happy happy

I just came back from the movie theater in our neighborhood, just a couple of blocks away. I’d never gone to the movies by myself but I’m glad I did, and I’m especially glad I did so for the movie “Happy-Go-Lucky”. There are a couple of reasons, really. First, it was really nice, after spending several days with my family, to do something entirely for and by myself – especially since it consisted in seeing a film about making one’s own fun and happiness in this life. Second, the main character in this film, Poppy Cross, would have annoyed the crap out of anyone whom I could have dragged along.

Poppy even annoyed me at first -- which is saying something, considering how much I liked her from the movie’s trailer. Played by Sally Hawkins, she’s an unlikely heroine for a film: she’s all nervous laughter, zero attention span, kitschy wardrobe and constant wisecracks. You begin to appreciate her wiry, unconventional beauty only when she occasionally holds still. Poppy can find a silver lining where other people would never think to look for one, and her capacity for empathy puts others to shame. She’s no insipid Pollyanna, though: she gets drunk, makes fun of people who have it coming, and sometimes underestimates the extent to which her actions affect others.

Irritating qualities aside, she’s kind of my hero. Her undaunted good humor, her unflagging interest in others and her unwavering determination to seek out the best in people often make her the brunt of awkward encounters. But thanks to her general desire to engage with the world surrounding her, she doggedly challenges the negativity and torpor that surround her on all sides – all the while flatly refusing to take herself, or anyone, too seriously.

Everywhere, Poppy watches violence, anger, resentment, fear and disappointment become the filters through which others interact with the world and with one another. Meanwhile, people keep suggesting that she become an adult by “taking responsibility”. This movie reassured me that someone other than me is out there asking an important question: have we really reached a point at which the conscious cultivation of happiness is regarded as a less wise and serious approach to life than the suppression of one’s innate anger and cynicism? I think what I liked so much about this film, more than Poppy herself, is its suggestion that happiness is a responsibility, too.

Why I hate Rachael Ray

At least I suspect it was Rachael Ray.

Of all the items for the grocery store to run out of on the day before Thanksgiving, pancetta was the last thing I was worried about. Oh, I had these big aspirations about making my stuffing with figs and pancetta along with all the staple Thanksgiving foods, but the grocery store ran out of pancetta on Wednesday morning. Plenty of turkey and canned pumpkin and whatnot, but pancetta? Forget it.

"Ay-yup," said the guy at the deli counter. "I reckon there was some recipe on the Food Network that everybody was all excited to try". His guess was Paula Dean, though personally I think she would have dismissed pancetta in favor of straight up bacon. Stuffed with lard. With a side of butter. No, I think it was probably Rachael Ray.

Mostly because I love to hate her. I mean, who spells "Rachel" like "Michael"? So should I pronounce it "Raykle"? Gimme a break. Also. Men are fascinated by her, and for the simplest of all reasons: she has lots of cleavage and wants to cook them burgers. She's exactly halfway between sexy hot party girl and maternal nurturer who will take care of you for the rest of your life. She sets unreasonable and terrifying standards for the rest of us girls who can think of a better way to spend the day than winning a wet T-shirt contest and then baking you cookies (note - the foregoing sentence was much more lyrically effective and also much more crude in its first incarnation. Inquire for details).

So what do we do? We march straight down to the grocery store and we buy up all the pancetta, yes, because sexiness is not enough anymore, we must be sexy and cook bacon, and not just any bacon, no, but sexy Italian bacon, because this icon of womanhood has ordained that thou shalt cook pancetta and give lap-dances this Thanksgiving, and as a consequence my un-Rachael-related made-up recipe (which I suppose I may have unconsciously leaked to her busty minions when I came up with it all by myself months ago) had to be prepared with the homelier, Paula Dean-endorsed inclusion of humble hickory-smoked bacon.

Epilogue: it was delicious. But I have not forgiven Raykle, nor do I intend to.

I live to sing my #1 pop song versions

So I woke up laughing out loud this morning, and here's why:

I had this dream that I was hanging out in Newport News with my Egyptian friend, Heba; my stepmom, and my aunt. We were giving Heba a ride home, but where she lived was this apartment complex dedicated to Middle Easterners. It was all yellow and orange stucco, extremely hip, and she wanted to show us around. My stepmom was being really schoolgirlish, wanting to pull pranks and stick her head in people's apartments to see if she could meet them.

At one point, she and I broke off from where everybody else was exploring and stumbled onto this lounge which had a pool table, a bar, a big-screen TV and maybe a dance floor. We felt a little trepidation about going inside, and sure enough, a man at a table behind us soon called out in a heavily accented voice, "Excuse me, but you cannot go een zere."

"Oh, it's okay," we said. "We were just peeking."

"What ees thees 'peeking'?"

"You know," I said, covering my face with my hands and then squinting out between them. "Like this. Peeking."

He explained that there was a private party about to start. Heba found us, and the man invited us to sit down with him and this extremely-European-looking lady. It became clear that his accent was not Middle Eastern, but French: a total cartoon French accent.

"Do you want some of zees?" He pointed to a dish on the table. "Eet ees -- how you say -- not ze hummus, but like ze hummus."

"Baba Ghanouj?" I suggested. The man nodded, and we all ate some Baba Ghanouj.

He informed us that he was the caterer for the party, and seemed eager to give us all his business card, which was a really chintzy ivory-colored card with black cursive lettering on it. "You are in a not-so-nice neighborhood? Eet's okay. I go anywhere. I make your party." He lifted up his pant leg to show us his shoes, which were patent leather except for the toes, which were iridescent white. When he flipped a switch on the side of his shoe, the white part lit up and made this great "bezwowowowong" kind of science fiction-y sound.

"In Bolivia," he explained, "you can hear ze shine on ze people's shoes. You can hear ze shine and ze POWER."

It was at that moment that I looked more closely at his business card. I couldn't make out the name, but underneath his name and 'caterer' was a diagonal banner which read 'I live to sing my #1 pop song versions.'

I swear to you that I made this whole thing up, but none of it while I was awake.

All is well.

The democratic process is alive and kicking in the USA.

The candidate who won the popular vote will become the 44th president in January.

The candidate who won sufficient votes in the electoral college will become the 44th president in January.

The candidate who appealed to Americans' better nature won the election.

The candidate who appealed to Americans' fear and cynicism lost the election.

A generation of young Americans believes again that their votes make a difference.

A generation often condemned -- or worse, dismissed -- for its apathy went out yesterday and elected a president.

An ethnicity often condemned -- or worse, dismissed -- for its apathy went out yesterday and elected a president.

In the privacy of the voting booth, with no one watching over, a generation raised prior to desegregation searched their souls -- and in them, found our next president.

A man who overcame the kind of undeniable hardships related to class, race and family familiar to many of us will soon occupy the highest political office in our country.

A man who successfully negotiates his multicultural identity will soon occupy the highest political office in our country.

A generation of African American children has a role model who will soon occupy the highest political office in our country. 

A generation of African American children will aspire not to a lucky break in professional sports or the entertainment industry, but to a college education.

America elected a man who is both well-spoken and intellectual.

America elected the man the whole world wanted us to elect.

America elected a man who believes in statesmanship regardless of one's sphere of influence, a principle upon which this nation was founded.

America elected a man who believes in the importance of community activism, a principle upon which this nation was founded.

America elected a man who believes that dissent and criticism are responsibilities of patriotic citizens, a principle upon which this nation was founded.

My children will not know a world in which a black man has never become President of the United States of America.

And Sasha and Malia Obama get a new puppy.

This just gets better and better.