The Lady Business

(This is part of a novel I've been writing off and on (mostly off but trying to get back to it now. More to come, hopefully.)

by Susan Matthewson

It is Wednesday afternoon in mid-June, the day after my twelfth birthday, which was my worst birthday ever because I got my first period. Menstruation wasn’t exactly the surprise I was hoping for. Mama is thrilled to death that I am now, as she says, becoming a young lady.  I’d rather have leprosy.

I am grumpy and feeling mean. I am sitting in the rocker in the corner of the front porch that wraps around the side yard. The rocker is behind mama’s big potted philodendron where I am hiding from Patty Ann Tipple.  I spied Patty Ann minutes ago from the front window riding her bike towards my house. When she turned into the driveway, I snuck out the side door and curled up in the rocker.

           

I hear Patty Ann tromp up the steps and ring the doorbell. I tuck my head between my legs, trying to become invisible. I begin to inspect the hair on my legs. I like the hair on my legs; it is soft, silky, and light brown. I like the way it feels. Mama says now that I am a young lady, I need to shave my legs and underarms. I do not see the point in this. Mama says young ladies do all sorts of things that I find mostly inconvenient and time-consuming.

            

This “lady” business has caused problems between me and mama lately. She started in at Easter saying I needed a bra for my bosom. That’s what mama calls breasts. After inspecting my chest in the mirror, I could not detect any sign of a bosom and told mama so. That didn’t stop her. Next thing I knew she presented me with what she called a “starter” bra.

            

But worst of all mama wants to cut off my waist-length hair into a “bob with bangs” and give me a Toni Home permanent. This is not going to happen. My four-year-old sister Abby is the cutest little girl you ever saw, with smooth, shiny white blond hair in a Dutch boy style that frames her funny little face. That is she was cute.  Then mama gave her a permanent. Now she looks like a cartoon character that stuck a finger in an electric socket resulting in fried hair that stands on end. She reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of Albert Einstein.         

            

“Charlie,” mama calls. “Patty Ann is here.  She has a new charm for her charm bracelet that is just precious.” I scrunch down in the chair. I am hardly breathing now. In fact, I am holding my breath, wondering if I can make myself pass out so that if they find me, I will be unconscious and have to be rushed to the hospital, avoiding Patty Ann once again. 

Mama thinks Patty Ann is the “sweetest, loveliest young lady” she has ever met. I do not. Patty Ann’s recent attachment to me is a mystery because she and I could not be more different. I have a sneaking suspicion what’s behind her interest, but more about that later. She’s been stalking me since school got out and I’m pretty fed up at this point.

            

The screen door bangs shut and Patty Ann clatters down the stairs. I peek through the thick vine that smothers the porch railing and watch her leave, decked out in her pink shorts, pink and white striped blouse, pink headband, and white sandals. Patty Ann is always color coordinated. It’s just one of the many annoying things about her.

I sigh with relief. This is not a good start to the summer. Between trying to avoid Patty Ann and mama’s makeover plans, I’m a nervous wreck. But I have a plan. Things are going to change.         

I Guess This Is An Improvement (sigh)

by Susan Cameron

We were talking last week about class differences.  I made the point that as you go up the social scale, the men tend to be good providers and the women tend to be trophy wives; the lower you descend, the more likely the women are good providers and the men are largely useless drones.  I decided to back up my point with unscientific, anecdotal evidence provided by pop music.  :)

Let's take some excerpts from a classic example from my youth, Shirley Brown's Grammy-winning Best Song Of The Year 1975, Woman to Woman.

Shirley has called Barbara on the phone, having found Barbara's number in her man's pocket.  After calmly explaining who she is, she continues:

"...it's only fair that I let you know that the man you're in love with --
He's mine....
From the top of his head
To the bottom of his feet.
The bed he sleeps in
And every piece of food he eats --
You see, I make it possible.
The clothes on his back --
Ha ha, I buy them.
The car he drives --
I pay the note every month.
So I'm telling you these things
To let you know how much I love that man.
And woman to woman
I think you'll understand
How much I'll do to keep him...
Now, if you were in my shoes
Wouldn't you have done the same thing too...
Was I right or was I wrong
I ain't gonna let you break up my happy home...
Now you see I don't want no trouble now
I hope you understand
I love that man and he's mine...
And I ain't gonna give him up...

Song Of The Year, 1975.  Yeah, that's one happy home that hussy Barbara is interfering with.  But, hey, that was 1975, and things were different then.  Erm, until you listen to Beyoncé's hit from 2006, Irreplaceable:

To the left, to the left,
Everything you own in a box to the left...
In the closet, that's my stuff,
If I bought it, please don't touch...
So go ahead and get gone
Call up that chick and see if she's home
Oops, I bet ya thought that I didn't know
What did you think I was putting you out for?
Because you was untrue
Rolling her around in the car that I bought you
Baby drop them keys
Hurry up before your taxi leaves...

My point?  Beyoncé's singing a song about throwing a man out of her house, a man she bought a car for  (BEYONCE!  Bought him a CAR!), and a nation of downscale young ladies listened to the song, nodding their heads, just like they did for Shirley Brown so long ago.  Of course the narrator bought him the car he cruised around in with another woman.  Bet she also bought him an iPhone and paid his overdue bill and found the calls he made to the other woman.  Bet she also gave him food money, and he took another woman out to dinner with it.  Probably lent him her credit cards, too.  Women at the bottom pay dearly, one way or another, for the company of a man to assuage their loneliness.

The pop music light at the end of the tunnel?  Beyoncé didn't call the other woman, explaining that she was going to keep her man, no matter what; instead, she threw the deadbeat out.  I guess that's progress, but damn!  Forty years gone by, and women are still buying the cars!

Lady on the Rocks

by Liz Zuercher

Cassie’s heart was racing again.  She wrapped her arms across her chest, trying to calm herself, but that only made breathing difficult.  She put her arms down at her sides and shook them to loosen tight muscles, but they still felt like two by fours hanging from rigid shoulders.  She took deep breaths and paced behind her desk.  Nothing that usually made her feel better was working.  This job was killing her.

Looking out her office window she saw the distant ocean and knew where she needed to be.  She used to love going the ocean, watching the sunset, listening to the waves.  There she could lose herself and find herself at the same time.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked on the sand.

She told Judy to lock up and she left early.  She never did that, but today she felt like she would die if she didn’t get out of that office.  She headed toward the ocean. Traffic was heavy and her fingers drummed the steering wheel.  Trapped in the car, trapped in the job.  Alone.  Tears welled in her eyes.

Finally, she reached Moss Point and found a parking spot.  She tossed her heels into the car and slipped into the sandals and hooded fleece jacket she still kept in the back seat, even though she never used them any more.  She negotiated the flight of rough concrete steps down to the beach and walked along the water until she came to an outcropping of rocks where she could sit and watch the sunset.  She hung her legs over the rocky ledge, holding them tight against the rocks.  She clasped her hands at her knees and leaned toward the water, her eyes searching the horizon.  For what?  Anything, she thought, give me something to grab onto.

* * * * *

           

Paul first saw her in the low light of late afternoon November at Moss Point, where he went to take sunset photos.  She sat on a distant rock looking out at the ocean and he could only see her in silhouette.  What drew him to her was the slump of her shoulders and the way her hands were clenched in her lap, as if in fervent prayer.  Yet her face, in profile against the coloring sky, searched the sea as if answers to all her questions floated on the horizon.  Her body was tense and defeated, but hopeful, wistful.  A paradox.

He couldn’t help it.  Even though he rarely included people in his images, he lifted his camera from his chest and took her picture.  Once, twice, again and again.  There was no way you could identify the subject, so he didn’t plan to approach her to ask if it was okay to take her picture.  She would never know his camera was capturing her solitary moment.

He continued down the beach until he came to the spot where he usually set up his tripod to shoot the sunset.  He took stock of the light and the clouds – his favorite small tufts across the sky.  He hoped they would last until the sun sank below the horizon and the colors got stronger.  Sometimes the clouds were perfect and ten minutes later they were gone, leaving a barren sky.  It was always a crapshoot, but he showed up as often as he could and hoped for the best.

As he waited for the sun to set, he watched the woman on the rocks.  She hadn’t moved at all, and he wondered if she was even real.  Maybe she was an illusion.  Maybe she was only a rock formation that looked like a woman.  Maybe she started out real but the longer she sat there, the more she became part of the rocky shore.  Lady on the Rocks, he named her.

By the time the sun slipped behind Catalina Island, the clouds had thinned to nothing and the sky was a flat gray.  Paul sighed and began to pack up his equipment.  He stood to dismantle the tripod, and there she was, walking toward him.  Real.  No longer a silhouette with no features.  Blond hair tumbled around her face, and he saw a far away look in her eyes as she approached.  He looked down at his camera bag, not wanting to admit she was flesh and blood, afraid if he acknowledged her as something more than stone, the spell would be broken.  She wouldn’t be his Lady on the Rocks anymore.  He hoped she’d pass him by without speaking.

“Hello,” she said.

He looked up at her very real, serious dark blue eyes.

“Hello,” he said, weighing whether to say more, wondering if he should tell her that his camera held her image over and over.  Or should he let her continue walking past him and never say another word?

“Is something wrong?” she said.

If she’d left it at hello, he could have left it at that, too.  But she had seen the struggle in his face, and he knew he had to let her know he had seen her struggle, too.

“I was wondering the same about you,” he said.  “I saw you sitting on the rock over there and you looked so sad, the way your hands clenched and your shoulders sagged.  The image was so compelling I had to take a photograph of you.”  He touched the camera that still hung around his neck.

Because she looked afraid of him then, he stammered an apology.

“It’s nothing perverted,” he said.  “You can’t even tell who the person is.  I can show you, if you like.”

She nodded and said she wanted to see the pictures.  They stood beside each other, close but not touching, as he pulled up the images one after another for her.

“I can’t tell it’s me,” she said, “but I can feel myself in the pictures.  How did you do that?”

The sadness overtook her again, the flat sky darkening her eyes.  He was overcome with a desire to comfort and protect her.  But she moved away from him and a cold curtain descended around her that he thought she probably had firmly in place most of the time to shield her vulnerability.  The moment was gone.

“What will you do with those pictures?” she asked.

“I don’t have to do anything with them if you don’t want me to,” he said.  Even as he said it, he felt like it was a lie.  He wouldn’t sell or display these images of her if she didn’t want him to, but he knew he would be working with them at his studio, printing them, studying them.  He would keep them for himself, he thought, no matter what she said.  He felt guilty about that.

“I don’t want anyone else to see them,” she said.  Her voice was cold, businesslike and he imagined her driving a hard bargain.

“I promise,” he said.  No one else, she’d said.  He could promise that - no one else besides the two of them.  “You can trust me.”

“Can I?” she said.  “How do I know that?”

“I guess you don’t know for sure,” he said.  “You’ll just have to take a leap of faith.”

She stared at him for a while, considering his words, taking stock of him.

“Okay,” she said reluctantly.  “I guess I have no choice.”

“I hope you don’t feel threatened,” he said.

“No,” she said.  “Just uneasy.”  She studied his face, her brow furrowed.  “I don’t even know who you are.  It’s a little creepy.”

He reached into his camera bag, pulled out his business card and handed it to her.

“Paul Baxter,” he said.

She took the card.

“Fine art photography,” she read.

“Yes,” he said.  He wanted to know her name, but he was afraid if he asked, she would feel more uncomfortable.  He didn’t want that, he realized.  He never wanted to make her feel uncomfortable.

She studied his face.  He smiled, hoping to know more of her than the images on his camera.

“Cassie,” she said, extending her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Cassie,” he said, taking her hand in a firm handshake.

She nodded and then walked away from him down the beach.  He watched her climb the steps to the street above and disappear as if she’d never existed.

* * * * *

           

Cassie wanted to turn and look at him as she climbed the stairs, but that might give him the wrong idea.  He seemed nice enough, but a girl could never be too careful.  Her trusty inner alarm wasn’t ringing, though, so maybe he really was what he seemed.  But he had taken her picture without her knowing, invaded her privacy.  That alone should make her cautious.  It was making her cautious.  Still, his photographs had touched her, calmed her the way nothing had in a long time. 

She didn’t look back until she was at the top of the stairs, hidden by the bushes that grew thick along the street.  He was no longer there, and she began to wonder if he’d ever been there at all.  But she had his card, so he must be real.  She fingered the card, turning it over so she could read his name.  Paul Baxter, Fine Art Photography.  “Who are you, Paul Baxter?” she said out loud.

Her drive home up the coast was easy and she decided she’d have to go to watch the sunset more often.

            

Me and My Cruciverbalist

by Susan Matthewson

I’m a crossword puzzle nut, but not just ANY crossword. No, I’m a New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle nut…the crème de la crème, the acme, the zenith, the apex of crossword puzzles.

I first became a Sunday NYT puzzle fan when I was just a sweet young thing and spent most my free time attending parties, recovering from the last party, or anticipating the next party. I had a close friend who was a premier party giver, a real hostess with the mostest, and one of her favorite tricks at her parties was to put the Sunday NYT Crossword on a clipboard with an attached pencil and place it in the bathroom.

At most parties it is a given that everyone gathers in the kitchen. But at Lolo’s parties, as people began to visit the bathroom for a necessary pit stop and discovered THE PUZZLE, the bathroom created a major traffic jam. People who had planned on a quick whiz or a minor make-up adjustment suddenly lost track of time, forgot where they were, and what they’d gone in there for. You’d be standing in a line of three or four outside the door when someone would finally get impatient and tap on the door, saying, “Hey, there are people waiting out here.” “Okay, okay,” would come the response, “but I need a five-letter word for African antelope.”

There was no Internet back then, no smart phones either, so coming up with that five-letter word inevitably occupied the attention of anyone who wanted to go to the bathroom to actually pee and involved scouring every book in Lolo’s house for the answer. (In case you’re wondering, the “eland” is the largest antelope in Africa, standing about 6 feet tall, can run as fast as a horse, has long spiraled horns, and a tufted, cattlelike tail.)

Thus began my fascination as well as frustration with the Sunday NYT puzzle, which is known for its difficulty, quirky themes, and confusing clues. I say frustration because Crossword puzzle creators, known as cruciverbalists, are mean, nasty, despicable people who delight in confusion, frustration, and psychological torture. For instance, cruciverbalists just love to insert clues like “spot for a spare tire.” You, of course, are thinking “trunk” of the car, right? Oh, think again, because your cruciverbalist is messing with your mind and the real answer is “waist,” you know, that spare tire you’re carrying around your middle…five letters, just like “trunk” to make you even crazier.  Or, the clue is “something to be inflated” and you are thinking “tire,” “ball,” “balloon” but the answer is only three letters, so then you scratch around for three-letter words for a ball like “orb,” but that doesn’t work either.  Why? Because the answer is actually “ego.” Only a cruciverbalist, all of whom have OVER-inflated egos, could come up with that clue.

Cruciverbalists, however, are human after all and therefore, over time, you can detect certain fallback answers that they tend to rely on to get out of tough spots in the crossword grid. As an example, let me introduce you to my friends Uma, Eno, Idi, and Yul. While these people are famous for a variety of reasons, they are crossword puzzle legends because of their three-letter names. They appear repeatedly in the Sunday puzzles and you don’t really need to know anything about them. Any clue that mentions “Hollywood actress” or “movie star” and requires a three-letter answer is going to be Uma for Uma Thurman. Bet on it. Sometimes the clue might say “star of Kill Bill” or “her breakout role was in Henry and June,” or “ex-wife of actor Ethan Hawke,” or “co-star in The Avengers.” Forget it. You don’t need to know what movies she’s been in or who she’s been married to…if the clue refers to “actress” in any shape, form, or fashion and the answer is three letters, trust me, it’s going to be Uma. Just write it in.

Same with Eno, who I’d never heard of before. Eno’s full name is, ironically, Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno.  He is a British rocker, singer, producer, and composer, but in crossword puzzle world, we don’t care about his music…but we love his three-letter last name. Again, one need never have heard any of his music or have any idea who the hell he is. If the clue refers in any way to rock music and the answer is three letters, just write in “eno” and nine times out of ten, you’ll be right. Ditto for Idi Amin, a “deposed African dictator,” “Butcher of Uganda,” or “brutal African leader.” Yul, of course, is Yul Brynner, “a bald-headed actor,” “star of The King and I,” “hairless actor” or, in one instance, “dome-headed Russian.” The clue really need say nothing more than “actor” and if the answer is three letters, Yul is undoubtedly your guy. These four pals—Uma, Eno, Idi, and Yul—have saved my bacon any number of times.

One unheralded advantage of doing crossword puzzles is that over time you will learn a vast number of obscure facts and trivia that will undoubtedly make you a more interesting person and engaging conversationalist. I know it’s worked for me. For instance, did you know that the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument is in Oregon? Never heard of John Day? Me either? So after encountering John Day in a Sunday crossword, I looked him up. It seems John Day was a member of an expedition to establish a fur trading post in Oregon in 1810.  Unfortunately, John Day and a buddy got lost from the rest of the group somewhere around the mouth of what was then the Mah-hah River near the Columbia River, had all of their equipment and belongings stolen by the Indians, suffered overexposure and almost died, but were eventually rescued, and ended up settling in Astoria, Oregon, which is nowhere near the aforementioned fossil beds. But ever after that incident, people travelling in the area would point out the mouth of the Mah-hah River and say, “That’s where John Day was robbed.” So, eventually the Mah-hah River became the John Day River, and, you probably don’t know this either, but if you name the mouth of a river, then the whole river upstream of the mouth takes that same name, so the fossil beds, which are not anywhere near the mouth of the river where John Day suffered his mugging, picked up his name because it’s now John Day’s river even though he never was anywhere near the present-day fossil beds and most assuredly never ever even found a fossil.*

If one truly wants to become a crossword puzzle aficionado, at the very least it is helpful to memorize all the international, national and state capitals, major rivers, mountains, continents, seas, oceans and world currencies. It’s also a good idea, while you’re at it, to commit to memory the animal mascots of every university in the United States and all the three-letter monograms of the Presidents and Vice Presidents of the United States. As well, you will benefit from learning a workable number of French, Spanish, and Latin terms…(amo, amas, amat—Latin conjugations are very popular in the Sunday crossword), and the titles of respect for important people from various countries like aga, bey, emir, ranee, shah, sri among others (king and queen are just too, too simplistic for the Sunday crossword).

Did I forget to mention all the Roman and Greek Gods and Goddesses and their divine symbols? You absolutely need to know that Ares, the God of War, wears a crushed helmet and carries a spear, Niobe weeps, and Eos brings the dawn and that’s just for starters. Then there are the Muses and their muse specialties. Thalia is one of the Three Graces and is the muse of comedy and idyllic poetry while her sister Erato is the muse of mimicry. There are a bunch of others, but Thalia and Erato have outclassed their sisters and appear much more often than say, Polyhymnia, the muse of sacred song or Terpsichore, the muse of dance. Let this be a lesson to future Muse parents. Do not name your daughters long, complicated names if you want them to appear in the Sunday NYT crossword puzzle. Keep the name short and simple, no more than five or six letters. In fact, think Uma…think three letters.

Unfortunately, Uma herself, that paragon of crossword immortality, forgot the three-to-six-letter rule and has condemned her youngest child born in July to crossword obscurity by naming her Rosalind Arusha Arkadina Altalune Florence Thurman-Busson. Cruciverbalists everywhere have thrown their hands up in disgust. What was she thinking?

*Information from www.nps.gov/joda/faqs.htm, the website of the National Park Service.