And now for something completely different--- a glimpse inside the male psyche

Yesterday, at the movies in the middle of the day, I saw Hurt Locker, directed by Kathryn Bigelow. I was one of two or three women in the audience. Everyone else was male. I was a stranger in this demographic. I was the minority. The men were in their late 20's to mid 30's. All these men could be soldiers. I'd never experienced anything like this before. In fact, I kept looking around me, and saying, Yes, there is only one other woman. I am sitting in a sea of men. Furthermore, mostly everyone had come alone. It was definitely not a date movie.

When I first walked in, the movie had already started, and the theater was deserted. It was dark and I had a bucket of popcorn, a soda, a Village Voice and an umbrella. So I wasn't about to turn back and start over. I thought, well, I've just missed the first 20 or 30 minutes. I knew exactly what was going on. Two American soldiers in Baghdad, tattooed with shrapnel, talk about life and death.

Suddenly it was over. I'd walked in on the last five minutes. Now I opened my paper, now I sat back, good, I'm going to see the whole thing. Little by little, the audience trickled in, little by little, I saw the aforementioned phenomenon. Men. Young men. Arriving alone. Some eating popcorn, some wearing Mohawks, Brooklyn hipsters, and telecom cowboys, in suits, in jeans and T's.

Stunning.

The movie began again. The narrative carries us through the last two months of their rotation. They are part of a team of demolition experts. Some are high on the adrenaline. We see that this can be a beautiful thing. After a dangerous day out in the field, we see them bonding with alcohol and wrestling--- a scene with a strong undercurrent of homoeroticism, which can also be beautiful.

This unexpected, poignant and powerful perspective of the male psyche is courtesy of a female director. The New York Times said this:

Ms. Bigelow, practicing a kind of hyperbolic realism, distills the psychological essence and moral complications of modern warfare into a series of brilliant, agonizing set pieces.

When I walked out into the heat of a 90 degree day in the East Village, I ordered a Margarita (this is the fun part of being on vacation). I applauded the brilliance of the film and my own changed perspective on men, and on war.

I was a teenaged feminist, part deux

Not that there wasn't plenty of back lash from living this way, because there was--- in particular walking home on Sunday mornings, still wearing my nightclub finery; my tube top, my glittered heels, my mascara-ed eyes, now all smudged. Walking on the still small town streets, could any place be as quiet? And in those moments, as lonely? Trying to erase the memory of my sticky legs, the hunt for my panties, the curling dark hairs of his leg, his arm, his sleeping face. It was a struggle to reconcile my desire for freedom to do as I please, and the prevailing opinion of girls like myself. I knew the word: whore.

I wrote about this experience in a collection of monologues called Epiphanies. The girl walks home on the silent small town streets (much like I did), and cuts through a local park. Mid-way through the woods, she has a vision; she sees a woman, dressed in long robes floating above a creek. The ghost/woman/goddess grants her a moment of peace, of reprieve. In that moment, and for only that moment--- she doesn't struggle with her own duality: good girl/whore. And it was a struggle. Even when you know you are right, if everyone else is telling you--- you are wrong, it's a hard road to walk.

Of course I never saw a floating woman who granted me anything, but I believe I have spent my life trying to find a place, real or metaphorical, where I could find some peace, or at the very least reconcile that duality. I wonder why this is still such a struggle.

Oh the horror

In the late 1970's in Kenosha, Wisconsin where I grew up there was no revolution, televised or otherwise. The F word, for us, didn't exist. But I did know that the sexual double standard was bullshit and summarily ignored it. My girlfriends and I wanted big hair, lots of make-up, high heels, drugs, rock and roll, and cute men French kissing us and fucking us.

We hung out at a nightclub owned by the infamous Sammy G and he would squire us about town like P. Diddy with a gaggle of ho's. We knew what people thought of us, but we didn't care. Some of us wore our pants so tight, our slits showed, our tits hung out, and some of us passed out on the dance floor. Oh the horror, the horror. But, shit I had fun.

I also ignored the iron clad rule that boys didn't like smart girls. Or at least girls that were smarter than them. To hell with that. I read lots of books, saw lots of movies, and educated myself. I read Babi Yar, The Bell Jar, Ariel, Gone with the Wind, To Kill a Mockingbird, Manchild in the Promised Land and a host of others.

I was a proto-teenaged feminist and I lived to tell the tale. Photo courtesy of Feminist Lawyers.

In her real life

Angie is studying at The Aveda Institute in Soho. In this pic she's all done up for The Era Project; a 1920's flapper.

Give the girl some props!

My niece Angie wields a mean mop. She single-handedly wrangled a herd of fifteen sponges from behind my kitchen sink. Give the girl some props!

This is Brooklyn

Molly's BFF, even though she weighs 10 pounds and he weighs almost 100. I wrote a post about him for The Brooklyn Heights Blog--- mostly about how he jumped out of a second story window without a scratch. So you might say that in addition to being a beautiful dog, a big dog, he is also a flying dog.

Who is that masked woman?

Batwoman, in all her glory. Her identity is safe, hidden from the world, behind her masque. Let's get it on!

Songs of Experience

When the voices of children are heard on the green

And whisp'rings are in the dale,

The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,

My face turns green and pale.

Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,

And the dews of night arise;

Your spring & your day, are wasted, in play,

And your winter and night in disguise.

--William Blake, Songs of Experience

Metaphor for a date I had last Friday night. A blind date, courtesy of Nerve.com. We'd been chatting back and forth since May. But he was moving to Brooklyn from the West Village (like I had done), and I was in the midst of end of semester and stacks of essays to grade. He left messages I ignored, and I left messages that he ignored.

But we finally got it together and met at Bar Tabac. I got there first and worried that I wouldn't recognize him, but as he loped up Smith Street, I did. We were both immediately relieved, "Ah, she/he isn't a monster or a Gorgon." We enjoyed a bottle of Muscadet and moules frites. We tried to get inside each other's head, beyond the social mask, beyond the disguises, but it wasn't happening.

At least not for me. I'm not about to come out of hiding on a first date. My mask is firmly in place; the witty, outspoken, confident woman, who can't be hurt anymore. Who doesn't ultimately care. When we are younger we bare our souls, never mind our bodies--- when we are older, when "the sun is come down" we are more cautious. He tried to get inside my head, but I deftly deflected personal questions. He called me on it. I wouldn't budge.

All is not lost however, the mussels were delicious, the sunset was gorgeous, and he drove me home in a vintage convertible.

BTW

BTW: I only bought the dishwashing liquid. The danger with those stores is buying what you DON'T need and thus wasting money. But srsly when I got the money, and I can replace my quilt and my pillows, will definitely check that place out. Their prices got nothing on Century 21, and that's a FAQ.

The dollar story

I stopped at Close Out Connection, the local discount store for poor people. Yes, I am feeling sorry for myself, but beyond that I thought, well let me see what they got. They got a lot of shit, is what they got--- but also surprisingly some good bargains. I got a tub of dishwashing liquid for $1.29 which was a real miracle, and the hair pomade I pay $7.69 at Rite Aid, cost $1.29 here. So that was pretty amazing. $4.00 for a box of 600 aspirins, generic, but who cares. A new goose down comforter, queen sized for $50.00, goose down pillows for $15.00, a gallon of Drano for $3.00.

Too bad the over-all look and feel of the store is institutional and bleak, dirty and dusty. Good name brand bras for $5.00 but filthy. So those I would never buy. I checked out the demographic; black people, white people, Spanish people, mostly women. One woman didn't speak English and wanted me to weigh in on a mattress pad for a crib. I wondered why she thought I would know what I was talking about. I did the best I could and assured her it was probably alright via sign language.

They had wine glasses, salad bowls, flash lights, umbrellas, gum, candy, chocolate, even extra virgin olive oil. I couldn't wait to get out of there. I think I am my mother's daughter. This hurt my pride, my ambition, the great plans I had about my "future." As a young child, we were dirt poor. Mom cooked batches of pea soup, wouldn't apply for food stamps and our apartment was over-run by mice. It's like I carry a little bit of that history in my heart, and it won't let go.

Life is cyclical. Sometimes, you are up. And sometimes you are down. The only certain thing is change. It's what keep me going.

Balls of Steel

The picture of the week. You go grrrrl.

Hey, how you doin?

Just checking in.

Get ur freak on baby, and the rest is EZ

Here's a good one. While trolling the cyber universe of google, I find that my book, The Erotica Project, co-written by Erin Cressida Wilson, is now listed on a site in England called The Secrets of Counselling and Psychotherapy Revealed Through Literature. Snap. I coulda told you that! Get ur freak on baby, and the rest is EZ.

Bucket of flowers on State Street

Bucket of flowers on State Street. I admire its tenacity despite the heat and humidity, despite the traffic, the people, and all the dogs who pee on it. A bit bedraggled around the edges, the center blooms are still beautiful. If you see this as a metaphor for my state of mind, you are correct, sir. But seriously the greenery here in Brooklyn is at its apotheosis. High summer, as I like to call it. Already it's a tiny bit darker at twilight and at dawn. I long for cowboy boots and blue jeans, a sweater and a scarf. In the meantime, I keep it cool, and chill out at the local pool, my blue paradise.

Feminism: Cool in college, ugly in the real world

Feminism: Cool in college, ugly in the "real world" Bitch Magazine

Shared via AddThis

I would sincerely like to know why and when feminism became about un-sexy, mean women who hated men. At Lehman College, one of my colleagues has this posted on her office door:

Feminism is the radical notion that women are people.

What is so hard to understand about this? It's not mean, its just sensible. Logical.

Feminism exists so 25 year old women in the workplace don't have to be sexually harassed. It's now against the law. Should we go back to the way things were? Being called honey and baby, comments like "your ass looks good in that skirt", and then you were supposed to just laugh and find that flattering.

Feminism exists so women can vote.

Feminism exists so women can get an abortion.

Feminism exists so women, if they want, can have an existence outside of the box of wife and mother.

Feminism exists so pornography can be made by women for women.

Feminism exists so women can study to become lawyers, engineers, bankers. It wasn't so long ago that the only "professional" occupations available were "whore" or "teacher".

Feminism exists so I can have a voice.

Again, what's mean or un-sexy about this? Please explain.

The Black Madonna, sacred and profane

The Black Madonna of Czestochowa. A mysterious figure linked variously to the Crusades, pagan goddesses, and Mary Magdalene. Miracles and pilgrimages. From Egypt, from France, from Poland. She is both sacred and profane. This Madonna belonged to my grandmother and I was always drawn to her--- much more than the blond blue-eyed statues of my local Catholic Church. No one can quite explain why she exists. Some claim she is black from the soot of burning candles. Feminists have reclaimed her for this very reason--- we are free to write our own stories upon her dark face. For me, she is the deep wisdom and strength of my grandmother who saw ghosts in her kitchen at night, and thought nothing of it.

Today I am a princess

Tomorrow, I may be a whore.

Eloquent blood

Her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought
That one might almost say, her body thought.

--- John Donne

The great metaphysical poet, Mr. Donne, has given me something to think about, something to strive for, something bigger than the quotidian restraints of bills and debt and the humidity of late July. Some find solace in religion, some find solace in drugs, some find solace in work, I find it in language.

Not all bitches want to be princesses or vice versa

Submitted telepathically from my dog Molly. From a Digibitch blog post by Kelsey Wallace, July 11, 2009. Molly doesn't want to be a princess either. Wait. I take that back. Some days, yes. Some days, no. She said she wants the choice. Ha. I get it.

The ho's against the teachers; a moral dilemma

On the 4 train yesterday, two hookers got on at 183rd in the Bronx. Fifteen dollars for a blowjob, and twenty years of smoking crack. The shorter of the two, peroxide and missing teeth, seemed especially edgy---dressed like a teenager with skintight straight leg jeans and gold high top sneakers. They kept using the phrase "save a 'ho, save a 'ho," then laughed and laughed.

At 86th, two Russian women got on the train, a mother and daughter. They tried to squeeze next to the 'ho's. Big mistake. Peroxide with missing teeth was like, "Bitch why you pushing up against me?" A wiry black man, who seemed a bit crazy himself, jumped up to give everyone more room.

But Peroxide wouldn't give it up, "Is you got a problem wif me?" The mother tried to explain that her daughter didn't speak English, "She no understand, she no understand." Peroxide was on her. Meanwhile two teachers had gotten on the train. One of them, a Latina, in her mid 30's said to Peroxide, "Let it go. Leave her alone."

Peroxide turned on her, "You a fucking teacher, don't try to teach a ho, I ain't one of your fucking students." Soon Peroxide jumped up, got right in her face, started grabbing her hair. The teacher was screaming, "Call the police." Other people began to intervene. It got ugly, tense. Peroxide wouldn't back down and neither would the young teacher. Why was she pushing it? The hooker had obviously been raped and beaten not just once, but many times. She had nothing to lose.

Finally 14th Street, Union Square. The two self proclaimed ho's got up to leave. Other women crowded around the Latina teacher. I heard her say: "There's a fine line between minding your business and being a human being." The ho's heard this, threatened to stay on the train, and kick some ass. I thought, that's where I got to get involved.

Can you imagine it? The whores against the teachers. Who would win? Luckily I didn't have to join the fray. But the woman's words echoed in my head--- once I witnessed baby gang bangers beating up an elderly Asian man on a stalled R train. I kept my eyes averted, my head down. I didn't want to be next.

When is it cool to save your own skin, and when is it just selfish?

Teach, teacher man!

Frank McCourt at Stuyvesant High School. Photo: John Sotomayor/NYTimes.

A brief tribute to Frank McCourt

One Sunday afternoon, I was on Metro North with my niece. I was reading the New York Times--- an excerpt of Teacher Man. I was laughing like a hyena the whole time. When I first read Angela's Ashes, I was in D.C., alone, having dinner, also laughing--- snorting is more like it. People looked at me funny, but I just couldn't stop. I could never re-read the latter, way too painful. He used to live on Atlantic Avenue, over Montero's Bar and Grill, one block from my home. Once I saw him on Henry Street, and I thought, Oh my God, there goes Frank McCourt! He is one of my favorite writers. Rest in peace, teacher man.

Stories from the Velvet Chamber or A Poisonous Apple Never Tasted So Good

The first story is about the Wicked Stepmother in Snow White. I want her to a charming and sexy beast. Angela Carter--- who wrote The Bloody Chamber--- is of course my muse. Her revisions of classical fairy tales are baroque, gorgeous, hallucinatory, coldly beautiful. Mine will be erotically charged, hot.

So the Wicked Stepmother, Dominique, marries the Duke of Lexington because her second husband pissed away her fortune, then promptly died. But what she doesn't know is that her third husband, the Duke of Lexington, has just killed his fourth wife. Her ghost roams the castle seeking sexual gratification and revenge. Not only that, when she arrives, she realizes that his young daughter, Snow White, is quite mad. Suicidal.

Dominique has to live with the Duke for 1,000 days to insure a private income from his vast fortune. She has no choice. Watch how she outsmarts her once charming spouse who becomes homicidal after 39 nights in the marriage bed (read: fucking). See how she keeps Snow White from drowning herself in the river with the help of 7 dwarfs. Thrill to the hot passionate romance with a devil who lives inside the chapel mirror.

A poisonous apple never tasted so good. Photo by: Marc Travanti

I can has a hot dog?

Yes, baby. You can. But not this one. This one crashed into a house in Racine, Wisconsin.

Where do I sign up?

---and why is this still sexy to me?

Men are the new women

Marc cooks. Lillian lounges. Excellent.

Former housewife with ex-husband in Union Square

This July 27th, so he told me, would've been our 25th wedding anniversary. That didn't happen, but we break bread together as old friends. Actually he had a coke, and I had three glasses of wine. Strange how he remembers the anniversary, while I always forget. I always remember the day he moved out of our West Village apartment. How I was listening to Philip Glass play the piano at P.S. 122, while he took the dog, the kitchen table and Shiva.

The myth of the mad housewife

In Revolutionary Road, adapted from a book by Richard Yates, the 1950's housewife goes crazy and kills herself. Up until the moment when the blood is staining her skirt from a self-induced abortion, I was loving the rich psychological life of the husband and wife. But when she punctures her womb in her suburban CT bathroom, I thought here we go--- yet another suicidal heroine.

In literature and film, the woman, the wife, who rebels against her role in society is in deep trouble; Emma Bovary, Anna Karenina are the most famous. And Kate Winslet's character, brilliantly played, is not happy. Obviously not happy about the pregnancy, not happy with her husband--- she wants OUT. The role of suburban wife is suffocating her, and why wouldn't it? Now, she has only two choices; she can go crazy or she can kill herself or do both.

So, I loved the wife in Revolutionary Road, but the cliche of her suicide was disappointing. Actually its worse than a cliche, its a stereotype. And I am so sick of it. Now, in contrast, I watched A Woman Under the Influence; directed and written by John Cassavetes. 1974. This time Gena Rowlands is the "mad housewife." She too is a lovable and compelling character--- but her insanity is right on the surface.

The story allows her to be wise and crazy. Her husband is forced by well-intentioned doctors and family to institutionalize her, but when he brings her home its like a fairy-tale. He tells her, I'm on your side! I want you to go back to who you were. At first this seems unlikely--- electro shock seems to have sapped her soul. But all he has to do is sock her in the jaw and before you know it, she's back. Body and soul. Still fragile, but still kicking it.

Of the two housewives, I'd pick the latter. At least, the 1974 housewife gets to go home, make love to her husband, and kiss her children good night.

Sort yourself out!

Click on the link for a hysterically funny (or is it?) video about advertising aimed at women, how we're fat, ugly, wrinkly, etc. and all we need to do is sort ourselves out. Men, on the other hand, just have to shave and get drunk because "you're already brilliant." Couldn't have said it better myself, and I've tried.

Sluts for days

'nuff said.

Citi Girl

Have you read:

The Citi Girl Gazette?

You'll be glad you did. Tell all your friends!

The Velvet Chamber

I'm trying to figure out the new title for a book proposal. The idea is to take fairy tales and myths where women are portrayed as evil or stupid or flighty or naughty or lazy or lascivious and revision them as erotic fairy-tales; places where women can find powerful archetypes or role models.

Suggested title:

The Velvet Chamber:
Erotic Archetypes for Every
Woman.

What do you think? P.S. The "chamber" is short hand for pussy.

The wolf at my door

Every day of my life is a delicate ballet of debt avoidance, debt strategy and debt management. Every day on my lunch I decide who to call and who to avoid, who've I've already spoken to and who I need to remember to call. Today I was on the phone with Bank of America who have decided to put me as a hardship case for a small payment of $700.00. Then I spent 45 minutes on the phone with New York State and the IRS to find out what forms I need to order tax transcripts. Now I'm basically procrastinating --- b/c I've got to download those forms and then get my bank statements in order--- all to prep for my first meeting with my lawyer. Of course I haven't figured out how I'm going to pay him, but all in good time.

This goes on and on. This is now my life. I am no longer a writer, no longer the brilliant straight A student at NYU writing her brilliant thesis on female archetypes as revisioned by feminist theory. That lofty, precious, beautiful world is now closed to me. One hopes not closed forever, but for now, kaput. Do I question the sanity of that degree? Friends, I do every day of my life. Who could guess that three months after graduation the economy would crash. Was I wrong in trying to build a better life for myself? That story has yet to be told. The irony is I will be living the same life I lived before the degree, the life I tried to get out of--- the life where I had to work four or five jobs in three different boroughs just to survive. I said to myself in 2005, I've had enough. I need to make a change, a BIG change.

One would think that with all the publications, prizes, productions, reviews, teaching experience and now a Masters, that finding a full time job would be easy. This is what I thought last May. I confidently set to work: I made an appointment with an NYU job counselor. She reviewed my resume, my cover letters. I worked with her for three weeks. I gained access to their data base. I was managing my bills with work and savings. All would be well! Week after week passed, weeks become months, and now its been a year. This could well be very humiliating if I let it, but I won't. I know how hard I've tried. I've got a stack of applications four inches thick.

I ran into a colleague of mine today who passed on my CV to a friend in a high place at another college. I had applied to the $80,000 a year job running the writing center. I had recently gotten a form letter stating: we've decided not to interview you. I asked her, what's wrong with me? Who could be better qualified. She said, all those jobs are about who you know. And she added, the problem is you're too qualified. They know you're not a bureaucrat. In a way, I'd rather be filing for bankruptcy. Honestly. Because at least its a change of venue. I'm sick of sending out job applications into the world. They've fallen on deaf ears. I do believe however that the universe rewards an honest effort.

For now I will continue my ballet--- to keep my assets safe, to keep the wolf at bay, scratch, scratch, scratch, hear him? He's at the door. But don't let him in.

This is how you rebuild your life

Earlier I was on the phone with Bank of America who is suing me. I've had to reconcile myself to the fact that I have to file for bankruptcy. I've worked so hard for a year trying to get another part-time job, full-time job, free-lance job, whatever job, but to no avail. Strangely, I do not find comfort in the fact that there are millions of people who are in the same boat. I was walking Molly today and overheard a woman say, I'm going to lose my house.

Instead of panicking (which I did yesterday) I told myself that knowledge is power, and spoke to three attorneys. I also went online and researched my rights. When I had a slum landlord, I did the same thing, went to court and won. This is more complicated of course, but I look forward to the day when this weight is off my shoulders and I can start over. Meanwhile, this has been the loveliest summer in New York that I can remember.

I'm still being treated to birthday lunches and brunches. I have my health. It will get better. The economy will get better. One day soon I can treat myself to a new pair of shoes, a new blouse, a new pair of jeans, a new lipstick. This is how you rebuild your life. One small item at a time.

Escape to Mexico

Yesterday I didn't want to be here anymore--- in New York, in this life, struggling to survive in this economy. I wanted to run away to Mexico. I saw it all in my head; the way I would pack up one suitcase with just jeans and t-shirts, my laptop and my dog. I would collect my last two checks from Lehman, and not pay any bills. I'd put my books in storage and board a bus at Port Authority--- in the early morning hours, before 6:00 a.m., before dawn. So it would be dark and shadowy. I would sit in the back of the bus bound for Tennessee or Kentucky; somewhere southwest.

At my destination, I would check into a flea bag hotel and cut off all my hair, dye it dark brown. I would watch the local news, order a cheeseburger, maybe a beer. I wouldn't call anyone, I would just disappear. The next day, I would board another bus to Nevada, repeat the same process, cheap hotel, cheeseburger, beer, until I got to a pristine and golden beach in Mexico. I saw myself going off the grid once and for all--- working as a waitress, or on a fishing boat, maybe teaching English. A couple of thousand would go a long way in Mexico, I thought. Maybe I'd come back when the economy bounces back, or maybe not at all.

Today I amended the escape to South Florida, a tiny coastal town, somewhere around Sanibel or Ft. Meyers. Teach in a community college. All my life I've done things the hard way, just to prove how tough I am. Maybe now its time to give myself a break, and do things the easy way.

Happy Birthday to me!

I'm at work so had to find a photo on the computer. I thought pink water lilies would do quite nicely. I'm grateful for all my friends and family--- I've had incredible support from everyone; in a year when my finances have been near impossible. Here is a list of people who deserve a special shout out:

1. My sister, Lori for always sending me birthday, XMAS, and other goodies in the mail even when I cannot reciprocate.
2. My sister, Lonnie; for her wisdom and compassion. When I told her I couldn't move right or left, up or down---she said just let it go.
3. My brother Johnny who treats me to expensive dinners.
4. My friend Mars who came to my emotional rescue, and welcomes me into her mountain home.
5. My niece Angie who is taking me out to dinner tonight.
6. My cousin Debbi who always calls me on my birthday no matter what.
7. My Dad who sends me a beautiful card and one hundred dollars every year without fail.
8. Marc--- friend for 40 years, who has given me a sense of continuity and stability in my crazy life.
9. My ex-husband Peter---even though we've been divorced since 1995 always calls to wish me happy birthday.
10. Molly (nuff said)

Today I'm going to celebrate all of you!

Mountain family

Margaret "Mars" Clark, her sisters; Mary and Libby on the shores of Hunter Lake, the Catskill Mountains. Mars and husband, Marc, celebrating 20 years at the Barn. A 4th of July extravaganza with fireworks, catfish po boys, egg toss, hot dogs, roaring fire, skits, songs and other general madness and poetry.

Molly and I just returned after 4 days, and while I'm glad to be back in Brooklyn, I am grateful and blessed to be considered part of the mountain "family." Highlight: Dank singing "Rawhide," loud enough to wake the dead, at two in the morning. While I was trying to sleep, I couldn't help but smile at his vigorous rendition.

Happy 4th

On vacation until July 6th. Off to the Catskill Mountains, yahoo. Can taste the vodka tonic even now as I prepare for my morning class. Until then Happy 4th of July to all, and a happy birthday to my cousin Debbi, much beloved and respected--- the "Diplomat" of the family. Long may she reign.