In
'The Referendum', Tim Kreider, the articulate Times blogger, describes himself as “a respected cartoonist whose work is beloved by hundreds and has made [him] a thousandaire, who’s been in a committed relationship for 15 years with the same cat”. He’s intellectual, he’s handsome, he’s … single and loving it. What, then, you may ask is the problem? There is none, unless you count the great divide between the man and the society. While Mr. Kreider is perfectly content with his freedom from conformist ideals, as well as from diaper duty, the people in his life are less than convinced that he is telling the truth. Well, surprise! He is:
“I’ve never been married and don’t want kids. I recently had dinner with some old friends, a couple with two small children, and when I told them about my typical Saturday in
New York City — doing th
e Times crossword, stopping off at a local
flea market, maybe biking across the
Brooklyn Bridge — they looked at me like I was describing my battles with the fierce and elusive Squid-Men among the moons of Neptune. The obscene wealth of free time at my command must’ve seemed unimaginably exotic to them, since their next thousand Saturdays are already booked.”
Mr. Kreider ends his
essay with a beautiful allusion to
Greek mythology. Bringing up the stories of Lot’s wife, Orpheus and
Eurydice, he illustrates that looking back on life with regret is unwise. True, but I wonder what he would think about looking forward – would the self-assured 42-year-old man dare to imagine the possibility of a mind change? What would Mr. Kreider do if he met the woman whom he wouldn’t mind referring to as Mrs. Kreider and not think of either his mother or his cat? And, to create a
hyperbole, what if Mrs. Kreider peed on a plastic stick one day only to discover a red plus sign which he’d agree to coddle and mold and support through college? Twenty years from now, would Mr. Kreider reread his essay with shame and chuckle? Or would he sigh and wistfully reminisce about his youth?
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Back in Belarus, we were fortunate to live in a tall apartment building that stood next to a lilac tree. The tree stood next to a ramshackle bench. The bench stood the weight of lonely matrons who liked to eat sunflower seeds, perk up their ears and polish their glasses to avoid missing any sign of life around them. Sometimes, the matrons needed to clean their houses, cook their dinners and set up their telescopes. At the end of the day, they would compare their notes (“Yes, it was definitely a different man from the one she brought home last week”), brush the stray sunflower husks off their laps, and give up the sweet spot under the tree. ![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_sS9_cBsouUXYqcWq3-czWKf4xr9ZsBMbwQaNYJEfdOJQDylTYp4LjKRLG91uO58i4MuagP_3JI8Oqh5Aob4JcgoMPQAmYa1l9VJF0Cdn7jK4XBSvyMXlLUfkiSNs70leF2CLqBJIW9kKO6UO57JS78=s0-d)
Caught in the act. She usually eats healthy. Except for when she doesn't.
"Yea, my hubby's a chef. So? Nothing comes between me and my onion rings."
Put some peppers on top of chicken and stick into oven. Pretty.
Some NY bagels. Jewish style, of course.
Mmmm. I miss those croissants. E. ate them. I had that salad.
Yummy box lunch. Thai food to thai for. (Yes, I know that was bad. Who cares, it looks good.)
If you put cheese on fried veggies, does the meal still count as "healthy"?
Manhattan's Anthropologie store. So cool. Please send me some freebies!
