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.