list of everything that has to get done, and the day it's due.
2. Panic.
3. Surf on the internet for six hours.
4. Count number of days until I qualify for a discounted Treo from my cell phone provider.
5. Review the list.
6. Begin work on the most pressing project.
7. Focus obsessively on the most pressing project, such that I spend six days writing a 12 page paper on Cary Grant, despite having some 200 pages of scripted material to produce in the very near future.
8. Eat Thanksgiving dinner.
9. Refuse to open bottle of champagne for Thanksgiving dinner because "champagne is for people who meet deadlines." Open bottle of prosecco instead.
10. Revise footnotes on paper after drinking half a bottle of prosecco with Thanksgiving dinner.
11. Undue post-prosecco footnote revisions the following morning.
12. Revise the list of everything that has to get done and the day it's due.
13. Panic.
14. Surf on the internet for six hours.
15. Realize I now qualify for discounted Treo from my cellphone provider.
16. Refuse to buy phone because "Treos are for people who meet deadlines."
17. Refuse to attend any movies, social events or optional activities that might release some tension and remind me why I'm film school in the first place.
18. Review the list
19. Begin work on the next most pressing project.
20. Despair that this project does not live up to my expectations.
21. Make bargain with self that this is only a first draft, and maybe there will be time to revise it before turning it in.
22. Turn it in, unrevised.
23. Casually ask professor if he plans to read the draft right away. Upon learning that he's not reading the final projects until the weekend, promise him a revised draft by Sunday afternoon.
24. Spend entire weekend massively revising script.
25. Send revised draft to professor at 9:47 p.m. on Sunday night.
26. Revise list of everything that has to get done and the day it's due.
27. Realize list now consists of one item, the second 50 pages of my thesis screenplay.
28. Realize I have no interest in writing my thesis screenplay.
29. Panic.
30. Surf on the internet for six hours.
31. Break down and see "Casino Royale."
32. Remember what I liked about my screenplay in the first place.
33. Rewrite entire first act of screenplay.
34. Realize this means I now have to write the last 75 pages of my thesis screenplay.
35. Get started.
36. Start to feel better about myself.
37. Come down with a cold.
38. Take cold medication.
39. Keep writing.
40. Become very confused by my own script outline.
41. Take cold medication.
42. Have disturbing dream in which the actor who played Swearingen on "Deadwood" expresses interest in a part in my screenplay.
43. Swear off cold medication.
44. Keep writing.
45. Drink my weight in orange juice.
46. Sleep for 14 hours.
47. Wake up and read what I have so far.
48. Start fixing plot problems.
49. Discover that Final Draft has become horribly buggy and changes formatting if I so much as breathe on it.
50. Start writing my revisions on electronic stickies and pasting them into the main document.
51. Realize I need three more scenes and you're done.
52. Write two scenes.
53. Try to copy them into the main document.
54. Lose two hours work when Final Draft crashes before I can hit "paste."
55. Re-write the two scenes.
56. Write the last scene.
57. Paste it into the main document.
58. Try to print.
59. Track down the 36 formatting errors Final Draft has found.
60. Fix the 36 formatting errors.
61. Try to print.
62. Put paper in the printer.
63. Print.
64. Put studs through the 120 page document.
65. Worry about my professor's reaction to the length of my thesis.
66. Put script in FedEx box.
67. Write professor a note.
68. Put note in FedEx box.
69. Drive to professor's house.
70. Leave script inside professor's screen door.
71. Drive to Jerry's Famous Deli and pick up corned beef sandwich, large bowl of matzo ball soup.
72. Drive home.
73. Eat corned beef sandwich, most of the matzo ball soup.
74. Sleep.

Sicky Sicky Sick Sick Sick

I stayed home from a holiday party in our building yesterday, out of a desire to not infect the nice people who invited us over. Also, sensing that this sniffle thing had a couple days to go, I cancelled a facial I had *really* been looking forward to. I'm bummed about both decisions, even though I know I made the right call.

At the same time, I did NOT back out of a scheduled meeting of the Women of Cinematic Arts (a USC student/alum group I joined last fall), and this morning at the crack of 10:15, I trotted off to the dentist.

In the first case, I missed the last WCA meeting for a friend's birthday, and I thought I could probably keep my distance from the other attendees. (That's a harder trick to pull off when everyone's giving you happy-holiday-hugs and the like.) In the second case, I thought: Well, I feel like crap anyway. Why waste a perfectly good healthy day on a tooth cleaning when I can kill two birds with one stone? And anyway, don't dentists usually wear surgical masks?

(In fact, they do, and mine had a mask on his head, but not pulled over his mouth. I was upfront about the cold, so who knows why he chose to have unprotected dental hygiene time with me.)

A recurring theme, here, however, is that it is ALWAYS easier for me to cancel things I want to do, and harder for me to cancel things I dread. No, the things I dread must be faced, head on, like steamed vegetables or next year's FAFSA.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is that my teeth hurt, like, a lot, and it's so demoralizing to realize that even when you're feeling gunky and low energy and can't really taste anything, it's actually possible to feel worse. Tooth pain is a weird form of discomfort. There's nothing to be done for it except wait for it to subside. But I keep wishing I had one of those jelly-filled rings little kids chew for teething pain. It seems like that might help.

In the meantime, I've grown weary of the Def-con 10 intensity of adult cold medicine, and as I usually do, I've made a day three switch to Dimatapp. Sure, it's for kids. So what? It stems the mucal tide without turning my sinuses into two desicated raisin-like pouches. I was awakened last night by another 4 a.m. bout of Nyquil-induced retardation, and resolved that it was time to break from this medicine-induced fog.

It's Snot Blogger

Whew. I'm back. I switched to Blogger Beta on 12/3, and, as sometimes happens, the internet ate my blog. It was right here where I left it, but I couldn't get on and post. Wow, angry making. I went through all five stages of grief, and by the time Blogger emailed me to say the problem was fixed, I kinda didn't care anymore.

That was Friday, and now, two days later, I've recovered my raison d'blog: Trippy cold medicine after effects.

Yes, I have a cold. Not too bad, but super drippy. Just my nose goes drip drip drip all the time. Okay when I'm awake and can stop up the drip with a Kleenex, or blow until my eardrums pop. (Thanks for the tip, MG!) But you can't sleep and drip at the same time, so I took some Nyquil before bed last night.

In a piece for, I believe, Harper's Magazine, an author once took a massive dose of Nyquil to explore the effect on his brain. He described the resulting mental state as being reduced to his "lizard brain." Those were his exact words. I believe it. Nyquil has a way of dampening down all the higher mental functions until you're almost too dumb to function.

Four hours into the six hour dose, I woke myself up in a panic. Something is terrible wrong, I thought. Why do I feel so stupid? Maybe I'm having a stroke. No,wait, look: crumpled Kleenex. I must have a cold. Oh, right. I took some Nyquil. That explains it. Okay, let's go back to sleep.

Thirty seconds later, I went through the whole thing again. Over and over, until I finally wore myself out and feel sound asleep. If anything, it was probably the Nyquil wearing off that did it, giving me back enough basic reasoning to remember for two seconds that I had a cold.

But with the passing of the Nyquil, so returned the drip drip drip. Happily, even in my sleep I am something of a problem solver. When I woke up this morning, my right hand was tucked under my nose, holding two-inch prong of Kleenex inside my left nostril. Thomas Edison would have been so proud!

What the Eff?

Okay, granted that I don't know very much about sports. But I've already attended four years of college at a public university, so I thought I understood what enrollment at the lushly-bankrolled, very private USC would mean. Instead I find that the nearest comparable public university...

A) Is in a cuter neighborhood
B) With much less crime
C) And a better location
D) Plus costs 1/4 what my tuition costs

and most galling of all...

E) Has a football team that kicks my football team up and down the field for four quarters.

(Right, four quarters? Two halves, that's soccer, right? Or maybe hockey. Anyway, it's definitely not innings, that much I know for--wait, what was I just saying? Oh, right...)

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?

I woke up yesterday enrolled at a school with a MORTAL LOCK on the #2 spot. When I went to bed, we'd had our ASSES HANDED TO US by a bunch of public school punks whose own administration has to periodically taser random students just to keep them in line.

Maybe if I were just a UW alum, this wouldn't bother me. But as I might have mentioned before, I married up. And if I've learned one thing from being legally bounded to a Yalie, it's that with massive tuition bills come certain bragging rights. Like, Meryl Streep went to school here, or the Vanderbilts built my dorm, or we invented the sloppy joe.

Meanwhile, $30K into a wildly-unnecessary graduate program, where are my bragging rights? In a crushed beer cup on the floor of the Rose Bowl, that's where.

What is even the POINT of having a hugely wealthy alumni base if we can't put that money to use bribing football players with SUVs, pumping them full of undetectable designer drugs and recruiting suspiciously agile 28 year olds? I ASK YOU!

By the way, some poor bastard furniture store owner is out a small pile of cash if he ends up honoring that "Everything you buy is free if UCLA wins!" promotion that got heavy radio play this week. My hope is that he covered his bets, literally, by putting down a tidy sum with his local bookie.

Shout Out

As discussed earlier, I do not do well with Christmas lists. Every year it gets harder and harder to think of things I need. But that being said, I'm not going to pretend that I don't benefit from the generosity of others.

Today's post is dedicated to one such gift, from one such person. The person in question is my mother in law, Trish. First, let it be said that Trish brings her A game to the whole gift-giving enterprise. From the first year Michael and I were dating, she's consistently blown me away. One year was a fluffy green angora scarf, the exact borderline snot color I love most in all the world. Another year was pink pajamas. The day before our wedding, she and Katie (my sister in law) gave me some tiny green studs that are among my favorite earrings of all time. (Pink and green are my total sweet spots. And lavender. In fact, I own so much of all three that sometimes I have to go out and buy a couple hundred dollars worth of neutral pants and tees, just to be able to leave the house without looking like a walking Juicy Couture* handbag.)

Okay, but here's the subject of today's post: The little black jacket.

Trish and Greg lived in California for about a year, back when Michael and I were still long distance dating. When we were preparing to move out to LA, she warned me that I might need a little something to protect myself from the evening chill. And she was right. But did I listen? No, I did not.

Long story short, Christmas of 2005, I get the perfect lightweight black jacket. Not too heavy, not too light. Cut perfectly. Looks great.

I wear that jacket constantly these days, as the daylight grows shorter and a brisk 58 degree chill settles over the city around 3 p.m. (Don't laugh. You'd be cold too if you'd been living at a continual 70 F for six months and then the temperature dropped 10 degrees. Okay, I'm a wuss. So what?)

I am not always a perfect correspondent. I am notoriously tardy with my thank you notes. But if I could, I would write a thank you note every day to Trish, letting her know how much I love this little black jacket.

*And now, to redeem myself from a hopelessly sentimental post: I hate Juicy Couture. First, because the name itself is reedonkulous--in fact, is there anything less Couture than Juicy Couture? Yes, I know what they mean. It's about the idea of couture, not the reality. But there's a world of difference between gay black vogue teams calling themselves "House of Dior" and "House of Chanel", and a pair of giggling fashionistas calling themselves "Juicy Couture." It's like the "gorgonzola cheese" I once found on a Panera Bread Co. salad. Apparently the menu writer just liked the sound of "gorgonzola cheese," because what was on the salad was not only not gorgonzola, it wasn't even recognizably cheese,

Second reason to hate Juicy Couture: They take the three greatest colors in the world--pink, leaf green and lavender-and hein'em up beyond all recognition.

Yeah, Okay, I Don't Know About That...

I've just wrapped up my Hitchcock critical studies class, except for the final next week.

Early, early on, my professor insisted to his 100+ obedient students that "the feminists" who insist that Hitch has a problem with women are wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Wrong. Exhibit A: He put interesting, vital female characters in his movies over and over and over again.

Yes, okay. Now can we go back and take a look at "Frenzy"? Or "Psycho"? Or "Topaz"? Or "Family Plot"?

As a fundamental litmus test, can you imagine Grace Kelly playing roles in those movies? No, I submit, you cannot. For the fundamental reason that Hitch wouldn't have asked her. But once the great beauties of the 40s and 50s stopped making films, Hitch had a problem on his hands. He needed actresses, but he couldn't find any that took his breath away, so he had to do the best he could, i.e. Kim Novak and Tippi Hedren.

If I haven't mentioned it before, I am a firm believer in the Myth of the Nice Guy, having witnessed first hand the stranglehold it can have on male/female relations in modern society. Here's how it functions:

1. Guy can't figure out women. Maybe he doesn't know any. Who knows?
2. Guy wrongly forms the opinion that women want nice guys.
3. Guy constructs a nice guy persona and uses this persona in all his interactions with women.
4. Many women sense that this is a persona and not the actual guy, and squicked out, they make their escape, often via anything with a pulse in the vicinity.
5. Guy comes to believe that this proves that women do not like nice guys, and prefer jerks.
6. Guy goes through life convinced women are totally inscrutable and makes no effort to interact with them as sane human beings.

(Yes, I've known "nice guys," and the well-known variant, "compulsive asshole guys." Last semester, a total stranger grilled me about Ian Fleming, then dismissed my answers as mistaken, despite having never read a single Ian Fleming book himself. In retrospect, I think he wanted my seat.)

I'm sorry to say that I think Hitch suffered from the Myth of the Nice Guy. I know he had a long, happy marriage with Alma (or so my professor insists), but I'm guessing that Hitch thought Alma was a one-in-a-million lucky shot, and that most women were neurotic monsters, nymphomaniacs, harpies or some combination of the three. And once he stopped working with women whose inescapable beauty and (ha ha) grace forced him to repress these beliefs, his films get crueler and crueler and crueler.

Of course, I can't say any of this on my exam, so I'll have to content myself with screaming it to the internet.