One of my favourite stories about Luke is from a couple of years ago, at which point we’d been dating for a few years already (that detail is significant). We were at some bar in Liverpool, and he was getting us drinks, so I asked him to get me a dirty martini. He kind of paused, and said “…is the “dirty” bit important?” I explained what a dirty martini is (if you’re not familiar, it’s when olive brine is added into the mix), and then said “So all the other times you’ve seen me order a dirty martini, did you think I was just trying to be sexy or something?” He was like “Um…yes.”

I swear, the number of times we totally misinterpret or don’t understand one another. I’m still waiting to find out we have entirely different definitions for basic nouns, like what I call a horse he calls a cow or something.

Anyway, I have martinis on the brain after reading this New York Times article on the importance of adding vermouth to a martini. I agree whole-heartedly; if you want to drink a glass of gin, just drink a glass of gin. There’s no need for that “glance at bottle of vermouth across the room, then shake thoroughly” nonsense. Although I do disagree with Schaap on two points. For one thing, it’s totally fine with me if you want vodka in your martini instead of gin; it’s just not a martini. And for another, if she finds an olive too salty a note in her martini, ye gods. Just for reference, here’s how I make my martinis, the recipe for which I learned at my beloved father’s knee:

1/2 cup gin

1/4 cup vermouth

1/4 cup olive brine

Combine in a cocktail shaker and mix like hell. Strain and serve.

By the way, that recipe serves one. God I love my family.

Anyway, so if a single olive is too much sodium for Schaap, my version of a martini would probably taste like a cup of soy sauce. But that’s just fine, because that leaves all the more olive brine for me. Although I can be persuaded to share…as long as you’re drinking Mother’s Ruin, like the good lord intended.

Since my last writing-related post, I’ve been weirdly tempted to deliberately write a Meghan-Pastiche poem. You know—a poem where I deploy every image and rhetorical device I’ve overused in my back catalog, to the point where I sound like I’m doing a bad impression of myself. I think this poem would include the following features:

  • Obscure historical references. Bonus points if said references are to weaponry and/or bloodshed.
  • Written in loosely-metered rhyme scheme. If unrhymed, will randomly end in a rhyming couplet.
  • End on a threepeat visual metaphor OR a short declarative sentence.
  • Tactile language. Triple points if it’s also animal imagery.

The truly terrifying bit is that this list was incredibly easy to come up with. Okay, I have a lot of poems that don’t use any of those tics…but I also have a lot (a lot) that do.

Anyone else? If you were going to write a version of your poetry designed to play to the back row, what would it include?

Pumpkin

Terrible photo courtesy of my phone.

Glorious Tidings on All Hallows Eve? Or, you know, Happy Halloween and all that.

I’m being even witchier than usual (I know: hard to believe) and hiding behind our blackout curtains this year. I love trick-or-treaters, but the prospect of answering the door all night while having to juggle a curious dog and a bowl of sweets was pretty daunting. So instead, I’ve got no decorations up and have left the hallway as dark and “nope, definitely no one home here”-esque as possible. I’ll make up for it by breaking out the Christmas decorations IMMEDIATELY.

At least there was pumpkin carving at work! The above is my handiwork. I admire all the elaborate jack-o-lanterns that show up in slideshows this time of year, but when it’s crunch time I always revert to the classic triangle-eyes, grinning mouth pumpkin that I’ve been carving pretty much since I started celebrating Halloween. I’m also afraid that’s an LED candle in there, disappointingly; call me an old-timer, but to me it’s not really Halloween unless there’s a significant fire risk.

Anyway, so I’ve eaten myself mildly sick on chocolate and am holed up in my living room with some knitting and a large glass of red wine, waiting for the Halloween episode of “Poirot” to start. So far, this witch thing isn’t bad at all…

Even though I’ve been working on it for several months, I still find myself getting tripped up on the differences between writing longer prose versus writing poetry. Some of it—like the fact that a novel with characters should include, you know, some dialogue—I’m feeling much more comfortable with. Some of it I’m still working on. At the moment I’ve been thinking a lot about the rhythm and arc of my writing, because I’m still struggling with how to work on a longer-form piece in little bits.

When I write a first draft of the poem, I end up with an entire poem. I may later drastically lengthen or shorten it, and I may write it knowing that the ending as it stands isn’t working, but I finish work with a complete unit of writing, if that makes any sense. Even with Beowulf, I didn’t really have to confront doing things another way—I decided early on I was breaking it up into smaller poems, and even the longest of those was initially hashed out in one session.

Obviously, when you’re working on a much longer piece, that doesn’t work. At the moment I set myself word targets every day, which works well from a productivity standpoint; I’ve noticed, though, that I’ve started shaping the rhythm of scenes to fit the target of an individual writing session. So at the moment, scenes or descriptive passages or whatever tend to happen in 1,000-word blocks. And I can tell when I’ve broken in the middle of something, because there’s a definite grinding of gears as I switch from what I wrote the day before and what I wrote the day before that.

I think I’m just too used to my own working style. Come to think of it, one of the really nice aspects of trying out prose writing is the way it’s shaken up my routine, and I’ve noticed the poetry I’ve written since starting feels a little fresher. (Not that I was writing poetry by rote, but I think if you’ve written enough poems, there are a few in there that read as if you’re parodying yourself and your touchstone topics/images/rhetorical flourishes. Actually, during my M.A. programme I remember we all once tossed around the idea of writing poems in the style of another member of the cohort, because by the end of it we definitely could have—thank goodness we tossed the idea aside as having far too much potential for cutting right to the bone.) So hopefully with a bit more time and experience I’ll work my way through this one…In the meantime, though, I keep cranking out what feels a little like vaudeville song-and-dance acts stringing along one after the other. Didn’t like that scene?—well that’s just fine, we’ve got a dynamite tap-dancer on his way out! Just watch out for the editing hook, folks…

At long, VERY long last, I’ve done it. I’ve listened to every episode of “Dragnet” I had downloaded. There were a few I had to skip due to poor sound, but I’ve easily listened to over 350 episodes. I had to go back through my blog archives to find my last Retro Radio Review, and it was my post on Broadway’s My Beat back in mid-June. That means it took me just over four months to get through Dragnet.

And I admit, I’m weirdly bummed out to be finished with it. There were some episodes that were a little tedious—whenever Joe Friday announced in his opening monologue that he was headed to bunco detail, ie the police detail dealing with check forgers and confidence men and women, I may have grimaced a little inside. But for the most part, I can see why Dragnet was a success, and why it’s still considered a landmark moment in radio history. The sound design is just incredible—not just the sounds of fistfights or gunfire, but the background noise. Whether it’s a scene set in a fairground where the actors are shouting to be heard over the music and crowd noise, or a conversation taking place in someone’s backyard with leaves rustling and birds chirping, there’s an attention to detail that is in stark contrast with any other radio show I’ve listened to so far. It actually spoiled an episode of Boston Blackie for me when I put it on—there was a fight scene set in what was supposed to be a burning building that was completely silent aside from the dialogue, and it was so ridiculous I had to turn it off.

I also came to love Jack Webb’s deadpan approach to narration. The way the episodes were ordered in my mp3 player meant that the last five or six episodes I heard were from the very beginning of the series, and it was really funny to hear the pilot episodes. There were some attempts—quickly aborted—at providing flashback scenes of a crime rather than the witnesses simply telling their story, and the chief of police seemed to have been mysteriously replaced by a bombastic theatre actor. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good melodrama, but it was refreshing to listen to a show with policemen who were believable as guys who’d spent so long on the beat they were no longer shockable.

I, on the other hand, definitely was. There were a few episodes that were unflinching in going for the jugular. Because I’m an animal person, I was particularly creeped out by one show in which a daughter stabbed her two pet canaries to death as a test run before killing her own mother, and another where a neglected teenager in search of attention fakes her own kidnapping, complete with beating her pet cocker spaniel to death for that final touch of verisimilitude. Yeesh. And yes, two episodes even made me cry—one in which a woman who’s tried to fake the abandonment of a love child she’s too afraid to tell her returning military husband about hears her husband end the episode by asking Sergeant Friday for a ride to the hospital because “I’d like to see my son,” and “Big Sorrow,” the episode devoted to Joe Friday’s grief after losing his partner, Ben Romero, which was prompted by Barton Yarborough’s actual death.

I’m not sure if there’s a larger lesson that’s come out of “Dragnet.” I certainly feel like I know the time period, and how radio shows worked in general, much better. I suspect if I’m mugged at any point in the near future, I’ll automatically respond in the same narrating-the-action way that the Dragnet officers reacted to any fight—“Watch it, Joe, he’s got a knife!!”. But I guess more than anything, the fact that I feel like I’m going to miss Joe Friday, Frank Smith, and Ben Romero is a (at this point in history, superfluous) sign of how successful the show was at creating believable, sympathetic, real characters in twenty-two minute chunks of audio. According to my Runkeeper, in the course of four months’ worth of work-week commutes, I’ve walked about six hundred miles with these guys. Not a bad beat at all.

We have musical theatre students living next door. Or perhaps Glee Club members? Whoever they are, there’s singing leaking through our living room wall on a weekly basis. And it’s definitely not drunken-carousing-singing—living in my share of student houses, I am MORE than familiar with being awoken at 3 a.m. with the delightful strains of the Spice Girls, Simply Red, or whatever evil guilty pleasure my sodden housemate is enjoying. (On a side note, a friend of Luke’s has on occasion rung him at a ridiculous hour and sung portions of “Les Miserables” into his voicemail. Does it become funnier if I mention said friend is a baritone, and his song of choice is “Stars?” It should…)

No, this is too early in the evening for pub aftermath, and too harmonised for weekend pre-gaming. It’s clearly four or five girls getting together to sing vaguely jazzy selections from a catalogue I have yet to recognise.

And no, I haven’t banged on the wall or anything. I have thought about it, though. Not because they’re singing, but because they’re flat. Seriously, it’s been about two months now, and their second soprano is seriously letting the side down, and it’s THAT (coupled with my nerdy history of decades spent in choirs) that’s actually driving me nuts.

I get that knocking on the wall wouldn’t be neighbourly, and nor would be a pointed anonymous note (sing through the upper end of the note! not the middle!)…but I’ve found myself more and more tempted to just sing back at them on the correct pitch, even though I know that would shatter the anonymity (and thus increase the likelihood of a disgruntled chorister having a wee in our letterbox). I guess I’d better cross my fingers for both of our houses that they don’t have another choral practice while I’m pre-gaming.

Any practicing poet is very familiar with the poetry-submissions-grind. You submit a poem, you get it back, you send it out again…rinse, repeat, until either the poem is accepted somewhere (sometimes you get lucky and this happens immediately) or it’s rejected from enough places that you take it out of rotation. Actually, that last bit is probably fodder for another blog post—how many times do you submit a poem? I’ve known other writers who send a poem out once—if it’s rejected, that’s it, and it goes into the “failure” file to be ignored forevermore. I’m much more persistent, and will send a poem out to a few places—I’d say I’m naïve, but it pays off, so I’m going to keep dusting my poor rejected poems off and sending them back out into the world.

But what I’m actually mulling over at the moment isn’t the potential rejection, it’s the wait before the rejection: how long do you let a poem or poems sit with an editor before you give it up as a lost cause? If they’re a small magazine, or a magazine with a particularly zealous editorial team, the wait can be quick. There’s one literary magazine out there who, god love them, have gotten my rejection letters back to me in the next day’s post. (I’d be bitter, but their magazine is so good, and they’re always so polite about it, that I can’t quite bring myself to hate them.) If a magazine is one of the more popular ones, the wait can be much much longer, and for poetry publishing houses it can be insane.

I’m waiting on the fate of a batch of poems I mailed off about five months ago, and I’m starting that familiar “did they lose my S.A.S.E.? Did they lose my manuscript? Did they get my manuscript in the first place??” wondering. The thing is, five months is still within my range of totally normal waiting time—if I’ve sent poems to someplace I suspect has an enormous volume of submissions, I wait six months minimum before sending them elsewhere. That doesn’t stop me, though, from starting to get antsy as the weeks roll by.

So what about other people? Anyone out there have nerves of steel and simultaneously submit with abandon? Or are any of you on the other end of the spectrum and still patiently waiting for your poem on the upcoming Y2K catastrophe to make it back from the editor’s desk? In the meantime, I’ll keep waiting, and keep hoping that that magical lucrative contract that would change all my fortunes isn’t currently sitting in the household shredder of my dog’s bowels…

I had a post planned for today about herbs, but I’m afraid my plans for today went pretty spectacularly out the window. Did you know that if one is walking from, say, my house to my job, once one is past the 25% mark, there is literally nowhere you can stop with a bathroom? So if one, completely hypothetically speaking of course, started feeling ill past that point, one would have to walk a further FORTY-FIVE GODDAMN MINUTES before reaching the safety of work’s bathroom. That’s forty-five minutes of perpetually feeling as if one might be about to ralph into the nearest bush.

Yeah, today was rough. At least I didn’t barf on a cow.

I’ve been reading You Are Not So Smart for a while now, even though it wreaks hell on my psyche by pointing out all the ways in which I think I’m a super-clever genius are actually examples of how I’m an idiot, exactly like the rest of humanity. But unfortunately, it provides fascinating nuggets of psychology that, besides making me a font of anecdotes at cocktail parties, is actually useful in an everyday context (check out today’s post on the Benjamin Franklin effect and tell me you aren’t going to deploy its tactic instantly), so I put up with the ego battering.

Anyway, YANSS has a book out imminently, and I am attempting to win a galley copy of it by posting this:

A book trailer? I guess book trailers are a thing now.

But let’s face it, if I don’t win I’ll probably order a copy anyway, because 1. I’m betting it’ll be a damn good read; and 2. if I do then I can enter more contests. Damn YANSS and his expert grasp on my contest-loving lizard brain!!

Today’s post is my contribution to Thrilling Days of Yesteryear’s Dick Van Dyke blogathon, in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of “The Dick Van Dyke Show.” A round-up of the other participants can be found here.

When I think of “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” I think of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Not because of anything on the show (although hey, food on the show could be a whole other blog post), but because whenever I watched it as a kid, it was because my father had made us lunch and put it on. Dick Van Dyke, whole wheat bread, and grape jam: a whole new taste sensation.

I don’t think being introduced to old television by someone who watched it the first time around is particularly unique, but it sticks in my head because of how incongruous, at first glance, showing “The Dick Van Dyke Show” to his daughters would have been for my father. After all, this is the dad who signed us up for t-ball (miserable failure) and gave us tool sets for Christmas (I and several rounds of my flatpack furniture thank you for that one, Dad-o), who raised his three daughters to be the unapologetic feminists we are today—but there we were lined up in front of the tv, watching a husband return home to his doting housewife and perfect little bubble of domesticity. What was he thinking?!

In fact, when I told my dad I was thinking about writing about being a feminist who loves “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” he immediately started bringing up all the reasons why it isn’t a particularly forward-looking show. Laura having given up a dancing career to be a stay-at-home mother. The way Sally is allowed to be a working girl, but only as long as her desperate search for a man is regularly played for laughs. He finished by sputtering his impression of Rob’s speech on the plane in “Washington vs. the Bunny,” an episode from the first season—which is as good a case study as any for what I’m talking about, so it’s what I’m going to focus on.

In the episode, Rob has to decide between going on a business trip or staying home to watch Richie be a bunny in his school play. The decision isn’t just about being a good worker or being a good father; it’s about whether Rob should give in to his wife’s opinion (she wants him to stay home), and whether letting her lay down the law would make him less of a man. There’s a dream sequence where Rob is literally a puppet to Laura’s whims, and Laura introduces his appearance as such by announcing (while dressed as what looks remarkably like a Playboy bunny, natch) “Ladies and gentlemen, presenting a man who gave up a trip to Washington, simple because…I ordered him to!” Rob ends up going on the trip (which turns out to be wasted anyway, since the talent he went out to see had laryngitis, and the replacement quartet was rubbish), and on his flight back concludes a rant to his seatmate with this paeon to masculine independence:

A man is a man, even if he is a husband, and that at no time as a man or as a husband should he ever be his wife’s puppet. I’m gonna tell her that I had to do what I think is right. A man shouldn’t sacrifice his self-respect just to keep peace in the home. All right, a woman’s opinion should be weighed and considered, but in the final analysis, a man has to do what he thinks is right or he is no man!

If you’ll excuse me just one moment, I’ve got a drawerful of lingerie to burn.

The thing is, though, after Rob makes that speech, he arrives home ready to lay down the law…and it’s completely played for laughs. We know going into it that he isn’t for a minute going to actually dictate household policy to his wife…and it turns out, neither of them really want him to. Laura reveals that she understands Rob’s duty to his career, and rather than being angry at him, she’s angry at herself for not being supportive. In fact, they end up kissing and making up after a conversation where they communicate like…well, equals. True, equals where one is ostensibly the man of the house, but compared to the vacuuming-in-pearls trope the show was emerging from, it’s an enormous step forward. (And speaking of that particular fashion trope, Mary Tyler Moore famously pushed to put her character in the cigarette pants that became her hallmark because a housewife would never actually do the cleaning and cooking in an enormous full-skirted dress that was the typical television-housewife’s wardrobe. Her character may have been a stay-at-home mother, but she was an honest portrayal of one.)

Okay, so if you’re looking for boundary-pushing questioning of gender roles, you aren’t going to find it with Rob and Laura Petrie. But looking back, I think “The Dick Van Dyke Show” was portraying a more conservative (with a small-c) brand of feminism—one where the couple at the heart of the show struggles between how their culture tells them they should each behave, and how their marriage actually works. Rob might be worried about being seen as a puppet, but fundamentally he’s someone who respects his wife and her opinions as much as his boss’s…which is, after all, what feminism is all about.

My dad may not have intended “The Dick Van Dyke Show” as a life lesson for his daughters, but it looks like it might not have been a bad one anyway. I doubt I’ll be strapping on bunny ears anytime soon, but if I end up with a marriage as based in honest communication as the Petrie’s, I think I’ll have done all right.

Now pass the peanut butter.

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