The smartest girl in the room

Okay, so Elena Kagan spent today visiting members of Congress and schmoozing nicely so maybe they will vote to confirm her nomination to the Supreme Court. 

Meanwhile various otherwise-reputable publications are speculating about her sexuality. They insinuate that because she's, like, 50 and never-married, no children, she must be a lesbian.

Oh, give me a fucking break.

I know nothing about Ms. Kagan's sexual preferences, but I can assure you that she suffers from the "smartest girl in the room" stigma no matter which gender she'd want to date, assuming she had any time, which she doesn't. 

See, here's the deal: if you're the smartest girl in the room, you get to be the best friend, not the lead. The lead has to be just a teensy bit dumb. As one of Rosie O'Donnell's best characters put it in "Sleepless in Seattle," "The wisecracking dame never gets the guy." 

More on this tomorrow, when maybe I'll be in a better mood.

George and Gracie

Here are my two cats, both adopted from the Humane Society. They are very naughty, but I am so attached to them I often hesitate to travel because —while the neighbors will come in and feed them and they'll be just fine — somebody has to sleep with them.

More on rescuing an animal

An American Animal Hospital Association survey found that three-quarters of pet owners would go into debt to provide for their animals’ well-being. Nearly a third — and almost half of all single people — say that of everyone in their lives, they rely most on their pets for companionship and affection, a Yankelovich survey for American Demographics reveals.

            ~ Jon Katz

            The New Work of Dogs

In fact, a study under way at a major U.S. veterinary school was finding that more than half the married women in its sample told researchers that they got more emotional support from their dogs then from their husbands. (In March 2001, The New York Times reported on a similar survey with almost identical findings.) Their dogs understood them better than some members of their families, they said. More than 80 percent believed their dogs loved them “unconditionally” and would be loyal to them “no matter what.” Almost half said they couldn’t really say the same for their spouses.

            ~ Ibid

In Albert and Bulcroft’s 1988 study “Pets, Families, and the Life Course,” the researchers found that pet ownership is comparatively low among widowed people for a number of reasons: physical frailty, expense, housing restrictions, and a desire for autonomy. Many older people in Montclair also told me they didn’t want to get a dog that would almost surely outlive them.

But for those widowed or single people who own one, a pet can be an important source of affection and companionship. “As givers and receivers of affection,” note Albert and Bulcroft, “pets can contribute to the morale maintenance of people who live alone or with few significant others to play such roles.” And, compared to other animals, the researchers found, dogs are the most adept at playing affectionate and emotionally supportive roles.

~ Ibid

           

Rescue a pet

Life, Love, And Four Paws

I disagree with Ben Stein on pretty much everything political, but his video essay on 2/15's CBS Sunday Morning brought a tear to my eye.

Check it out:

Ben Stein says "adopt a dog"

He's absolutely right. I would have a dog if I could, but George and Gracie would freak. I adopted them both from the Humane Society -- not siblings, but rescued together -- and they provide much-needed unconditional love. The comic relief is an added bonus. Here they are, doing what they do best. 'Night.

To settle or not?

I enjoyed this interview by Sarah Hepola. Gottlieb says, "I want somebody who has my back and whose back I have, and I want somebody who, when the kitchen sink breaks, can help with that."



And David Ehrenstein replies, "Get a dog -- and for that sink, hire a plumber." (See the comments section.)


No shit.


Lori Gottlieb on "Settling for Mr. Good Enough"


Nonfiction - Salon.com
www.salon.com
Rare is the book that infuriates and captivates like Lori Gottlieb's latest. From its unapologetic goal -- to help unhappy single ladies get hitched! -- to its grabby, "oh no she didn't" title ("Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough"),  women haven't argued about a dating book so ferociously since we first learned he just wasn't that into us. "Surprisingly, unnervingly convincing," wrote Alex Kuczynski at O magazine, while over at the Daily Beast, Liesl Schillinger tarred it as "whining, capricious, corrosive." In the meantime,  Tobey Maguire's production company snapped up the movie rights, and Gottlieb has been interviewed everywhere from Dr. Phil to the "Today" show.

Try not to envy the smugly married

Despite everything, I never felt jealous at weddings. I longed for love, yes, but I never saw that love was in greater supply at weddings than in butcher shops or department stores. The sight of a couple furtively holding hands beneath a restaurant table was more likely to remind me of the hopelessness of my life than any number of ladies dressed in giant christening gowns reciting words to become joined to a man in a rented suit. I do not like public ceremony, not graduations, not weddings; not pep rallies, nor church. Perhaps I simply do not understand trying to share one emotion (love, relief, faith, pep) with a quantity of strangers.
    ~ Elizabeth McCracken
    The Giant's House

As Anne Lamott says, I have loved men so much and am so afraid of what they will do to me. And I look at women who get to have husbands and I think, "How dare they complain about anything," but many of them envy us for our quiet time and our freedom from the demands of others.

About a younger friend:

I felt so sorry for her, with all her buddies getting married and she never did.  I think that bothered the hell out of her, frankly.  I know it still bothers me.  One feels sort of defensive about it; I feel secretly ashamed, like I wasn't good enough to get a husband.  And then I see some of the husbands my friends have settled for, and the cats look like a pretty good deal.

“It takes courage to grow up and turn out to be who you really are.”
~ e. e. cummings

Snoring and farting

I re-read John Sanford’s Night Prey (the first of his “Prey” series) the other night, and the dialogue made me laugh out loud. Sanford’s hero Lucas Davenport and another cop are standing around talking about a woman who killed her husband with a mallet and chisel. Whack, whack, whack. Practically nailed him to the mattress. No history of abuse, just it was hot and she got tired of him lying there in bed, snoring and farting. If she'd only whacked him once, they'd be able to plead temporary insanity, but three whacks indicated some intent, there. It's not typically a woman, Lucas says. Usually it's some guy standing there half-drunk, scratching his ass, saying, "Beats me, man, she just pissed me off, you know?"

I’ve been lonelier coupled than I’ve ever been alone. Better to enjoy the pleasure of your own company than to be stuck in a bad relationship. There’s nothing worse than lying next to a live-in lover, listening to him snore, and thinking, “Oh, my God, I’ve got to get out of this! How can I make him leave? And he owes me money, too. Shit. But if I have to stagger home after a hard day at the office one more time to find him sitting there in front of ESPN with his meaty fist wrapped around a Budweiser, looking up from the game to ask me cheerfully, ‘Hi, honey. What’s for dinner?’ I’m going to lose it completely...”

That’s worse than being alone. Trust me. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.

When I lived in L.A. with Liam the Irish Prince, his music drove me nuts. He was a wanna-be Eric Clapton, but he wasn’t any good; he couldn’t sing to save his life. He couldn’t really play, either. My idea of guitar is Segovia; he wanted to do Electric Ladyland with the amp up high. He liked to invite his low-life friends over to play their instruments and get high and drink a couple sixpacks of Budweiser apiece. The noise drove me insane. I finally told him he had to practice in the garage because I couldn’t bear to listen to him. Poor lamb. I’d been all for it in the courting stage, before he moved in — even went so far as to prepare snacks for the guys and applaud their awful attempts at being rock stars — but once I had to live with it, the electric guitar got old in a real hurry.

He called a couple of weeks ago. It has been nearly 23 years and he’s still seeing the same stoner buddies and they still hang out and “play” together. I bet his wife doesn’t appreciate it any more than I did.