thoughts on a ball and chain

Three sets of flip-flops, shades, and cargo shorts pass me on the sidewalk. "I don't think it's going to be that bad," one of the owners says to buddies 1 and 2, who are visibly concerned. "I mean, a lot of the important stuff has already been put out there--like baseball. She knows I have to watch a lot of baseball."

"Ok," says buddy #2, who is wearing a Captain Underpants t-shirt. "But does she really know what that means? I mean, like, what if she doesn't GET it?" His voice is shrill with tension.

Buddy #3 doesn't say much, yet manages to say it all: "And what about the fantasy league? And pub quiz?"

"I know," says the one considering a trip to the dark side. "But really, I don't think it'll be that bad."

As they pass out of earshot, Captain Underpants moans, "Dude, you have no idea!"

the altogether true story of a wayward afterbirth

* Gentle reader: Do not fear the worst. No one was harmed in the creation of this true story. If your stomach is steely, please read on.

Sunday morning, around 11: Wellesley's campus is crawling with alums wearing feather boas and funny hats, the better to celebrate reunion with. A large herd of students have stuck around after exams to work the weekend, in exchange for a small wad of cash and the chance to rub elbows with gainfully employed people. The staff is also there, of course, exhausted from the weekend itself and the weeks of envelope-stuffing leading up to it.

A couple of townies take a dog for a walk on campus, strolling past one of the ponds. What's that floating at the water's edge? A bird? A plane? In point of fact, it was a placenta.

The police show up with a bulldozer and a police boat, anticipating the worst. The news vans and helicopters follow, like remoras with satellite feeds. The campus is locked down until every dorm room and dumpster can be searched for a sign of a baby or a mother or some explanation for a wayward afterbirth. The pond is emptied, trash is picked through, and the campus canvassed by dogs. Twelve hours later, still no explanation.

Fast forward to lunchtime the next day (raise your hand if you've lost your appetite!): Somehow, it seems, the police learned that the offending tissues belonged to someone who gave birth several months prior (everyone was healthy!) and must have brought her placenta home from the hospital in some sort of David Lynch-style doggy bag, at which point the placenta took up residence in the family freezer. As I'm sure everyone can relate, freezer space is a limited and valuable commodity. And there comes a time in every adult's life when stock must be taken and priorities laid bare. I like to imagine that moment went something like this:

Honey, I need to make room for the 30-pound bag of frozen berries that I brought home from Costco--do we keep the turkey carcass from two Thanksgivings ago that we'd swore we'd make soup with, or is it finally time to toss the placenta?

And then, unimaginably, a young mother or perhaps father decided to set the thing loose, Free Willy-style, into a small pond (a VERY small pond, people) on the campus of a women's college, whereupon the thing thawed and floated to the surface and was recognized by someone and/or their dog.

Don't believe me? Stanger than fiction, people.

a market for every product

The Watertown Mall is no Mecca for quality. Even the Gap there is second rate, selling pants with three legs and socks without openings. But still, I never would have expected this sign, posted by the roadside to lure in bargain shoppers:

Strawberries
All Used
Buy 3 Get 1 Free

lost and found

Susan was trying to pretend she wasn't, but she was shaken. In the Park Street T station a few minutes before, someone had snatched her wallet. She realized what was happening in time and even saw the perp running away. "HE STOLE MY WALLET!" she screamed. "STOP HIM!" Improbably, four strangers did. Three men and a woman grabbed the punk and pinned him to the ground. They retrieved Susan's wallet, then debated what to do with the offender. Turn him in? Let him go? Wait for the police, who may or may never show? Since no one had been hurt, they collectively decided against pressing their luck and let the guy go. Susan, amazed both by her luck and lack thereof, tried to thank the wallet-retrievers. "We have to help each other," one said, walking away.

Too late, Susan wished she had asked the punk if he needed money, then offered up whatever cash she had in her wallet. We do have to help each other, she said.

red line maneuvering

We had all waited the better part of an eternity for a train to show up, so by the time the doors opened, everyone crushed inside. But in a precise and practiced order: As always, the quick-steppers are first. Usually iPod-listening men in their 20s or 30s, they come from somewhere in the back in the pack, far enough away that they get a running start. With speed and a steely determination, they blow right past the ledge-waiters. Often short, older women or anyone who came without reading material, ledge-waiters claim their territory with a wide stance and cold stare. They plant themselves close enough to the edge of the platform that no one dares step in front of them. No one except the quick-steppers, who do so with a screw-you-all purpose. The ledge-waiters, once passed by like a wilted kale garnish on the fried-seafood platter of life, scowl and mutter and try to muscle their way through the doorway, as though terrified that they won't get on. Or just steamed that their first-in-lineness was so blatantly scorned.

And yet, despite the pushing and shoving, everyone fits in. We all do. Almost all of the time, people. Or is that not the point?

how public radio drove me to cable tv

Time was, I didn't have a tv at all. And you know when you dump a no-good lout of a boyfriend, then after a good cry and a few pints of ice cream you feel much better--so much so that you wonder why you ever liked the guy in the first place? In exactly that way, I didn't miss tv. I had just moved to Boston from DC, where I worked at NPR, so I was fully indoctrinated into the cult of public radio. I shunned Friends and ER in favor of This American Life, which was then in its early years.

Then I got a job that required a lot of movie watching (and it was The Worst Job Ever! true story!), which is how the insidious creature got into the house. As soon as the thing was plugged in and the VCR set up, Burton and I turned into the Augustus Gloop of television-watching. (Did I lose you there? Follow along: Piggy that he was, Augustus fell into Willy Wonka's chocolate river and was sucked up the tube to the fudge factory. B and I are Augustus, the boob-tube is our chocolate river, and the fudge factory is utterly irrelevant, but who doesn't like to say "fudge factory" and glance around the room to see who else is giggling? Oh, just me? Really?)

Anyway, we watched the worst of it, from America's Next Top Model to the whole of the Law and Order empire (though I never could stomach Friends). Too cheap to subscribe to cable, we bought whatever slop the networks were selling.

And now this happens. This American Life. On cable tv. I am so there. A ball of putty in Showtime's hands, my friends. Show me where to sign my name, and I shall.

for immediate release

April 24, 2006

A tan bath mat, missing since early February, when it disappeared en route to the laundry room, was discovered on Saturday, April 22, safe and unharmed, but discolored and smelling of gutter run-off. The two-by-three-foot piece of terry, used to dry feet as they exit the watery environment of the shower, turned up outside the house, wedged between the foundation and some shrubbery.

Resident JennyMcFlint made the discovery while conducting some light weekend yard work. "My rake hit something back there," she told reporters gathered on the scene, "and it didn't feel like no pile of leaves!" When McFlint pushed aside an ugly yew that has never been liked, she found the bath mat amongst a pile of rotting leaves and brush. "I couldn't believe my eyes," she gushed. "After all these months, it was just under my nose, practically begging to be let back into the house."

As soon as its identity was confirmed, the Egyptian cotton mat was rushed to the nearest facilities and bathed "in the hottest damn water possible," according to McFlint. After a fluff cycle, the victim appeared "good as new."

There was no evidence indicating how the victim lost its way, nor how it survived on its own for months through an unforgiving New England winter. McFlint told authorities on the scene that she would not be requesting an investigation or to eventually press charges.

"We're just so happy to have a warm, dry place to step when we get out of the shower," McFlint told the gathering crowds. "My family would like to thank everyone for their loving support during these difficult times. Now please excuse me--we have to make up for a lot of lost time," she told the crowd of onlookers as she headed inside, clutching her Downy-fresh bath mat and adjusting her Hello Kitty shower cap.

let me introduce you to...

Walking down Newbury Street, I pass a teenage girl wearing a t-shirt (it's as snug as a bug that's been power-sprayed on a rug, by the way) that says, "I heart Army guys." Just behind her, walking with a different band of brothers, is a guy who looks as Army as Willem Dafoe in Platoon. His shirt says, "I like boobies."

If only she'd turn around, they could really hit it off. And have a good story for their grandchildren, too.

getting to ikea: a retrospective

Would never have imagined it could be so difficult to find a giant box store--a blue and yellow one, no less, roughly the girth of the Roman Colosseum and the Jacob Javitz Center combined, and as popular as Wal-Mart on black Friday. And yet.

Our fist mistake (of many): trusting Google Maps. When the directions eventually failed, we stopped at the first opportunity: a Quick Mart somewhere in the wilds of west Stoughton. As soon as Leah and I opened the door, the cashier sized us up and announced, "You got lost looking for Ikea, right?" Huh. "Go back out the way you came, go straight through five lights, about five miles, and it'll be on your left." Apparently we were but one of many in a long wagon train of urban pioneers, searching the suburbs for cheap home furnishings and trusting our fate to Google Maps.

Off we went. The fifth light put us somewhere in the wilds of east Stoughton. In every direction, all we could see were trees. Where was the pavement? The parking spaces? The shopping carts? The bargains? Clearly still lost, we stopped at a gas station with a falling-down sign and nary a customer in sight. I push open the door, and find an attendant sitting in a dank, dusty office, looking like he hasn't seen the outdoors since gas cost $1 a gallon. But we'd been driving for the better part of an hour by this point, so I get right down to business: Where is this magical land of Swedish imports?

"Go up to the light here," he says, pointing to whence we came, "and take a right."

"Do you mean this light?" I ask, pointing to the number five in view, where the only reasonable option is to turn left, unless you're the off-roading adventurous sort.

"Yeah."

"So I should turn left there, shouldn't I?"

"Nope, turn right," he insists, much to the chagrin, I'm sure, of the individuals who live in the house though which you would pass if you were to follow his directions.

We volley a few more left-right arguments before I give up. "Ok, so I turn right. Then what?" Three lights, turn right at the Exxon, and it's right there on your right.

Wouldn't you know it. The best directions of the day came from someone who couldn't tell left from right. Take that, Google Maps.

the only thing missing is the chicken dance, and then not really

The farmers' market in San Diego is like a wedding reception, with live music, bundles of fresh flowers everywhere you look, and the sort of passed apps that don't leave you hungry for lunch. Seriously, I could live there. Happily ever after.

life as it should be

At San Diego's dog beach, the creatures are off-leash, the waves are perfect for frisbee-catching, and the scrappers, like this one, are free to scare up trouble. And they do.

spring has sprung

If you are reading this from a computer at a desk in an office, you may or may not be aware of this, but your presence is needed elsewhere. Specifically: outside. Where the sun is shining, the bulbs are blooming, and the college kids are skipping class. If I may, I suggest that you proceed to the nearest soda machine and buy two of whatever they're selling. Put one in your bag and pour the other over your computer's keyboard and inner workings, rendering it useless for the rest of the afternoon. Then liberate yourself from the fluorescent lights and paper jams and TPS reports. Get thee outside post-haste.

For once, spring appears to have arrived before I had the chance to have a good meltdown over how impossibly long the winter is. Yes, Skeptics, there is still time for an April Fool's Nor'easter, but I will be safely located on the left coast when that time arrives.

fish-out-of-water syndrome

I was standing off to the side of the counter, waiting for my medium decaf coffee with steamed two-percent milk, when she approached the cashier. The coffee shop is one of those where everyone inside looks a bit alike--blessed with riches, either financial or intellectual or fashion-forward, with the same glasses and hair products and Cambridge zip codes. If they have tattoos, they are the friendly kind that bespeak peace or butterflies or anyway nothing threatening. But this woman looked nothing like everyone else there. She read the overhead menu nervously, and she spoke with a booming voice.

"CAN I HAVE STEAMED MILK IN AN ICED COFFEE?" she asked the woman behind the counter (and, by dint of her volume, everyone else in the vicinity). The cashier was friendly and explained that the hot milk would likely melt the ice, which is why most people prefer it in hot coffee. Together, they went over the options on the menu and eventually arrived on a decision.

It reminded me of situations where I was painfully aware that I was that thing that doesn't look like the others. Whether it's at a party or a bike rally or a macaroni-decoupage-scrapbooking class or whatever. Like the time we were eating in a restaurant, and the menu was all in some language we didn't speak, so we scanned for something--anything--that looked familiar. When the waiter came around, Burton pointed to the thing he'd decided on--just for the sake of an example let's say it was grilled whole trout, encrusted with tortilla chips and served with avocado, cilantro, and lime sauce, over a bed of jasmine rice, with a side of zucchini. Burton looked up at the waiter and said, "I'll have the [insert foreign word for lime sauce here], please." And I said, "I'll take the encrusted."

You'd better believe the waiter looked at us the way the $200-jean-wearing coffee patrons looked at the steamed-milk lady. But we've all been there. And I say you have to be able to laugh at yourself--and fast, too, before everyone else beats you to it.

la poire

so long, old gal

When I worked at Wellesley College, part of my job involved keeping on top of the class secretaries and their quarterly deadlines for the alumnae magazine. Most secretaries were e-mail-able, so we conducted our business electronically. But the 1928 secretary, understandably, preferred hand-written letters and telephone calls. Helen lived in Wellfleet, on Cape Cod, and over the course of our feature-film-length chats, she would estimate the height of her snow drifts and tell me about the deer, raccoons, and other creatures who came calling. "Sometime you'll have to come out here and see all this for yourself," she'd invariably say.

So one day, I took her up on the offer and drove the three hours to Wellfleet. We were to be having tea with one of her friends, a fellow nonagenarian and Wellesley grad, so I brought a box of fresh cookies and a bouquet of spring flowers. As we set the table, Helen careened about the kitchen in her wheelchair, looking quite a bit more frail in person than she had ever sounded on the phone. But she lived alone and managed just fine, she always told me. And she had the support of a big family--the kind with the sprawling group photos.

Helen told me about her career as a dancer (she worked with Martha Graham) and showed me photos from her honeymoon, not long after she graduated in 1928, when she and her beloved flew across the Atlantic to Paris in the tiniest of airplanes. I took photos of Helen and her friend and published them in the magazine--which was both exhilarating and a bit mortifying for someone as humble and unassuming as Helen. But not long afterwards, the friend passed away, and Helen told me how difficult it is to bury so many friends. And then, quite unexpectedly, her son died. Helen was wrecked. Sometimes our conversations never got past the subject, and I started taking over her class-secretary duties.

In time, her humor returned. When I turned 30, she told me that was the oldest she'd ever felt in life. When I told her I was leaving Wellesley to work on an organic farm, she was overjoyed. We talked about staying in touch, about the possibility of another visit. While I thought of her often, we never spoke again.

I was thinking about Helen the other day and asked the folks at the magazine if they'd heard from her lately. They hadn't. Today, I learned that she passed away on Sunday, at the age of 98, surrounded by family and a legacy of stories and friendships and memories. That's the way to do it, old gal.

getting sauced

One of the things that Burton and I have shared, since as early as our second date (see number 21 of this post, is a blind but profound love for the empire of produce known as Whole Foods. In fact, you could trace our relationship through the aisles we've frequented: from the Fresh Fields in upper-northwest DC, where like pilgrims to Mecca we were drawn every night, to the sprawling Bread and Circus in Newton and now the Whole Foods in Fresh Pond (although the River Street location, with its wine department and oversized cheese section, is preferred for weekend trips).

When, in far-away offices, their team of marketers suggest, "Let's get some actors in dirty overalls in here and charge $5 a pop for these Vermont-grown potatoes," our mouths start watering and words like "rosti" spring to mind and we run to the nearest Whole Foods, not understanding our urgent need for potatoes but powerless to deny it. We are totally their bitches.

So one day about five years ago, fingering the goods in the Newton store, we stumbled on what--even in Whole Paycheck--seemed impossible: a $10 jar of tomato sauce. Is it mispriced? No? Then it must be from the last batch of award-winning sauce made by someone's Italian great-grandmother before her death, whereupon the secret recipe expired with her. No? Then what's the big fucking deal with this sauce?

As we stood there, reading the ingredients and trying to make sense of the madness, a woman walked by. "It is worth every. penny." She paused, reached for a jar from the shelf, and repeated it. "Every. penny." Since we are, as I have suggested, card-carrying suckas, we bought a jar. And it was, I must say, really good.

Fast-forward to present day: I am shopping at the less-overpriced grocery store in town when I see my old $10 friend on the shelf. In a moment of weakness, I put it in my cart. But this time, the taste isn't nearly as write-homeable. Maybe it's me. Maybe they've changed the recipe. Or maybe it's because now we're a nation at war. Anyway, the love affair is over.

In its place, I would like to leave you with this recipe, with credit to Marcella Hazan, for The Best Sauce This Side of the Pond. Make extra, because you'll be eating it with a spoon.

Put a 28-ounce can of tomatoes and their juices in a pot with a medium onion, cut in half, and five tablespoons of butter (for the love of all that is fatty and good, do NOT use olive oil and do NOT skimp on the butter). Cook uncovered at a gentle simmer for about 45 minutes, stirring from time to time. Add salt to taste. Before serving, discard the onion and whiz it up in a food processor. Or don't. But do charge your friends. $10 a bottle seems like a good starting point.

my selective attention deficit disorder

The headline read, "Wallace to stop being '60 Minutes' regular." I clicked on it, simultaneously disappointed to learn that I'd been missing Wallace and Gromit on TV (how long had they been on? do they report on news events? is there cheese involved?), while also pleased for the pair and their come-uppance on national network television. I clicked through three pictures of that farty old news man, Mike Wallace, in search of my toothy animated friends, before I figured out my mistake.

you gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to roll 'em

On the T this morning, a woman sat on me. Well, she sat on one of my legs. I think her aim was off. Other things were off, too. Like her judgment. As soon as the train got underway, she started digging for nose treasure. She found one faster than you can say "hand sanitizer." She pulled it out, looked it over, then started rolling. At first, it stuck to her thumb. So she rolled it again, and then it wouldn't let go of her index finger. When patience ran thin, she wiped it on her purse. Between Harvard and Charles Street, where I got off the train, she found two more nuggets. Each one, rolled and flicked. Watching them spring from her fingers and hoping I could predict their direction, I renewed my vow to myself to set sail in a rowboat with no oars at the first sign of my own mental decline.

on keeping raindrops from falling on your head

Walking the dog through a steady drizzle in Davis square this morning, I noticed that everyone had their umbrellas open. The sidewalks aren't wide, so everyone took a turn in the you-lean-this-way-I'll-lean-that-way dance, to avoid eyeball injury. As I bobbed and weaved, I thought about the unwritten social code that mandates participation in this dance. And those people who choose to sit out: Do they not know better? Are they oblivious? Do they have it out for my eyeballs?

It reminded me of a weekend spent in New York City with friends from New Mexico. (Stay with me--you'll see how this relates. Really.) It was their first trip to the Big Apple, and they spent it with heads tilted back, a la Pez form, in constant awe. In advance, they had compiled a list of things they wanted to see--the Statue of Liberty, the World Trade Center site, Macy's, the Flatiron building, the Empire State Building. Things they'd seen on TV or in the movies, basically. We walked the city, crossing destinations off the list, covering miles and miles of sidewalk on foot.

But there was something else that hadn't even made the list, something they'd never witnessed and hadn't thought to anticipate: a rainy day. Sure, it rains in New Mexico. But they don't get the all-day-dumpers that we see here. In fact, they get so little of it--and in such short bursts--that this pair had never even used an umbrella. Let me say that again, in case you missed it: They had never used an umbrella. In all their lives, people. Even now, a few years later, it still doesn't quite make sense to me, but there you have it.

So we get a full day of rain in New York City. And we hand over wads of wet cash to the guys hawking umbrellas on the street, because what else were we to do? As we walk, umbrellas open overhead, one of the New Mexicans says, "I feel so self conscious with this thing. I'm not even sure how to use it."

How to use an umbrella? It had never occurred to me that this was a learned skill. But there you have it. So the lesson is: Next time some ass nearly takes out your eye with his umbrella, give him the benefit of the doubt. He might be from New Mexico.

there'll be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow

bad review revue

Matthew Baldwin, the genius behind Defective Yeti, takes a look back at past Oscar winners--and the critics who hated them--in this article at the Morning News. It's like a take on his Bad Review Revue, a semi-regular feature at Yeti.

Readers know that I'm always gratified when the wreck that was Titanic is panned, and in this case I have Barbara Shulgasser from the San Francisco Chronicle to thank: Although the film won the 1998 Oscar for best costumes, Shulgasser writes, “No amount of excellent period costuming and brilliant set decoration can substitute for a good story and decent acting." Too true.

But my favorite bad review OF ALL TIME was posted on Yeti long ago and written by someone I regrettably can't remember for the 1999 Brendan Fraser flop, Blast From the Past: "A blast from my ass would be more entertaining." Damn, I wish I wrote that.

invetigation* in progress

A federal agent came calling yesterday. She introduced herself and flopped open her ID, just like they do in the movies. She was conducting a background check on my neighbor, who has applied for some sort of security clearance, she explained. "Do you mind if I come in?"

We sat down, all formal-like, and she explained the process: She would ask the questions, I would provide the answers to the best of my ability. It sounded like we were going to be all business, until my dog sauntered into the room, whereupon The Fed melted. Really. She lost it. I have mentioned before in this space how impossibly cute he is. (For examples, look at this, this, this, and this, where I let him speak for himself. This is not at all to be encouraged, but still.) This woman was what is called a total sucka. She lost her focus. "Has your neighbor abused illegal drugs? And LOOK at those EYES!" she said. "What's his name?" She told me about the cocker spaniels she had while growing up, and how this dog was even cuter than those AND her children combined.

But there was an interview to conduct. Between sighs, The Fed pressed on: "Does she own land in a foreign country? Is she close with any foreign nationals? Do you have to brush him often?"

By this point, we were getting perhaps too comfortable with each other: "Is she planning to"--barely holding herself together--"overthrow the government?" she asked with a huge guffaw. "I thought that maybe this time I'd get that question out without laughing, but I blew it!" And so we went, laughing about how likely it is that my neighbor hacks into government databases, hangs with shady characters, or operates under false names. Serious business, this.



*Thank you for pointing out this misspelling. It saddens me that you don't watch enough of "The Office" to recognize a Gareth Keenan reference. Get thee to a DVD player. Stat.

pimpin in the air

I happened to be watching when Hustle & Flow's "It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp" won best original song at the Oscars on Sunday. I happened to have the movie at home from Netflix, so I watched it Monday night. Then this morning, waiting for me in my inbox happened to be the first necessary step for getting street cred as a playa: having a name that gets respect. Get yours here.

And please call me Trick Magnet jenny Flow from now on. Shizzle that.

(Shout out to the Reverend Jarman Smooth for the tip.)

dominica: the best caribbean island you've probably never heard of

No, it's not the Dominican Republic, but everyone thinks that. This one sits between Guadalupe and Martinique, all green and lush and a total snoozer for the cruise-ship crowd. Pronounced dom-in-EE-ka, the island is named after the Latin word for Sunday, the day of the week that Columbus found it. But the neither-shy-nor-retiring Caribs kicked his ass off their shores--as well as those belonging to the English and French who tried in vain to settle there--until 1805, when the UK finally colonized it. The island won its independence in 1978 and elected the Caribbean's first female prime minister in 1980. Its 290 some-odd square miles are covered in rainforest, volcanoes, and banana plantations on impossibly steep slopes.

While we were there, we ate coconuts, star fruit, and grapefruit right off the tree, warmed by the sun. We saw cinnamon trees, ginger, cocoa, and banana trees. Today, in the cold of winter, I'm wishing I were back at the market, under the Caribbean sun, deciding which fruits to have for tomorrow's breakfast. Helas.

knitting madness

For the last six years, I have been knitting a sweater for Burton. For the non-knitters in the audience, I should say that sweaters are no small deal. They are big. Huge, even. They have hems and sleeves and seams. And, unlike scarves, they need to fit in a very specific way. Which is a lot to ask.

Adding insult to injury, Burton wanted cables (but let's not blame him: he didn't know any better). So a cabled sweater it would be. Only, as the project got underway, I developed a severe and unabiding loathing for cables. Nevertheless, I cabled and cabled and cabled, hating it more and more with each twisted stitch. Until I hated it so much that I threw it down in disgust and forgot about it for five years. And by "forgot," I mean that I pretended to have better things to do, but really it cried out to me from the darker nether regions of the hall closet: "Can't you face me, you cable coward?" It taunted me. It took advantage of my weaknesses. The sweater-that-was-not prevented me from holding down jobs. I developed a rash. It got in the way of my relationships.

So. Sometime last year, on a day when there was probably something even worse I should have been doing (like filing taxes or meeting a writing deadline), I dusted off the plastic bag and looked inside. About eight inches of the front panel of the sweater stared back up at me, begging to be put out of its misery. "Please, just let me go with dignity," it sobbed. "I don't want to live anymore."

I am a woman of compassion. And I believe in new beginnings. So I pulled the work off the needle and, slowly at first, tugged at the end of the yarn, watching each stitch work itself loose. Then I let 'er rip. Outside, a flock of doves took flight into a beam of morning light, while a harp struck a major chord. Ok, fine, that didn't happen, but you weren't there, how can you argue? Anyway, it felt fucking awesome.

And I started over. With a new pattern and new resolve. And this week, after overcoming my fear of sewing in a zipper, I finished! The sweater made its first public appearance last night: Burton wore it to visit some friends, who said upon his entrance, "That's a great sweater!"

At least that's what Burton told me. I wasn't actually there. But I choose to believe him.

So, in this moment of giddy excitement, I'm beginning my third sweater. (We don't speak about the first one.) And I am resolved to finish it within The Month. The month beginning on the first day of the next full month. Or something. Oh, internet, I am going to regret this. You'll see. But new beginnings, right?

on the road

In the movie version of my bus ride home from New York City last night, Bill Murray would play the part of driver. From where I sat, two rows back and across the aisle, he looked for all the world like Bill's less successful, hard-luck twin. He was sporting black bug-eye sunglasses, a middle-age mullet (thin on top, party out back), and the kind of skin that suggests a decades-long cigarette habit and/or time in the clink.

Beyond the physical, Bill would be a natural at finessing the driver's character. For example: After frantically collecting tickets at the bus terminal ("This bus is go'in ta BOSTON. You hand me a ticket for FRAMINGHAM, and you're WALKIN," he shouted to the crowd at one point.), he got everyone on board the bus ("Whoah. I hope I dint overload this thing," he said, looking at the hoard of people trying to find seats inside.), and roared out of Port Authority. We were pinned to the backs of our seats as he accelerated, then forehead-to-tray-table with the two-footed braking that immediately followed. Tunnel traffic. Don't think he didn't have colorful things to say about tunnel traffic.

Four lanes divided into two, and everyone wanted to be in the left two. But Bill wanted to go right and set about crushing anyone who got in his way. "We're gettin through this light if we have to take METAL with us," he announced to those of us lucky enough to be within earshot. I glanced around me, and everyone's eyes were as big as saucers. In the two blocks of traffic outside Port Authority, he used his horn as often as he called someone an idiot--which wasn't as often as he muttered worse things to himself. At the height of the drama, he opened his window, put the good part of his torso outside, and yelled "DICKHEAD!" to someone blocking the way. Bill looked around to see if his captive audience was as amused as he was. I looked around for a seat belt.

For the first few hours, it was harrowing. Roads leading out of the city are narrow and curvy, and a Greyhound bus is neither nimble nor designed for racing. But he made incredible time. In fact, he dropped us in Boston a full half-hour ahead of schedule--a fact that did not go unmentioned. "Ladies and germs," he announced over the speaker, "I hope you've enjoyed the trip. But don't ever expect to be a half-hour early again, because I doubt you'll get me as a driver again."

morning routine

Three mornings a week, I ride the red line to the top of Charles Street, walk down Charles, then 15 minutes more through Boston's Back Bay. Charles Street, with its antique shops, gas lamps, lumpy brick sidewalks, and tony boutiques, is on every Boston tourist's agenda. But in the mornings, before the shops open and the tourists hit the streets, you realize it's also a living, breathing neighborhood. Paper bags filled with fresh bread lean up against restaurant doors--and apparently no one steals them. An orange and black cat sits in a pool of sun, staring at the passersby, waiting to be let back inside before the crowds arrive. Neighbors out for the paper or a coffee stop to talk on street corners. And anyone who owns a dog is out walking.

Week to week, I see many of the same people--and dogs. There's the scrappy terrier in a Burberry sweater. Gus, the bulldog, who walks at a snail's pace off-leash, periodically stops to stare at the ground, as if he's pondering exactly how and when life passed him by. And my favorite couple, an old man/old dog pair: The gentleman is as grey as his husky, but tiny by comparison. Every morning, they walk to where Charles meets Beacon Street. To the left is the Boston Common; to the right is the Public Garden. As though it were choreographed, the gentleman turns the corner, heading to the left, and dog leans to the right. They stand there for a moment, in a fierce battle of wills. Man yanks on the leash; dog hunkers down, putting his weight into it, until his front end is anchored to the sidewalk, back legs braced for stability. Like a crabby old married couple, they stand there for a few minutes, in bitter and public disagreement. Eventually, the man gives in, but not without a fight. "You are so STUBBORN," he growls from between tight lips. The dog, unbothered by the insult, trots off to the garden.

finally!

In New York last weekend, after many failed attempts, I finally managed to actually get my person inside the walls of the new MoMa--not just in the gift shop, not just waiting out in the cold on 53rd Street, and not just pressing my nose against the glass looking in at the closed museum. Inside the building. Where the art is.

The old one was nice enough, but I had to see what you could do with 630,000 square feet and either $425 and $858 million, depending on whom you talk to. My verdict: If I could afford it, I would totally move in.

new favorite movie

Me and You and Everyone We know
(In French, the title is even better: Moi, Toi et Tous les Autres.)

And I don't say that just because it has the most adorablest child actor ever (Brandon Ratcliff). Or because it reminded me of how, when you got new shoes as a kid, the shoe salesman used squeeze your foot, take measure of how much space was left in front of your toe, and generally decide for you whether or not the shoe was a good fit. And it's not just because of lines that stick in your memory, like: "I gave her the friends and family discount because I'm working on my karma. You know what karma is? It means that she owes me." Or because the characters are quirky and tender and lonely and oddballs.

But for all of those things. And the dialog and the ending and the burger wrapper. Sigh. Put it in your Netflix queue, people. Unless you thought Titanic was a thoughtful and inspiring piece of work--because in that case, I'm not sure Moi et Toi is for you.

See the trailer here!

(macaroni!)

required reading

How does Susan Orlean do it? "Little Wing," her piece in the Feb. 13 and 20 anniversary issue of The New Yorker has been bought for $250,000 by Paramount Pictures and Nickelodeon Movies. Little wonder. From the first paragraph, I was hooked.

"On a bright, breezy Saturday not long ago, Sedona Murphy gave her homing pigeons away. Earlier that morning, the birds had flown around the neighborhood, looping over the shaggy old trees and the peaked rooftops of South Boston before returning to their gray shed in the Murphy's back yard. They then toddled obligingly into their wooden case. These were racing birds, accustomed to being crated and carried, so the close quarters were nothing new, and they had no way of knowing that this was the last time they would ever fly free."

Homing pigeons, you're thinking. How interesting can they be. Hello, did you see what she did with orchids?

In a tradition that predates the Roman Empire, she explains, pigeons have been finding their way home over hundreds of miles and entirely without the assistance of Google Maps. The birds "have a fixed, profound, and nearly incontrovertible sense of home. Americans move, on average, every five years; pigeons almost never move," she writes. So when 13-year-old Sedona's family leaves South Boston for a new home, 30 miles west, in Southborough, Mass., her collection of racing pigeons kiss the open skies goodbye. Pigeons are like a one-trick pony; they can't be retrained to a new home, and they aren't equipped to live in the wild. So unless the home buyer digs your pigeons as much as you do (because they will never leave), homing pigeons that are moved have to be caged for the rest of their lives. "They become what are called 'prisoners,'" she writes. "It's as if you had pasted your stamp collection on your bedroom walls and then, when it came time to move, you couldn't get it unglued," Orlean says.

I'd link to it, but The New Yorker is so impossibly offline.

it doesn't always go without saying

In yesterday's valentine FAQ section, we were unable to answer all of the readers' questions that came pouring in from around the world. In making our selections, we thought we were covering the necessary ground--but at dinner last night, we learned just how wrong we were. So a supplement to yesterday's post, with apologies for the oversight:

Q: Do these pants make my butt look big?

A: Let's just say that you certainly look happy, sitting next to your squeeze, sipping a pretty pink drink, waiting for a delicious dinner at a nice neighborhood restaurant. You look fortunate--as though your life is not lacking in nourishment, either spiritual or vegetable. You look content. You even look like you might be intelligent, hold an interesting job perhaps. As for your butt? Honey, I can't even see your butt, as I am blinded by the glare of the lights shining on the nipple that's been unleashed from your shirt. Please put that away.

valentine's faqs

Q: Why does my wife/girlfriend/mistress get all in my face about Valentine's Day?

A: It's deeply rooted in her genetic material. Especially if she's Italian. In ancient Rome, the festival of Lupercus (the god of fertility) began on February 15 and was considered the beginning of spring and an opportune time for a cleansing. Roman priests would rendez-vous at the cave where Romulus and Remus were said to have been raised by their wolf mother. There, the priests would sacrifice a goat and drain it of its blood. Local kids would chop the goat's hide into strips, dunk them in the sacrificial blood, then run through the city, smacking women with the bloody goat rinds. And the women were into it, since the slapping of bloody goat skin strips was believed to make them more fertile. Clearly. If all she wants is a box of chocolates and/or a string of diamonds, maybe you're getting off lucky?

Q: Fine. But who was Valentine and how can I punish him for this imposition?

A: The historians are a bit unsure. The Catholic Church recognizes three different Valentines, all of whom were martyred. One such example: Back in the third century, again in Rome, Emperor Claudius II had the idea to outlaw marriage, because men with wives and children weren't as good at soldering as the singletons. So! No more marriages for young men! Enter Valentine, a priest at the time who, much like modern day's San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom did for the gays, spit in the face of authority and continued to perform marriages. Unlike California's more restrained highest court, Claudius ordered Valentine be put to death for his actions. Romantic, no?

Q: Martyr, schmartyr. Isn't there ANYONE I can blame?

A: You could try the British. They seem to have imported the tradition of exchanging hand-written valentines, adorned with lace and all the trimmings, in the 19th century. Or Esther Howland of Worcester, Mass., who in 1847 marketed the first mass-produced greetings cards. A graduate of Mount Holyoke College, Howland is recognized by the industry association as a "Greeting Card Visionary." Truly. But she's dead now, too.

Q: So isn't it just a bogus commercial ploy?

A: You bet. Today, we exchange a billion valentines worldwide (85 percent of which are purchased by women) and use it as an excuse to eat candy. As an aside, we've been falling down on this front: In 1997, American per capita consumption of candy was 27 pounds; in 2004, it sank to 4.7. This, in my view, is a sad state of affairs.

Anyway, it could be worse: Consider the situation in Korea and Japan, where women are socially obligated to give chocolates to all of the men in their office. "By a further marketing effort," Wikipedia explains, "a reciprocal day called White Day has emerged. On this day (March 14), men are supposed to return the favor by giving something to those who gave them chocolates on Valentine's Day. Many men, however, give only to their girlfriends. Originally the return gift was supposed to be white chocolate or marshmallows (hence the name 'White Day'). However, more recently men have taken the name to a different meaning, thus lingerie is quite a common gift." And we all know who the lingerie is really for... Typical. And does anyone find it suspicious that the men do this a full month after getting their valentines? Did this holiday evolve out of years of forgetting to get their ladies a box of chocolates--so much so that the men's industry created a holiday to validate their lateness? Harumph.

Happy valentine's to one and all.

my iMac is a rock star

After too few years of dedicated service, my iBook was finally checked in to hospice care. We'd run out of options, and everyone agreed it was time. So I kept it comfortable, plugged it in to an external monitor, and didn't ask for anything in return.


But, provided you have an appropriately large line of credit, Apple gives life, in addition to taking it away. So after a long and arduous journey in the hands of UPS--a journey that included but was not limited to one trip to the emergency room by our UPS delivery man (hope you're doing better, buddy!)--the new iMac arrived. It's got the new-fangled dual Intel processors and a remote control and a built-in camera and a screen that makes love lettuce look so much better than it is! I felt like dancing. Or singing. Or recording an album to commemorate the occasion. If I did, this would be the album cover. Party on, people.

a lost passenger on the short bus of life

Sometimes, I can be sharp as a razor, keen and agile and witty. If someone reaches for the last bite of pie on my plate, for example, you won't see quicker reaction times in professional boxers. Other days, though, you'd wonder how I find my way home without an ID bracelet.

So I'm standing on a corner in the Back Bay, waiting for the light to change so I can cross the street. A woman with grey hair and a friendly face steps up beside me and says hello. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

It seems a little personal for a stoplight conversation, but I go along with it. "I feel great!" I say, adding something about the sun shining, the warm winter we're having--the kind of things strangers say to one another while waiting for an impossibly long light to change.

"That's good--it's so important to get out and experience the day and talk to people--I know what it can be like, and it's tough. Good for you," she says. "Are you getting enough sleep?"

"Um, yeah," I stammer, wondering if she's mistaken me for someone else. "I'm actually a very skilled sleeper--it's one of the things I excel at," I say, looking up at the light, willing it to change so this conversation can end. But it had already gone on long enough that the pauses between inappropriate questions had metastacized into awkward silences.

"Good for you," she persists, determined to keep this thing we have going. "It can be so tough, especially when you're exhausted, kept up all night..."

"Absolutely." When I don't know what to say, I'll agree with anyone.

"Are you getting any exercise?" she asks.

"Uh huh," I say, instead of the "WTF???" that's emblazoned in neon letters, streaked across the billboard of my mind.

Not the least bit frustrated by my obvious confusion, she comes back with: "And how old is she?"

Oh. "She" being the three-month-old infant strapped to my chest, so asleep that her head is flopped over to the side, mouth ajar. In my own defense, I should say that I spend many hours each day with people who KNOW that this child is not mine, so it comes as a genuine surprise when people (quite naturally) assume that the child I'm walking around with is mine.

Anyway. The light changed. The woman and I parted ways, just as the short bus pulled up alongside me and invited me onboard. I found my seat without difficulty.

just like I said

I have a small dog with a big name. He's a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, and, yes, he's fancy. The name is hard to remember, so please just call him Sir.

Lucas is, by all accounts, ridiculously cute.* When he's out walking, people can't help but smile--pre-teen girls coo the loudest, but the punks and the grandmas and the toddlers and the homeless and the suits put on a good show, too. When he was a wee-little pup, I used to take him to work with me (thank you, Inc. magazine!). We'd ride the train in to Boston, and by the end of the trip all the conductors could be found huddled around the puppy on my lap. Big, burly men with wicked-pissah accents, they'd fill their pockets with biscuits and argue over who got to feed him each day. Once we got off the train, I'd walk him the 15 minutes or so to my office. Only it took twice that long when he was waddling along beside me, because everyone--EVERYONE!--had to stop and bend down to scratch his head.

Not much has changed since then. Going out with him is like taking a celebrity for a walk--people want to stop to tell him how beautiful he is, how much they love his work. And ever since "Sex and the City's" Charlotte got herself one, people recognize the breed. Or they think they do.

To wit: The other day, we were out enjoying the sunshine, and I could see one coming. You can almost always spot them from a distance: It's not just a smile, but an outbreak of giddiness. Hands clasp the mouth, sometimes there's jumping, often there's squealing.

"This is my FAVORITE kind of DOG," the woman screams as we approach. Lucas, as always, is nonplussed. Another day, another fan--nothing more than commonfolk.

"A Brittany, RIGHT?" she says as she reaches out to touch his head. It's a common enough mistake.

I start to respond with the standard, "No, actually, he's a Cavalier."

"Oh right! A Prince Charles, RIGHT?"

"No, actually, it's King Charles." I can't tell you how many times I've had this very same conversation. It's like I'm in my own private version of Groundhog Day.

"That's right! Just like I said, it's my FAVORITE kind of dog!"

Lucas kept on walking like he was waiting for a better offer.



*The following exceptions apply: When itching his pooper on the carpet, barking irrationally at squirrels and/or other dogs, or whining because the cat is getting the slightest bit of attention.

lost and found

About a week ago, I decided it was time to wash the bath mat. (I know! Doesn't this story sound good so far! I can't wait to see where it's going, either!) So I pulled it off the shower door, collected my basket of laundry, and made my way to the laundry room, one floor below. But somewhere between here and there, I lost the bath mat. I can't explain it. I've worn out a pair of Vibram soles retracing my steps. A 2 by 3-foot piece of brown terry cloth appears to have vaporized. Nowhere to be found. Kablamo!

A missing towel is one thing. But I started to really fret on Friday night, when I realized that somewhere between the Back Bay and my front door, I'd lost a $400 check. This is getting serious--I'm really starting to lose it. And by "it" I mean any number of things in addition to my mind.

I spent a few days hemming and hawing, dumping the contents of my bag out again and again, hoping the thing had become wedged in a lining somewhere or stuck to an old piece of gum in an unknown pocket. I put off the inevitable phone call to my friend, the check writer, not wanting to 1) trouble her; and 2) be found out as a butterfinger. I wondered how much the bank would charge her to stop payment on the check, or how soon it would be before a teenager found it, hitched a ride out to one of those check-cashing places, and treated himself to a new pair of sneakers, or whatever it is the kids buy with their drug money these days. Then! The phone rang. "Are you missing anything?" my friend asked.

The facts, as we know them: I boarded a red-line train in Boston, presumably with a check in the back pocket of my jeans. I traveled outbound to Davis square, where I de-trained. My check, however, rode one stop beyond that, to Alewife. Alewife being the end of the line, the check disembarked the train and made its way to a mud puddle somewhere outside the station, where a good samaritan retrieved it. Said good samaritan drove to Belmont, the next town over, and delivered my muddy, well-traveled check to a branch of the issuing bank, where a clerk called my friend, who called me. Amazing that there are still people out there who go to such trouble for a stranger.

Sadly, the whereabouts of my dirty bath mat are still anyone's guess. If anyone can provide information that leads to its safe return, I will offer a reward. Of $400.

four!

One is the loneliest number. Tea is for two. Three's company. Four? I don't know why. But it makes for nice, symmetrical lists. Please don't be so argumentative.

books I've loved
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik

movies I wish I'd walked out on
Joe Versus the Volcano
Lord of the Rings
Star Wars Episode One Too Many: The Phantom Menace
Titanic

tv shows I love
"Arrested Development"
"Six Feet Under"
"Project Runway"
"Da Ali G Show"

jobs I've had--and quit
soldering microchips on an assembly line in New Jersey
writing grants for NPR
fetching coffee for lawyering ingrates
making copy

places I've called home
Littleton, Colorado
Alamo, California
Toronto, Canada
Dijon, France

people who I wish wrote blogs
my hair stylist
Apt. 5B
Amy Sedaris
David Sedaris

foods I love
bacon
roasted butternut squash pizza
arugula salad
rachlette with cornichon and those little pickled onions

tag, you're it
Jerad
Schmutzie
Jen

faster than a diet, cheaper than a face lift

Every now and again, to keep the spice in married life, I lose my shit. The triggers are many and unexpected: a pile of shoes that I've tripped on once too often, maybe. A pile of bills. A messy drawer. Basically, anywhere you turn in our somewhat disorganized life, a potential trigger sits dormant, waiting. When it happens, there will be no mistake: The voice goes shrill. The hands flail about in the air. The husband's eyes become as wide as dinner plates. And then quick and decisive action.

This time, it was the hall closet. Let me splain: The hall closet was one of the things I was most excited about when we mortgaged our souls to live here. It's the walk-in variety, with three--THREE!--rows for hanging clothes, an assortment of shelves, and the kind of depth that would be of service if you were the sort to hide a dead body in a trunk somewhere. But instead of rotting corpses, we hide unused rugs, outgrown shoes, unwanted clothes, and dusty notes from long-ago law-school classes that were probably never interesting in the first place. Like gremlins left alone after midnight with a bottle of growth hormones and a water cooler to wash them down with, these items seem to grow and multiply in a way nature never intended and I don't fully understand.

So. There I was: Staring into the dusty piles of junk, needing to retrieve a pair of mittens, but afraid to venture in for fear of my personal safety. Someone could be lurking in the closet's darkest corners, waiting to stuff me in a trunk, and with all the piles of unworn fleeces muffling my screams, no one would hear my cries. So I lost it. There might have been some yelling, even some bad words used. I think I saw the dog take leave and head for the relative safety of the bathtub. The husband looked scared--terrified, even. And I'm pretty sure I lost my cool.

But then--then!--we threw crap away. And it felt great. This morning, I hauled the last of the six shopping bags to Goodwill. And this afternoon, my soul feels lighter and my jeans are less tight. I know where my mittens are, and if Burton has 17 ski jackets that he doesn't wear, at least they're confined to his ski bag. Sure, I couldn't quite part with the armadillo candle, but you have to save something for next time, right?

I have since decided, by the way, that our next house will have no closets--because what do you put in closets except shit you don't want but can't stand to throw away? Ok, maybe the winter coats can stay. That's all I need. The winter coats and the remote control. And this paddle-ball game. All I need are the winter coats, this remote control, the paddle-ball game, and this lamp and this ashtray...

a round of applause

How about those people who, after a snowstorm, dig out their car, shovel out their driveway, clear a path to their front door--but don't bother with the sidewalk? Love that. Awesome. Thanks. I bet they don't recycle, either, those asshats.

at this moment in time

Wanting
A new winter coat. If I can't have one made of penguins (did you see that movie? those buggers never got cold), please let there be down involved.

Needing
An exercise routine. Not like a dance routine to "Mony Mony," although that would do the trick if I did it regularly enough, but a habit. A regimen.

Enjoying
Stripey orange wool socks, knit by my mother-in-law and mailed in time for Christmas, but intended as a June birthday present. (My kind of woman.)

Reading
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. Her Slouching Toward Bethlehem was the first book I read after graduating from college: It hit me like a Mac truck and left me gasping for air. In a good way. The Year is doing the same. The first chapter appeared as an excerpt in the New York Times Sunday Magazine--if you read it and did not feel moved, please check your pulse.

Yesterday I finished Julie & Julia: 365 days, 524 recipes, 1 tiny apartment kitchen by Julie Powell. I suppose I should have felt inspired by a blogger who turned her idea--cooking all 524 recipes in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in one year--into a book deal, but, um, I didn't. I was impressed with her, however, for revealing that she discovered an entire colony of maggots thriving on the counter beneath her dish-drying rack. Not so impressed with her house-cleaning skills. But still, gusto.

Watching
Country Boys, the documentary airing on PBS in a couple of installments, about rural Kentucky. It's another world out there, folks. A highlight: Cody, who loves Jesus and sings about him in his metal band, is called in to the principal's office a few days shy of graduation. Cody is nervous because he thinks the principal is going to tell him he won't graduate. Instead, he asks Cody to be valedictorian, in large part because of his stellar attendance record. Delighted, Cody goes home to tell family and friends that he is "valevictorian." (Thanks, Sooz, for the recommendation!)

Awaiting
From Amazon: "At San Quentin (The Complete 1969 Concert)" and "At Folsom Prison," two glaring gaps in my Johnny Cash collection. I ordered them moments after watching the closing credits for Walk the Line. Also, just because, "Extraordinary Machine," by Fiona Apple.

From Netflix: Another disk of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and All About Eve, the 1950 Bette Davis number. I ordered it because, although I've never been much of a Bette Davis fan, I feel like I owe her another chance.

eat the hair

On our second date, Burton and I went to a Vietnamese restaurant. I can't tell you what I ordered, but I know it included broccoli. And--free bonus!--a hair. A looong, strong black one, that in the course of the cooking process had become entangled in the broccoli. So when I stabbed a floret and held it over the plate, the effect was like a string a pearls, each vegetable dangling elegantly above the next. I held up my fork and considered the situation: a second date (and hoping for a third), a belly-grumbling hunger, but an unavoidable gag reflex. I don't believe in staging a big fuss for the waitress. (Let's face it: A meal without a cat hair is a rare occurrence in my house. I don't judge.) So I filled up on rice and pushed the rest aside.

Later, after the nausea had passed, we agreed that there are some situations where, sorry, but you have to eat the hair. A first date, for example, and he cooked? Job interview? Meeting the in-laws? Be a man, eat the hair.

So one of the few souvenirs I brought home from our trip to the Caribbean was a bag of cocoa sticks. We searched up and down several islands for these logs of unsweetened cocoa, narrowed at each end like a torpedo. They look like nothing you'd find at Williams Sonoma. (Except maybe floating in the employee restroom, but now I've gone too far.) Bringing them home through customs, we decided that if anyone gave us any trouble about our cocoa logs, we'd just counter with a loud and emphatic, "Our own feces--is there a problem?"

Anyway. The other night, after much anticipation, I melted the cocoa in water, added a cinnamon stick, clove, milk, and sugar. Finally, I fished out the looong black hair that'd been baked into the log, fought down the gag, and served up the most divine cocoa ever to Burton. Without telling him about the hair. Sometimes it's just easier that way. Shhh--our secret!

oh happy day, oh holiday

But I'd rather be on a yacht. Or is that the wrong spirit?

les poissons

This eyeball, spotted in the fish market on Martinique and easily the size of a baseball, belonged to a marlin that looked to be about 200 pounds on a skinny day. When I asked the fishmonger if I could photograph it, he looked on proudly. "C'est beau, eh?" "Oui, c'est beau."

how to lose friends and alienate people

It was fantastic, thanks for asking. What's that? You didn't ask? You'd rather pluck out your eyeballs with a rusty fork than hear about my 10 days of sailing in the Caribbean? Sure, I understand, no, that's fine. Yeah, I'm sure you need to get back to that TPS report and the rest of the work on your desk. I'll just... nevermind.

For those of you reading from California, Hawaii, or other locations not enshrouded in the dank, grey winter, please read on. Otherwise, proceed at your own risk. I cannot be held responsible for fits of envy or attempts to claw off one's own pallid skin.

Anyway. We connected with Sway, the 70-foot yacht, in Antigua, three days after Christmas. We swam, sunned, and snorkeled while waiting for a few pieces of misdirected luggage to catch up to us. Then we did our first bit of sailing (and I did my first--and, let's face it, second--bit of barfing) in the Caribbean Sea, heading south toward Guadalupe. Turns out that Guadalupe closes up shop days in advance of New Years. Only the drug dealers, stray dogs, and uninformed tourists roamed the streets. We poked around, searched in vain for lobster, devoured a few French pastry, and eventually set sail for Iles des Saintes, a tiny cluster of islands off Gaudaloupe's southern coast.

We arrived after dark on New Year's Eve, not knowing what to expect from a place that looked no bigger than a speck on the map. But the harbor was filled with boats, a sign we'd picked a good spot. The lights on the top of the masts were swooping back and forth with the waves, a sign that the night would be rockin. And how. The swells never let up, and neither did the band that got started after midnight. Maybe it wasn't the best night of sleep--between the nauseating swells and the band that wouldn't quit--but damn, it was good.

last night

I dreamt I was sleeping on the yacht.
By morning, I had to admit I was not.

all good things must end

I almost didn't get out of bed today. I was waiting for the Caribbean sun, but it never showed. In my semi-conscious state, that seemed to me a sign that the end had come. I couldn't imagine the scenario in which I would have willingly left the sun and warmth and humidity for the cold and dark. And now that I'm awake, wrapped in layers of wool, I still can't remember.

On the last full day of the trip, we sailed from Martinique to Saint Lucia, arriving several hours after sunset. It was one of the best sails of the trip--steady winds and small swells, with a moon bright enough to read by. A few dolphins found the boat and, like rowdy kids trying to get attention, leapt several feet into the air and flopped on their bellies, almost close enough for us to touch them. We all squealed, humans and dolphins alike.

A few hours later, we anchored in a harbor in Saint Lucia and shared a bottle of champagne on deck. Meanwhile, the captain and cook, both young Swedes with charming accents, scurried around in the dingy, preparing our Last Supper on the beach. With plates of steaks and mango salsa and guacamole--prepared with local mangos and avocados we had secured with significant effort--we sat on blankets, surrounded by candles, and looked out at the boat, floating in a pool of moonlight. No one said much. Six of us were boarding planes the next day; the crew would return to Sweden two days later. Maybe we were ready to go home, maybe we never wanted to leave.

The smell of steak caught the attention of a little black and white dog, who skulked up to our group on the beach. She poured on the charm, settling down at the captain's feet, then hopped around and invited everyone to play. We gave her a plate of scraps, probably some of the best eats she'd had in awhile, and kept refilling an improvised water bowl. Finally, it was time to go. When we'd packed up the dingy and shoved off, the dog ran after us in the water. The motor was started, and she swam faster, not wanting a good thing to end.