love lettuce

mr. literal

2008-05-18T16:22:00.002-04:00

We're at the park, and Burton spreads his feet and cajoles Henry into running under the bridge of his body. Mindful of the height limits of the crotchial overpass, Burton says, "You have to duck because you're getting tall."

"Quack quack," Henry replies.

one year later

2008-01-29T22:37:00.001-05:00

Tomorrow, amazingly to some of us, is Henry’s first birthday. What better occasion to revisit his arrival on this here earth on this here blog; it is, after all, the reason for my silence here. Please be advised, gentle reader, that the long-winded account that follows includes both blood and juices, drama and melodrama. Birth is an amazing event, and ok, sure, it can be beautiful. But that doesn’t make it pretty.

Monday afternoon. It is snot-freezing cold out. I have my second and final acupuncture appointment in a hopeful attempt to get my do-nothing labor started. “Do you want to have this baby tonight?” Lipai asks me as I’m beached on her table, looking like a life-sized orca pincushion.

“Actually,” I reply, “my husband will be out at a ski race tonight. Logistically, you know, tomorrow would be more convenient, heh . . . " I say, not sure which if either of us is joking.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon walking—okay, waddling—with Steph, hoping that the baby would indeed fall out, as he seems to be threatening. No such luck.

6:30 PM. I am scheduled to meet Melissa at a church parking lot so the two of us, both pregnant to the hilt, can drive out to Nashoba Valley ski area together. Burton is already there, having earlier hitched a ride with Melissa’s husband. I arrive at the church early, proving that there is a first time for everything. Plus, those extra few minutes gave my amniotic fluids the chance to rupture (Who ordered the fluids?).

Having your water break, by the way, is the strangest of experiences. Very much like peeing, which you know you shouldn’t do while wearing pants and enjoying the leathery upholstery of your Swedish automobile. But you can’t possibly stop. For. All. The. Kegels. In. The. World.

Anyway. The next scene involves two VERY pregnant women, one leaking fluids into her boots, racing across an icy parking lot and into the church, in an I-Love-Lucy-like search for a bathroom. The church basement is, of course, filled with women. They appear to be sorting piles of clothing. Don’t mind us and our amniotic puddles! Free stem cells for the taking—you’re welcome!

I’ll spare you the rest of the bathroom details, except to offer this piece of advice to the knocked-up among you: Toward the end of the pregnancy, ladies, carry one or two diapers with you everywhere you go. It’s not for the baby—they’ll have those at the hospital.

Moving along. Melissa follows me home. Burton is reached on a cell phone while riding the lift. He does his two runs anyway, then borrows a car to get home. (Ladies, notice how I glossed right over the part where he continued to ski after learning that his wife was in labor? That's what you call an investment; I’ll cash that puppy in at some later date.) We meet up at the house, where I am still leaking. Burton is freaking.

By 11:00 PM, we arrive at the hospital (Brigham and Women’s, for those keeping tabs). We get through admitting and triage, trying not to stare in horror at the poor women struggling through their contractions in the waiting area. As we settle into our very own labor-and-delivery room, my doctor shows up and checks out the scene. Which is to say he does an internal exam. Then he utters the words every woman hopes to hear upon having some relative stranger lose a whole hand up there: “Oh no.”

“WTF???” I say.

No more than two minutes later, an ultrasound confirms that the baby has wedged his head under my ribs (Hi!) and is poised to come out foot-first: my footling breach. The anesthesiologist is brought into the room immediately and starts peppering me with questions about allergies before I even put it all together. I am having a cesarean section. Right now.

My feelings at this point take a dive into the deeply personal and painfully complicated. There should be support groups for women who prepared for unmedicated childbirth but wind up with sections. It’s a combination of loss and failure and guilt I could never have imagined, but there it is, and others are out there nodding their heads in agreement. Right, girls?

Within moments, I am wheeled out of my labor-and-delivery room and into an operating room. It’s cold and bright. Doctors and nurses are whirling around. I remember thinking, “This is what it’d be like inside a beehive if they could get floodlights that small.” Someone sticks a long, thin needle in my spine to paralyze my body from the chest down. Someone tests its effectiveness by stabbing me with a red plastic cocktail sword. “Can you feel this? What about this?”

I lose track of events, because my body is shaking uncontrollably. It’s the drugs. Someone—the anesthesiologist? the attending?—tries to make small talk about what I do for a living, while my doctor cuts my belly open. Burton is led in, wearing head-to-toe scrubs, a mask, and a camera around his neck, like some sort of operating-room tourist. He stations himself near my head, where he can monitor both me and my innards.

There’s intense pulling. I can see my doctor putting his heft into the effort. And then, at 12:58 AM, there’s the sound of a baby: “WAH. WAH. WAH. WAH. . . .” like a metronome. Someone holds the child up for me to see, but the sheet in front of my face blocks the view. I see nothing. The baby is taken to a scale to be weighed and de-gunked. People keep standing between me and the scale, so it’s like taking in a game at Fenway from seats with an impeded view. Burton is so excited he fidgets, forgets to take pictures. He turns to tell me something, but I can’t read his lips, owing to the surgical mask he forgot he was wearing.

Whoah. And then. Finally. Burton brings the bundled baby over. And this part I really can’t put into words. Too powerful and private. And one year later, it still smarts from the intensity. Happy birthday, Henry C!

neighborhood watch

2007-11-13T13:12:00.000-05:00

I used to spy with my little eye an older gentleman, walking up and down my street on his way to and from the market. His gait was painfully slow and difficult to watch. If I was outside as he passed, Blain would say hello, offer a pleasantry, and generally be neighborly in what now seems like an old-fashioned way. He once told me he was 77, but his body always seemed much more worn down than that. Often, when I saw him turning the corner on his way home, I would join him for the last hilly stretch of his trip, carrying his bags and offering an arm to lean on for the occasional breather. We would talk about the neighborhood, about how the students drive far too fast over the crest of the hill, and, naturally, about the nature of New England weather.

I didn't see him last winter. I kept hoping he would take up his walks again over the summer, but maybe I missed him. Now, the leaves are almost all down, and the weatherman is talking about snow squalls and flurries again. It's been almost a year, and I haven't seen my old friend.

halloween langoustine

2007-11-01T12:38:00.001-04:00

kid in dirt

2007-09-14T17:23:00.001-04:00

bananers suit him just fine

2007-08-06T16:45:00.001-04:00

minute revelations

2007-07-23T14:45:00.000-04:00

On a patch of dirt at the end of a bed of Swiss chard, Henry and his nine-month-old colleague, Mori, occupy themselves on a blanket while Mori's mom and I work to save the chard from the weeds. The two boys look one another in the eye, reach for each other's toys, and try to grab a handful of someone else's ear. They are incredibly busy noticing everything. The feeling of a fistful of grass, poking between fat fingers. Sun in the eyes. Dirt in your mouth. Every day, something new.

Because everything is new to them--it's such a basic fact, but I can hardly imagine what that must be like. Sometimes the realization stops me in my tracks. When a hawk screeches across the sky, right overhead, its wings stretch tip to tip. Both boys stop what they're doing and look up. Mouths hanging open, their heads follow the bird as it floats from west to east. So this is how the world works, they must be thinking.

products of my basement

2007-06-06T18:07:00.000-04:00

Bursting with pride today at the sight of our crib and the story of its making on the nursery edition of Apartment Therapy. Burton spent so SO many hours in his basement workshop building, sanding, painting, sanding, painting, sanding, and painting that crib (then he sanded it again), it’s a crying shame the thing is hidden upstairs. Not so the Burgie, also featured on the site, created and designed by Burton and my mom, and the most pleasing piece of furniture in my dining room.

you say tomato, I say that just looks bad. real bad.

2007-05-25T08:16:00.000-04:00

According to the parenting literature, Burton will develop his own ways of doing things with the baby--ways that will be different from mine, but not necessarily wrong for that reason alone. Just different. On the whole, I can buy that. But somehow I can’t bring myself to tell Burton he’s done a good job when he dresses Henry. I just . . . can’t. It is not right.

on open-ended questions

2007-04-23T21:28:00.000-04:00

A woman sits on a city bench. “Spare some change?” she says, as passers-by pass by.

A man in a suit zags in her direction, digging into his pockets. “How much do you need?” he asks, rattling around his change.

“ . . . Uh, five dollars?”

from opposite ends of life

2007-04-19T11:31:00.000-04:00

Melissa and I are having a bite to eat, the babies asleep in their car seats. At a table near us, two older gentleman have been keeping up a conversation at a good, healthy volume: old friends determined to maintain their gift of gab, despite a loss of hearing. Having finished their meal, they start making their way to the door, the ambulatory one pushing the other’s wheelchair. Their faces brighten as they approach us and our piles of babies.

“Oh!,” says the one on wheels, visibly excited. “There’s TWO of them! Are they twins?”

As I explain that they came from different owners, the twosome peer into Owen’s car seat, both craning to get a good look through their thick glasses.

“What’s the name?” wheelie asks.
“Owen,” Melissa says with a big smile.
Wheelie leans in close. “MAUREEN?” he shouts, to confirm.
“O-WEN,” Melissa says in his ear.
“HELEN!” he says. “A beautiful name! So how old is baby Maureen?”

Melissa does her best to respond with appropriate volume and the necessary hand gestures to illustrate ten weeks. Owen hardly notices, but the two gentlemen coo like a pair of pigeons over his tiny face. Eventually, they pull themselves away and wish us well, wide smiles on their weathered faces.

Henry and baby Maureen

ode to a baby

2007-04-14T10:31:00.000-04:00

A bit of talcum
Is always walcum.

--Ogden Nash

fresh eggs

2007-03-29T15:12:00.000-04:00

What I remember most vividly about having chickens as a kid are the smells: the dry hay, the poop, the heat of the coop in the California sun, and the sweet, cool dirt scratched up by our four hens. And most delicious: the smell of eggs before they’ve seen the inside of a refrigerator.

Popping my head into the barn of a local farm to snap these photos last weekend, I was slapped by the smell, all old and familiar.

babies babies everywhere

2007-03-25T16:44:00.000-04:00

Three babes born to three friends in three weeks. Pictured here is their first meeting. I can’t say for certain, but I suspect they were all drunk.

Kinkos? KinkNO!

2007-03-22T10:46:00.000-04:00

When I managed to find a parking spot within car-seat-hauling range of the Harvard Square Kinkos, I thought it was a good omen. But it must have been just a spot of plain-old dumb luck, because it all went to hell from there. Off we go:

I find the only Mac in a sea of PCs, only to discover that it costs 40 cents a minute, whereas PCs are a relative bargain at 25 cents a minute. “Why?” I ask.

“Because this is a design station,” I’m told, as if that clarifies the situation. I look down and notice that the “design station” comes equipped with a keyboard blackened by a thick patina of grime. (If Antiques Roadshow has taught the nation that a natural patina increases the value of a fine piece of furniture, it must be understood that there are exceptions to the rule.) “Let me know when you’re ready to print,” the guy adds.

It’s a simple enough task that I’m there for: Print my document on card stock. But I sit down and immediately start to panic about my per-minute fee. The baby helps things out by fussing. Can’t hardly blame him, though, because he’s still bundled up for the cold, causing him to roast in his own juices like those turkeys cooked in plastic bags (a question for another day).

With the document ready to go, I look for the guy with the power to print. “He’s gone downstairs for a few minutes,” I’m told. “But he’ll be back.” In my mind, I see a giant digital tally of my mounting fees, like the tickers that calculate the national debt. But before too long, he’s back, attempting to connect my “design station” to the “printer.” Without luck. We reboot. Twice. Finally we’re ready to go, but what’s this? Someone else is printing out what can only be a copy of War and Peace, double-spaced in Courier. “I guess we’re gonna have to wait,” I’m told. On my dime (and nickel and quarter)? There goes the kid’s college fund. But, wait! It’s finally our turn. He loads the paper, I hit print. Paper jam. We do it all over again.

“I guess you can’t print on this paper,” he decides, after the page comes out smudged but unprinted.
“Whaa???” I stammer. (Henry backs me up with a “WAAAAH!” of his own.)
“I guess you could buy our card stock downstairs and use that.”
“But I want to use this card stock, the card stock that I’ve already paid for,” I say. (Henry is a beat behind in the conversation: “WAAAH!”)
“Well it doesn’t work in our printer.”
“ ,” I say.
“ ,” he replies. “Or I guess you could try using this other printer,” he finally volunteers.
“There’s another printer?” I say. “Hook me up!”
“It costs twice as much. I guess because it’s a color printer.”
“But I’m printing in black and white.
“Yeah, I know. . . . ”
“But it’s still twice as much? For the same thing?”
“I guess so, yeah.”

In the end, I declined the offer. I didn’t buy their card stock. I didn’t pay extra to print my black and white document on their color printer. And the kind young man generously offered to credit me for the whole 20-minute transaction. So I collected my stuff, including my crying baby, and walked out of there none the richer and none the poorer, either. Except I did score 20 minutes of free “design” time.

The lesson? Next time, hire a professional.

stay-at-home torture

2007-03-21T10:57:00.000-04:00

There are few things worse than being pinned to a chair by a nursing infant while the radio, within earshot but out of arm’s reach, broadcasts an NPR fund drive. Make. It. Stop. Please?

he must have been late the day they handed out necks

2007-03-06T10:04:00.000-05:00

unnecessarily exclusive coverage

2007-03-02T22:25:00.000-05:00

“Only Entertainment Tonight follows Anna Nicole to her final resting place.”

As much as I wish that show would take the big dirt nap, is it really worth the ratings?

there was much rejoicing in the land . . . and then the hospital bill arrived

2007-02-28T12:56:00.000-05:00

If Henry were a chicken for sale at the grocery store, his cost per pound at birth would work out to be $2,625.98. Per pound, people. And there were seven and a half of him. Fortunately for us, we send an indecent percentage of our take-home pay over to the folks at the insurance company, who are finally earning their keep.

The damage, incredibly, came to $19,957.42. That figure includes $376 in pharmacy charges, $11,700 for “semi private obstetrics,” and $386 for a labor room that was used only to store our bags while the baby was delivered surgically in the $4,538 operating room (where I received $1,159 worth of anesthesia). Had I known, I would have done a more thorough search for sample-sized shampoos or other value-add souvenirs in the labor room; $386 seems steep for three hours of luggage storage.

from the glad-it-wasn’t-me department

2007-02-26T13:38:00.000-05:00

If, on a Saturday morning, after your wife has been awake for several hours feeding and soothing and entertaining the newborn, she taps your arm and asks you in her please-won’t-you-help voice to change the diaper, and you promptly fall fast asleep for another hour and a half, then wake up and ask your wife if she isn’t ready to hand over the baby so you can go ahead and get that diaper changed, but then the baby starts crying on the changing table and you’ve lost your marbles and you put the kid back in his pjs diaper-free, please don’t register shock or awe when the baby pees on your chest.

genetics

2007-02-21T13:26:00.000-05:00

Burton’s eyes are Caribbean blue; mine are poop brown. We’ll have to sit tight for a few months before discovering which way Henry’s will go. But one inheritance, at least, is clear: That boy is wearing my furrowed brow.

fool for love

2007-02-13T15:45:00.000-05:00

Never have I been so impressed with someone who offers so little. Honestly, if he were to post a personal ad, it might read: SWM: eats, poops, and pees. Usually enjoys gas, except when it makes me cry.

And me? Hopelessly fallen.

the footling arrives!

2007-02-08T18:00:00.000-05:00

Henry Calder Flint, not willing to wait around, was born on Jan. 30. Seven pounds, nine ounces, and ten delicious toes.

thoughts on a ball and chain

2006-07-09T11:30:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-15T13:28:00.000-04:00

* 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

2006-06-08T22:07:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-11T11:52:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-28T14:20:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-25T15:01:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-24T13:17:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-04-13T15:55:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-10T13:51:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-06T13:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-05T13:57:00.000-04:00

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

2006-03-30T08:20:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-28T10:15:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-25T09:07:00.000-05:00

so long, old gal

2006-03-23T16:35:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-22T11:44:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-20T10:28:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-16T10:10:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-14T09:28:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-13T00:04:00.000-05:00

bad review revue

2006-03-09T10:42:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-07T17:49:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-07T11:06:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-06T10:20:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-02T10:18:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-27T11:37:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-24T09:23:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-02-22T11:59:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-21T10:48:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-17T11:08:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-15T09:47:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-14T08:45:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-10T12:34:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-09T09:37:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-07T12:06:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-06T18:09:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-02-01T13:09:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-30T13:28:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-24T10:43:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-19T08:58:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-18T10:20:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-16T10:29:00.000-05:00

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

les poissons

2006-01-12T10:38:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-11T11:19:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-10T09:04:00.000-05:00

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

all good things must end

2006-01-09T10:56:00.000-05:00

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.

the scrooge

2005-12-23T21:15:00.000-05:00

true stories

2005-12-23T10:35:00.000-05:00

I've never had much of an interest in writing fiction, because (among other reasons) it seems to me the best stories come from real life. Take, for example, the one about the morbidly obese man who went to the hospital for medical attention. Problem was, he was so big he hadn't reclined in ages because the weight of his own chest made breathing difficult. So the nurses and doctors helped him on to a gurney, which caused a massive resettling of his flesh for the first time in years, which in turn caused an old cheese sandwich to fall out from the folds.

Doctors have some of the best stories, whether tragic or funny or poignant or humiliating. A fourth-year med student told me last night that a woman brought her young daughter to the pediatric emergency unit, worried about a lump on the girl's chest. Could you, as the doctor, explain with a straight face that the girl will likely develop another lump, on the other side of her chest, and that these lumps are normal and commonly referred to as breasts? No need for surgery today.

But that's why stories are so good. They make you look at yourself and your perspective and your own history and biases. They keep me going.

I leave tomorrow to celebrate the birth of some peoples' lord with my unbelieving family, then I'm off to sail in clear blue Caribbean waters for 10 days. If all goes well, I'll return with stories to share (hopefully not medical in nature) and a tan to be smug about. Happy new year. See you on the flapjack.

sloppy seconds

2005-12-21T20:19:00.000-05:00

The Yankees are like that friend you had in high school who waited until you had a serious crush on a boy, then she pounced. On that same boy. And stole him away, utterly sans remorse. In fact she wanted you to be happy for her.

Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, New York can have Johnny Damon. I am so over him. Whatever.

an open letter to the young man with the green coat and bad judgment rubbing up behind me in the subway this morning

2005-12-21T16:05:00.000-05:00

Dear dumb-ass young man,
Maybe you're going through a dry spell in your social life. Maybe all your college friends settled in New York, but you wanted to try out Boston because Aunt Susan said she'd keep you well-fed if you moved nearby. Maybe you just got out of prison and the bus dropped you in unfamiliar surroundings with only enough money for a T fare. It's tough meeting new people. The ladies, especially. We can all probably relate.

But really. Is that any reason to press the entire length of your lonely-ass body against mine? Sure, the train was crowded. Sure, that crazy lady and her bags were taking up three seats and you didn't want to risk it and get too close. Fine, you needed to hold on to the pole. But really. I'd like to tell your mamma what you did. With that breath of yours, she'd probably tell you to brush more often--something I can actually get behind.

life's little mysteries

2005-12-20T07:59:00.000-05:00

This morning I found a cat turd in my dresser drawer. It's the middle drawer--third from the top and third from the bottom. It has pants in it. I'm not a filthy pig. I simply cannot explain this.

Any ideas?

from a craptacular low to bumpin good times

2005-12-19T14:09:00.000-05:00

Even if a dental procedure has a 98 percent chance of success, someone has to make up that other two percent. That someone is probably the same unlucky fool who gets stopped for speeding in a hoard of cars traveling at the exact same speed. Or the one who trips and falls, causing skirt to fly over her head, while the rest of the marching band is getting into position on the field for the Thanksgiving-day half-time show. Or whatever. Just some examples that pop into my mind.

Anyway, I found myself in that unlucky two percent on Friday. And you might not think it's such a big deal, but among my talents, I am skilled at blowing the smallest, most insignificant detail into an utter debacle. And I did. "They took out," sniffle drip drip, "the implant," pathetic sobbing, "and now it's going to be another year," snotty dribble, "and another pile of bills not covered by my freaking dental insurance," WAAHHH, "before I get a tooth," I cried to my poor sister. She kept all "WTF?"s to herself. Instead, she booked me on a train--the Acela, no less!--and let me mark the anniversary of her birth with new pants and Mexican food in New York. I had the cheese enchiladas with a side of dental sutures. Then there followed a celebratory game of bowling. In New York's Port Authority, the place you'd hate to spend an extra two minutes if you could avoid it. But the bowling was spectacular. Three strikes in a row (remember that, guys?) and a score in the triple digits--something that happens as often as those Olsen twins eat a hamburger and keep it down.

a friday treat

2005-12-16T09:26:00.000-05:00

It's the freaking holiday season. To celebrate, you and your credit card plan to spend the weekend developing headaches from the blaring of Christmas carols in stores hawking crap. Work is the pits. You have to go to yet another yankee swap. The public-radio station is doing another fund drive. You think you might lose it before Santa arrives.

Stop. I offer you this dose of goodness. I dare you. Go ahead, poke around, no one will think less of you for it.

the cat ate my gymsuit, and everything else in the fridge

2005-12-13T09:25:00.000-05:00

Good people have asked me, "Why no photos of your cat--what gives?" The sorry truth, I'm afraid, is that The Pickle is difficult to photograph. I don't have a wide-angle lens wide enough, for starters. (That incline leading up to her belly--merely the foothills of Mt. Kitty.) Plus, she's jumpy. Sure, she's big as a barn, but she's fast. As soon as you focus on her, she jumps out of the frame and is off fixing herself a sandwich.

confession

2005-12-10T09:20:00.000-05:00

My eye has been somewhat swollen for the last two days, and I'm secretly hoping there's a hair or eyelash or something buried in there, waiting to make a dramatic exit. Have you ever pulled a hair out from behind your eyeball? If not, you haven't lived. If so, you smell what I'm stepping in, and you know you like it. You just have better judgment and wouldn't go announcing it to all of the world wide web. And I can respect that.

working overtime

2005-12-09T17:01:00.000-05:00

The good thing about not having a job is that, when a friend who recently gave birth to a beautiful peanut of a human is planning to go back to work in two days' time but hasn't yet found a super nanny/babysitter, I can step in to help. My days are, like, totally free. Or they were.

Now they're all about bottom-wiping, bottle-fixing, and drool-catching. I also spend a great deal of time burping the wee one. A LOT of time.

So I wasn't all that surprised to find myself trying to burp my cat last night in my sleep. She didn't really mind, because she takes affection in whatever shape it takes, but I was annoyed that it took her so damn long to produce a belch.

his words, not mine

2005-12-08T15:29:00.000-05:00

Walking through Davis square the other night, I'm behind a gentleman pushing his daughter in a stroller. Now, winter has hit New England like Muhammad Ali thumped George Foreman in the rumble in the jungle. It's cold out. Not frozen-booger cold, but it's not far off if trends continue.

So the guy and the stroller: Daughter is clutching something. It appears to be a coffee cup, but with a straw coming out of the sippy hole. She seems to be otherwise dressed for the weather, but her hands are bare, clutching her cup. Another man--silverhaired, probably pushing his golden years--walks alongside the father-daughter pair and offers, "No gloves for the little person?"

Dad, taken aback, has no comeback whatsoever. Then, a moment later, "I tried to get them on her, but she won't wear them. If you think you can get her to put them on, be my guest."

"Oh, no, it's just that I noticed she wasn't wearing any, and it's cold out, and I thought she should be wearing some." Long awkward pause. I'm not even a part of the conversation, and I feel like crawling out of my skin.

Dad: "Listen, do you make a habit of criticizing people on the sidewalk, or is just a pastime for you?"

Unsolicited criticizer: "Um, well."

Dad, clearly uncomfortable: "Look, I'm sorry. I'm from New York. Maybe I'm just socially impaired."

homewrecker

2005-12-05T09:39:00.000-05:00

It's the classic story, subject of endless hours of daytime programming and countless trade paperback romances: Me, underemployed and slouching toward boredom, with all the love and wet-nosed canoodling a woman could hope for at home. Enter a handsome house guest, with strong features, monogrammed luggage, and the most charming patches of toe hair ever have I seen.

I'm sunk. Hopelessly falling for someone else's dog. Please, don't judge me. She does that thing where she whips her stuffed animals around in her mouth, trying to snap their plush little necks. And the ear hair? I can't be helped.

the old nag

2005-12-01T16:25:00.000-05:00

I set down 40 pounds of dog food on the passenger seat, without buckling it in, and I sense that my car doesn't like it. "Bing, bing, bing," she says, like a mother gently reminding her child. When I respond by taking my foot off the brake, she gets increasingly on edge. What if we're in an accident? What if we can't stop in time? What if . . . ? I ignore her and start to leave the parking lot. "Bingbingbingbingbingbingbing!" she cries. I step on the gas and proceed into traffic, sending her into a panic. "BINGBINGBINGBINGBING!" All the way home, this nagging. And me without a button to turn off the Swedish smart-assitude.

overheard

2005-12-01T15:56:00.000-05:00

The setting: Harvard square knitting store, nerds aplenty, myself included.

The characters: A huge, pizza-faced college boy, speaking in annoying, didactic tone to earnest-looking and much cooler female friend. While bandying about advanced knitting terms like "hank" and "swift" (in the noun form), he brags to salesgirl about the "fabulous Chilean wool" that's been sitting, unused, in his knitting bag for three months now, as if that's a sin on par with puppy killing.

"This stuff will treat'cha good," he says to his friend. "Sure, it can get kinda kinky, but if you're going to be a knitter, one thing you're going to have to get used to is ripping out your work and starting over. You'll be alright, I'll show you."

house of cosby

2005-11-30T15:54:00.000-05:00

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you stumbled upon a hair belonging to Bill Cosby, then spent 10 long years building a cloning machine, finally managing to fill up your house with Cosby clones? Wonder no more. Try number one, then proceed at your own risk.

June 21, 1936

2005-11-29T11:34:00.000-05:00

My great-aunt Florence was no petit thing. (In fact, in 1924, as a high-school senior, she led her basketball team to a 70-2 victory over the no-doubt-humbled Geneva Eagles, scoring 52 of those points herself. This article recalls the 80th anniversary of that night, when she still held the county all-time single-game scoring record--probably still does.)

Over six-feet tall and full of spunk, she must have towered over all of Europe during her visit in 1936. I love to imagine what it was like for a couple of girls from Ohio to navigate their way through Europe in a convertible--with hairpin turns on roads not intended for cars and a king-sized language barrier everywhere they went.

A few days after crossing the Atlantic and disembarking in Plymouth, England, in June 1936, Florence wrote a letter home: "Well, here we are in Ireland, by gum, and it is swell."

Killarney, Ireland
11:15 PM

Dear Arlene and Mel,
We stayed overnight in Cork last night and left there after breakfast, about 10:30, in a dreary rainstorm, on our way to Blarney Castle. About 12 miles from Cork we started our hike through the fields and by paths to the castle. Of course our goal was to kiss the blarney stone. You can imagine our surprise when we discovered the stone was on the very top of the edifice, 120-some feet high, and that the only way to kiss the stone was to have someone hold your ankles while you would lie on your back with your hands on a rail and gradually go over backward until your head fits through a hole in the wall. Then you kissed the stone (if you weren't dizzy, etc.). Not to be outdone, and sadly needing that eloquence promised to the kissers of the stone, we proceeded to break our necks and backs and all kissed the stone--we took pictures to prove it. Then, you know us, the outdoor girls, we came down a narrow circular stone passageway out and, as a result of our combination of big feet and long legs, came near coming down on our hinders instead.

From Blarney Castle, we drove back to Cork and thence westward to Glengariff, a resort town, where we had lunch. Every time we stop, a crowd of people gathers around the car to give it the once-over. To them it's a spectacular thing, I guess.

From Glengariff to Killarney the scenery is exquisite. Sometimes things are so beautiful you can't say a thing, and you're fortunate if you can swallow the lump in your throat. The road was little used; grass would be growing between the two-wheel tracks. All the people ride in two-wheeled wagons drawn by a burro because a horse wouldn't be sure-footed enough to take them up the rocky mountain roads. Hairpin turns suddenly bring you into a flock of mountain sheep, cows, and burros in the middle of the road, or a crowd of people doing some odd dance to the music of the accordion, in the center of a bridge.

Fields are covered with a blanket of dwarf daisies about the size of a dime, or buttercups of the same size. Then, for contrast, rhododendrons grow the size of our large trees and have waxy leaves. Then, as if that weren't enough, Canterbury bells and bright red fuchsias are everywhere. The fuchsia are also trimmed for hedges. We'd get out and pick every strange flower and have to ask people what they were. This section is also filled with peat or turf, as they call it. As far as you can see will be places where trenches have been dug and this peat taken out in brick-like slabs. Of course we had to crawl out and paw that. It is used for fuel and resembles nothing so much as bricks of cow manure.

Roadside crosses; lovely spired churches; field after field of "taters"; ruins; waterfalls; stands where Irish laces, linens, and woolen goods are being sold; men in groups, gossiping (not women); cyclists everywhere you turn, even up that mountain pass; horses and burros with their front leg tied to the back leg to keep them from wandering too far; rather small towns where it's a waste of time to look for a restaurant because there are none. All this and plenty more just in this one day's journey.

We're having better luck with our food now that we know better how to order. The inevitable tea is getting to taste better than coffee. In fact, anything would taste better than the kind they make. Toast has been an unheard-of luxury, but their pastries, especially in Wales, would be hard to beat. You have your choice of meat--either mutton for breakfast, mutton for lunch, or mutton for dinner. Sometimes they surprise you and offer lamb chops. Soup is gravy with a little water, and nothing is salted. Before we can use the butter, it has to be salted. Sugar is served in large salt shakers, and salt in a small dish like a bird dish. You almost have to beg for a glass of water. They never serve it with meals. We are strange creatures to them, and we find them staring at us as we eat, changing our fork to the right hand, etc.

Hundreds of other things, but I'm getting sleepy so I haven't good sense. Goodnight.

Love, Florence

made in the USA

2005-11-29T08:08:00.000-05:00

Here's just the thing for the love-lettuce reader on your Christmas list. Plus, free shipping! Yay!

stranger love

2005-11-27T19:30:00.000-05:00

I squished a squirrel with my car. It was as unavoidable as it was gut-wrenching. For both me and the victim, I guess, though to varying degrees.

Determined to turn the day around and lift my spirits, I put a leash on my secret weapon and jammed a tennis ball in his mouth, because he likes to walk that way. We set out for a walk around Davis square, where nearly every college student, 30-something, tottering munchkin, teetering oldster, and cranky meter maid stuffed in a too-small uniform I passed produced at least a grin, if not also a greeting. "Hello!" "What a cutie you are!" "Look what YOU found!" "Aren't you adorable!" And even: "Hi! I LOVE you!" Amazing how it can change a person's mood. Even if they are talking to my dog.

giving thanks

2005-11-24T10:30:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday, my dad and step-mom braved the torrential rains and drove up to Boston to spend the holiday with us. Before they arrived, I pulled on a jacket, leashed up on the dog, and in the 6:00 darkness walked the four blocks to the fresh-pasta store, crossing Broadway en route.

I spent a few minutes deciding what to get, then watched the guy behind the counter feed the wide, fresh noodles through the pasta machine. He sprinkled the spaghetti with flour, wrapped it in white paper, and sent me on my way. Within a block of my house, I reached Broadway. From the intersection, I could see the lights I'd left on in the living room, and I imagined the cat curled up on the couch, just where I'd left her. I imagined my parents, still driving in our direction, and my husband, hopefully heading home from work, and how we'd all wind up around hot plates of my step-mom's homemade gravy at the dinner table. The first of several good eats we'd share.

Broadway is long and wide and can feel more like a highway than a neighborhood road. Despite the crosswalks, it is always a dangerous crossing. So much so that Burton, a while back, sent an e-mail to our then-new mayor, complaining about the speeds and the dangers and asking him to do something. But other than a personal response, nothing happened.

At the crosswalk, I looked to the left. I looked to the right. No cars coming from either direction. In fact, two blocks to the right, three or four cars were stopped in the middle of the road, blocking anyone who might want to pass. In the headlights, I could see their doors were open. People were yelling. There was no traffic backup, no police officers, no flashing lights. It looked like a small accident or argument. I crossed and headed home to get ready for dinner.

The following night, Burton came home from work and told me that a 22-year-old Tufts student from Bulgaria had been hit by two cars as she attempted to cross Broadway a little after 6:00 the night before. She was declared dead an hour later.

The headlights and yelling. A young student. Her friends, or whomever she might have been going to visit when she didn't show up. Her family, far away. My family, in the next room. With our health and our lives and our hearts intact, none of it taken for granted.

kids these days...

2005-11-22T07:20:00.000-05:00

They make me feel so inadequate.

waste not, burn in hell not

2005-11-21T07:48:00.000-05:00

I once attended a lecture by her highness Madeleine Albright, who told a crowd of 3,000 women: "There is a special place in hell for women who don't support each other." I am inclined to believe her.

But this morning, while putting our assorted recyclables out on the curb, I found myself hoping there's also a special place in hell for people who can't get the concept of separating paper bags from plastic, thereby rendering their recyclables garbage. Or those who can't be bothered to break down cardboard boxes, preferring to jam them into a garbage can? Please, let's not even mention the bottle-and-can-throw-awayers.

Forgive me, but I like to imagine them passing their eternal damnation in a small, windowless room with a forced-air heater set to "high," and with piles of fetid trash in leaky, plastic bags nearly reaching the low ceiling. Like Huis Clos, but with no one to blame for the trash but yourself.

Too harsh?

(sp)ahhh...

2005-11-19T09:23:00.000-05:00

It started so well. My mom and I headed north from Boston, timing our departure to correspond with a lunchtime layover in Quechee, Vermont, home to Simon Pearce of the ceramics and overpriced hand-blown glass fame, a sort of personal Mecca. Within the walls of the old brick mill, overhanging a dam as scenic as any, they also have food. The really good kind. We were seated at a two-top, right over the waterfall, and immediately served tiny, doll-sized buttermilk biscuits. Their size made them all the better to cram in your cramhole. We gobbled salmon with various roasted autumn-colored accoutrements, and a dish of caramelized walnut ravioli, plopped in a lemongrass-ginger-cream sauce that I’m pretty sure you get to drink in mug-sized servings in heaven. Dessert? And how. Let me just say this: chocolate, fleur de sel, blood-orange coulis, and an amen for elastic waistbands.

Fat and happy, we got back on the road, promising ourselves that the healthful living started now. The whole object of the trip, anyway, was to provide rest, recuperation, and a beginning to a new and healthy us.

After checking in to our room and judging the quality of the place by the personal-care products provided in the bathroom (June Jacobs—very promising), we decided to check out the spa. To get there, we walked down the longest hallway ever built by man, seriously. Once there, we were overwhelmed by the Moby Dick-sized book of treatment choices. Naturally, we put off the decision of whether to pamper ourselves with salt scrubs, Swedish massage, or herbal wraps, and instead walked back to our room, back down the longest hallway ever built by man, to change into our exercise clothes. After an extended drama involving hotel robes (Do we change into the robes here? Do we use the spa robes? Do we change AND wear the robe? What if they’re out of robes at the spa? What will we do with the extra robes we come back in? And so on, like a pair of Dustin Hoffmans, had Rain Man had been set at a spa, until one of us shouted a definitive: NO ROBES), we returned to the spa, robeless, and traveled—for the third time—down the longest hallway ever created by man.

The cardio room was mostly empty and seemed approachable. (One nameless individual, wearing headphones to listen to the TV, shouted to her daughter, on the elliptical machine immediately adjacent, over the volume in her head, “HOW DO YOU WORK THIS THING? WHAT’S YOUR HEART RATE?” not realizing that all of Vermont and some parts of Canada could hear her. But who cares! We were getting fit!) After a healthy dose of cardio, the weight room was empty, and we felt emboldened to enter. We pressed and pumped and pulled and pretended we knew what we were doing. By then, all that was left was a soak in the whirlpool.

Feeling we had worked off at least one doll-sized biscuit each, we decided it was time to get a nibble for dinner. It was quarter past eight. We were in the showers when the fire alarm went off. After several minutes of our brains quivering from the shrillness of it, we decided it was best to evacuate, even if we hadn’t yet managed to try to June Jacobs conditioner. Donning spa robes (thank god for them!), we padded yet again down the longest hallway ever created by man to the entrance of the hotel, where all 12 guests had gathered. They were dressed for dinner. In clothes. We were wearing spa robes. Otherwise mostly naked.

As we waited for the fire department to arrive, the wait staff brought around trays of coffee, then hot cider and a bottle of spiced rum, then a platter of cookies that could satisfy most of the school children in the county. “Can I get anyone anything?” the bartender practically pleaded. “A pair of pants?” I offered. “A real fire,” someone else suggested. As the evening wore on, those of us in the vestibule became fast friends. We helped ourselves to the computer perched atop the check-in counter, seeing if news of the not-fire had made CNN yet. “Might as well check my e-mail,” the guy celebrating his first anniversary said. “Might as well change our room rates,” Peggy countered. Together, we slid into a state of crying, giggling hold-your-shit-togetherdom. But even over the chilly temperatures and the impossibly slow response by the fire department and the unceasing BWEEP BWEEP BWEEP BWEEP BWEEP BWEEP BWEEP of the fire alarm as it destroyed our chances of ever hearing another fire alarm ever again, it wasn’t so bad.

An hour after the ordeal started, the fire chief excused us from the vestibule. To celebrate our freedom, Peggy and I embarked on a fifth journey down the longest hallway ever attempted by man. But by the time we got there, the spa—with our clothes and room keys in it—was locked. This meant, impossibly, another trip down the longest hallway man ever had the gall to create. Before we completed the trek, we ran into the maintenance man, who walked us back and let us in to collect our belongings. And then, dear friends, it’s true: We walked down the freaking hallway one time more, as blistered and dehydrated as any marathon runner, to return to our room. At least we were getting our exercise.

r & r

2005-11-15T09:41:00.000-05:00

After all of that me-time yesterday, love lettuce is ready for a break from itself. Perhaps you're feeling likewise. We are driving north, to Vermont, for a few days of pampering. Until we meet again, be well and eat your leafy greens.

the self-indulgent 100

2005-11-11T11:48:00.000-05:00

Gentle reader,
As much as doing so made my skin crawl, I have put together a list of 100 things about me. For you. It's a tradition, albeit an ancient one in blog time, which I hope explains away the most vainglorious post my brain can imagine. Without further ado, a glimpse into my darkest corners. For all to read on the internet. Great.

1. Except for baby animals, there are few foods I won’t eat.
2. I last ate veal in 1995. I thought it was chicken. It was delicious.
3. I pretend that I’m an organized person, but in truth I always feel scattered. I think I fool some people on this count, while others will be not surprised in the least to hear this. Does everyone feel this way?
4. Amelie is one of a short list of movies of which I could never tire.
5. In general, I don’t like to watch movies (or read books) over and over again. I’d rather try something new.
6. If I don’t like a book, I won’t finish it. I labored through all but the last 40 pages of Isabel Allende’s Daughter of Fortune, and I’m not even curious about the ending.
7. A warm dog curled in my lap is the best therapy.
8. I take my coffee with cream and sugar.
9. But I’d probably rather drink tea.
10. I don’t understand people who don’t love food.
11. I always wanted to take piano lessons but never got around to it.
12. Haven’t gotten around to it yet, I should say.
13. The most challenging course I took in college was Oceanography. My mind is not cut out for science, yet it was one of my most memorable courses.
14. The smell of garlic and ginger sautéing in butter is one of the finest I know.
15. Smell, in general, is the most sensitive of senses for me. Before I buy a new piece of clothing, for example, I sniff it. I want to know if it smells like a factory or someone’s hands or plastic wrapping or a musty basement.
16. When I was a baby, a sheepskin lined the bottom of my crib. I carted Meep around with me for the next few years, burying my nose in its fur. My parents took it away from me one night, but I quickly found a stuffed animal to take its place. By coincidence, the sole surviving scrap of Meep is sitting on the desk next to me at this very moment.
17. I hate talking on the phone. It is a challenge for me to stay in touch with people who don’t use e-mail.
18. Over the years, I’ve wrecked a few significant friendships due to personal flaws other than my phone-talking skills. I miss those friends and their presence in my life.
19. I’d rather live in an apartment that is sunny than spacious.
20. The first things I noticed when I met Burton was his big blue eyes.
21. I fell for him hard on our second date, when he cooked me dinner.
22. He still cooks for me. And I am still falling for him.
23. There are few foods I don’t like. But if I were to make a list, it would include tongue, headcheese, and the sorts of pates that taste like dirt.
24. In high school, I played soccer, softball, and ran track—and I was no better than mediocre at any of them.
25. Oysters on the half shell? Absolutely. Clams? No thanks.
26. I prefer to take the stairs over the escalator, and I’d always rather walk than drive.
27. When it rains and earthworms wash up on the sidewalks, it is impossible for me not to toss at least a few of the healthy looking ones back onto the soil. I remember a children’s book in which a character chucked one of many beached starfish back into the ocean. “You’re not making a difference,” another character chided, “look at how many are out here.” The starfish-tosser pointed to the one settling back into the water and responded, “But I did make a difference to that one.” Earthworms drowning on the sidewalk always bring that to my mind, though I wish I could remember what book it was.
28. My compassion for bugs does NOT extent to those many-legged creatures that find their way up my bathroom drain.
29. The national anthem makes me cry. Always.
30. So do marching bands.
31. I am a softie.
32. I heart cheese. Of all kinds.
33. New England, for me, is almost perfect: It has ocean and islands and chowder and autumn and smart people and old houses and a wicked pissah accent. But I’d give my left eyebrow to drop it 100 miles closer to my family.
34. I type fast and with accuracy. I learned in summer school, with Mr. Krieger.
35. I am not a list maker. When I do make lists, I forget to look back at them to check my progress. Instead, I make a new list. Which I never look at again.
36. When people ask me if I loved college, I always think of the death of my roommate a week before the start of our junior year. In truth, I spent much of college wallowing. But that’s not the answer people are looking for when they ask, so I usually say it was a great time.
37. I still think about her often.
38. The semester after she died, I helped organize a memorial service on campus. I found a florist about 20 miles away to supply us with flowers for the service. With the buckets of flowers crammed into every available space in the car and while driving on unfamiliar roads, I slammed on the brakes for a red light, which caused many, many gallons of water to be liberated from their containers and flushed through the car. If you’ve ever ridden the Log Flume, you know the kind of wave I’m describing. Alone in the car, soaked, I laughed until I almost peed myself.
39. I can be quite morose.
40. Six Feet Under and Arrested Development are (were) the best shows on television.
41. I have major crushes on Jason Bateman and Peter Krause.
42. American’s Funniest Home Videos always makes me laugh. I’m not proud of it, but cats falling off ledges and people crashing on sleds make for good watching.
43. When we were kids, my sister and I practiced movie-star-style kissing with our best buddies across the street. I thought it was slimy and did not like it. At all.
44. As cliché as it sounds, I’d rather do what I love than make money.
45. I doubt I will ever make a lot of money.
46. I felt more pride in the piles of vegetables I helped produce this summer than the lion’s share of the work I’ve produced in my career so far.
47. My sister and I fought day and night when we were growing up. I always felt less cool, clever, and cruel than her.
48. Now we’re very close, even though I know my habits still annoy her and hers me.
49. I never knew my mother’s mother, but I have ideas about what her voice sounded like.
50. I’ve almost forgotten the sound of my other grandmother’s voice, but I can clearly picture her hands and remember her smell.
51. When I was in the third grade, I pooped in my pants and hid my crappy underwear behind the garbage can in the bathroom. For the longest time, my sister tried to leverage this fact against me in front of other people, but now that I’ve shared it with you, Internet, her weapon is disarmed! Everyone knows!
52. I can’t help but stare at people while riding the subway.
53. “I want my two dollars!”
54. I have little sympathy for people who use their/there incorrectly.
55. As much as I’ve tried to remember the rule, I bungle the distinction between lay/lie, so I try to avoid using those words altogether.
56. Sleep always comes easily for me.
57. When I was in high school, I wore a retainer at night. One morning, I woke up and couldn’t find it anywhere. I later found the retainer tucked in the cassette player, on the opposite side of my room.
58. I wonder what else I do in my sleep.
59. I love artistic handwriting.
60. My own penmanship is crap.
61. Why anyone would read all of this is beyond me.
62. I saw American Werewolf in London when I was much too young, and I was never the same afterwards. More jittery, mostly, and terrified of open fields at night.
63. For many years, I watched how people walked up stairs because I thought that if I hit the same stair with the same foot, I would turn out like that person. Conversely, if I used the opposite foot, I would turn out differently. It was time consuming and somewhat depressing to always think about whether or not I wanted to be like the person ahead of me on the stairs.
64. When a bartender asks me what I’d like to drink, my mind goes blank, even though I’m expecting the question. I usually just ask for what someone else has ordered.
65. Things I love: The Triplets of Belleville, drivers who stop for pedestrians in the crosswalk, fondling yarns in a knitting store, scallops wrapped in bacon, and seeing people smile to themselves.
66. Things I cannot love: Cell phones, mean kids, aggressive drivers, and the Republican party.
67. Things I cannot understand: Adults who don’t know how to swim, opposition to gay marriage, and people who don’t try new foods (see #9).
68. My relationship with my dad has long been complicated and difficult, but with every visit it gets better and better.
69. I love finding treasures in other peoples’ trash.
70. I wish I were better at getting rid of my own trash.
71. Based on the way I speak, people often ask if I’m from the Midwest.
72. My face often reminds people of other people they know.
73. Slipping between clean sheets on a Sunday night is heavenly.
74. The best part of any meal is dessert.
75. If I had to choose whether my superpower would be flight or invisibility, I would by flying my ass to Fiji faster than you can utter the phrase, “wind burn.”
76. Anyone who claims they don’t like tater-tots is lying.
77. My nicknames over the years have included Monchichi, Stinker, Pookie, Poof, Jenny-honey, Big J, and, meant unkindly, McFartland.
78. I am often late. In fact, another of my nicknames was LM Jen, for “last-minute.”
79. For third grade, I attended an elementary school in Canada, where we had outdoor track and field competitions when we weren’t under multiple feet of snow. I did the standing long jump, an event that involves standing in place, swinging your arms three times to build momentum, and praying for a brisk wind at the moment of take-off. I remember watching a competitor from another school whose arms were about half the usual length and thinking, “At least I’ve got this guy beat.”
80. I wish I could forgive myself for unkind things I said to people long ago.
81. I can’t stand Julia Roberts.
82. Scorpios scare me.
83. I get indignant about SUVs.
84. Am not good at remembering details.
85. I look much younger than I am and don’t mind this fact in the slightest.
86. I like my nose.
87. My mom is a wicked-good cook.
88. I feel incredibly vain, making this list.
89. Once, after riding the Round Up at the Our Lady of Peace fair, I barfed. My downfall was going on that nausea-inducing swing ride beforehand.
90. I was once fired from a job and, as humiliating as it was, I think everyone should experience that particular shame.
91. I had never worked as hard as I did for that piece-of-crap job.
92. I still regret losing the down vest that my mother made for me as a tot and which I left in a public restroom somewhere. I wonder if it’s on the bottom of a landfill now, or whether it’s keeping some other kid’s core temperature up?
93. I love getting new haircuts and rearranging the furniture—both give me a new outlook on life.
94. Although I am fairly crafty, I am not nearly as handy as my husband, for whom I am grateful every day.
95. Sometimes I worry that my hearing is going bad.
96. I have one surviving grandparent, with whom I am not at all close. He is a cranky old bugger.
97. Why would anyone want to attend a bullfight? I don’t get it.
98. Ice cream: Much of it, and often.
99. I love wrapping presents.
100. The fact that you are reading this embarrasses me to no end.

Now it's your turn.

a humungous fungus among us?

2005-11-09T17:41:00.000-05:00

While weeding the blueberries last week, we discovered dozens of these cottony eggs and at least a few of the penile protruberances peeking up from the wood chips. I summonded all my reserves of courage before cutting one of the eggs in half, all the while praying--ok, begging--to anyone who would listen that I wouldn't be slicing a baby turtle, bird, or the Cadbury bunny in half. S/he listened, apparently, because all we found was a layer of goo surrounding another egg, which was filled with a spongy pink and green material.

We speculated about all the obvious explanations--a War-of-the-Worlds-type alien, the hanta virus, or a preppy fungus of sorts. But in the end, we still had no idea what we'd found. Love lettuce is currently accepting explanations. Please write your suggestions on the back of a 40-inch end-grain Boos butcher-block counter and mail it to our offices. Prizes will be awarded. Thank you.

too much wallace and gromit?

2005-11-08T12:38:00.000-05:00

I had a dream the other night that I was on the Wellesley campus with my dog and a Land Rover that was tricked out for a fishing trip (I could tell by the cooler of beer lashed to the hood). I needed to get to the other side of the campus, which can be quite a hike. I remember my dog jumping up to the driver's seat and asking if he could take the truck and meet me there--he'd take the route alongside the walking path, so I could flag him down at a moment's notice. It sounded reasonable enough to me, so I waved him off. He waved a paw back at me, then immediately took a wrong turn and sped off down another road, the wind blowing back his ears like you see in the cartoons. The lures clattered around in the wind, barely audible above the stereo, which the dog had turned up to 11. I remember thinking, "Great, there goes my dog and my truck and my fishing trip."

I don't even like fishing.

forgive me

2005-11-06T11:49:00.000-05:00

Stuck to a friend's refrigerator, which she shares with roommate and brother, is a computer printout with curling edges, cut to the size of the following three stanzas, written by William Carlos Williams:

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

hot off the needles

2005-11-05T10:00:00.000-05:00

Two of my favorite recent arrivals will be sporting jennymcflint originals this fall. As soon as they grow several inches, at least. Welcome, autumn babes!

nothing gold can stay

2005-11-04T08:19:00.000-05:00

probably not even for free, thanks

2005-11-03T06:22:00.000-05:00

Part of the fun of this blog, for me, has been discovering who reads it: old friends, new friends, and people I don't know from Adam. How do they find me? Search me. Or just search google for "sniff my fanny for cash," as one recent English visitor did. (Though s/he searched without the quotation marks, which explains why love lettuce was the fifth hit on the list--between sniffing pickles, fanny packs, and my boy Johnny Cash, we cover the requisite ground here.)

But wouldn't you be thoroughly disappointed to land upon love lettuce if, in reality, you were looking to hire an English fanny sniffer? And do people really do that? For money? Am I the last person on the planet to discover this fact?

saturdays last

2005-11-02T07:13:00.000-05:00

Some have questioned the veracity of my snow-related claims. Luckily, I anticipated this and snapped a photo from my living-room window. Kids built a snowman, for cripe's sake, although I didn't leave the house to get close enough to photograph it. Point is, white flakes, falling from sky.

And for those of you who have never seen the sun rise on a Saturday morn AFTER a night of sleep, I offer you this photo, taken two Saturdays ago, on the occasion of the last farm harvest. Even though my photography teacher said sunrises and sunsets are cheezy and trite.