Nice talkin’ to you

So, a perceptive reader may have noted that since the beginning of the semester, evenings (with the exception of last night) have been … quiet, of the type where you listen to the clock for an hour and then finally, in resignation, turn on the TV, even though you have no intention of actually watching anything. Just for the sound of the human voice. [nb, thanks to KF and KO for dragging me out for walks to ease the transition to “quiet-dom.”]

Tonight I broke down and called my mother. I owed her a call. What with all those periods of travel, I had “missed” talking with her since the beginning of August.

I wont go into details of her Great Unhappiness – something that she has been toting for I think about 4 – 5 decades – but I do want to offer for speculation her parting words. After an hour of idle moroseness, she tells me “good bye and use the time to do something great and worthwhile; it’s your last chance.”

Now, I do understand that my own mother doesn’t believe that anything I have done or continue to do on a daily basis is worthwhile. Indeed, were she to miraculously discover my blog (God, tell me that she hasn’t sprung forth this miracle!) and read yesterday’s post, one could give her some credit for intuiting my lack of “worthwhile” endeavors.

But assume she hasn’t read it. What now? How might I not disappoint her? Here I was, trudging along, thinking that my trilogy of work, family and friends is indeed worth singing grateful songs about – I love all three, after all. I may even add to that pile things that truly keep me bubbling away in a state of near-euphoria (most of the time).

But are any worthwhile?

Perhaps not. And so I am again asking for email suggestions. What might I do to satisfy that maternal desire (on her part) to see a daughter pull it off in life? It seems I haven’t struck gold yet. Any ideas where I may next channel my efforts?

BTW, happy anniversary to me.

How is it that this word has become so metro-golden?

I am sitting at Borders sipping a coffee, paying bills, snarling at myself for having missed the deadline for my Visa card payment (you get a reprieve if you call customer service, but only once; alright, so I used my freebie last month; both times I have an excuse – I was AWAY, darn it! Can’t you tell by the locations from which bills were being charged??), when I heard it again, at the table next to mine – “he’s soooo, metrosexual!”

It’s as if the word was waiting to be born and having arisen from some quirky etymological roots it now stands triumphant, ready to be dished out to all those deserving men who thus far had nowhere to turn to, remaining stuck in some multi-word characterization, such as “he dresses and cares for himself as if he were gay and had a queer eye, but really he is directing it onto his own most likely straight self” which certainly was a clunker. Not anymore, suddenly, all sorts are labeled “metrosexual.”

Now, I think we’re being carried away by word-euphoria here. I even checked wordspy.com to make sure I was correct in my understanding of who was indeed a true metrosexual and I think I can say with a straight face that most men labeled as metros are maybe accurately depicted on the sexual front but certainly there is nothing that would lead me to believe that they look, for example, like this.

And then there are others who are likely to be slumping off into the depths of depression, realizing that they themsleves could never be subsumed into this devilishly cliquey group (ah yes, I’m thinking of you!).

So here’s a plea: let’s not get carried away with these terms. Metrosexual-schmexual. I DON’T want to hear it ten times within each twenty-four-hour period. There are NOT that many well-kempt types around, let alone ones who are obsessive about it. Really.

The morning after

The blogger dinner ended without so much as an incident. All (for an enumeration of who came and links to sites, see Jeremy’s post below; pay no heed to his comments on the consumption of cognac – indeed, everyone sipped with great responsibility, which I have found almost always to be the case when you serve large amounts of food – people thankfully stay sober, a fact that is especially nice if you are the cook and want everyone to take note of what has been prepared) blogged and ate and some even sang.

Now, if the house would be thus filled with people every evening, I would be happy.

[My one complaint: the great blogger dinner must necessarily be followed by the great clean up; I am restraining myself from posting a photo of the disarray in the kitchen, but I am keeping this post short so that I can get to the tidying before the working day -- gulp -- officially kicks in.]

The writer over at Althouse, contemplating the dinner, the great blogging experiment, the convention and life itself 

Procrastination Central author expressing herself through music 

the author of JFW could not believe what he was witnessing (for a detailed account, check out his blog, linked in the post below)