ever-fixed mark

Mothers of daughters are always looking for child-friendly media with strong female role models to counteract all that pink Disney princess crap, but I think it’s just as important for mothers of boys to do so. If all the girls are raised to be badasses and the boys are raised to expect doormats, there’s going to be one hell of a disconnect in American heteronormative society twenty years down the line.

So whether you’re the mother of boys, girls, both, or neither, here are two princesses that are safe for public consumption:

Paper Bag Princess: In this book by Robert Munsch, a princess rescues her prince-fiance from a fierce dragon, but when the prince shows his gratitude by snarking on her less-than-perfect toilette, she says, “Ronald, your clothes are really pretty and your hair is all neat. You look like a real prince, but you are a bum.” Then she declines to marry him and lives happily ever after anyway.

“The Princess Who Saved Herself”: This song, written and recorded by Jonathan Coulton, reminds me a bit of XTC. Coulton’s princess, like Munsch’s, battles a dragon, and there are also a few hilarious transcripts of her turning down princes who call her for dates. Although it’s clearly a kids’ song, I’m downloading it not just for my boys to listen to, but also for my iPod.

Bill Cunningham New York, a documentary about the New York Times society and street-fashion photographer, was playing at our local art house this weekend, providing me with some unlikely insight into this mid-life crisis that recently led me to quit a perfectly good job without having another position lined up.

Cunningham, who is 83 (!), still bicycles around Manhattan to his various assignments, but that was not the inspiring part. Nor was I impressed by his award from the French Ministry of Culture, his friendship with Lady Astor, or the praise heaped on him by Anna Wintour. (Was I the only person in America who read The Devil Wears Prada and rooted against the beleaguered assistant? Honestly, if I were Anna Wintour, I would have kicked Lauren Weisberger’s ass to the curb the first time she pulled a mopey face about fetching coffee.)

No, it was Cunningham’s strong point of view that won me over. He did one thing, and he did it so well that he had the fashion world at his feet, without (seemingly) kowtowing, publicizing, self-marketing, or otherwise promoting himself. Not that I’m against self-promotion, but it was a good lesson that when you’re at the top of your game and immersed in your art, you don’t need to be so concerned with your rank.

And then…you’re free to be nice. Cunningham was so gosh-darned nice. It truly was the feel-good movie of the year.

(There was also some impressive fashionista footage. I don’t really, shall we say, participate in the world of fashion, but I do like to look at pretty dresses or, alternatively, at Go Fug Yourself. My favorite scene in the whole film was when a former diplomat, modeling a hideous suit printed with a GIANT acid-yellow glen plaid, deadpanned, “I’m not sure what clan it’s from.” Dude, all of Scotland is wondering the same thing.)

My problem is that I don’t have that point of view, that one discipline, that immersion. I manage a department of people who perform six different roles, and a lot of my time is spent marketing those roles to other groups in the organization, convincing people that they, essentially, should let us help. Management is a worthy discipline, and marketing is a worthy discipline, but I don’t feel either is what I was born to do.

Husband — who was beyond supportive through my decision process; it was actually his idea that I should just quit and take the summer off — was a bit alarmed to hear my insight. “You do realize,” he said, “that you’re a little…old…to start a career in the arts?” Well, I had been thinking about going back to project management, but now that you mention it, Julia Margaret Cameron didn’t even start taking photos until she was forty-eight!

There is a something front stalled over the Northeast, hemmed in by a whatever flow and depressed by a blah pressure system. Translation? RAIN. Rain for the past few weeks; rain in the forecast for the foreseeable future. The mood in the region is palpably suicidal.

Southerners always ask how we Yankees can stand the winters, but frankly, in New England it’s not the winter that gets you. IT’S THE SPRING.

Recently the two old iPods I was using to satisfy various needs — an early Shuffle for running, and an ancient Mini for listening to podcasts on the commute — committed synchronized suicide, and I assuaged my grief by purchasing a shiny new Nano. Although it’s postage-stamp sized, like the Shuffle, it holds my whole music collection, unlike the Shuffle or the Mini, and it has a cool touch-screen to boot. Unfortunately, when I tried to hook the thing up to my Mac, I discovered the reason that my two old iPods died at the same time: it was actually the interface with iTunes that has broken down. I switched my collection to another computer and was soon enjoying a much wider variety of music and podcasts than previously on my runs and commutes. I was able to repurpose the old devices for my kids (luckily, the number of kids matches the number of iPods; the dog is out of luck).

After hearing a few songs I hadn’t heard in a few years, I was reminded of how much I dig songs with unusual time signatures. One of my favorites is “The Comedians” by Elvis Costello. It alternates 5/4 with 6/8. There are a number of songs in 6/8 (essentially waltz time doubled), but not too many in 6/4, which is more like 2/4 tripled. My favorite is “Fell on Black Days,” by Soundgarden. Every time I hear it I find myself counting out “1, 2, 3, 4, FIVE, SIX” just to reassure myself that there are in fact six beats to a measure.

(There are times when I’m convinced that my aura is indeed a color on the autistic spectrum.)

Then there’s always Pink Floyd’s “Money” in 7/8. I cannot listen to that song and chew gum at the same time, so intent am I on counting.

Here is an excellent resource for the similarly obsessed.

I’ve started training again for the Yankee Homecoming ten-mile race, and as I’ve been putting in my miles I’ve noted the most alarming fashion trend on my fellow runners. Four words to strike fear into your heart: Knee-high running socks.

Really? We’re doing this now? Have we lost our collective memory of the seventies? Let me help you out:

ARGGGHHHH!

This weekend I had the great privilege of moderating a panel discussion of book bloggers at the Newburyport Literary Festival, which as usual was a huge success thanks in no small part to my friend, the formidable and efficient co-chair Jennifer Entwistle. It was great fun chatting with dedicated book bloggers Marie Cloutier, Kevin Cooney, Dawn Rennert, and Sarah Rettger. From our conversation, I gleaned a long list of blogs, podcasts, vlogs, and Twitter feeds that I really must check out, which should strengthen my powers of procrastination considerably.

Some highlights:

• Bethany Groff, a local historian whose Brief History of Newbury I’ve devoured, took us through a tour of Puritan court records. Titled “Dirty Sexy Newbury: Love, Death, and Barnyard Brawls in Early Newbury History,” her talk was more like Court TV than the Harvard Law Review. What a fabulous presenter.
• Paul Harding, author of Tinkers, gave a very good reading from the beginning of his novel and was extremely entertaining during his Q&A. (Someone asked him why he shunned adverbs, and he said that when you choose the right verb, you don’t always need an adverb. I’ll have to remember that - unfailingly - in the future.)
• Meg Mitchell Moore published her first book, The Arrivals, while working part-time and keeping three small children alive. I think that alone qualifies her for the Man Booker prize. I’m looking forward to reading it when it comes out in a few weeks. It must be good; the publisher offered her a two-book deal.
• Andre Dubus III read from his memoir, the recently-published Townie, set largely in Haverhill in the ’70s. He’s read from this as a work-in-progress the last two years (covered here and here), but I couldn’t resist going back to the well. He’s an enormously engaging speaker. (Damn, that adverb crept by me. Stealthily.)

The highlight of the weekend was the after-party, where I heard Andre Dubus shout deafeningly (damn!) to Paul Harding, “I loved your fucking novel, man! I loved your fucking novel!” So I took the opportunity to introduce myself to Paul Harding and tell him that I also loved his fucking novel. Because, really, how often do you get to drop the f-bomb in front of a Pulitzer Prize winner?