The Affair

Los Angeles, California

SPOILER ALERT!

Awhile back, I wrote about the sudden death of Matthew Crawley on Downton Abbey. As an update, I did recover from that. But now, another one bites the dust, and that would be Alison Bailey on The Affair. An aside: my friend, Lynnette, tells a story about teasing her young niece that her pet rabbit would make a delicious meal (you'd have to know Lynnette to appreciate that this is funny). After taunting the six-year old niece about how the rabbit could be cooked (with white wine and herbs, I am assuming), this little six-year old responded: "Well! I didn't see that coming!" This has since become a well-used phrase in my vernacular, but never so appropriately applied as in response to the unexpected demise of Alison on The Affair.

I have had a love/hate relationship with The Affair, since its first season in 2014. I am not a series-watcher. I could count on one hand all of the non-PBS series I have watched in the last decade. I did not watch the Sopranos or Six Feet Under. I didn't watch Lost or 24, and I'm not about to watch Westworld, The Leftovers, or Sharp Objects. I did watch Big Little Lies because it was filmed around Carmel and Monterey and had an interesting cast. I hated it.

What I initially liked about The Affair was its presentation of point of view. In the beginning, the storyline, per episode, was told from the point of view of two of the main four characters. Hour-long episodes split in half, with the second half duplicating the same story as the first, but told from a different character's point of view. Changing the filter changes the story in both small, nuanced ways as well as more obviously. Clothing and furnishings, facial expressions, inflections in speech, all bind together to tell a different story. And the viewer is left in the middle with the various versions of the story in jigsaw-like pieces.

The series hasn't always been good. I threw up my hands in season two, it was so maddening. I criticized the writing that I had lauded in season one. The plot was now meandering all over the place, and I could barely make sense of it... until the season finale, where the solution to the murder mystery, strung out for two full seasons, was shockingly revealed. And that tied up the threads, and made sense out of what had seemed like a splintered season. But, by the end of season three, I was out. I felt the series had lost its way. However, by the time it rolled around again with season four, I found myself sneaking a peak, and subsequently, I was sucked back in. Season four ended last month following a tumultuous final three episodes.

Throughout those last few episodes, I found myself running a gamut of emotions. The third to last episode, where it was revealed that Alison had died, was a stunner. Alison was the centerpiece of the series which is hung on the shoulders of four characters who have been married and/or friends to each other in an  enmeshment of relationships. But, Alison, right from the get-go was understandably sad and suffering. And Ruth Wilson was so good at it. You didn't always like Alison. In fact, you don't always like any of them and that is the beauty and conceit of the writing. Just when you have had enough of these people, an episode shows you a character's vulnerability or tenderness. I flop around disliking them, then feeling varying degrees of empathy for them. By contrast, none of this happened for me with Big, Little Lies. The characters started as nasty and/or shallow people I didn't care about, and that impression stayed. Not so with The Affair. It is inspired writing to create characters with that much dimension to them.

A woman I knew once said that Diane Lane's character in Unfaithful made her hate her as well as the entire film. Why would we care about her, she lamented. She cheats on her husband with disastrous effects, then she feels bad. Huh? Madame Bovary..? ... Anna Karenina...? How about Graham Greene's The End of the Affair or Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence, to name just a few. Perhaps we English majors developed a less narrow view of womankind through studying literature?

Alison was an adulterous wife... twice. She cheated on her husband before leaving him to marry her lover. Then she cheated on that husband with... wait for it... her ex-husband. You could write that off as a bad soap opera plot, except that the characters are so multidimensional. They are flawed, yet somehow balanced with sensitivity, pathos, and, yes, humanity. That is highlighting the human condition, and that is writing I envy. Alison alternately pissed me off and broke my heart. She was the victim who was always trying to shake her fist at those who had wronged or used her, and always trying to set herself right. But, alas, in the end, she was taken down. Although... although, we are not really sure about anything other than her death. For that we must wait until season five.

The penultimate (I've been overusing that word, I know, but I kinda like it) episode showed two perspectives as usual, but breaking with tradition, these were both Alison's. In the first, she was was not able to change her story as another character, Helen, had advised her. She was still succumbing to her attraction to damaged and dishonest men who offered her anything in the form of intimacy. In the second, dark episode she was changing her story, fighting back and ultimately railing against the man who was sinking her back into the ocean. In most of the episodes, you have this person's story, and that person's story, and the truth, which might be closer to one or the other but likely in the middle, or, more accurately, in the perspective of the viewer. In this episode, both perspectives are Alison's, and the truth... murky as the dark ocean water into which she was dropped. It was not an easy episode to watch.

And then we have the final episode, which didn't progress any further down the road than to show how all of the remaining characters, including secondary ones, are, in the words of Helen, so fu*%ing crazy. And yes, those characters are, and have always been so. But, as I take a quick mental inventory, I must write that so are many of us. It would take a multitude of blogposts to delineate the fu*%ing craziness I have seen amongst some of the people I have known. And I'm talking complex neuroses, eating disorders, hypervigilance bordering on obsessive behavior, even what seems like sociopathology (defined by the DSM as an Antisocial Personality Disorder (people who describe themselves as not being social?). Again, human condition. But, not going there, not here. Not now.

So, back to The Affair. For the evocative food for reflection that The Affair has given me, I am appreciative. Then again, I am always euphorically grateful for, as well as envious of, good writing. Especially when the product of that good writing sticks with me, and makes me think.

Thanks for tuning in here...

Tattoo You

Los Angeles, California

A while back, our mutual friend, Debra, asked Lydia and me if either of us had ever thought about getting a tattoo. Lydia immediately said no. I said that I had considered it. The big surprise was when Debra came back saying that she had, as well. I doubt if there was much surprise engendered by learning that I had considered it, but Debra? She doesn't seem like the tattoo type, though I am sure I am dating myself by revealing that I think there is such a thing. Tattoos are now ubiquitous on women, starting with the tramp stamp and progressing to sleeves. In the salsa world, there is an abundance of tattoos, and that might be a random sample of the world at large, or at least Los Angeles at large.

This all came back to me tonight as I was watching Thelma and Louise. I love Thelma and Louise, which is probably inconsistent with who I am, though with tastes that lean towards watching Downton Abbey, reading The Spellman Files + listening to both A Prairie Home Companion + Dodgers baseball games on the radio, my choice of entertainment may be hard to pin down.  Anyway, I love Thelma and Louise. I love the unraveling of their journey, and the way it all gets looser, including the look of both of them, as their story tumults towards the end. And it's got some great lines in it, like when Thelma states something like Call me crazy, but I think I've got a knack for this sh*t, after they lock the state trooper into his trunk.

Even though (spoiler alert!!) the girls don't make it, it is nevertheless a story of survival and confronting what crosses their path. It's about their finding the strength within them. I could go on, but it's Thelma and Louise. If you don't know it, or you couldn't figure out what it was about when you saw it, maybe you should watch it (again + again, as I do).

So, as I was watching it tonight, I thought of another tattoo. My fantasy tattoo is a hibiscus. I once had one drawn on my ankle when I was in Hawaii, freehand + in henna. It was beautiful and I grieved as it faded. So I thought about getting one, permanent. Then I remembered that my friend, Todd, told me that the anklet tattoo he got was so painful that he wanted to stop in the middle of it, but he was too vain to walk around with what would appear to be half a tattoo. So I put the ankle hibiscus on the back burner. Still, thinking about Thelma + Louise, I thought that the calligraphic initials, T+L would mean a lot to me. Not for the girls, but for my father and my uncle's initials-- two men who meant a great deal in my life. And that it would be emblematic of the courage and survival I have come hard to learn is essential in life.

Just after my life changed forever, Matthew, a member of the outlaws (in-laws) who, nevertheless remains in touch with me, showed me his most recent tattoo. It is of Hiroshima. Matthew is mixed Japanese-American, so I initially thought he felt that connection to it. But, he explained that he had gotten it because it reminds him daily that, regardless of whatever he is going through, someone else has had it worse. I don't think I need that reminder, though I do have to poke myself with it now and again. And it is true: T+L sail off into the sunset, because not everyone gets to go home like E.T. And while some of us may feel that a dark cloud is attached to us as we cope with whatever it is that the universe has thrown at us, that dark cloud is very different from Hiroshima's. So while I currently struggle with what feels like a total eclipse of my very own, I try to get a purchase on what I have accomplished so far. It has been more than two years of plain and simple hell. But, so far, I have survived. I have survived. And that is no small thing. I never want to go through anything like this again, but I have learned that I am stronger than I ever knew. Though, truth be told, I am far from thinking, like Thelma, that I've got a knack for this sh*t. While I have so far survived the journey, there were a vast amount of stretches on the road that I will always, always wish I could have detoured. But that is surely true of all of us, including Thelma. And, most certainly, Louise.

WTF

DOWNTON ABBEY SPOILER ALERT I'm sorry. Normally I'm pretty darn good about watching my language, at least here in blogdom. I think I can be forgiven for this outburst however, when I disclose that I just watched the season finale of Downton Abbey. So, here it comes:

WTF? Are you freakin' kidding me? OK, really? Really? No way. Way? No way! REALLY? Are you FREAKING kidding me? WHAT THE F?

Interestingly enough, we had seen Silver Linings Playbook Monday afternoon. If you've seen it, you might remember the scene where Bradley Cooper's character, Pat, finishes reading A Farewell to Arms, by Ernest Hemingway, sometime in the middle of the night. He then throws the book out through a closed window, before waking his parents to rant about the ending where Hemingway unceremoniously kills off his protagonist's, and war hero's, love interest (it's been years since I've read this, so I may have bent the details a bit here). I sortakinda get that rant, especially after watching the last episode of Downton later that evening. I might have considered throwing the TV out through one of the large sliding doors in our den. If only I could have lifted it. If only.


And let me join the legions in writing that I saw this coming. Put a happy man in a nice convertible and show him enjoying the scenery and looking up at the sky...I immediately cried out NO!!! Frankly, there was foreshadowing galore as he had this beatific expression on his face which intensified as the episode unfolded. He was doomed. Believe me, I understand the impact on dramatic structure that killing off a main character can provide. The episode charged towards an culmination dripping with both blood and irony. But COME ON. I had even managed to forget the little blurb I read, before this season began, about Dan Stevens not returning to Downton for season four. I can do this forgetting thing in my fuzzy romantic world. My fuzzyromantic world that has just been assaulted. But, really? Really? Seems to me like we lost more characters this year than we did during last year's war and flu season. Is that right? Is that fair? 

So now we must soldier on without Matthew, and without Sybil (though she was less hard to lose, even if she was the prettiest of the sisters and had that lovely, husky voice). And now, we must put up with the new addition of Cousin Rose. Please.

Does anyone remember when Charlie, the love of The Duchess of Duke Street's life, died in the middle of the second series? Now that was tough, but it made sense. He had a head injury from the war. I think maybe he had been blinded. He just wasn't doing so well, so it wasn't so random. Plus, by the way, the whole concept of being killed in a car accident when there are hardly any vehicles on the road seems like a bit of a stretch to me. I'm just saying.

What will happen next for Lady Mary? Maybe another long lost cousin who happens to be a doppelganger for Matthew? Or they might install a shower at Downton, and Lady Mary can wake up from a nightmare and find Matthew in there? I mean, Holy Cow! And, now I'm running out of phrases and exclamations about this turn of events (not really, I'm just writing that). Think I'll finish up by going back to the one that bears repeating: WTF?!? Thank you for reading my blog. If you haven't watched Downton Abbey, but intend to sometime down the line, I apologize. But I did post SPOILER ALERT, so shame on you that you have so little self control...

Ain't No Sunshine When They've Gone

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

My two comrades-in-arms, Debra, whom we call DG, and Lydia, whose monogram is LOL (as a group I refer to the three of us as Las Chicas) left Sunday night. They left very slowly. I saw them through security at Monterey Airport; we all waved before I turned to walk to the parking lot. I called Billy on the way home to mitigate the damages of girlfriend separation. Once home, I poured myself a glass of wine, finished off what was left of the macaroni and cheese (made with truffle cheese, rosemary fontina, gruyere, cheddar, AND creme fraiche), and settled in for episode two of this season's Downton Abbey. I didn't hear my phone ring, nor check it for calls/texts, until after ten o'clock. Turned out their flight had been inexplicably delayed by at least an hour. Not the way you want to end a fun weekend, especially since both of them had to be up at 5:30 Monday morning. I got up at 7:00 yesterday, in a half-hearted gesture of solidarity. Seriously, I'll do a lot of things for my friends, but disrupting my circadian rhythm is above and beyond the call of duty.

Regardless of the travel-debacle ending, it was a fast, furious, and fun weekend (I just threw in furious to boost the alliteration). I picked them up at the airport on Thursday night. I had prepared a sign -- a big, red, hand-lettered Las Chicas, done on the cardboard back of a letter-sized lined tablet. I stress hand-lettered. Art is not my strong suit. When I got to the gate, there was a guy, in a suit, holding a paddle that read The Lodge at Pebble Beach. Now, I am more or less known for my ability to do just about anything that is FUN or FUNNY, even if it is in the grey margins of embarrassing myself. But I felt plainly stupid to pull out my sign while that guy was standing there. Not, I will write, because I believed I was the first person to make a silly sign. But it was only the two of us meeting the flight (did I mention how small - like bus-station small, the Monterey Airport is?). Luckily, his passengers deplaned before the girls, so I pulled my sign out as soon as I saw them. And they laughed (as did I, but more from the relief of not looking like an idiot to strangers -- I frankly don't mind so much looking like an idiot to friends -- I always, for right or wrong, figure they're laughing near me, not at me).

We hung out at the house that night and each of the three subsequent evenings, talking and laughing. We are so good at this. During the day we walked and shopped in town in spite of the freezing cold (west coast freezing cold = temps in the high 40s). We went to Pebble Beach Spa for massages. Lydia and I went to Mass on Sunday, after which they treated me to lunch at The Bench in The Lodge at Pebble Beach on a brilliantly beautiful Sunday afternoon. It was, as always, a pleasure to spend time with them both, and to have the ability to do this in such a perfectly comfortable house in one of the most beautiful places in California. This was, I think, our fifth long weekend together in Carmel, and I consider it a gift that these two fristers have never missed an opportunity to join me in sharing the beauty of Carmel, and the celebration of our Las Chicas friendship.

So, today, I am hunkering down for the remaining four nights that I will be here on my own. They are prognosticating a warming trend. I even heard the word seventies invoked with regard to the coming weekend temps. Each trip takes on its own life in a way, and I haven't been walking as much as usual this year. Rather I am using my time alone to write in my journal and ponder the coming year and the changes it might bring. That can be heavy stuff, so I appreciated the distraction my fristers brought to me. No matter what comes, having close girlfriends can be the absolute best thing a woman can have in her life. I think even more so as time goes on. So even though it has been stunningly sunny and gorgeous since they left, a part of me feels bereft of their company. And in that part of me that always looks forward to the time that we spend together, there just ain't no sunshine when they've gone.Yikes! Someone read this post, and reported back to me that I had forgotten to...wait for it... Thank you for reading my blog!!!

Company

Carmel-by-the Sea, California

Billy flew home last night. I drove him to Monterey airport, driving back in the dark to our rental home, letting myself in to the now-empty but well-lit house (he made sure of that before we left) and standing for a moment. I took a deep breath.

If you have followed along at all (and I reiterate, why would you?) you know that the time we spend in Carmel is split between time together with friends; time we spend alone together; time I spend with my fristers, and the time when I am here by myself. It all sounds lovely, but last night, with Billy still in the air enroute to Los Angeles, I felt lonely. We had such a great time here with our friends, Todd and Christopher, and their family entourage. And I had so looked forward to Christmas and New Year's here with them. It was over in a the blink of an eye. On January 2nd, we returned to LA to check on our business (good) and my mom (stable). We drove back up on Saturday night -- the second rainy night drive from LA to Carmel in a fortnight.

I usually enjoy my time alone here in Carmel. It's pretty much the only place where I have been completely alone since we married. When Billy has needed to travel for business, I almost always go with him. I don't think I have ever spent a night alone in our present home. But I've spent lots of time alone in Carmel, especially since we lost our irrepressible Aussie who accompanied us on the early trips when we stayed at Tucked In (see January blog posts from 2009, available here subject to fees and disclosures).

Being alone is important because it allows you to focus on yourself, and in doing so, you realize how much you want and need to have people in your life to throw that focus off of yourself. You need to give; you need to compromise; you need to put other people's needs ahead of you own. Just as role models or whatever can provide us with our moral compass, being alone can help you to reset your community compass. We are all but a small part, somewhere in the midst of concentric circles. It's important to be aware of who else those circles contain--family, friends, neighbors, your community both small and at large, and to be aware of what you can and should do as your part. But it's not bad to be on your own occasionally, to indulge yourself and recharge your battery. Here in Carmel, I am able to bask in the universe of my own Bronteness. But, the truth is, having had our time here with our friends, I missed Carole after she left. And I miss Todd and Christopher. And, most especially, I miss Billy. Not that we spend every waking moment here together. On the contrary. Billy sometimes walks alone, preferring to leave the house early before I even want to think about it. And I usually go to Mass alone on Sundays, though he will accompany me once or twice during our time here together.

Most Sunday afternoons, Billy goes to open houses to look at homes that are currently up for sale here. Don't ask me why he does this. In the years that we have been coming here, he has always spent time driving around looking at real estate and attending open houses. Not once, during that time, has he said to me that he has found a house he would consider purchasing. It is purely recreational. I've struggled to understand the point of this, but one day I realized that it is a lot like my reading cookbooks and food magazines. I probably don't prepare five percent of the recipes I mark with Post-it tabs, but while I am doing it I am awash in the fantasy of the wonderful dinner parties I will have, feeding my friends with this new clever and astoundingly delicious dish which I will prep, prepare, and plate perfectly. But when it comes to it, I'm often too scattered by stress and too fatigued to actually plan and execute this fantasy dinner party. Not that I don't have the energy, but, these days, it is a different kind which tends to go out on the dance floor rather than in a marathon of cooking. And maybe Billy's interest in the houses is similar -- imagining himself working in a well-appointed home office, or gazing at the sunset from the window of his living room which overlooks Carmel beach. I'm just guessing, as he's never really explained this to me. And that's ok.

Marriage. You don't always explain. You don't always understand. But you have someone there with whom you can curl up on the sofa in front of the fire and watch the third season of Downton Abbey. Steven Sondheim called it Company. And with Billy back home in Los Angeles, I am bereft of that company for the moment. However, my Las Chicas fristers arrive tomorrow night for a weekend of chatter, laughter, deep conversations, and intense girlfriend silliness. DG's father-in-law passed away last weekend, and she will be coming here just after traveling to Boston for his funeral. As she wrote in her email to tell us that she would still be able to make it for our weekend...and I will need it more than ever. But we always need this company, frister-style.

So for today, and for tomorrow, I am alone. I'm doing a bit of cooking in preparation for their time here. I'm gathering together a few surprise treats that will be waiting for them on their beds. And I'm looking forward to their visit, and to Billy's return the following Saturday night. We will have ten more days here together before we pack up and return to LA. We've had an especially good time here with our friends. The first half of our stay was stellar, and I am joyfully anticipating our remaining time here together. We'll enjoy the peaceful beauty of the beach and this community, as well as the more slowly-paced life we share here. But what I am looking forward to the most is simply the pleasure of his company, here in this beautiful place that has grown to feel so much like home to us both. Thanks for reading my blog. Welcome Las Chicas Fristers, and safe trip back, Billy!

The Golden Age

Los Angeles, California


I'm mad at Matthew. Until a couple of weeks ago, Billy and I were going merrily along, enjoying the second series of Downton Abbey. Did we notice the anachronisms? No, not really. Were we stuck on intense admiration for the hats? Well, one of us was. But then, a character showed up last week, looking like The English Patient, and claiming to be the heir to Downton (the one who had gone down with the Titanic). That was, well, weird. This week (spoiler alert): Matthew learned that he could walk again just as Spanish Flu descended upon the estate. Livinia, the fiance (the one who had gone back to him after he had summarily dismissed her as a result of his paralysis which would prevent them from having a "proper marriage"), suddenly looked unwell at the dinner table. She's a goner, I said to Billy, trying to even the score because he had readily picked up on Lord Grantham's attraction to the new maid. Sure enough, Livinia is now DYK (dead, you know). "Died of a broken heart, because of that
kiss . . . " said Matthew, at her graveside, further telling Lady Mary that they could never be together having caused the death of Livinia by sharing a brief dance, profession of undead love, AND a kiss (are you following this?). No, I cried to Billy even before this last speech. Matthew had that self-righteous look on his face that made me fear that he would go all upstanding on her, and refuse the fact that they are meant to be together. I've seen this happen before, like, with Bo and Hope on Days of our Lives (yes, it's true. A college addiction, everyone was watching it, who was I to be different?).


Despite the above rant about Matthew, we really are enjoying Downton Abbey. It's been a long, cold couple of decades since what we now consider to be the golden age of PBS. In fact, if you just hate it when people start waxing nostalgic about the good old days, this would be a good time to exit, stage left.


We came to the PBS party pretty late in the game, but were able to catch up on a lot of the classics through pledge breaks and PBS reboots (ok, reruns). We had already missed the original Upstairs, Downstairs (didn't like the recent remake much). Also missed the original Forsyte Saga (liked the Damian Lewis remake a lot). We missed most of the Shakespeare (I think they did the complete works, if memory serves), including the legendary Much Ado About Nothing with Sam Waterston. But we did see a good deal of really, really good stuff: The Jewel in the Crown, and Brideshead Revisited (which people remember as being on Masterpiece Theatre but was actually on Great Performances). This was truly a gilded age: there was Masterpiece Theatre, Great Performances, American Playhouse, and Wonderworks. American Playhouse offered productions of American short stories incuding Kurt Vonnegut's Who Am I This Time?, with Christopher Walken and Susan Sarandon, which was so good. They also produced a couple of Jean Shepherd's stories, including The Star-Crossed Romance of Josephine Cosnowski -- these masterfully narrated by Shepherd himself.  Wonderworks was a wonder. It produced excellent full-length, and even series-length, versions of children's lit, including Anne of Green Gables and The Little Princess. Adding Mystery, with it's fab Edward Gorey titles, into this mix and you had something good going almost every night of the week. Now Masterpiece Theatre is cut up into three portions: Masterpiece Classic (which in recent years has caused me to cry out: enough with the Jane Austen already. And don't even get me started on Dickens); Masterpiece Contemporary, and Masterpiece Mystery (still with the Gorey titles). With Downton Abbey, there ostensibly is a nod to that golden age when it was simply Masterpiece Theatre, and introduced by the incomparable Alastair Cooke. While it's only one night a week, that's ok. At this point in time, I don't really want to watch TV on more than one night a week. And with Netflix (which we don't utilize effectively), and the DVR, there are always more choices than we can handle, should we choose to sit and sog on another night.


So, while I don't anticipate a real return to that golden age, I do now find myself looking forward to the Sunday night saga of Lady Mary and the others at Downton, in spite of the plot having more twists and turns than the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland. Also, in spite of Matthew's recent peevishness. And the truth is, I would probably keep tuning in regardless of all of that, and even if I wasn't enjoying it quite so much. Because, after all is said and done, one should never underestimate the power of fabulous hats. Thank you so much for reading my blog. Cheerio!