Saturday, January 10, 2009 - Posts
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I love your post, Ellen, and your point (and June's) that as Frank Loesser put it, "You can't go to jail for what you're thinkin'—or for the woo look in your eye. ...'' As I've said before, (almost all) of my old (pretend) flames are either making Cialis commercials now, or else have become even more definitively unavailable. Yet my still more retro variation on the sugar daddy fantasy—its uptight, uptown cousin, the Donna Reed scenario (April Wheeler, only happy)—endures. Along with the knowledge that in real life, this would never be me. (In both the kept woman and domestic goddess narratives, you'll notice, there's a troubling amount of work involved.) If you like to pretend once in a while, though—in the kitchen, I mean—I just got a cookbook that can totally help you fake it: Big Night In, by my friend Domenica Marchetti, the best cook I know. Her recipes are not easy peasy—in fact, she's proud that some food writer pronounced them a big fat pain, and worth it. But my issue with a lot of cookbooks is that they assume knowledge ("three eggs worth of pasta'') and skills (dice until invisible) that I don't have. Whereas this is black-diamond cooking explained on the bunny slope, with gorgeous photos and the kind of storytelling I need to get warmed up and going on the creamy carrot soup or veal and mushroom stew in a puff pastry crust. I actually made these two, and felt like Bree Van de Kamp for a night; next time, I want to play her well-fed husband.
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A guest post from Slate staffer Nathan Heller:
Nina's excellent post inspired me to volley back from the male side of the Slate court. I'm also twentysomething, also living off an unlavish editorial paycheck, and parts of this discussion leave me quaking in my holey boots. If the brilliant and accomplished women of my peer group secretly hope to snag men who are filthy rich—or who happen to be filthy rich (and the distinction there seems so thin you could make shadow puppets behind it)—then I might as well tonsure my head and hone my bocce skills now. Noreen's brilliantly described vertiginous landscape is eerily close to mine.
Which is why I suspect that Nina, June, and others are right: This is definitely a complexly gendered issue, but it's a vocational issue, too. What sort of writer—or filmmaker or songwriter—wouldn't go weak-kneed at the prospect of a benefactor? I've certainly shared June's Pookie fantasy. (In fact, sugar daddies themselves are hardly relegated to one gender: The dowager-with-stud trope has been immortalized from Laura to Alfie to just about everything in which the phrase pool boy has ever been uttered.) Many of us tell ourselves that a chance to do good, meaningful work is worth some sacrifice. From there, it's easy for both men and women to fall into the trap of thinking that a less-than-scintillating partnership is worth the opportunities it affords. Hence the tendency that alarmed Hanna: the place where self-possessed ambition and domestic prostitution cross.
Of course, the idea that one's work would sparkle under the influence of a clear schedule and a seaside cottage—equally the fantasy of men in the profession, I'd offer—is probably a canard. As Jessica suggests, people with a windfall of time and money tend to end up mushy as an apple in a steam bath, even if they started with sharp minds and orderly ambitions. There is a chance to catch up (at last!) on your reading or home improvement. There is the endless rewriting of sentences. There is the all-devouring black hole of the Brookstone catalog. Meanwhile: Salman Rushdie wrote Midnight's Children while working full-time at an ad agency, Joan Didion did her best work in a partnership of two young freelancers with a small kid, and J.K. Rowling—well, everyone knows about J.K. Rowling. I'm baldly naive, but I'd like to think that learning how to do good creative work among these pressures—the process of making it work—helped those writers hit their strides on more than the electric bill.
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