Sense and Sensibility

Elinor and Marianne Dashwood are sisters; they're both smart and hot, and they don't have any money.

Marianne is a thing some journalists would label "a messy bitch." She pays limited attention to the social graces. If someone near her is an idiot, she can't be bothered to do the good girl thing where you're like: I'm working really hard to pretend you're not an idiot. Instead, Marianne is just short of openly contemptuous, and then she'll wander off and inspect her host's private library, and the host is like: Wait, you're my guest. You should be chatting with me right now.

Elinor is sort of insufferably perfect, and she is invested in judging things accurately. It's childish to find drama where there isn't drama, to exaggerate, to stir and stir and stir the pot. (The fools in this novel like to use the adjective "monstrous." As in: "I'm monstrous excited to meet that new horse!" Or: "I'm monstrous curious to know what Lucy said about Miss Steele's scandalous new corset!")

Jane Austen was well aware that men tend not to be the greatest people on the planet, so, in "Sense and Sensibility," she has Willoughby, a handsome cad who persuades Marianne to donate some hair-in-a-locket, then fucks her over. Jane Austen has Edward Ferrars, who flirts with new ladies whilst forgetting some of the sloppy, problematic nonsense in his own past. Jane Austen has Colonel Brandon--and, my goodness, who can even guess what's going on with Brandon for one hundred middle pages?

Everything works out, sort of. Marianne learns to be less of a shit-show. (That said, I know I'm not alone in secretly preferring crazy Marianne to endlessly-proper Elinor. I know I'm not the only reader who would like to see Elinor farting, or stepping in manure, at several points in the novel.)

One of Jane Austen's many talents is her unsparing eye for self-delusion. In a classic scene at the very beginning of the novel, a dude realizes he needs to give some of his money to his poor sisters. This guy has shit tons of money. But his nasty wife doesn't want generosity as a family tradition. "You didn't actually promise money," she says. "You said you'd be kind. Kindness can mean, like, moving some furniture around when you're asked." The husband--relieved--says, "YES! That's what I'll do! I'll MOVE FURNITURE." When the shafted sisters announce their new home will be very far away, the brother is personally aggrieved, because he is not going all that way to haul out some day-beds, and if he can't do this tiny thing, then he can't assuage his own guilty conscience. Also, the mean brother becomes exasperated because his sisters get to hold onto some fancy flatware--and why do they need that flatware if they're going to be living in a kind of shitty dirt hut? (The brother seems unaware that the dirt hut is a direct result of his own coldness.) All of this is done in a deadpan style, and it's breathtaking and chilling and very funny, even now, in 2020.

I wonder if Marianne's resolution could have been different. Not that everyone really needs to be happy. That's not required in a novel. Just a thought.

I recommend this weird, twisty, cunning story. Not a controversial opinion! But there you have it.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

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