Don't It Make His Brown Eyes Blue

I wanted to come up with something upbeat to write because it seems as though all my entries are total downers, but it's been--frankly--a shitty week. The worst seems over, and what I'm left with now is some residual sorrow for those around me I've had to watch suffering. My biggest concern now, because it's the only situation I have any control over, is Gavin the Diabetic Dog.

Our lovely black lab mix Gavin was diagnosed in May with diabetes. The diagnosis came as something of a relief because I'm of the school of thinking that finds it comforting to imagine the worst possible outcomes and then be pleasantly surprised. Not sure that's working for me in the long run, but it's what I know. At any rate, the family and I have been carefully attending Gavin, faithfully giving him insulin shots twice a day, watching what he eats, trying to get him consistent exercise (we could do better on that one)--but we've yet to get his blood sugar where it should be. We're close, but we're just not there yet.

He seemed happy enough at first because he finally had some energy from the insulin. He's old and shaky, but I could still get him to run up and down the hill with me a little bit so he could feel the wind on his face.

Then about a week or so ago, we realized that he is now almost totally blind. We knew he had cataracts and that his sight was going, but we thought we had more time to get his blood sugar in check and head off the cataracts at the pass. But now he's having trouble negotiating his once-familiar surroundings, and he's timid on his beloved hill in our back yard.

Nevertheless, since that discovery I've noticed that he's already made some major adjustments. I've watched him sniff my footsteps to find the food bowl I've just filled; he's learned his way around the kitchen as long as we completely open or close doors and leave everything in the same place all the time. He's learning his way down the stairs, which are difficult for all of us, even in good times and good lighting. He comes to us for love when he hears us call him, and he still wags his tail when he hears his name and rises to stand at the ready when we say the magic word "outside."

I've been handling these changes rather stoically, until today. In my office is a birthday card my staff gave me with a picture of a black lab who looks just like Gavin. The difference? The dog on the card has brown eyes. So did Gavvy, of course, only now those cataracts give his doggy eyes a smoky blue appearance. And I nearly choked up right here at the office because I realized I miss those brown eyes.

Try Not to Breathe

I'm trying to enjoy our victory yesterday. And I do mean our. If you're too stupid to realize Obama's win is the best possible outcome for this world, that doesn't mean you won't reap the benefits. You will--oh, you will.

I want to leap and shout with all those beautiful young people whose enthusiasm and dedication to their belief in a better world helped to bring that world about. We've said they're selfish and lazy and don't care about politics or participating in real--versus virtual--communities, but we were wrong, dead wrong.

That a descendant of slave owners would one day be giving the ole rebel yell in honor of the United States--that's right, the Union--electing its first black president would surely have been far from the wildest imaginings of those very slave owners. And it makes me yowl even louder inside to think about it.

But there are a couple of storm clouds hovering over this Inaugural Parade route in my head. The first is the fact that I'm holding my breath hoping that the worst, the unthinkable, the unutterable, will not happen. I'm enough of a cynic to know that it could. And superstitious enough not to say it aloud.

The other little cloud is the vineyard where the sour grapes of wrath are stored. For example, one co-worker was so distraught at the prospect of a President Obama that she didn't sleep last night. She showed up at work wearing black and looking like something that was dragged for miles by a pickup truck in Texas, sighing and shaking her head all day as though we were facing the Apocalypse. I suppose I should feel sorry for her in her ignorance and fear--she's actually terrified that she'll lose her job and her house, perhaps through the nefarious plans of our president-elect to give them to, let's say, a crack ho. She called the Democrats in the office "comrades." She said she was going to wear black every day for the next four years. (Sounds like my college wardrobe.) Then--the unforgivable, the unconscionable--she said to a friend, a Jew, that she hoped that friend would "visit her in the concentration camp."

I'm going to try to give this alarmist drama queen a break. But her hot, foul breath, mingling with the fetid expirations of all those who think like her, is causing a miasma that threatens to choke me. So I'll try not to breathe.

Opera in the Outfield

Last Saturday night I witnesed marketing genius. The Washington National Opera sponsored a live simulcast (I think that's redundant) of the opening night of "La Traviata" at Nationals Park, and Jeff and I joined approximately 15,000 other Washingtonians to enjoy the music and hot dogs. What better way to get people like me--although preferably younger--who've never been to an opera to sit for three hours and listen to sopranos than to broadcast it in a unsnobby atmosphere where they can wear shorts and eat Ben's Chili Bowl?

I had my doubts about opera, although I love classical music without knowing much about it. What I know about opera I can pretty much attribute to Bugs Bunny. (You must have seen the immortal 12-minute rendition of Wagner's entire "Ring Cycle." Much better than the original.) Having sung alto in the church choir my entire childhood, I have no love of sopranos. I think recitatives are silly and boring. Most tenors leave me cold. (I guess I prefer low-pitched noises in general.) Nevertheless, I was enthralled. The HDTV bigger than my house certainly helped to make the event watchable, but I even loved the music. I did occasionally want to laugh because the facial expressions on someone singing a high note at a tragic moment are priceless, but I appealed to my better nature and kept my amusement to myself.

I must admit that I can't recall the names of any of the performers off the top of my head. I mean, come on. But the soprano singing the part of Violetta was pretty and hardly screechy at all, and I adored the baritone who sang the part of Alfredo's father. It helped that I already knew the story, but I still was moved to tears at the ending, corny as it may seem to a modern audience. How could I not be when facing the grand spectacle, the music and emotions, the lyricism and athleticism of the performances? It's safe to say that this was the first time that I have ever cried in a major league sports venue.

The Washington Post, in their typical crabby fashion of the last few years, found the performance only "adequate." I'm glad at times like this that I don't know enough about music to know when something lovely just isn't right. I'm glad I couldn't hear, as Jeff did, that the soprano was flat and the tenor sharp--or was it the other way round? I was just thrilled to be there, sucking down chili dogs to Verdi, and watching little children frolic on the bright green grass of the outfield in time to the music. Maybe these kids will never acquire the fear of and misconceptions about opera and the arts in general that so many Americans labor under. Perhaps they'll adore Mozart and shrug off Puccini the way I love the Beatles but snicker just a bit at Queen. And if the arts at the ballpark go completely over their heads, there's always Ben's Chili Bowl.

Too Old to Breed, Too Young to Lead

Watching the news coverage of Sarah Palin's being chosen to be John McCain's running mate, and talking to co-workers, I've observed something a little surprising. Palin, who like me, is 44, is caught in a sort of middle-aged no man's land.

With a Down Syndrome baby, she's pretty much established that she's at the end of her safe childbearing years. And today, I had a hot flash.

So, we're old, right? My daughter certainly thinks so. Add to that irrelevant and out of touch. In some ways, I'd say that's a fair call on her part.

But then, apparently, Sarah Palin is too young too lead if John McCain kicks it in office. How's that? Experienced? No, not really. But too young? I can't accept this any more than I can accept that John McCain is too old. (Just a few years older than Hillary Clinton, who, apparently is the just the right age to be taken seriously as a woman in politics.)

I don't suppose there's any point to this observation of mine, apart from reinforcing something that's enraged me for some time: middle-aged women are invisible in society. We're too old to be considered sexy, but we're too young to be the grandes dames in our professions or the revered dowagers in our families. We drift in and out of the consciousness of our fellow Americans like phantoms whose passing went unnoticed and whose return remains unremarkable.

Of course, the clear answer here, as far as Sarah Palin goes: vote Democrat.

Live from Waikiki

My BFF Laura sent me an e-mail the other day in response to my last entry--something to the effect of, "You sold your soul to a non-profit, right? That makes you a crappy negotiator."

Admittedly, that makes me feel a bit better about my Faustian transaction. So does being here in Waikiki for our annual meeting. I miss my family, and I'm trying to stay on my diet; but despite the drawbacks, it is really gorgeous here. And apparently I've been assigned one of the "executive" rooms, which means I have a lovely view. Who knows, maybe that's what they tell all the staffers just to make us feel special.

Perhaps the wages of sin aren't so great, but it does have a few lovely perks.

Sittin on the dock of the bay

All week long, I chug through my days with nothing in sight but the weekend. If I can just get through Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, I can finally grasp the golden ring of the weekend. Then the weekend comes, and I don't get done what I want (which is usually to relax and forget about work), and suddenly it's Monday again.

I'm 44 years old, and I'm wishing my life away.

It's a good life. I have no idea why I'm not savoring the days, each day I spend with this child who's now taller than I am and whose voice dropped an octave in the last week or the husband who's enough younger that I'm certain to leave him behind when I leave this earth, so I might as well enjoy him now. I'm spinning my wheels madly to get through a series of days just to reach a shorter series of days that hold promise but don't always deliver results. Why am I so anxious to leave my weekdays behind me? What can I do to learn to cherish them and drag them out the way I do my weekends so my life stops whizzing by me so fast?

I'm John at the bar in the old Billy Joel song:

Now, John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke and a light of your smoke
But there's some place that he'd rather be

That's me. Tolerating the customers of my weeks and constantly worrying that wherever I am, there's a better place out there to be.

I'd love to say I'm like John Lennon, happily watching the wheels go round and round, no longer riding on the merry-go-round, but the truth is, I'm on the merry-go-round and not likely to get off any time soon. Round and round I go, always with an eye to the landscape for the spot I'd like to land just as soon as the damn thing stops.

I know it's my own fault for selling my soul. If I'd remained true and been willing to starve for my art--or worse, let Fiona starve--I might feel more professionally fulfilled. Instead, I sold my soul. At least I sold it in the 80s when the market was high.

All my heroes have been...journalists

It wasn't that long ago that I realized that apart from English pop stars of the 60s, all my real heroes have been journalists. From my childhood Watergate days, when Woodward and Bernstein changed the world, to the first Gulf War when Wolf Blitzer brought the scuds into my living room, to the Sunday mornings of my middle age, when Tim Russert got me to think more analytically about all the crap politicians spread. Walter Cronkite, Dan Rather, Bill Moyers, Tom Brokaw, and even Barbara Walters in her day, had the ability to change the world with their words alone.

I'm a lazy feature writer myself--not a hard-hitting, energetic newshound. Perhaps that's why I'm in awe of those whose passions are uncovering the truth. I don't buy the argument that most journalists are pushing their own agendas, be it liberal, conservative, or whatever. I think any journalist worth his salt would sell out his own grandmother if it made a good story.

So I'm profoundly affected by the fact that Tim Russert just dropped dead yesterday. He was a vibrant force like none I've ever seen--full of pride in his family, love of life, and love for the game. As I get older, I feel it more and more when someone not old, not apparently sick, is seemingly struck by the middle finger of God. No matter how much we may want to be here, we ultimately have no fucking choice in the matter.

I know there's other stuff going on in the world right now that demands my attention, and it will get its due. For example, four Boy Scouts were given the finger of God the other day, and it broke my heart. But it took a journalist to tell me about it. (Unfortunately, it was Anne Curry, who makes me want to hurl my cereal at the TV every morning. We need the Tim Russerts of the profession more than ever if we're left with only the likes of her.) There are plenty of bad apples out there spoiling the whole barrel for some news consumers, but to me that only proves my point. The newsgatherers are some of the most powerful people in the world. Their words can bring down administrations and end injustice.

My daughter is toying with the idea of being a journalist. Right now I think she's drawn to the idea of being on TV, but if I know her, she's more likely to find she gets her high from wielding the mighty pen. And even if she changes her mind about what she wants to do in life, I couldn't be more proud that the idea at least crossed her mind.

Creative Discipline?

The other day as I was at the library, about to check out All the King's Men because I haven't read it and it's a classic, I stumbled across a real find that was forlornly stranded on an empty shelf near the new arrivals. It's Michael Palin's diary from 1969 to 1979--my perfect read! Not only do I have a prurient interest in what even boring people have to say about their own lives, but Michael Palin is my idol. And since the period this volume covers includes the height of Monty Python, Robert Penn Warren got re-shelved for another time. He's not going anywhere.

I'm not too far into the diaries, but they've made quite the impact already. First, I was intrigued by the jacket notes saying that this is a remarkable collection because Michael talks as much about his children's first steps as he does about Python. What a man! What a dad! But as I get into it, I realize that this note must have been written by a man. Michael does talk about his children, and his pride is obvious and touching. But dammit, 90 percent of these writings, easily, are composed of details about the day-to-day of putting together the groundbreaking show. From a man's point of view--and probably a baby boomer man's--writing about your family 10 percent of the time must seem absolutely remarkable. What a man! What a dad!

I think about how I'm never really off the clock as a mom, and how Jeff and Fiona still call me up at work to solve family disputes--something we in my family would never have done to my dad--and I'm just not that impressed. In another example, I originally intended for this blog to be more about work, and how I'm escaping it in my head by writing at the office, but really, it's mostly about my family and the bit of life I have outside the office. So no awards for Python parenting. But big kudos to their wives, who apparently never saw them.

But what really does impress me is that a) he's still an extraordinarily sweet guy, especially for someone so famous, and b) he's extraordinarily disciplined. Now, he admits that he's never had to do the 9-5 in his entire life, and he shudders at the thought and the greyness of the life of those who must (thanks, Michael). Be that as it may, he writes of being at Terry Jones' house at 9:30 am to start writing for the show most days of the week. Now, if I could live by a schedule of my own devising, as long as I produced the goods, I'm pretty sure that no writing would be done before 9:30 PM. I'm just sayin'. Yet Michael and (some of) the boys could sit down and knock out brilliant comedy during the day, while the rest of us--me, for example--are struggling to write a story for our member magazine about our recent House of Delegates meeting. YAWN!

I can't imagine being creative on demand. I'm not spontaneously funny. Then again, no one ever said I was, I've never been expected to be, and I've never had to rely on it to feed my family.

Nevertheless, I'm impressed.

I'm also impressed by his personal discipline. He discovered he was addicted to nicotine, then he decided to stop smoking immediately, using the diary to serve as the outlet for whatever emotions or urges the nicotine used to soothe away. He still writes in his diary almost every day, in the morning before he gets up. I can't imagine this. I'm not human in the morning, so I can't imagine the insane, incoherent ramblings I might produce before coffee. It simply wouldn't be safe.

He mentions frequently running on Hampstead Heath. This in the 70s, when most people his age got their only exercise from lifting a bong to their mouths. And on his birthday, he decides to forgo his usual "breakfast discipline" by having bacon and eggs! Imagine! I consider myself a model of dietary restraint if I have only two desserts in one day.

I really admire this man. I'd like to be more like him. How the hell do I do that? Am I to accept that it's just a personality difference and that some of the world's greatest artists have been wildly undisciplined? Or have I always used that argument as an excuse not to get my act together?

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Give it up for the girls

The last weekend in March, my courage, nerves, and minimal dancing skills were put to the test at two performances with the ensemble put together by my teacher, the lovely and talented Artemis. The first was at a theatre on Capitol Hill, a hefty but lovely walk for me from Union Station. The Atlas Theatre is a gorgeous facility, although in a bit of a dicey up-and-coming neighborhood. (Perhaps more "coming" than "up.") This place is the real thing, and I must say, even though I've performed in the real thing before, it was intimidating. It's a small house but with top-notch lighting and sound equipment, complete with snotty technicians. (Okay, only one was snotty, but he made an impression.) But the really scary thing about this place was that the lights were so bright that when they went to black for us to go onstage and line up for our performance, it was the blackest black I've ever seen. Blacker than your-brother-trapped-your-head-under-the-covers black. Blacker than caught out in the woods on a moonless night black. Black. It was everything I could do not to panic. Would I have enough time to adjust to whatever light there was so that I would find my spot and not look like an idiot dancing off by myself somewhere?

Amazingly enough, I was able to find my spot. The lights came up, and of course, they were blindingly bright. My eyes adjusted to the light; I smiled seraphically at K. and the Three Graces as they did their solos, and then, apparently, the smiling stopped. I had work to do. All day long, all the possible negative outcomes of this performance had been going through my brain on an endless video loop. My biggest fear was that I would not be able to get up from the floor, where I was smiling and watching, without bobbling. I bobbled during tech. It was a legitimate fear.

I got up cleanly and did my little dance with no mistakes that I was aware of, but also with very little joy. The stage was huge, and the margin of error so small. I was never so happy as when the lights died again and I was able somehow to find my way through the pitch black of the wings to the stage door and freedom.

Despite my jangled nerves, the day still wound up being one of those red-letter days for the sistahood. We were there roughly eight hours, most of which was spent not rehearsing but dressing, making up each other's faces, and telling each other about our lives. I have to tell you, this is a great bunch of girls. As our teacher said, "Not a bitch in the bunch." I haven't had much girl time lately, and I tell you, I was savoring it. There's a bond you forge when a) you're bored and b) you're doing something terrifying, that no one can easily break. Sort of a foxhole thing, I think.

The next day, however, we reprised our performance, although slightly altered because we were missing two out of our troupe. Instead of a scary, professional theatre, this was at one of my favorite restaurants ever, Mem Sahib in Rockville. This is where Jeff and Fiona and I go to celebrate special occasions. The Indian food is excellent, and they have belly dancing and play Bollywood movies! You eat family style, and the process takes more than three hours. Our teacher had an informal recital there for her private students, and she let our little group perform there as well.

This was a blast. We ate the Indian buffet, saw some great dancing, ululated our appreciation for the performers, improvised our performance, and had the time of our lives. I got the performance rush that I was expecting the night before but sadly didn't get. I smiled like an idiot for the crowd (the place was packed), and I know I was looser and danced better. That, along with hanging with the girls and getting to know them, made all the weeks of preparation, the hellish rehearsal hours, and the scary stage all worth it. I might actually do this again.

To Artie's Hussies, if any of you catch this, you totally cook.

Ramble on--a review of sorts

The other night Jeff and I went to hear Mayuko Kamio, violinist and recent winner of the Tchaikovsky competition. The concert was in the Music Room of the Mansion at Strathmore--a lovely faux Tudor hall with a stone fireplace and elegant dark wainscoting. Going there feels like sitting in a very rich person's living room a long time ago, so I let my mind wander just as I used to do as a kid and took myself there.

I thought about how I should have lived in the 18th century or maybe the Regency. First, those Empire-waist dresses totally cover up the worst parts of my figure and emphasize the best. Second, I wasn't really cut out for hard work, and if I'd been born into the right family that just wouldn't have been necessary. And third, I just really love the music.

The first piece Kamio played was modern and horrible, so I ignored it. I could tell she played well technically, but there was nothing about the piece to recommend it to my notice or admiration. But then she played a Beethoven sonata, and I was in an Austenian heaven. This couldn't be my own living room, I mused. I don't think in any life I would be cut out for tremendous wealth. I'm more like the much-less-wealthy cousin of the landed gentry. I know what I need to know, but I don't have the money to live the lifestyle or even to pass as one of them.

So, anyway, I'm imagining myself sitting there in white muslin and pearls, my gloved hands clutching a small, useless fan, my myopic eyes wondering if I'm attracting any admirers of comfortable fortune. I don't need much--perhaps a gentleman farmer or a clergyman from a respectable family.

And then something happens that rips me out of this century and rudely thrusts me into my own. The violinist was playing the Beethoven so violently and passionately that she broke a string with a tremendous CRACK! I thought for a moment that the 300-year-old Stradivarius had shattered into firewood.

Jeff was not optimistic about her ability to replace the E string and keep it in tune. They need to season for about 30 minutes, he explained. But Kamio left the stage, replaced the string, and returned to pick up the sonata basically where she'd left off.

And the interruption, which had catapulted me into my own time and place, only served to renew her fire. She attacked the strings almost as though she hated them. Her bow seemed to saw the Stradivarius in half. It was the most rock and roll thing I'd ever seen in my life. I half expected her to set the Strad on fire and leap atop the grand piano. I nearly scrambled for a Bic lighter to hold up.

(I've since been updated by a young co-worker that cell phones are what cool young people hold up at concerts now, so please don't comment. I know I'm old. But in my defense, at classical concerts, you have to turn the damn things off.)

Perhaps I should have help up a candle.

For what it's worth...

There's something happening here. What it is ain't exactly clear.

I've never intended to be a political ranter in this blog; but something's going on, and I want to say that I've noticed it before it's too late. There's a shift in the air somewhere, and it's mystifying me. Is it that the parting on the left is now parting on the right? There is something different in the streets, and I think it's the fact that hordes of young people are getting involved in the presidential campaign.

I've been appalled for years by the political apathy of the young, particularly the people who say that no decision they make could possibly affect them. Until, of course, they want to marry whom they choose, make their own decisions about the size of their families, get care for their elderly parents--the list goes on.

But now I see that one candidate has electrified the young, and I'm finding myself rooting for him. At first I worried that Obama didn't have enough experience to run this country. Neither did W., and look what happened! But as I've grown old and cynical, I've come to the conclusion that it's really more about personality and passion than experience. Some people have a gift.

Clinton does not have this gift. I will not die or vote Republican if she wins the nomination, but I truly hope that the unwieldy Clinton political machine can be stopped. First of all, she's unable to inspire those who just need a spark to get them going--she's all business. Second, she's got 42 wrapped around her like the Ancient Mariner's albatross. Third, I can't stand the thought that she and people like Mitt Romney (and yes, John Kerry) seem to think they can try to buy the White House. A friend of mine well into her 30s pointed out that she's never voted on a presidential ballot that didn't have a Clinton or a Bush on it. Once torn about the upcoming primary, I knew then what I was ready to do.

She's voting for Obama, and so am I. And so is the die-hard Clinton supporter I work with. And the co-worker who, just like me, was totally on the fence until about a week ago. And possibly the dear friend in a red state who's not so liberal as she used to be but who's open to new ideas. And the young relative who's always been a Republican. And the young liberal in Maryland who clued me in to Dennis Kucinich years ago.

The ages of the women range from 27-65. The only thing we all have in common is our gender. I want someday to vote for a woman, but it must be the right woman. I can't support Clinton now because she represents too many things to me that are ancient, established, and tired. I want somehow who can inspire young people to care. I want 18-year-olds to be as excited as Laura and I were, rushing down to the courthouse to register to vote the minute we became old enough. Clinton is not the people; Obama is not the people; Bush certainly is not the people. We are the people, and it's time to do our job.

Rant-o-rama

At long last, today I am indulging in compiling a list of things that have totally pissed me off lately. Let's see if I can get all the way to the end witout saying something nice.

1. Bloggers who do nothing but moan. (Oh, the irony!) I'm particularly dissatisfied with Wendy lately--she's a good writer, but I'll be thrilled when she gets her head out of her ass.
2. Blog commenters who suck up to the blogger. My anecdotal evidence suggests that women are the guiltiest ones here. No matter what unwarranted crabbiness about PMS/husbands/boyfriends/neighbors/even readers, these online princesses can do no wrong in the eyes of their fans.
3. Net Nannies. BUT--I've found away around it, until they figure me out. Hooray!
4. Disorganized people. This does not include myself, my husband, my daughter, or anyone temporarily on my good side.
5. Columnists who write in the voices of their infant children or pets, e.g., "Mommy's tired today, so I'll be writing her column so she can get some sleep." These people shouldn't even be reproducing, much less letting their spawn write their columns. Joy of joys, Jen Chaney's column in The Gazette, the much-reviled (by me) "Jeneralizations," has been canned. Unfortunately, all the other lifestyle columns, which didn't suck nearly so much as hers, also have been canned to save money. The catch: she's still in The Washington Post. How do people like that get a gig with the Post?
6. Restaurants you love that suddenly SUCK. Jeff and I went to Bilbo Baggins in Old Town Alexandria the other night, and almost everything was wrong. The waitress got our order wrong, then forgot us, and the lime chiffon pie seemed to have no sugar in it whatsoever. I mean, imagine. And then when I mentioned that waitress never brought my soup, she gave me a look.

BUT...

Fiona was at her cousin's all weekend, so Jeff and I got much-needed couple time. It's hard to complain about crappy food or service when it's something that's bringing you together, something you can go home and laugh about under the covers.

Atonement

This isn't a movie or book review, but I did read the book and see the movie last month, and I have to say that they both made a profound impact.

I find McEwan's endings unsatisfying--not because they're unrealistic, and not even because they're unhappy, but because they're absolutely bereft of hope. I suppose that's very modern of him, but I want at least a smidgen of hope that life for the characters after the book ends isn't necessarily wretched and devoid of joy.

So I went to see the movie armed with knowledge of the ending, and the filmed version did not disappoint. I was wondering how the script would take the interminable internal monologue of the book and put it all on film, but it managed to do so very artfully. I was mesmerized by the performances, the photography, and even the music.

And then a revelation came to me as I was driving away from the cinema. (I should add here that I should never drive after seeing a good film. I always leave feeling as though I'm seeing the world so differently, as if through a fishbowl or a funhouse mirror, that what I'm seeing now is through such a different lens because the movie has affected me so profoundly.) I realized as I pulled away that I understood why I hated the narrator of the book/movie so much: I could totally identify with her. She spends her adult life trying to atone for a youthful mistake that is, in many senses, utterly unforgivable.

And that's exactly how I feel, only--I have no idea what my sin was. All I know is that I've paid--dearly--for a sin I've committed, but the sin is unknown to me.

My ex-husband, in one of many attempts to psych me out, once told me, "I know what you did in college. I read your diary." Now, I did keep a diary in college, and it was out where anyone could pick it up and read it. So it could have been true. And the answer could have been any number of things. What didn't I do? And yet I knew it was just an attempt to ferret out of me some previously unconfessed crime so that he could point out that "perfect people" like me are far from perfect. Duh.

But it wasn't anything I did in college, that much I know. But I know that the stain was on me by the time I moved to DC in 1990, because I vividly recall wandering around the National Gallery, identifying with at least three paintings of Mary Magdalene. One of them, "Penitent Magdalene" by Titian, actually moved me to tears because I saw myself on that canvas. Yet I still can't seem to arrive at it. Perhaps it's nothing but residual Catholic guilt. Perhaps it's from blaming myself for something that never could have been my fault to begin with.

I watch Nearly Perfect Husband with awe, knowing that he's done nothing that's left him with a residual feeling of having sinned. He's unblemished. And I'm grateful to be with him because I don't know many people who are so, relatively speaking, spotless.

Is it something that would make him shrink with horror if he knew? Would you?