I never should have read The Bell Jar

And here's why:

1. It scared me witless.
2. Whenever I feel a little depressed, I immediately start thinking about "the bell jar" (not the book, the principle) and that's scary.
3. It made me afraid to go to Smith because I thought I'd lose it like Sylvia Plath did.
4. It made me think about depression much more than I'm comfortable with.

Maybe I'm just tired, maybe it's the literature I've been reading, but I'm feeling rather morose. Let's hope dance helps.

Scullery maid

Yesterday, I had a gig working a party. I was supposed to help take coats and shoes, keep things in the kitchen running smoothly, and ply people with wine. (I love the verb "ply.")

The lady that had hired me had sent out a mass email that my mother got, and so I had never met her before. When we spoke on the phone, I noticed that she had a very thick French accent- it was so thick, it sounded fake. I later learned that she had gone to college in France, and that she was a professor at three local colleges. As soon as she found out that I take French at school, she instantly slid into French and proceeded to address me almost exclusively in French for the remainder of the evening. I was very proud of myself because I was able to follow almost everything she said.

My family gives a lot of parties, but they bear little resemblance to the party where I worked last night. For one thing, our parties are always much smaller than that, and we usually have separate parties for friends and family. This is partly due to the fact that my parents don't have a ton of bosom friends. They have scores of acquaintances, but not on the order of these people. They actually kissed each other on both cheeks in greeting. It was like being inside a French II textbook!

For another, we always make our own food. Even when my father was leaving the board of Squeaky Wheel and we had all the artists, board members, and all of their spouses come over, we made everything. (That was when Caroline's much-lauded walnut tart made its debut. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.) Although these people had a lovely kitchen, I got the sense that they aren't good at using it. (Their kitchen had about five of those posters that show multiple varieties of one kind of food with the names underneath the pictures, like chocolate or beans, only all of these posters were about mushrooms. And they were all different. Who likes mushrooms that much?) I could tell because my first task was slicing lemons and limes for people's San Pelegrino (nobody used them), and the lady of the house passed me some slices she had just made. They were thin and sort of ragged. She suggested that I use them also, so I arranged them artfully on the little trays I had been given for the lemons and limes, effectively concealing them.

And finally, my family is not composed of actual sadists who think it's a fun idea to hire a BAGPIPE PLAYER for a BIRTHDAY PARTY. The bagpipe player (bagpipist? I'll just go with "bagpipe player") was a ginger with a Scottish accent, and he wore a kilt. The whole nine yards. He played the bagpipe in the room just next to the hall where I was posted, waiting to take people's coats and shoes. It was absolute agony. And these people actually drew closer to the sound of bagpipes as soon as this guy started playing! I know my first instinct when confronted with the sound of bagpipes is an overwhelming urge to flee. I stood in the hall, gritting my teeth and fighting my perfectly reasonable instincts as I watched all these weirdos clasp their hands together in glee.

In the kitchen, there was a Polish lady who seemed to be some kind of caterer's assistant. As the limits of my job were vaguely defined once people had arrived and gotten settled, I went straight to my comfort zone- the kitchen- and began to help this lady. (I forget her name- it began with J, so that's what I'll call her.) J was very nice to me. She reminded me very much of my grandma, although much younger and much, much shorter- she just reached my shoulder. She came to America in 1972, she said, and she told me, "ever since then, I've just been helping." Really, she was so cute. And she let me have some of the leftover mashed potatoes, too, which was especially nice since I had forgotten to eat before leaving home. Once people's coats and shoes had been settled (which took quite a long time- there were maybe 30 people there!) I went and helped J with the dishes. She washed, and I dried. Washing dishes is very therapeutic to me- I actually just had a conversation with L about it. I find it steadying, because it's a way to help out in unfamiliar territory. That might not be the only reason why, but it's partly why.

All in all, it was an interesting night, and not terribly hand work, especially since I got to keep my shoes off.

Week From Hell Chocolate Cake

1 and 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup vegetable oil
1 and 1/4 cups sugar
2 eggs
1 cup warm water
3/4 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup cocoa

Preheat oven to 350 degrees and prepare a 9x13 pan with butter and coat with a small amount of flour. (If you have a springform pan, use that.) Shake off excess.
Sift together flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.
In a large mixing bowl, combine oil, sugar and eggs. Add water and vanilla extract.
Slowly add flour mixture, alternating with cocoa. Batter will be slightly lumpy.
Pour batter into the prepared pans and bake at 350 degrees for 35-40 minutes. Insert a toothpick in the center of the cake to test. Allow to cool and frost as desired (I didn't bother, but maybe next time).

Illumination

L. visited me this weekend, and with her visit, she brought an interesting thing to my attention. The reasoning behind this blog's title may be an absolute mystery to several of my readers. (I'm not sure how many of these I have, but as I live most of my life outside of my city, it's not an unreasonable assumption that many of you don't occupy the same city or even region as I do.) Allow me to explain.
My house is magenta. It has been for almost four years now. I have found that one of the first questions I get asked is, "Whose idea was that?" and it's always pleasurable to respond, "My dad's." My father has a pink shirt that he saves for his court dates. He has pink socks with white polka dots that he wears to work. And it was he who first suggested, on that spring evening so long ago, that we repaint our house pink.
I remember it well. We were finishing dinner (a rare occurrence; this was back when we still tried to have family dinners every night, even though I had dance classes during normal dinner hours) and Easter had just passed, so Caroline and I were having some leftover Easter chocolate for dessert. My father reached over and picked up the box my granparents had sent, that housed a chocolate bunny.
"Just this shade," he said. "It would be great! A very classic Victorian color."
My mother pursed her lips and gave him a cold look that stopped just short of being Sicilian. Undaunted, my father continued.
"We could do the trimmings in this," he said, holding up another chocolate box. This one was purple. He stacked them on top of each other. "They complement each other beautifully."
I don't remember how we convinced my mother, but somehow we did! That summer, a group of somewhat sullen painters dangled outside our house at all hours, doing their best to avoid splashing pink onto their clothes. The crowning glory of the paint job was the discovery that not only was our house vividly pink and painted with latex paint that would not fade, it also reflected off our neighbor's white house. On very bright afternoons, the sun bounces back into the dining room, so that everyone is bathed in a flattering rosy glow. There we sit, listening to Bob Dylan and enjoying our magenta house and all its accompanying perks.

January 8th

Listen to this as you read: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4dtodbhNys

"Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in the housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for love is a great beautifier." (Little Women, Louisa May Alcott)

"It was not until she was standing in the vestry, smilingly watching the best man (Ralph Pent-Hartigan) kiss the bride, that Flora felt an unusual sensation in the palm of her right-hand glove. She looked down at it, and saw to her surprise and amusement that it was split right across. She realized then that she had been extremely nervous lest anything go wrong. But nothing had; and now she was extremely happy." (Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons)

"Only the margin left to write on now. I love you, I love you, I love you." (I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith)

The wedding was beautiful. Best wishes, Emily, and congratulations, Joshua.

Acoustic therapy

When I'm feeling depressed or down on myself, or even if I'm just tense, the swiftest cure is a generous dose of Nat King Cole. He has a rich, smooth baritone voice that is so relaxing and reassuring- like Kingsley Shacklebolt's speaking voice.
I wasn't seeking out acoustic therapy; I was just trying to find a good version of "The Very Thought of You" to share with L. Over the course of my search, I listened to Etta James', Natalie Cole's, and Billie Holliday's versions, but Nat King Cole's was the best. Then I just got sidetracked. As I listened, my forehead smoothed out, my shoulders relaxed, and I breathed evenly. It was lovely.

Hey!

I just remembered something!
I just remembered why I had no problems with skipping youth group for four weeks!
Nobody there likes me!

I don't think anybody dislikes me, but they never say anything to me, or smile at me, or acknowledge my presence in any way. They respond when I do one of those things, but not otherwise. It's depressing.

Maybe I should just keep going to Mass.