The Irony of It

Who doesn't appreciate dramatic irony? It makes you feel smart, smarter than the person who experiences it. But you're probably not.

One of my favorite activities is dramatic ironing. This is a joke my friend created years ago. Now I actually do dramatic ironing because I live on the 31st floor with a fantastic view to the east. It makes ironing tolerable.

On the subject of irons, my son Mark shocked us last night when he said: I have to stop at Columbia to get my iron. Marty and I went slack-jawed. What had happened to our son? He didn't pick up on our shock and just said: yeah, I need my iron pills or I risk becoming anemic again.

This isn't an example of irony. It's an example of the English language not having enough words to express numerous meanings. While it's true that irons used to be made out of iron and that iron is Latin for "ferrum" (hence the element FE), we briefly had serious doubts about our number one son who has never touched an iron in his life.

Soap Opera

One of my embarrassing little secrets is that I watch a soap opera every day, The Young and the Restless. I've been watching it since 1989, a year after my daughter was born. I'd watch the news at noon, and then what-ho! I unintentionally caught a bit of the show. I became addicted. I've watched it on and off ever since.

The reason I always give to people I reveal this to, is that I'm fascinated by the story and plot lines, how they are woven together in Dickensian fashion and how the situations although they might seem unbelievable, are extremely close to what happens in life. In my life anyway.

Here's a little story.

Her parents divorce when she's 6 and she never sees her father again. He is presumed dead, having fought his demons in a Veterans hospital, but not before remarrying and having more children. Her mother dies young, reiterating the story of her first husband and his untimely death, shortly before expiring. The young woman is now an orphan. Her brother, who has been searching death records all over the country, finally discovers the Internet is a much better place to find people, dead or alive.

It turns out that their father is alive and well and living in New York City. Her brother contacts and sees their father. She, now middle-aged, does not. She decides she has no relationship with him other than biological, and she isn't in the market for a dad. She does have an idea for a novel, and he's in it, so puts meeting him some day (to pick his brain) in the "possible" file.

The other day, the woman calls her brother, mainly to catch up on what's happened since they last saw each other. The she mentions their father. "You know he works as a concierge in a building near you," her brother said. "And he lives even closer."

The fickle finger of fate is pointing to a denouement that involves sheer luck--he opens a door for her at the building where he works, or she sees him in a neighborhood store--or a conscious effort to contact him.

She walks by the building where he works but if he's on duty, he remains inside unseen. She passes by where he lives but keeps walking.

The next day, she writes him a brief note suggesting they get together for coffee in the New Year. She includes her cell phone number.

How will this all end? In a soap opera, the writers like to keep their options open. I admit that some of their machinations are ludicrous. The writer of this story will keep her options open, for now.

3 Book Reviews

1Q84

Haruki Murakami’s latest book has an alluring cover. On one side, the closely-cropped face of Aomame stares at you; on the other is the similarly cropped face of Tengo.

The clever title plays with the year 1984, the “Q” in Japanese meaning the number “9.” Silly me, I first thought the book was about a person with a low I.Q. 1984 and 1Q84 represent two different worlds, the “actual” world and the world that has two moons. In 1Q84, Big Brother is watching you in ways you could never imagine.

Aomame is a killer hired by a shadowy dowager, at first to give her stretching lessons and then to kill men known to be wife-beaters. Aomame’s not a beautiful woman and she’s extremely shy, but she’s sexy and knows how to use her body to attract men. The love of her life is Tengo, a boy she briefly knew in elementary school. Tengo is brilliant, but is working at a low-level job at a “cram” school, a place students study to be able to get into better colleges. His real passion, however, is writing novels. An editor he knows gets him to agree to re-write a bizarre novel titled Air Chrysalis, written by a 17-year old girl. The novel wins a newcomer’s prize, and things go downhill from there.

Leader, Little People, dead goats, child rape and two moons are all part of 1Q84. Truthfully, I found this part of the novel dull. The love story of Aomame and Tengo is nicely done, if you can wrap your mind around pregnancy without sex.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

Interestingly, I read Murakami’s book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running in the middle of reading 1Q84. Murakami wrote this book prior to 1Q84 and there are hints of the novel in his memoir about running. In the memoir, Murakami writes about how running informs his fiction. Personally, as a writer who runs (although not at his level), this short book was a revelation to me, about one of my favorite writers and also about myself. In the book, he writes about his love for Raymond Chandler, who Murakami translated into Japanese. I went to the library and checked out a four-book series by Chandler. I read three-quarters of The Big Sleep but was bored by Philip Marlowe and his detective work. Maybe I’m just not a mystery reader. Mysteries, even when well written tend to give me a headache.

A Judgement in Stone

I picked up this little gem at the Crothers’ house in New Hampshire. Ruth Rendell, whom I’d confused with Ruth Reichel, the food writer, is a baroness who’s written literary mysteries for 45 years.

Didn’t I just say mysteries gave me a headache? Judgement (English book, English spelling) isn’t really a mystery, more a psychological thriller in which the reader knows more about what’s happened than the police. A monstrous woman, Eunice, who can’t bear the idea that anyone would know she was illiterate, will do anything to guard her secret. She murders her father, blackmails “friends,” and murders her employers and their children, the latter with no affect. Eunice is unloved and unloving—as cold as they come. The upper middle class family she murders, with the aid and encouragement of her lunatic, religious fanatic acquaintance, are pillars of the community. Ms. Rendell is wise to paint them in broad strokes that discourage the reader from becoming attached to them, but her intermittent reminders about the Valentine’s Day Massacre keeps one on edge from beginning to end.

I look forward to reading more Ruth Rendell when I finish yet another mystery plucked from the Crothers archive.

Turbo May 27, 1996 - December 1, 2011

Turbo, who was still turning heads until earlier this week, has died. He was our longest-lived Bouvier at 14 and a half. A master of many lifestyles, he was bi-lingual and engaging in the extreme.

Born in Costa Rica to Manolo and Lara, Turbo had a sister, Tica, and four brothers. They all pre-deceased him. His half sister Asta (by Manolo), was Turbo’s constant companion for 12 years. Turbo was very depressed when she died 2 years ago.

Turbo was a light gray brindle color with cropped ears and tail. He loved to smile, and had all his teeth until he died, even though we never had them cleaned. Except for other Bouviers of his acquaintance, he didn’t care for other dogs. When it came to interacting with people, however, he was a charmer. There was only one person he had contact with who so misread the dog that it was a wonder he trained animals for a living. This was back in the Costa Rica days when Turbo was one or so and already neutered.

Mr. Dog Trainer came to our house and asked to spend a few minutes alone with Turbo. His assessment: on a scale of one to ten, ten being the most aggressive, Turbo was a 12. He would need a lot of training. When I expressed my doubts about Turbo’s aggressiveness (he was always friendly to people, even strangers), the trainer turned to me and said, “Cupcake, I know what I’m talking about.” We told him we wouldn’t need his services.

At one point in Costa Rica, we had four Bouviers. Turbo was the only male, and not quite as bright as two of three of his sisters. He was a little goofy, and he loved to play. One day, Turbo showed how smart he really was. I had been given macadamia nut shells to use as mulch in my gardens. My gardener spread them around in the front of the house. The next morning, our three female dogs couldn’t lift their butts off the ground after gorging themselves on the empty shells. Turbo was the only dog who enthusiastically ate breakfast, having for whatever reason rejected the shells to which tasty tiny nut bits still adhered. I called the vet in a panic. He laughed and said to come to the office to pick up some castor oil. That quickly unplugged the blockages and the dogs were fine.

When we shipped Turbo and his sister Asta to the United States (they were 3 and 4 years old), we had to pay by the kilo. Both dogs were obese, having lived their days munching fallen mangoes (and retching up the pit at 5 o’clock each morning), and other tropical fruits. The gardener gave them scraps of food, too. When we brought them to the vet in the States, he told us that they seriously needed a diet. We put them on diet dog food, didn’t feed them from the table (much), and within a year they lost 20 pounds apiece. The vet came out to the waiting room and told the other pet owners, “you see, you can put your pets on a diet that works. These dogs just added several years to their lives.”

Our daughter Mariel spent endless hours training Turbo and Asta to jump over obstacles. Mariel had competed in equine jumping competitions in Costa Rica, and went on to be a hurdler in high school and college. For large dogs, they were incredibly graceful. The only problem was, they discovered they could jump over the backyard fence, which they did on a regular basis. Eventually, we had to put up an invisible fence. I doubt they’d ever wander away, but they could easily be mistaken for bears or other shootable animals.

Turbo’s biggest adventure again involved Mariel. She had taken Turbo and Asta to the park near our house and let them off their leashes. Asta remained nearby at all times, but Turbo drifted off somewhere. In a panic, Mariel called us to say Turbo was missing. My husband and friends (who were visiting us) went off to search for him, taking our neighbors, who often cared for the dogs, with them. I stayed home to field phone calls. Our biggest worry was that Turbo would leave the park and get hit by a car. Finally, I couldn’t sit around anymore. I put on my sneakers and went to the garage door. There was Turbo, panting but sitting there and smiling, happy to be home. I called off the search party. There were several routes he could’ve taken, but we’ll never know whether he walked on the road, our usual route, or if he’d gone though the woods. I always said I wished my dogs could speak, which they did in a fashion. I’d love to hear how Turbo found his way home.

While Asta was “human-smart,” Turbo was dog smart. He instinctively knew what was harmful to eat, and he could use his nose-memory when he needed it. He was warm, loving and fun. Turbo, as his name implies, was full of energy and loved to run around out back. Whereas Asta was stand-offish, Turbo was ever-friendly. He barked at strangers when they came in the house, but this was more a reaction to Asta defending us and Turbo following her lead.

When we moved to Manhattan, Turbo became a city dog. Did he like it? I don’t think so, but he loved to soak up the attention of passers-by. “What kind of dog is that?” people would ask in shock. They’d never heard of a Bouvier de Flandres, so we explained that he was a Belgian cow-herding dog. European tourists were more familiar with the breed, but Turbo still had a magnetic effect. Kids and adults alike would ask to pet him. People took photos. It was a lot of fun to live in the reflected glory of such a head-turner. We used to joke with our sons Mark and Harry that Turbo was a chick magnet.

In his final year of life, Turbo experienced a number of old-age problems. He developed Bell’s palsy and had to be hospitalized for three weeks. He was already eating dog food for joint problems, and took Rimidyl and Tramadol on a daily basis. He especially hated the Tramadol so we had to wrap the pills in chunks of cheese or slather it with hummus or some other tasty sauce.

My husband Marty, who was Turbo’s primary caretaker, walked with Turbo to Central Park one day last summer. Turbo was 14 by then but could still walk pretty far if you took it slowly. They went to the dog area, where Marty took pictures and Turbo sat by his side. He loved to just sit in the grass and take in the sights ands smells. We have a small house in the Catskill Mountains that has a large lawn. Turbo loved to sit out there with us beside the brook.

Like many dogs, Turbo had many nick names. Named Turbo Dodger by Mariel, he was also known as Turbie, Tubsy Ubsy, Turbster The Turbonator, The Big Turbowski, and Baby. I called him Baby a lot in his final year. He was, after all, our youngest child.

After a wonderful Thanksgiving with the boys (I cooked all the turkey innards for him and doled them out a little at a time), we went back to Manhattan. By Tuesday I had to rely on Jimmy, one of our concierges who occasionally walked Turbo for us, to help me get him from the elevator to the door. He was okay on the street, but once we got into the building, Jimmy had to help me get him to our front door. Marty clearly saw the decline that occurred in a matter of two days. Early Wednesday morning, I woke up to find Turbo and Marty on the floor. Turbo had had some kind of stroke or seizure and couldn’t get up. We called a 24-hour veterinary hospital and they said to come right in. We spent Turbo’s final 15 minutes or so talking to him, kissing and petting him. The doctor came in and asked if we were ready. We were not ready but Turbo was.

Turbo has been cremated and his ashes will be interred on our property in the mountains. There will never be a dog like Turbo.