RUFF

Like Ruffle, but shorter and not about clothes.

I know I said it wasn’t about clothes, and this is technically a piece of clothing… but it’s also called a ruff. And I’m not sure where I’m headed with these ruffs, so let’s just go with it.

Ok. I take forever to write because I angst over word choices and get way into my feelings. I often weave digressions into my narratives and fear I may be rambling.

So…

This is Ruff - a place for those digressions - and other such things. Quick pieces. Rough drafts - or ruff drafts (how clever am I?) They won’t take a ton of time to write or read, so win-win!

I hope.

Here goes.

RUFF #1: My Brain On The New York Times

If you’re old enough, you’ll remember this Drug-Free America commercial:

Close-up of butter sizzling in pan.

VO (in an annoyed tone): Ok, last time. This is drugs.

An egg is cracked, falls into the butter and begins to fry.

VO: This is your brain on drugs.

The dopey egg continues to fry.

VO (now even more annoyed) Any questions?

My friends and I used to laughingly sputter “This is your brain on drugs” while taking giant hits of joints. Now, I use that metaphor to describe my brain on The New York Times.

This is what happens every morning, no matter my resolve:

Me, in robe, sitting myself down, like a queen, in the window seat, coffee on side table. I open my laptop to The Times’ home page, with a self-satisfied smile. I am so together. So informed. A smartypants about to peruse the headlines.

VO: This is your brain.

Me: Hell yeah, this is my brain, bitch!

Busily, I right-click to save the top headlines and op-eds, forming an impressive line of tabs across the top of the page - the important pieces this important woman will read very soon.

But first, a little fun to wake up. I scroll down toward Wordle. Down I head, but, then… oh - a 2-minute article on Gavin Newsom, who’s handsome and good at shit-talking Trump. I click. After all, it’s only two minutes! I sigh because, of course, Newsom is softening his tone - his state needs aid and the orange ass in the White House needs flattery.

As I begin to lose interest, my eye is caught by an ad for a suede James Perse trucker hat. I’ve always avoided trucker hats, in favor of their less-structured baseball-cap cousins. But this looks like a cross between what the Roy family wears when they duck under helicopter propellers and what celebrities wear when the paparazzi catch them having ice cream with their kids. I want one! I click.

Oh. $225 for a baseball cap? I guess I don’t.

Back to Gavin, who’s now taken not two minutes, but five, of my very precious time. And I’ve only read three sentences.

I scroll toward Wordle. Once again, I’m derailed. This time by an article about Kendrick Lamar’s half-time song. How did I not know about the feud with Drake? Now I’m clicking on a link within the article to learn more. Jesus. Where have I been? I get up to refill my coffee cup.

A ding on my phone as I get back to the window seat. Susie wants to talk.

I tell her I only have five minutes. We talk for 20.

Back to my perusal. Someone wants the Ethicist to weigh in on whether they should intervene because their son’s friend (who they’ve known since childhood!) is cheating on his wife. Of COURSE they shouldn’t intervene. I’m no Ethicist and even I know that! But I read it anyway. The top headlines can wait one little minute.

Finished, and full of self-satisfaction (because the Ethicist and I are on the same page) my eye is caught by the headline “My Farewell Column” by Charles Blow. I didn’t know he was leaving. His column is beautifully touching and human and like everyone who’s ever left me, I wish I’d appreciated him more while he was here. But I am very busy.

I right-click on Nicolas Kristoff’s piece on the world’s richest men vs the world’s poorest children (guess who’s winning? Bastards.) I’ll read it as soon as I do Wordle. Oh. Something on Marianne Faithfull’s style? Just a quick peek. I didn’t know that in addition to Mick, she slept with Jimi Hendrix, and David and Angela Bowie - wow - respect! Marianne. The haughty beauty whose eyes brimmed with Liv Ullman-like sadness.

I study side-by-side shots of Marianne and Kate Moss, both in fur (Kate’s is faux.) I spend a full minute wondering who I’d rather be, deciding on Marianne because of her soulful gaze (not to mention the Mick/Jimi/David/Angela thing.)

My email is making all kinds of noises.

I glance. Work stuff. Notifications from LinkedIn. Yay, three people liked my comment on George’s last post and new people want to connect. Click, click, click - I accept them into my mighty fold. I read George’s column and comment because he’s a good egg.

LinkedIn has two job notifications for me - both of which I’d be “perfect for” - one is to be CEO of a company, another, an administrative assistant. They know me so well!

It’s 8:45. I’ve been “reading” the Times for two hours. And still not one article completed. Not even Wordle (which, yes, counts as an article.)

I have to get ready for the day.

Sadly, this is my brain.

This is my brain on The New York Times.

Any questions?