Sisterly Wives

Roku has transformed my life. Now I can stream all the junk that's been on cable TV, which we were too cheap to pay for.   I sneak it in at lunch and sometimes in the late afternoon.  Some days I even watch it at breakfast.

A week ago,  I happened on to "Sister Wives,"  a reality show that sells itself as enlightened polygamy. No 14-year old girls betrothed to 50-year old men.  No prairie dresses (though the women dress modestly--no cleavage).  The Brown family belongs to a fundamentalist Mormon church, but they live in an approaching-normal, suburban kind of way.

I'm entranced. 

There's Kody Brown, the husband, early forties, who bears a resemblance to Bill Clinton.  Affable, back-slapping, smart, a guy who definitely-feels-your-pain.  His first wife, Meri, the only legal wife, is his age and favors gone-limp Farrah Fawcett hair; she has one daughter and has struggled with infertility. Meri is beleaguered but game, the elder stateswoman of the wives.

The second wife, Jannelle, is sensible, smart, the only wife who's employed full-time.  She has six kids, but the other wives give her a lot of help, including babysitting and cooking dinner (!).  

The third wife, Christine, is a pistol: outspoken, easily bored (how MANY properties do they have to look at to open a gym?), and motherly.  Which is good because she, too, has six kids.

And then the drama of the first season:  Robyn, comes into the family.  A divorcee with three children, she's ten years younger than the other wives.  Very sweet and longing for a big family. Robyn marries Kody, and the other wives are bridesmaids in brown satin dresses (get it?).

Kody runs around like a madman, "nurturing" his marriages, coping with twelve, then thirteen, then sixteen, then seventeen children.  He drives a sports car (the wives get SUVs and minivans) and at the beginning of the series sells advertising.  After the family goes public about polygamy, they have to leave Utah, where they're being investigated, and move to Las Vegas.  After that, Kody doesn't seem to work, except at managing his gigantic family. 

How they pay for all this--four houses, one for each wife--is a mystery, except that I read online that they probably make about $50,000 an episode, which works out to around $600,000 a year. 

The wives say they love each other and love having sister wives. They go out to lunch and to the gym and to girls-only nights on The Strip.  After while, I began to long for a sister wife myself, but more as an adjunct, who loves to cook and manage home repairs.   Jerry would have no physical intimacy with this woman, but she would know enough about him to roll her eyes at some of his behaviors.  (In case you're wondering, as everyone does:  Kody rotates between bedrooms, and there is "no weird sex," as one wife put it.)

Then I flipped it around and imagined having four husbands and nearly had a nervous breakdown.  FOUR men who can't figure out how to wipe crumbs off a counter.  Four who watch sports.  Four to remind about birthdays.  Four who can't find stuff in the fridge.  Forget it.

 Jerry is equally appalled at the prospect of having more than one wife.

"No way," he said, looking alarmed, which is not entirely flattering to me, but monogamous men tend to have this reaction.

The sister wives do get jealous, especially when Robyn appears on the scene, but they seem to manage it.  Except Christine, who is so hurt and angry that she and Kody have to go shoot paintballs to vent some hostility.  "It'll all work out," they assure each other.

Part of me believes that this arrangement is fine if all parties choose it and are committed to making it work.  Another part of me thinks it's insane, and they're just really good actors who need the money. 

I do think the government and the Mormon Church should get off their backs, and oddly the closest analogy I can think of is gay marriage.  The Browns should be left to live their lives however they want to.  Who cares?  They love each other, the children are well-cared for, and no one's being abused.  Never thought I'd say that about polygamy.

Art Trek: Neon at The Bedford Gallery



Wait Here, 2008, Tim Etchells

We went to the Bedford Gallery in Walnut Creek to see "New Neon: Light, Paint & Photography," which ended on February 23.    Tim Etchells (above) says, "I love neon for its resonances of slightly old-time sleaze and glamour."  Me, too. 

The paintings and photograph in the show didn't do much for me, but I loved the neon light pieces.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Examples of neon in other media:

 



How We Spent Our Weekend, Plus Valentine's Follow-Up

This past weekend was pretty obsessive around here.

I made quilt blocks for charity quilts to be assembled by my quilt mini-group at the request of the member who was diagnosed with a serious illness (and in lieu of a quilt made for herself.)  We're all contributing versions of the same block.  How will they all go together?  Who knows.  I spent some time worrying about this and even unpicked a few blocks because they were too busy.

 

 

Jerry organized reprints of his articles, all 200+ of them.  This involved--unfortunately--watching golf on TV while pulling out staples that fell on a coffee table vulnerable to scratches.  I did not screech once.  The dining table has been covered with stacks of reprints for over a week.

A mere fraction

So the weekend added up to this:

Saturday:  Organize reprints and make blocks.  Take long walk around the neighborhood.  More reprints and blocks. Eat something-or-other for dinner and watch "House of Cards."  Marvel at how there isn't one likable character.

For some reason, tall reprints are in a separate category.

Sunday:  Organize reprints and make blocks.  Take a long uphill walk in Tilden Park, which was definitely more fun than making blocks, although I was beginning to get into it.  One more episode of "House of Cards,"  even more complicated and disheartening.

Monday:  A federal holiday but not for reprint organizers and block makers.  Take a walk with my friend Claudia M. at the Berkeley Marina.  Come home to blocks, etc.  Take something called a "Golf Buddy" to Tilden Park Golf Course to see if Jerry can figure out how to use it before he loses it, which seems inevitable, because it is not only complicated but small.

Eat so-so chicken made in a crockpot.  Give up on "House of Cards."  Watch Davis and White win ice dancing gold medal.  Ponder that White is adorable and so like Colin Firth! But when he talks, he uses the word "awesome."  Let go of that fantasy.

Sew last block.   Have now done 20.  They need to be pressed, and then I'm handing them over tomorrow.



Hope they go with what other people have done

* * * * *

 

Valentine's Day in San Francisco was a madhouse, at least around Union Square.  My friend Suzanne and I ate at Scala's, where we were handed a wine list on an iPad.  Good lunch. 

 

Took a walk before our haircuts and spied a female impersonator in a motorized cable car, advertising cruises.   Took a photo, but didn't get a good one:

 

I know what you're thinking but I saw nothing.

 

Also, hats for sale.



 

 

And lots of bouquets around the salon

 

 

Happy Valentine's Day: Romance Chez Moi

Jerry has a professional meeting tonight.  I'm out all day in San Francisco,  having lunch with a friend and then a haircut.  When to do Valentine's Day?

As far as Jerry's concerned, we can skip it, but he knows that isn't acceptable to me.  I may be a cynical old crone, but I feel VD must be observed.

Negotiations ensue.  Breakfast?  And then a take-out dinner squeezed in between the end of my day and his meeting?  That'll have to do.

A hasty breakfast

Dinner--who knows?

There's been a hiatus in posting due to angst ("n. a feeling of anxiety"--this way understates it). Too much bad news lately and too many sad situations I can't do anything about.

I saw this on the side of truck yesterday:

Are you kidding, guy?  Plenty!  There's so much to lose beyond anything you can protect with an alarm system.  (Guy got out of his truck and asked if he could help me when he saw me loitering; logbook probably reads, "investigated old bat hanging around truck with camera in supermarket parking lot.")

This past week, I gave into the chocolate bar I resisted the week before.

And then I bought another one for Jerry for Valentine's Day.  If that isn't love, what is?

Seeking Solace

This week has delivered two batches of bad, sad news. 

One left Jerry and me stunned:  The young father of the child I mentioned in an earlier post, died suddenly of massive cardiac arrest on Sunday morning. The little boy had just come home from a stay in the hospital, where he is being treated for a rare childhood cancer, Stage IV.  The news about his father seems unbelievable.  I had to read the Caring Bridge post several times to absorb it.  I'm still not sure I have.

The other sad news came from a friend in my quilt mini-group who's been diagnosed with an incurable illness.  In an eloquent e-mail, she informed her friends so gracefully, with such care and gratitude for a good life, that I was awed. I responded to her e-mail right away,  and I was so moved and saddened that words were not hard to find.  She's been on my mind a lot.



Quilt mini-group, banding together now to help our friend

Everyone, everything, seems vulnerable.  Jerry went off for routine blood work--would they find something when they drew blood?  No.  Preposterous.  I waved good-by to my friend Claudia M. after we took a walk this morning, and I worried about her getting over a lingering cold.  My sister, other friends.   Worry, worry, worry. 

Yesterday afternoon, tired of myself and my fears and my house, having done what I could to help or respond to the people involved, I wandered down to Fourth Street in Berkeley for a break. 

 

 

I went into Peet's, and there on the counter was a stack of  salted caramel milk-chocolate bars. 

Before I knew it, I had one in my hand.  Why not?  I'd had some bad news!   Chocolate has always been my go-to when I feel sad.   (Or glad.  When my sister's thyroid tumor turned out to be benign, we went straight to bags of peanut M&Ms).

I put the chocolate back on the counter, possibly for the first time in history.  I'm not sure why.

But what to do with all this sadness?   A glass of sherry?  Work on my bucket list?  Just sit with it, often the best option if I can get myself to do it?   Or--this came to me last night--read some poetry?

I opened Jane Kenyon's collection, Otherwise.  

I felt as though I'd entered an alternate universe,  a quiet, contemplative one, away from noisy distractions (Roku!), focusing on what I thought I wanted to escape.   My shoulders dropped, and I took a deep breath.

Here's one of my favorites, which  Kenyon wrote  before she was diagnosed with leukemia.

Otherwise

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise.  I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach.  It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
To the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate.  It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

Jane Kenyon, 1947-1995

Oh, Woody, Say It Isn't So!

Did anyone else feel her heart sink while reading Nicholas Kristof's column in today's New York Times?  The title is "Dylan Farrow's Story." 

Kristof quotes form a letter Dylan wrote upon learning  that Woody Allen, whom she accused of molesting her when she was 7, received a Golden Globe lifetime achievement award a few weeks ago. 

She's now 28 and been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress syndrome. You can read the column here.

For years, I've thought that the allegations against Allen, made by Mia Farrow and their adopted daughter, Dylan, during Farrow and Allen's custody battle, were false, prompted by Farrow's hysteria over learning that Allen (God, this is complicated) had a relation with one of her adoptive daughters,  Soon-Yi Previn, whom he later married.    A panel of psychiatrist sided with Allen at the time, and the prosecutor dropped the charges.   

Now, for the first time, I feel myself being swayed.  What do you think?  I so admire Allen as an artist (just watched and loved "Blue Jasmine"), but this is very disturbing.  And what to do about it if it is true?

* * * * *

 

A reader suggested this article in The Daily Beast as giving a well-researched perspective on the allegations.