Yesterday was an especially lovely day, a much needed day; Saturday was a day of extreme fatigue and giving into rest was wise. Friday night, as is wont to happen with my stiff back, I tripped over my own feet and stretched my hand out for balance and caught the bedroom closet door. It’s a two-part sliding, folded thing and the next thing I knew I had knocked it right off the track and it was tilting against the shelf. Started to get upset, but then, like the bathroom drawer I said, it’s just a damned door. Before I ask them to come repair it, I’ll have to straighten out my closet; don’t want any human on earth to see the state it’s in now. There is a positive to this in my crazy world that I will enumerate upon later.
As I said, Saturday was an exhausted day with a flare up of the back and leg thing. There is an upside to this tale as well, more later. Fell sound asleep before the television en boudoir and the minute I turned it off, once again I was wide awake. Tossed and turned painfully until around 2 AM, got up and nestled in the recliner and re-watched that evening’s episode of, “Outlander.” More later. For some reason, I crossed my ankles on the ottoman and a few seconds later heard this loud clicking pop coming from my hip. Without pain. Lifted my leg expecting the usual grab of pain and there was none. I arose and walked around and there was no pain, no stiffness. I am surmising that my hip bone has been out of joint added to the difficulty and by some miracle has now popped back in place, because I have had no trouble for two days. No sooner did this happen did I fall sound asleep in the recliner. Healing?
Awakened to the dreadful news of the massacre in Orlando. Didn’t quite think I could bear to hear Obama and Hillary politicizing this for gun control. But I had things to do, i.e., get ready for the Residents graduation brunch at noon. This involved hair, and nail color. I had bought a really beautiful long, sapphire-Royal blue silky tunic that fell mid-thigh in longer points at the sides and I figured I would just wear a long slinky black skirt with it, but really wanted to wear something more summery. And then, God bless the broken closet door for mine eyes beheld a skirt I bought last summer and forgot I had and had never worn…a really pretty ankle length pencil skirt. White background with an almost Asian flower design sprinkled across it–large pink peonies, soft green leaves, smaller purple blooms and buds the same blue color as my tunic–all like a watercolor wash. The tunic and skirt looked wonderful together, and this I wore. I painted my nails a deep, dark midnight blue. Mistake however was to wear my good white sandals, the strap of which goes right across the protruding toe and pins it, and ouch, all the while deciding to park in the Tulane garage and take the streetcar to the foot of Canal Street to where the Windsor Court Hotel, scene of the brunch, was. It was hot as hell, my toe was screaming and when I reached the Ladies Room to freshen up, I unzipped the back of the sandal for relief and left it unzipd. But no matter, it was a wonderful afternoon.
We were on the top floor with a breathtaking view of the Mississippi River where it crooks its arm near the Governor Nichols Street wharf, turning silver as a summer thunderstorm rolled in and this view filled the windows. It was rather heady to sip champagne, and I do say, “Shahm-Pahn” and watch the rain on the river, with the people in my department who have come to mean so much to me. This hotel has consistently been highly rated and the buffet brunch was delicious, but a couple of things surprised me. I sat with Dr. Peterson and Charlene, his wife, two people I am so fond of, and we have fun together, with serious Dr. Scott nearby adding humor also–you know the grounded, reserved, but fun-loving person putting his perspective on a pair of bon vivants, i.e., the truly French at heart. Dr. Peterson is, as previously described, New Orleans to the teeth and a load of fun. But as I said, a couple of things surprised me. There was an excellent salad buffet with grilled vegetables to die for, pita bread, hummus, babaganoush, but no salad fork at the table settings. I finished my salad and asked the waitress to bring me a fresh fork before I started on the main courses. She looked at me like I was crazy but I just looked back and got my fresh fork. When I went to the bar for a refill of champagne, the barkeep reached for my used glass to fill and I told him, told them both, politely I’d like a fresh glass. He looked at me like I was crazy but complied. Sorry, but I, too, can be a tad ta-teur, if you get my drift. One of the items on the buffet was chicken and andouille gumbo, and I got a little cup of it, but when I brought it back to the table and tasted it, I told Dr. Peterson, “this is not chicken and andouille gumbo!” He nodded in agreement. I told him it was nothing but pepper and too greasy. He pointed out the grease swimming on the surface and I placed it aside. Heck, I know gumbo. Dr. Scott laughed at both of us and I think he was having a good time judging by the way his eyes sparkled. “I’m getting interesting insight in your character,” he said. I guess that could go either way! But I know we like one another.
The dessert bar consisted of Bananas Foster and I have to say this is probably the best I’ve ever had. For one thing, the ice cream was homemade, a delightful banana flavor. Dr. Peterson got his dessert before I did and he came to the table and said, “Jeanne, I poured banana liqueur over this–taste it!” I dipped my spoon in it, and Mon Dieu, it was divine. I immediately followed suit with a sprinkling of banana liqueur. Then it was time for the ceremony and awards, and I’m so happy to report that Meggie Doucet received Outstanding Resident of the Year. She was surprised, grew red as a beet, teared up and I was so very happy for her.
At the end of the graduation, we all streamed out into the rain. Dr. Peterson and Charlene gave me a ride back to the parking garage in their miniscule sports car. Poor Charlene, and thank God, she is petite, got into the six-inch wide back seat and I rode with my knees practically in my chest to give her some room, but I was so grateful for their kindness; they reminded me we’re practically neighbors living in Old Metairie and to call on them if ever I needed a ride. Good, good people. Went home, poured a cold glass of Pinot, it was nearly four and I hadn’t cooked for the week so I roasted a rump roast stuffed with garlic upon a bed of onions and red wine, made a pot of jasmine rice, sipped watching the rain and “After the Thin Man,” while the house filled with the most delicious aromas. I awakened before 4 AM this morning, cooked some okra with onion, sausage and tomatoes, and watched a taped episode of “Penny Dreadful” from last night. Poor Vanessa, she can’t catch a break when it comes to men. Last season she fell in love with a werewolf, this year it’s Dracula that’s got her. Wes Studi adds his shaman charm.
After the one bleak episode of “Outlander” filled with ugly, grumpy old Scottish men grousing and trying to kill women in their misogynistic way, I’m happy to say my interest is back although I still miss France. Last week as they prepared for war, Claire experiences flashbacks to her experiences as a WWII nurse that nearly killed her physically and emotionally; PTSD in 1744 Scotland. Added to that was a priceless scene where, to get a young British captive soldier to spill the beans, quick witted Claire pretended to be an English hostage whom Jamie was trying to force himself on. She told her husband, Jamie, not to hurt that boy, Pig, I’ve resisted your advances before, I’ll give into them now, Dog; Jamie caught on immediately and pretended he was going to ravish the English lady before the soldier’s eyes; Claire even kneed him in the hungadoinkas to which Jamie whispered, “Sassenach!’ his pet name. Of course, they broke the young lad. And, Prince Charlie is back, as lunatic as ever, but strangely kind and merciful, wearing his Scottish plaid. He is a breath of fresh air.
Saturday afternoon, I nestled down to watch one of my favorite movies, “Giant.” I so enjoyed it again. I love Elizabeth Taylor’s character; and I still love the Caveman scene and yes, I have been, and acted the same way in a similar situation…She was in a way very much a feminist, but no, just independent and smart, and yet so soft, loving and womanly. I loved Leslie. And at the end when she tells Jordan that she never considered him a real success until he got the crap beaten out of him defending those Mexican people at Sarge’s Diner and was lying in the salad, I couldn’t have agreed with her more. What a wonderful story. Edna Ferber again.
And now I reach my Wretches and Rated (?) segment. When someone’s work consistently gets raves but is really such an amateurish mess would you not say they were overrated? I definitely do think so; that’s overrating. And just because the rest of the public doesn’t swallow the overrating and spend good money on a mess, that’s doesn’t mean the person is underrated…because all of the crap deep enough for hip waders has already preceded. Yeah, true, better underrated than overrated, but underrated is a moot point when you’ve already been overrated big time by Big Noises.
I can’t say I gravitate to Woody Allen’s movies as a whole because it is so few and far between that I like the ones I’ve seen. I remember reading shards and shards of great reviews for, “The Purple Rose of Cairo,” going to see it and being so disappointed I just shook my head. Interesting idea, but it was lousy, really. Mia Farrow playing Mia Farrow again among other things, poorly, and that’s bad when you’re Mia Farrow playing Mia Farrow poorly. Forget, “Manhattan.” At the time in the 80’s, I did like “Hannah and her Sisters” very much, but then looking at it again years later, it was so topical of its time, and not an enduring classic. I did see, “Scoop,” and I would call it okay, mediocre, no great shakes. Of all his films, I like, “Midnight in Paris” the best, and I think this was could stand up to the test of time. It was a fine movie. Tried to watch, “Annie Hall,” sorry, blah. I thought Dianne Keaton was awful. But I did dress like her for a while.
Now, am I a wretch for not liking all of this? Do I find self-absorbed people funny, no, it depends, and I find the nonsense of academia far too annoying to be funny because I know there are many people like this teaching young people such stupid things and calling it higher education. What is is like to live in the looking glass world of New York, I mean, where they’re always staring at their own reflection and fooling the gullible. I once said not too long ago I never thought you’d end up with that bunch. But you seem to have embraced it completely and I gotta tell you, even if you’d ask me, there’s no way I would go there. Maybe you know better than to ask. It seems to me you’re right in the middle of the society in which you grew up and were completely miserable. Well, I guess I ain’t got another thing to say. Other than this odd thought that’s nagging me: can’t help but feel that if Hillary Clinton is elected, the apocalypse won’t be too far off. And that’s not a joke.
Could use another dollop of Bananas Foster.