Zen and the art of laundry

Choices by the fascist regime now in charge of the USA have me leaning on my coping mechanisms more than usual. I’m refilling on too many cups of hot tea and you can most often find me in my slippers saying, “Oh, dear,” to no one, like a ninety year old. I may also be heard to mutter, “Motherfucking Nazis. God damn,” while laughing like a hysteric at a funeral.

This is my face reading the news every day now.

May we all find solace in the tiny slivers of calm between the cresting waves of bullshit.


I cope with the craziness of life by making inappropriate jokes about everything. I learned last week I am not the best person to have at a candlelight vigil.

May we all find solace in the tiny slivers of calm between the cresting waves of bullshit.

Zen and the art of laundry:

We go to the gym. My man and I both go to the gym a lot. My mom tried to teach me that “ladies perspire, they don’t sweat,” but I sweat like a hog and so does he. We also have two children and a cat and among the five of us generate a heap of laundry every day.

I have three bins. Two get filled with dirties and one fills up with clean laundry. This one tucked away in the bathroom gets the foulest gym clothes. I’m regularly disinfecting this area.


A bin like the one below lives in between the bedrooms and takes all the other laundry, particularly the kids’ clothes. And then the one in the living room fills up with the clean clothes we haven’t put away yet. It gets put away when guests come over. Sometimes.


When we return from the gym in the morning all the laundry goes into the washer. When we return from work at night all of the laundry goes in the dryer.

The moment of Zen happens in our modest laundry room. I like to run the dryer so the cycle will end when I am home. I will spend several deliberate minutes pulling items from the dryer and turning them right side out and matching up sock pairs as I drop every clean item into the empty laundry bin. I notice the heat from the dryer warming my hands; I notice every piece of the children’s clothing, how their bodies are small and growing, how the knees are worn from antics; I think about my man’s gym shirts and his work shirts and all of his silent effort; I look at my gym gear and pat myself on the back for the work I put into building my strength; I consider the resources required to run these machines of modern convenience and take pains to appreciate this immense luxury.


In my laundry moments I give thanks for what I have and I think about people sleeping rough in my city, people coping with cold and wet weather as they try to exist, people living in other nations who are worried about warfare at their doorstep.

I recognize this moment of Zen is a form of meditation or even prayer. Cultures have different words for it. In modern therapy-speak we’d say I’m grounding myself in the moment and practicing mindfulness.

A mental health ritual seems stupid to me unless it’s attached to a practical chore. Laundry forces me to do it.

A moment when I brush the cat and clip his claws and listen to him purr.

A moment when I take the kids for flu vaccinations and give thanks to modern medicine for lowering their probability of premature death.

A moment when I stub my toe and feel a wave of immense pain that reminds me I am alive and corporeal and this is likely the worst pain I will experience this week and therefore I am lucky.

I don’t fold laundry; there are limits. Our eldest sorts it into piles and we all put away our own clothes. I usually just shove it all in a drawer and the kids do the same with theirs. I do not have all the time in the world for laundry. I do not have all the time in the world.

May you find solace in the slivers of calm between the cresting waves of bullshit.

Unintentional bisexual erasure and regret

I have a confession. In my younger years I greatly enjoyed making a homophobic fuckwit plotz by pointing out that their favorite celebrity was homosexual. They hardly ever believed me but I saw an opportunity to put a chink in the armor of their bigotry and I leapt on it with glee.

Lately I’ve reflected and not only was it a bit tacky of me to out celebs who maybe wanted to stay private — a fact that hit home particularly when I started working for some of the more private ones — in many cases I failed in another way. A whole bunch of bisexual people got slotted into the “gay” corner and I never thought twice about it.

Last week was bisexual awareness week and someone asked me why there even needed to be a bisexual awareness week and didn’t LTGBQ et al. already cover the bases? But I thought back to my inconsiderate youth and felt regret that I’d made so many of my friends and colleagues invisible. We’re an either/or sort of species, I reckon.

And I have friends even now who will gently mention their various predilections and maybe I don’t know exactly how to categorize them in my either/or worldview.

I’m working on it and I see you guys and I don’t want to diminish the richness of our human rainbow by skipping over any of the color gradients. My bad.




Nous a French pop song from 1978 by Hervé Vilard


I had an auditory flashback whereby I realized why Bowie’s 1971 Life on Mars always felt familiar to me yet not quite right. Because I thought it was my favorite song when I was a kid, but it wasn’t. In fact, it was this French song from 1978 by Hervé Vilard. I think if you listen you can understand my confusion. Not the same, and yet…

Nous c’est une illusion qui meurt,
D’un éclat de rire en plein coeur
Une histoire de rien du tout
Comme il en existe beaucoup …

For comparison. Plus, you need an excuse to listen again to the late, great Bowie.


Let’s talk about the muse and how they function in the life of the artist. We all have influences that kick our artistic butts into gear.

Growing up with my grandmother Helene‘s paintings I’ve long been fascinated by the literal artist model. I took a painting class in high school where the instructor told me painters tend to add their own features when they paint other people. “If you want to look good, hire a good-looking painter.”

When my maternal grandmother lived outside of Chicago she had a friend who was also her muse. In her friend Susan Bartelt’s beauty I see a woman of chic style who could easily have fit into our family back in France. She was from international New York City herself and studied fashion design and must have adored having Helene around the small suburban town as someone who shared her refined sensibilities.


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Helene used her as an artist model many times. Here is the official portrait that now hangs in her daughter’s dining room:


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Such beauty. Although, if I ever commission a work of myself I should like to be captured in laughter.

I was taken by another muse when I visited Chateau Grimaldi outside of Nice, France.

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One of the rooms is dedicated to portraits of Suzy Solidor.

She even became known as “the most painted woman in the world” and it’s easy to see how her vibe would appeal to artists. Among muses I’ve known they share the same bigger-than-life personality that so many want to attempt to capture. They’re not necessarily the most beautiful person in the room, but they’re always the most captivating. She was also convicted of collaborating during WWII due to singing in her club for the Germans; but that’s another story.


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Muses are often singers and actors and have the rare talent of always being themselves no matter the circumstances. Always comfortable in their skin.

One of my friends, Crystal Durant, even lists Muse as one of her jobs on her Facebook. She knows what she’s about! It’s no surprise that she works with The Art Students League of New York as their model. She may strip Suzy of her title as most painted woman.


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When Crystal posts a new portrait on her Facebook I search for the features of the artist themselves as they may have been influencing their depiction of her. Perhaps we gravitate toward a muse who has qualities of ourselves we want to explore?


We could ask Robin Feinerman who did the painting above. [Trying to get credits on the rest of these outstanding works of art.]


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Mina diva

I’m pretty good with knowing references around divas so it’s a bit shocking to realize I missed one. Particularly as our youngest has the same name!

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Can I just pretend I named my kid after her? This Italian diva is gold. This is pop so beautifully sung it is heart breaking at times.

She’s the sort of person where Chet Baker sleeps one off in her tub. The most unexpected person I ever found in my claw-foot tub was a drunken Mormon teenager sleeping it off.


And her later looks give off shades of pop artistry. Intentional camp.
And she’s on the right side of history even though she hasn’t sung since the 70s.


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My sister the brave

In every family there is a person that holds the center; around whose gravitational pull the other family members orbit. We refer to them as patriarch or don’t really consider their role until they’ve died and the loosely held lines of the family tree split into new directions.

I was lucky as an adult that my eldest sister decided to be such a force for cohesion. If you’ve followed along with our shared story then you know the fractured nature of our father’s relationships and the many ways the adults in our lives made poor decisions and created rifts.

Emmanuelle is quite a bit older than me but we share some similar life experience that made it possible to bridge both the generational and cultural differences between us.

I first met her when I was in my twenties. Struck mainly by the dimples all we half-sisters share, as well as our similar temperament. We stay calm and a bit aloof or inscrutable unless provoked, or unless relating a particularly entertaining story.

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She shared her many dramatic stories and photos and we compared our separate lives as performers as well as narrators. A person like this in a family — the one who holds everything together — is an invaluable service. Having a well-documented life in photographs is a wonderful thing for me on both sides of my family, so rife with entertainers. I get to see the life stages that I missed, spotting the moody teen years and comparing them to my own. The serious phase followed by a more contemplative mien.

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Certainly, it takes bravery to face messy emotions and be willing to look at the past.

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A kind, serious, and funny person.

When my daughter was small we made a trip back to France to visit various family members. Her two strongest memories of that trip were picking strawberries in her aunt’s garden.

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And then check out my kid’s face when I took her into a very old abbey and we visited the stations of the cross for the first time in her life.

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Yep, that made an impression.

I am grateful; many other relations who learned of my existence later in life walked away from me, but my half sister Emmanuelle held out her hand and shared her stories with me. She bridged that age and cultural difference with great effort and made space for me in her life narrative. It’s because of her that I now know so much about my own history and I’m able to catalogue it here, painstakingly putting together the shards into a mosaic so someday my own kids can benefit from knowing their family history.

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Plus, she’s a great storyteller and I always appreciate that.

Sharing economy versus the entitled class

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of car-sharing programs like ZipCar, Modo, or Car2Go. A convenient mode of transport that benefits the environment? I’m all in. In fact, I was tickled to learn that my Danish sister-in-law was the translator who took the text of the German company Car2Go and translated it into several languages for their worldwide expansion.

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What I’m less fond of is the fascinating resistance I’ve encountered around these shared cars by people who drive their own vehicles and likely rarely take public transit. It’s happening enough now that I can call it a trend and I’m going to tell you about a righteous fight I engaged in this morning.

When you finish a trip with a car share, the computer system will let you “check in” the car back into the network area so someone else can “check it out” for their personal use. This means that I’m frequently ending my trips and parking near my home. Four times now various male homeowners have rushed out of their houses to inform me that I’m “not allowed” to park in front of their homes.

They’re wrong and today I’d had enough. A few days ago, a fella gave me a lecture about how I wasn’t allowed to park in front of his house because I wasn’t within the car-share zone. I thought he was trying to do me a favor so I checked both the car-share map and the city zoning rules and found that he was incorrect. From past experience I was beginning to suspect that he was using a fear-mongering tactic to dissuade me from parking in front of his house, but giving him the benefit of the doubt I figured I would park in front of his house again and if he decided to get aggressive I would explain to him the error of his ways.

So I park there with my nine-year old and this fella comes rushing out of his house again, immediately lecturing me about how he told me last time I couldn’t park there.

“Except I can. I can explain. Hang on; I’ll show you.” I started pulling up the map on my phone.

“No, you can’t. You’re not allowed to park there because it’s outside of the city limits.”

“I checked. The city limits start at your property line.” I kept trying to explain, but he was talking over me and getting shouty.

“No, the line is in the middle of the street. You can park over there.” He gesticulated, standing in the middle of the cul-de-sac showing me with his arms as though with flag semaphore where I cannot park (in front of his house) and where I can park (away from his house). If only I weren’t so stupid!

“That’s wrong. See, the system lets me lock the door because it’s within the zone. I can show you the map on my phone and explain how it works.”

“Well, I’m going to have your car towed.”

“It’s not my car. You’re welcome to have it towed but you’ll incur the costs because I’m not breaking any rules.”

He disappeared for a bit and I stood by and called the car-share company because I felt this was a righteous fight worth having. As I told the representative when she confirmed that I was legally parked and he was wrong, he wouldn’t be yelling at me if I’d parked a car I own in front of his house. He soon returned with a printed flyer supposedly explaining parking regulations and changed his tack by saying I was parked too close to his driveway.

“You have to be at least eight feet away from the driveway,” he repeated many times.

“Eight feet, you say? No, I have to not be blocking your driveway and I’ve given you about four feet of clearance there. Plus, we’re on a cul-de-sac. You literally have no obstacles coming from the direction I’m parked.”

“I will find the regulation and print it and leave it on your car.”

“This is not my car. You don’t understand how car shares work and you’re scared of them and that’s why you’re angry about these cars parking in front of your house.”

“I’ve owned my home for fifteen years! I pay taxes!”

“So what? I pay taxes. What’s your point? Do you think you own a public street?”

“You can’t park on this side of the street.”

“I’ve confirmed that you’re wrong about that. I’ve confirmed with the company and I’ve tried to show you a city map on my phone, but you aren’t listening. Listen!”

At a certain point I called my partner to explain the situation and he said he was proud of me and not to back down and he was on his way over. I finished up before he made it over as after about fifteen minutes of arguing — me leaning against the car, rebutting his points, my kid calmly standing near me reading a book about Minecraft — his voice began to take on a pleading tone, “You can park across the street. Why is it so hard for you to park right over there?”

He didn’t realize it, but my hands were shaking with anger. I *hate* bullies. He’s got two feet of height on me and he’s been yelling at me and my kid but it’s all my fault because I’m being so unreasonable? Yeah, no. I went full French Girl From New York City.

“Re-park right there? Right over there? You just want me to re-park right over there?”

“Yeah, just there.”

“Yeah, it’s not hard at all. Super easy. But you’ve been unpleasant from the first. You think you own a public street. So from now on, I’m parking in front of your house, and I’m telling all of my friends to park in front of your house, and whenever possible, I’ll grab one of these cars that scare you so much, and re-park it in front of your house, because you don’t own a public street.”

I later realized that he was in that mindset where no amount of new information would have changed his position. This wasn’t about facts, it was a pissing contest and he’s obviously comfortable bullying people into getting his way. When I finally walked away with my kid, he continued to threaten that he was going to have the car towed for “being parked too close to a driveway,” I said, “Have fun explaining to the towing company who you think will pay for that.”

Guys, my new hobby is parking car shares in front of a neighbor’s house. I know it’s childish, but you know what got me?

“I pay taxes.”

Ohhhhhhhhboy. That’s some entitled bullshit right there.

Productivity habit

Since I manage a full-time job, a part-time job, a relationship, two children, friends, a cat, volunteer work, singing in the occasional opera, fitness goals, reading many books, and writing a lot, it is only natural that my friends marvel at my ability to keep everything flowing.

It helps that I have an engaged partner in parenting who does his fair share of chores.

However, one of the best tools for keeping my life together has always been an agenda. The digital format is great; I’ll even jot writing notes and other creative reminders to myself a few days in advance. I’ll stack everything into one day and then re-arrange the items into a coherent form. I might have three reminders to buy household goods and that will become my shopping list when I go to the store. I might have a bunch of writing notes that I’ll keep pushing forward until I’ve hit the date I know I’m sitting down to write. I’ll notice when I order an item online on the confirmation gives an estimated date of delivery and I’ll pop that in my calendar so I can follow up if it’s a few days late. In conversation someone might mention a good book and I’ll write that into an upcoming Saturday so I know what to search for at the library.

I don’t like to have the various reminders spread across different programs or memo apps so I put everything into one calendar.

To be honest, the thing that’s suffered the most since I started working these two jobs is my website and personal writing! But I’ve given a time slot to that in a few weeks so I’ll relax about it and focus my efforts when that date comes around.


Maria looking 60s glam

I do enjoy pulling the celebrity-style vintage photos from my family vault to share with you guys. These are from a photo shoot my mother did in Paris for the opera in the late 1960s. Aren’t they just the most? The living end?

But with the umbrella and those buildings it’s all a bit Jacques Tati somehow.

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The weight of personal history

The trouble with having such a deep knowledge of my family history is I find I must bite my tongue when my kids speak casually of their interests. I have no desire to bog them down with the weight of our history.

When my kid says she’d like to grow up to be a dancer I want to say, “Like your great aunt.”

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When they learn to ice skate and say they can never do it I want to say, “But your grandmother became quite good at it living outside of Chicago.”

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When they tell me they love swimming, I want to tell them of their great-grandmother and how she swam laps every morning.


When my daughter says she wants to grow up to be an actor or director, I glance at the posters of my father’s shows framed in our home.

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Daniel Chardin publicity 1950s

When they say they like to sing, I have no need to tell them Cherubino and Carmen are part of the legacy.

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I’ll wait to tell them. Wait to show them the reams of photographs. Let them explore their interests without the weight of that knowledge.

I always felt a bit sorry for the children of the celebrities I knew. All of that privilege and opportunity but they’re not allowed to fail — no opportunity to play in the sandbox.

No room for failure is like a form of prison for creative people.