Here we are on a chilly Tuesday morning, after reality’s bitch slap yesterday, but I jest, really; it was very pleasant feeling rested mentally and physically, and it was a pretty good day overall, methinks. I felt good most of the day, my breakfast and lunch were marvelous, and I was also able to leave a bit early to beat traffic, which was also lovely. I do not miss the humidity. If we could have the heat with a bit less humidity, that would make an enormous and great improvement on our summers. It’s also nice to be waking up in my bed under a pile of blankets on a chilly morning, with a hungry cat nuzzling me to get up and feed him.
I sent out a newsletter yesterday finally, about the movie Gaslight, which I watched with my dad last week (you can click here to read it, if you like). We also watched Beat the Devil, which didn’t move me to write about it; it’s not one of Humphrey Bogart’s best, despite an excellent cast including Jennifer Jones, Robert Morley, and Gina Lollobrigida. While Gaslight may not technically be a horror film, what else would you call a plot that involves a husband trying to drive his wife insane? I also think the Gothic trope of “is my husband trying to kill me?” pushes them into the horror realm; what is more horrible than marrying someone who wants to kill you? And no one believes you? I remember reading an article a long time ago that said that one of the biggest fears shared by most Americans is wrongful imprisonment, which was taken to mean not just prison, but being locked up in a mental hospital when you don’t belong there or being forced into rehab. The fear also has the corollary of not being believed, and as someone who has been accused of doing something wrong that I didn’t do–and wasn’t believed–is a fucking nightmare.1
I came straight home after work, no stops or errands, and did some more chores once I got home and plopped down into my easy chair. Paul got home later, and we watched another episode of The Diplomat, which is most excellent, and they just added Jodie Whittaker, whom I love, to the cast as the new British Prime Minister. I slept well last night, and feel relaxed still this morning, which is nice. It sucks when you cannot sleep well, and that last week before I left I most definitely was having sleeping issues, and I am not sure why that happened. I also spent some digging out from under the massive emails I’d accumulated while I was gone, and yes, I know I still owe some replies to people, which I am hoping to get to today. I also have text messages to reply to–the bane of coming back from a wireless blackout is having to clean up everything that was let go for the duration–but I managed to get everything caught up at the office that had been let slide during my absence; the least fun part of vacation is catching up on everything that accumulated. I am also enjoying this cool weather, that seems to not be a false autumn but our actual fall–yes, when seventies are the high during the day but sixties at night is fall in New Orleans; colder than that is what we consider winter. I forgot to turn the dishwasher overnight, so will turn it on right as I leave…then I can unload it tonight when I get home. There’s also a load of laundry I need to do tonight, too. I worked on another newsletter (two actually; books I’ve recently read), and tonight when I get home it’s time to get caught up on the Housewives. I also need to make a Costco list, since we are going to go Friday afternoon after work.
The banality of every day life can be a boon sometimes rather than a bane, methinks.
In my random dive through the Internet yesterday I discovered two more interesting things about Louisiana: one, that Decatur Street used to be called “Vendetta Alley” because of all the shootings and knife fights back in the day (and doesn’t that make a great title for a noir?); and Watson Break, another indigenous mound city in Louisiana, to go along with Poverty Point. I am always learning new things about New Orleans and Louisiana’s history, which is fun but a constant reminder of how little I know about both–which begs the lie that I am somehow an expert on all things New Orleans. Trust me, I am not.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a marvelous Tuesday full of tacos, if that’s your jam, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow bright and early. Till then!
- Not being believed is a key component of Gothic suspense. ↩︎
