Collected Works of Clownface

#Fail (or my 2012 flower buying adventure), by Clownface

2012-02-11T10:37:00.000-05:00

For sentimental reasons, BMG and I decided to send flowers to his mother for Valentine's Day this year. (We picked out the flowers BMG's dad gave to his mother last Valentine's Day, which was their last Valentine's Day before he died.)

I gullibly decided to take advantage of the WBUR offer to make a donation in exchange for having Winston's long stemmed roses sent to BMG's mom. I haven't donated to this public radio station in a while, so it seemed like a win-win.

After four failed attempts to make a donation through the radio station I quit. Instead I ordered flowers through my credit card shopping portal. 1/2 the price, and zero the hassle.

Here's how it went.

Try #1 - Thursday night, on my computer at home
I enter my "MIL's" address into their portal to validate it - a required step in the donation process. Alas, I make a mistake (unbeknownst to me) and they won't validate the address. Although I am given the option of proceeding anyway, I am afraid the flowers wouldn't get to their final destination so I abandon the process.

Try #2 - Friday night, using 3G in a restaurant bar
I pull up the radio station's web address on my iPhone, using the Safari browser/app. I am directed to their news portal immediately. No obvious link to their "Support us" portal on the mobile site. At the bottom of the page, in tiny print, I find "Switch to full site" link. So I switch to the full site. I find a "Support us" button and am redirected to a portal where there is no option to order flowers through the radio station. I abandon the process.

Try #3 - Saturday morning, using my wireless iPad at home
I click on the radio station's app on my iPad. I click the "Support Us" button and am redirected to a page promoting their Fall 2011 pledge drive. I abandon the process.

At this point I remember the radio station send me appeal letters to the home I share with my boyfriend of five years, addressed to me and my ex-boyfriend. Afraid, through the power of databases, that the flowers sent through the radio station to BMG's mom might come "from Clownface and her ex-boyfriend" I decide to call the radio station to make the pledge/place the order. "If I talk to a person I can make sure my name is changed in the database," thinks I.

Try #4 - Saturday morning, using a telephone
After nosing around the public radio stations website, I find a phone number (again, small print). I call. The phone room is noisy and the person who answers has an accent indicating she may not speak English as her first language.

She asks for my name.

I say it.

"Would you like to spell that for me?"

"No, but I imagine YOU would like me to spell it for YOU."

I spell my first name - eight letters. She reads it back using the military phonetic alphabet. Two errors (25%). I correct them.

I spell my last name - six letters. She reads it back using the military phonetic alphabet. One error (18%). I correct them.

Realizing this interaction may not have the desired results of efficiently placing the most correct donation/pledge, I abandon the process.

And then I visit my credit card's shopping portal. In under 10 minutes I browse several arrangements, choose two dozen pink roses, and complete the order online. The cost is 1/2 of what the radio station donation would have been, I get an extra benefit on my credit card, and I feel good about the gift for BMG's mom.

Sorry public radio. Sorry philanthropy. Your ability to meet my needs using four available technologies all failed.

This is why you're fat dot com

2012-01-16T09:25:00.000-05:00

If I weren't on Weight Watchers AND if BMG weren't home I just might drink the leftover Hollandaise sauce I made for our breakfast of Eggs Benedict.

"I have a question for all you parents..."

2012-01-11T21:03:00.001-05:00

"Other parents: how did you handle yada yada, if/when it occurred?"

If your friends are anything like my friends this is a question you've seen a gazillion times on Facebook.

And...I find it annoying.

Why?

Not because parents are asking for help. Goodness knows we can all use more help with nearly everything we do. And I have great admiration for the work parents do - work they do with inconsistent role models, no instruction manuals, no training. Nope, that's not it.

This is annoying because it presumes that those of us who haven't gone the parenting route don't have any experience that might inform their question.

Let me make myself clear.

I'm trained in social work and public health. I spent four years studying and doing work in the field of mental illness, infectious disease management, human behavior change, and human and organizational development.
I am a sexuality educator who has been trusted by complete strangers to help their pre-teens as they navigate the world of sexual and gender identity, sexual expression, and love of self and other.
I worked in public education for nearly six years. In my work I regularly talked with families about their hopes and dreams for their children's education and aspirations. I also talked with teens about their experience of school and their aspirations. I was a generalist and was required to know the current trends and literature about the PK-12 educational process, special education, school choice, art and music education, recess and school lunch politics, PTA/PTO organizing, the college prep process, etc.
Prior to this job I worked for nearly four years for a nonprofit that helped people of tremendous wealth come to terms with their financial circumstances. Many of these people were parents who sought to find ways to help their children have balanced and generous lives because of their circumstances. In my work I listened to them and directed them to resources to help them realize this dream.
And now? Now I work for a nonprofit that helps parents of young children develop, practice and maintain habits of reading together as part of healthy individual and family development.
I am an auntie to six little people on my side, and six on BMG's side - now ages two through 16. I've observed five siblings and their five partners parent twelve children. I've listened to each one work their way through the "disposable versus cloth" diaper debate, home school versus public versus independent debate, you name it, I've heard it.
I also offer my own unique and supportive relationship to each of my nieces and nephews, as well as (although to a lesser extent) the children of my friends.

My point? I know a shit ton about kids, families and parenting. I don't know any of this from the experience of being a parent, but it doesn't make my knowledge and opinions any less valid.

And, because I don't have kids, it is highly likely I have more time. Time to read your questions and thoughtfully respond.

And, because you are my friend and you have kids, I understand that much of you life centers around your children and your ever evolving role as a parent. Being excluded when you pose your Facebook questions just to other parents doesn't inspire me to learn more about the person you are as a parent.

So, when people direct Facebook questions about their parenting journeys exclusively to parents they are discounting all the experience people like me - who aren't parents - can bring to question with which they are grappling.

Dear friends. Keep asking questions. And please don't exclude me. I want to be involved in your life and I just may have a perspective that helps.

INTP (or why I try to avoid medium-sized chit chat parties I'm not being paid to attend)

2012-01-08T15:46:00.002-05:00

I was reminded today that few things make me more uncomfortable than a medium sized party where I know only the hosts.

A medium-sized party is not small enough to lend itself to deep conversation, nor is it large enough to comfortably abstain from interaction while merely observing the crowd. At a medium sized party most people already know one another fairly well; there are fewer tagalongs who are socially unanchored than there might be at a larger party and the setting isn't intimate enough to make it easy for a new person to insert her/himself into a pre-existing conversation.

The wizards at Myers-Brigg Type Indicator recently reminded me that I'm both Introverted (I) and Intuitive (N) (I'm also a T and P). This means I am most gregarious in situations where I know the people well or where I know what to expect from the conversation. In other situations, I'm extremely shy.

So the medium sized party this afternoon? Where I (essentially) knew only the hosts and BMG? Where I perceive most guests were parents (where I am not)? Within five minutes of being there (and two minutes after anxiously slugging down a can of seltzer), I knew I needed to leave.

So I did.

Many people are shocked when they learn I'm introverted. "But you are so good with people!" they exclaim. I am what my friend Rita once referred to as a "socially adept introvert." A potentially uncomfortable social event where the immediate purpose is clear to me is a challenge I can rise to. Like the office cocktail party where I'm meeting new donors? Obviously no problem. And the networking event BMG asks me to attend to help him chat up a new client? Being an "INTP" means I'm a unique and original thinker; being charming and interesting can come quite naturally. And in these situations, where I overcome my natural inclination to be introverted? I nearly always have fun and meet people I hope to know for life.

But today's party, where there was no obvious role I needed to play or purpose to my being there? I couldn't do it. As I politely fled I felt guilty, felt like I had let BMG down, and that I was being rude to the hosts. But, I also remembered that when I turned 40 I vowed to take more control of my life, to stop doing things I didn't have to do that didn't make my heart go pitter pat, and to be unapologetic about it.

So I left.

It doesn't mean I don't love the hosts, or wouldn't enjoy the company of any of the people there. It just means that size party with that many people I didn't know was not an environment where I could be my best. And I prefer, when I have the choice, to choose environments where I can be as close to my best as possible.

So, if you want to spend time with me, consider inviting me to a dinner party with eight people, or a drink after work, or a Sunday afternoon coffee date. If you invite me to go on a pub crawl with 40 of your closest friends, don't be surprised if I say no. But I will say no with grace, and suggest an alternative activity for you and I to do together that speaks to my INTP self and to our friendship.

From hermys to clownface

2011-12-31T07:28:00.000-05:00

I've changed the address of my blog from http://hermys.blogspot.com to http://clownface3.blogspot.com.

Why?

Clownface3 is my nom de Twitter (aka to some as my "brand"). Three years (four?) into my blogging adventure I've decided to consolidate my brands.
Hermy, the hamster I named my blog after, died and was replaced by a hamster named "Steven." The Collected Works of Steven is just a stupid name for a blog.

I invite my two followers to change their bookmarks to the new address....NOW!

Irony

2011-12-30T18:08:00.002-05:00

Would it be considered ironic to say, "Now that my car was wrecked by a bus I have NO WAY to get to work," if, in fact, the only way to get to work is on a bus?

I don't think it is ironic. It just sucks.

2011: The year in review

2011-12-28T16:50:00.001-05:00

Let's take a look at the milestones of 2011, at least in my personal universe:

January is neutral:

Same old, same old

February is not so great:

Travel to beautiful Sanibel Island, FL to visit my "MIL" and "FIL." "FIL" is dying, so this visit is, in many ways, about saying good-bye to him in a place he loves. Tear ducts - and heart - are preparing for the inevitable.

March is neutral:

The pallor of death casts over everything, making the same old, same old feel hard.

April sucks:

"FIL" dies - devastated beyond belief.

May is high and low:

Prearranged, week-long trip to the Happiest Place on Earth with BMG, my mother, youngest sister and her family. Contrary to all expectations, we have a great time.

The day we get back from Disney World, my favorite cat (sorry Ducky) is struck by a car and killed. Devastation again.

June is steely:

Inspired by a friend who quotes Goethe in Panera, I decide it is really time to look for a new job.

I celebrate my birthday by buying a kayak. Summer fun here I come!

July is neutral:

Same old, same old. Knowing I'll be leaving my job soon (can you say confident?) I don't take a vacation.

August is great:

Bad economy be damned! I have a new job! Quitting the old job is tough, but 100% the right thing to do. I run the Warrior Dash with my friend Sarah and my sister E.

September is great:

Start the new job - transitions are hard and I find them energizing.

October has ups & downs:

Funeral for friend Ellen's mom early in the month, grand opening of Massachusetts' firstWegman's store, and a late month trip to Baltimore to visit with my sister and her kids make this an active and emotionally neutral month.

November is a mixed bag:

Another trip to Florida (that's three this year) for Thanksgiving with BMG and his family; celebrating without the "FIL" is emotionally difficult. I'm glad I'm only there for 3 days.

On the plus side, we are approved for a mortgage to buy our house, and meet with our architect to discuss extensive renovations.

December is a mixed bag:

Happy about Christmas (participate in a sing-a-long in downtown Boston, have a great party at Brasserie JO with BMG and our friend Ellen). We close on the house.

Having my car decommissioned by an MBTA bus puts a damper on the celebratory spirit. A funeral for Lardito's dad was beautiful, and reopened some wounds.

*****

How would I characterize 2011? A year with an enormous amount of major changes. Two deaths, new house AND new job? That is a lot of change for one year. And it will only continue as BMG and I prepare to turn our lives upside down with a major home renovation in 2012.

Looking back on 2011 a toast starts to rattle around in my brain. On new year's eve I will life my winestein high and say,

"Here's to coming out on the other side of 2011 stronger because of all the changes - stronger in attitude and spirit. May 2012 bring more quiet moments to enjoy the blessing of my life from the vantage point of my bike, my kayak or my skis."

Happy end to 2011 and happy 2012!

Electric Company

2011-12-21T18:01:00.009-05:00

Yesterday I happened upon a Twitter chat instigated by the White House. They asked Tweeple (that's Twitter lingo for Twitter users) to post, in 140 characters or less, what $40 dollars means to them.

Assuming the White House is ostensibly collecting posts to use in their fight with Congress over the passage of economic relief bills, I post this in reply:

One of the ways Twitter works is people follow hashtags to track global conversations. So, apparently at least 30 people tracking the #40dollars conversation saw my post. And they responded in one of three ways:

So jealous of your low electricity bill
You must be lying about your low electricity bill
Vote Republication to keep your electricity bill low.

This morning I sent the following tweet to 29 people:

And STILL I got what my youngest sister calls "guff." The gestalt? More "You must be lying about your electric bill" or I obviously live in a developing nation.

Neither is true. Here's proof:

Our electric bill hovers around $40-$65 per month. Why?

We use compact fluorescent bulbs
We have a new fridge and dryer - both of which are energy star rated
We are a tiny family of two (+ a cat, who doesn't use any electricity to speak of)
We turn off lights we aren't using
We have (expensive) oil heat
Our town manages our electric company; we aren't dependent on National Grid, NYMo, insert evil electric company name here.

I'm sure there are other reasons why our electric bill is so low. And I'm tired of justifying it to strangers.

Here's my takeaway:

I'm grateful my electric bill is low. It makes high bills (like my student loan payments) more bearable.
Municipally-managed electricity is probably better than for-profit concerns.
If (or when) you can afford to upgrade, buy energy efficient appliances. It makes a difference.

I hope this is sufficient to stem the tide of cranky Tweets swimming in my stream.

Now go out there cranky people. Conserve energy, be frugal, and stop berating me (and anyone else) for lying just because you don't believe something someone said.

"Sugar just isn't good for me."

2011-12-12T07:14:00.000-05:00

I like to make and give Christmas cookies to people during the holidays. I give them to the mailman, the trash guy, the lady across the street, and my pharmacist. (I have the BEST pharmacist ever - seriously - Jodi and Ted at Stop & Shop in Hingham rock my medication world.)

I also like to surprise people with cookies. Last year it was my barista at Starbucks. She was so surprised when I walked in with the baked goods wrapped in cellophane she came out from behind the counter and hugged me.

This year I decided to bring cookies to the homeless guy I chat with every morning on my way to work. I never give him cash. But I always give him a smile. And this year I thought I would bring him cookies.

So, on Friday morning, with my cookies in tow, I approached the guy with a "Hello! You're not diabetic, are you?"

"Uhm, no. Why?" he replied suspiciously.

"I've.." I started.

He continued. "But I try not to eat a lot of sugar. I've never liked it, and it just isn't good for me."

Dejected pause.

"Well, I have a bag of cookies I was GOING to give to you. But, I guess I won't. Please know I was trying to spread some Christmas cheer. I feel bad that I never give money, because I look forward to seeing you in the morning."

"You always bring me cheer with your smile," he said kindly.

"Merry Christmas," I replied as I turned the corner towards my office.

The Meaning of Gift Giving

2011-12-10T10:38:00.004-05:00

"You deserve to get EXACTLY what you want. Always."

-Robbie Cutler

In one of my favorite stories about BMG's dad, who we lost to cancer earlier this year, Robbie brought his own glass of Scotch to a restaurant. When it was empty he asked our waiter to heat his glass in a microwave for 20 seconds before pouring the Scotch.

My jaw dropped. "It never would have occurred to me to ask for that," I said in amazement.

"Why not?" replied BMG's dad.

"Well, it just wouldn't occur to me to ask for a drink - for anything - in any form other than what is described on a menu or expected in a reasonable situation."

"Oh, you should always ask for exactly what you want. Because you deserve to get exactly what you want. Always."

****

I had a virtual discussion with a friend today about our different perceptions of gift giving at Christmas. The discussion itself is boring, but the upshot is that, in my personal universe, Christmas offers me the opportunity to give the people in my life exactly what they want. Because they deserve it. I take this very seriously.

I also hate wasting money. So, the idea of spending money - any amount - on a gift that isn't perfect almost hurts me. The higher the price point, the more perfect the gift has to be for th recipient.

As a result of these two factors, it is helpful to me to either have options to consider when choosing what to buy for the people I love. I can certainly develop a list of potential gifts for someone, but I am more satisfied if the list can be informed by a (a) very close relationship, (b) direct conversation with the recipient about what s/he wants, or (c) a list from which to choose.

In the absence of an informed list I feel uninspired. My gift giving is a chore, instead of a joyful opportunity to give someone exactly what they want.

****

How do you approach gift giving? What makes it joyful for you? When is it a chore?

Delicious cookies with an unfortunate name

2011-11-28T20:04:00.015-05:00

Eggnog Logs. Weirdly alliterative name. Delicious taste.

These are the cookies I elected to bake for the Great Food Blogger Cookie Swap. These are a dense butter cookie, swathed in rum flavored frosting, and dusted with nutmeg. Three lucky winners, Steff in Austin, Erin in Brooklyn, and Suzy in San Francisco will soon be receiving boxes in the mail with one dozen freshly baked Eggnog Logs.

I vacillated between Eggnog Logs and Norwegian Christmas Rings. Both are sturdy cookies with sugary toppings - holiday cookie staples. But, after extensive customer research, I decided that the Norwegian Christmas Rings, which use hard boiled eggs mashed through a fine sieve (instead of butter) as their creamy base, might be too weird for my new food blogging buddies to taste. So, Eggnog Logs won.

In my earlier, more adventurous cooking days I found the recipe for

Eggnog Logs. Not sure where, or when, but they've been a staple of my holiday baking for nearly 20 years. With that said, here's the recipe:

Eggnog Logs

Cookie

1 c butter - softened

3/4 c

granulated sugar

2 tsp vanilla

1 tsp rum flavoring

1 egg

3 c flour

1 tsp nutmeg

Preheat oven to 350.
Cream the butter and sugar.
Add egg, vanilla and rum flavoring. Blend well.
Add dry ingredients. Mix well. (After flour is added the dough might get crumbly. At this point I knead by hand to get the dough nice and creamy.)
Shape dough into "logs" about 1/2" wide and 1" long. (I roll by hand into ropes and then slice into logs).
Bake for 15-17 minutes, or until golden brown.

While the cookies cool, prepare the rum frosting.

Rum Frosting

3 tbsp butter - softened

1/2 tsp rum flavoring

1/2 tsp vanilla

2 c confectioner's sugar

2-3 tbsp milk.

Mix butter, rum flavoring, vanilla and 1/2 c of confectioner's sugar together. Gradually add the remaining 1 & 1/2 c of sugar and up to 3 tbsp of milk. Tint the frosting if you choose. (I never choose to - who ever heard of a red log?)

When cookies are cool frost them. Draw the tines of a fork lengthwise through the frosting. Dust with nutmeg.

Merry Christmas and happy eating!

PS: Are you an adventurous baker? Want to try the Norwegian Christmas Rings? Here's the recipe.

Norwegian Christmas Rings

3 eggs

1 egg yolk

1 & 1/4 c confectioner's sugar

1 c. + 1 tbsp butter - softened

vanilla (few drops)

2 & 1/3 c flour

1 egg yolk - beaten

sugar crystals

Preheat oven to 375.
Boil (3) eggs 10-12 minutes. Peel in cold water and strain through a fine sieve.
Stir in 1 egg yolk and confectioner's sugar.
Gradually work in butter and vanilla
Knead to make a soft dough.
Refrigerate for 1 hour.
After chilling, roll dough into 4" pieces approximately 1/4" wide. Brush the ends of each piece with egg yolk and form into rings.
Brush tops of rings egg yolk and sprinkle with sugar crystals.
Bake for 10-12 minutes.

Eat and enjoy!

Joy to the world, er, I mean to me

2011-11-28T04:43:00.005-05:00

What joy do the holidays, er, let's face it, I mean Christmas. What joy does Christmas bring to you?

I ask because my Twitter buddy Robyn shared this status update yesterday: "Remember, people, the holidays are conquered one day at a time. Do a little every day and you'll get through."

I LOVE Christmas. I love them so much that I had my outdoor twinkle lights turned on at my house before Thanksgiving this year. The idea of slogging through, or approaching the season with the marauding energy of Attila the Hun, makes my skin crawl. This is the time of year when I want to slow down so I can savor the smell of the tree, reflect on the holiday greetings hanging from the mantle, feel the anticipation of Christmas morning, when my carefully selected presents are finally opened. I want to wring every last moment of joy from them.

But I don't do anything that I don't enjoy. (This is why I don't have kids, and am not a lawyer or investment banker.)

Apparently neither does Robyn's friend Laura, who wrote early in the virtual Facebook discussion, "When some part of the holidays starts to feel like a wretched chore, it's time to drop or change it. Seriously."

Amen* to that! So I "liked" it.

And I started to think, "What are the parts of Christmas that bring me joy? Am I doing all of them?"

Here's my list of holiday joys:

Having and seeing outdoor light displays, from the ridiculous to the serene
Browsing elaborate holiday displays; it doesn't matter what is on the display - ornaments, candy, socks - if there is a Christmas feel and an abundance of items on the display I'm all over it like a moth to a flame
Researching unique - but not extravagant - gifts for, and then shopping for family and friends
Elaborately wrapping gifts and artfully displaying them under the tree
Baking cookies, (but not eating them so I give them all away)
Listening to and singing traditional carols
Choosing, decorating, and then watching the tree (mine is lit as I write this)
Opening and displaying holiday greetings that arrive by mail (The Golden Rule or karma or whatever, dictates that I then need to send cards)
Spending time with my family - opening gifts, eating special foods, and playing with our new toys

What brings joy to you at the holidays? Are you getting enough of it this year? Share your thoughts in the comment section below, or head over to my Facebook page to add your $0.02.

*Does the Christian alternative to Facebook have an "Amen to that" button instead of the "Like" button? It should.

Now let us sing, sing, sing, sing!

2011-11-27T17:45:00.005-05:00

On Saturday, December 3rd at noon at the Christian Science Plaza, the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Tanglewood Festival Chorus will attempt to break the World's Record for the Most Carolers Singing (Carols) Together (for at least 15 continuous minutes). The current record is 9,100 people, set in November 2010 in Adelaide, Australia.

So I'm going. I HAVE to go. I'm not a joiner as a general rule, but this is an extraordinary event. How many opportunities does a girl have to be part of a group trying to break a World's Record? And for something as fun as singing carols? Well, not carols plural. Just one carol. As I understand it the group will be singing "Joy to the World" for 15 minutes. Regardless, it is going to be fun!

In 2010 the BSO tried (and failed) to break the record in December 2010. This year, because I'll be there, they'll break the record.

I'd LOVE for my Boston friends to join me. Here's the scoop on being part of the fun. I'll be at P.F. Changs outside the Pru at 11:15 AM. No later than 11:25 - ideally before - I'll head across the street to become part of the caroling scrum at the Christian Science Plaza.

I have NO idea what to expect. A handful of questions run through my head. How will they count us? Will we get sheet music? How many people can fit at the Christian Science Plaza?

While there are many things I don't expect to know until I show up on Saturday, I would like to know if you plan to join me. Drop me a note in the comments section or on my Facebook page so we can work out our rendezvous plans. And afterwards, we can grab cocoa or a martini somewhere?

Happy holidays!

Can this be real?

2011-11-17T06:07:00.002-05:00

BMG and I signed our "Purchase and Sales" agreement last night. We finish our mortgage application on Saturday. We meet our architect on Monday.

Are we seriously buying and renovating a house? In the suburbs? Because we've strategically decided this is the best route to have enough money to eventually buy a condo in the city?

I'm having a Talking Heads moment as I contemplate the idea of us moving from wish talk to real life.

Great Cookie Swap

2011-11-15T21:13:00.007-05:00

Thanks to my Twitter buddy, @cavecibum, I'm now participating in The Great Food Blogger Cookie Swap.

This means I have to ship one dozen cookies to three separate people by December 5th. And...I have to post the recipe here. (Oh, and I get three dozen cookies mailed to me.)

Think I'll crowd source this one.

Which Christmas cookie would YOU want to get in the mail from a stranger?

I'll be baking the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Look forward to getting your thoughts before then!

Tolerating Intolerance

2011-11-08T19:44:00.004-05:00

This middle-aged body has become lactose intolerant in the last six months. As the current partner and roommate of the provocateur at bowlofcheese.com cheese and other dairy treats have been an essential part of my life for a long time.

Needless to say, lactose intolerance is taking some adjustment.

I've been moving through Kubler-Ross' stages of grief as I mourn the loss of cheese. I started with denial. "What" This can't be true. It must be a stomach bug."

So I kept eating cheese and dairy. And I kept feeling bloated, crampy and uncomfortable.

Now? I vacillate between anger, bargaining, and depression.

What does this look like? I'm testing the boundaries of what I can and cannot eat (bargaining).

A little bit of blue cheese on a salad - ok
Caesar salad with Parmesan shavings - most assuredly not ok
Homemade pizza with glassy soy cheese - fine, if you go for that sort of thing
North End pizza with mozzarella - stomach churning
Hollandaise on eggs Benedict - fine
Croque madame at Brasserie Jo - never again
Saag paneer - not so bad in small amounts
Sour cream-based veggie dip - also do-able in small amounts

And the anger? The depression? At the grocery store, in restaurants and watching Top Chef and other food shows on tv when I realize there is one more thing to add to my list of foods I'll ever be able to eat a full (or even a half) serving of again:

Ice cream (Don't give me that "But you can have sorbet!" b.s. Sorbet is NOT the same as ice cream)
Grilled cheese sandwiches
Macaroni and cheese
New England clam chowder
Yogurt
Chicken cordon bleu (I didn't eat this a lot, or ever, but now I want it simply because I can't have it)
Cottage cheese
Nachos

The Lactaid pills (and their generic equivalent) don't seem to have much impact on the issue, and I'd rather just avoid the food that makes me feel so uncomfortable, than put my body through the turmoil of having to adjust to something I naturally shouldn't be eating.

And over time I'll pass into acceptance. I smile wryly when I hear myself saying "I love soy milk and coconut milk ice cream WAY better the original," and can see the bright side of savoring a nibble - rather than a gobble - of fine cheese when we visit places like Formaggio and Farmstead. This is my body. I can't fight it, so instead I'm trying to tolerate my intolerance.

*****

Have you adjusted to lactose intolerance? How'd you do it? If you HAD to give up dairy, what would you miss the most?

My ♥ Belongs to Wegmans

2011-10-16T19:06:00.005-05:00

My hometown grocery store, love of my retail life, opened it's first store in Massachusetts today. (Unless you live under a social media rock you already know Wegmans opened in Northborough on October 16, 2011.)

What you may not know is that this store is 47 miles from my house. One way. The travel time is nearly 1.5 hours. One way.

I live within three miles of three other grocery stores. Go seven miles further and you find three more grocery stores. That's six grocery stores, that I'm aware of, within ten miles of my home.

And now, today, after having made the three-hour round trip journey, where I shopped and laughed for four hours, I cannot imagine shopping anywhere else.

I forgot to buy paper towels and plastic wrap at the hometown market today. Yet I cannot bring myself to drive the 1.5 miles to the nearest grocery store, park the car, and walk through the sad, fluorescently-lit aisles. I just can't. It depresses me.

94 miles round trip is a ridiculous and wasteful distance to travel to buy groceries, particularly when I can do the same household errand in 3. That's 1/3rd of a tank of gas versus 1/100th of a tank of gas. My conscience won't let me make the hometown market my one and only.

But my ♥ belongs to Wegmans.

Guess will be living without paper towels for a little while.

My Vegetarian Experiment

2011-10-14T17:06:00.009-05:00

October 1 is annually World Vegetarian Day (WVD) and October is Vegetarian Awareness Month. I responded to a challenge issued by the organizers of WVD. The challenge? Experiment with being a vegetarian for a day, a week or a month.

I made a pledge to try vegetarianism for a week. If I succeed I'll be entered into a drawing to win $250. (I pledged to try vegetarianism for a month the drawing prize would be $1,000.)

I'm day five into the challenge. And, what a challenge it has been. Here is a taste of my week.

Monday - Columbus Day holiday
On a "normal" holiday Monday?

Big breakfast with BMG at one of our favorite local diners, complete with mounds of bacon and sausage
Big lunch out with BMG at a spot near the water
Small dinner with copious amounts of wine as I geared up for the work week

During vegetarian week?

Toast, with butter for breakfast

Frozen bean and cheese burrito from Trader Joes for lunch (with an apple cider chaser)

Monstrous amounts of baked potato chips

Picked over onion rings from BMG's big lunch out with non-vegetarian friends

Big dinner - spinach, veggie sausage and whole wheat pasta. And copious amounts of wine as I geared up for the work week

Tuesday
On a normal work day?

Toast with sliced turkey for breakfast
An apple or grapes mid-day
A chicken or beef burrito with guacamole from Boloco or Chipotle for lunch
Dinner at home or out - likely grilled chicken with pasta or rice and a veggie

During vegetarian week?

Fat free pumpkin muffin with apple butter for breakfast
Grapes for a mid-day snack
Teriyaki "burrito bowl" with tofu, broccoli and onions from Boloco for lunch
Truffle fries and a veggie burger for lunch

Wine tasting dinner at our favorite Boston restaurant, Brasserie JO, on Wednesday?
On a normal day?

Mounds of passed appies like mini Croque Monsieurs and foie gras sammies
Veal and tomato bubble as an amuse bouche
Seared scallops in a vanilla beurre blanch
Frisee salad with poached quail egg
Braised short ribs
Interpreted beef Wellington with cremed potatoes
Cheese course with poached pears, bleu pot de creme and tomato confit
Pumpkin tart with burnt caramel ice cream
Copious amounts of wine (and martinis) beautifully paired with each course

During vegetarian week?

Mini martinis during the appie course
Specially prepared tomato bubble as an amuse bouche (thanks Chef!)
Frisee salad with poached quail egg
Cauliflower steak with cremed potatoes
Gnocchi with a delicious cilantro-esque pesto
Cheese course with poached pears, bleu pot de creme and tomato confit
Pumpkin tart with burnt caramel ice cream
Copious amounts of wine (and martinis) beautifully paired with each course

Thursday and Friday proceeded much like Tuesday.

As I head into the weekend I'm confident I can live with two more days of this. I'm heading to a grocery store opening on Sunday, which is certain to be filled with tempting samples. But I'm certain http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifI'll be fine.

I'm also certain I'd like to go back to being an omnivore. I miss bacon, and my daily turkey toast for breakfast. If I felt healthier or less physically polluted I might consider moving to a more vegetarian diet. But I don't. During the last five days I've eaten the same amount of fat and salt as I do during the week. I've also eaten WAY more dairy, in the name of "getting protein," than I should.

It has been a good experiment. I hope I win the $250. And I'm ready for this to be done.

Recipe Box

2011-09-25T11:48:00.004-05:00

I have a tin recipe box, given to me by my mother when I was a teenager. The original gift came with a set of recipe cards that I promptly filled up with favorites from my mother's recipe books and my grandmother's memory. Over time the box became bloated with recipes torn from the newspaper, sloppily copied down on post-it notes, and printed from emails sent from friends.

I love this recipe box. It houses my mom's recipe for baked beans, written in a shorthand only I can understand. Two copies of a scone recipe that I first learned while on a hiking trip in the White Mountains of NH. I have recipes for Copper Pennies (aka carrot disks cooked with brown sugar) written in my grandmother's spidery script, along with all of my family's Christmas cookie standards. The box continues to grow. Over the summer I added the recipe or BMG's mom's curried rice salad.

Back when I started collecting recipes I did so with the intention of turning to the recipe box as my source for cooking inspiration. I now use the Internet as my primary source for recipes, along with the small collection of interesting recipe books I've amassed over the 25 years I've been cooking.

When I thumb through the recipe box, crowded with little slips of paper filled with delicious (and largely unfulfilled) intention, a pragmatic part of me says, "You've never prepared that recipe for Italian chicken stew you clipped out of The Washington Post in 1990; recycle that slip of paper!"

I don't think of myself as a particularly sentimental person. Except, apparently, when it comes to my recipe box.

Waste not

2011-08-21T16:48:00.003-05:00

Our refrigerator crashed last night. Two attempts to reboot it were fruitless, so, at 7:30 this morning I started tossing food that was too sketchy to be recovered. In the tossed pile?

Three sodden TV dinners

One nearly full gallon and three partially eaten pints of ice cream

1.5 packages of gyoza

A gazillion pounds of industrial grade hamburger patties

1/2 pound of sliced turkey

4 slices of Canadian bacon (eh?)

1 pint of sour cream

1 quart of fat free cottage cheese

1 mostly empty bottle of fish sauce, and

1 mostly full canister of fat free whipped cream.

I'm proud to report that, with the materials we recovered, we made the following:

Succotash - 1/2 bag of frozen lima beans, 1/2 bag of frozen corn, and turkey bacon (with Old Bay for flavor)

Curry chicken salad- 2 pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, poached and tossed with lo-fat mayo and Key Lime juice (+ a bunch of other stuff)

Mashed cauliflower - head of cauliflower, boiled and then mashed with leftover fresh parm, plain soy milk, and onions and garlic cooked in (turkey) bacon fat, and

Spanish rice - 1 bag of frozen peas, (rice), 1 jar of salsa, 1 jar of sliced Spanish olives, and leftover cooked hamburger and crispy pork belly

We also cooked 4 steaks, and are hanging on to toaster strudels, all of our eggs (Europeans don't refrigerate eggs, why should we?), 5 pounds of hot dogs and one pound of hot dog minis (don't ask), three types of block cheese, veggie burgers and a host of cookies and spices in the freezer. I steamed green beans for salad, and have roasted asparagus leftover from a nice dinner out that will also be added to salad. Today BMG ate a bag of salami and 1/2 pound of cheese to help with the "eat down."

We could have thrown everything away. A new (to us) fridge comes as early as tomorrow, and as late as Wednesday. We don't have sufficient cold storage, save for the vaguely cool fridge. And every time we open the fridge we lose a little of the cool to the warm air. So, keep food - even cooked food - is a giant pain in the neck.

But...

I hate wasting food more than almost anything else in the world. There are people in the world who are literally dying of hunger and malnutrition. While I know I'll never send my uneaten dinner to the starving kids in China (or Ethiopia, or Boston), I do want to feel like I'm not contributing to the problem by throwing away perfectly good food just because I am inconvenienced by not having a fridge for a short period of time.

PS: Want to see what our fridge used to look like? Take a peek via our 2007 posting on Fridge Watcher.com.

Hello 42!

2011-06-03T20:12:00.004-05:00

You've heard the question before, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?" Or, "What are the first things you would you do if you won $700 million in the lottery?" Both are variations of the now popular "bucket list" idea. You know, where you make a list of all the things you want to do before you die?

I welcome the start of my 42nd year on this planet tomorrow. Birthdays always put me in a reflective mood - considering how I've grown in the past year, and who I want to be in the next year. The start of my 40s was filled with excited anticipation, and the prospect of being free to really dig into my "bucket list", which includes:
1. Live in NYC and/or Paris for at least six months
2. Learn to speak French
3. Successfully grow a giant pumpkin
4. Carve a giant jack-o-lantern
5. Hike Mt. Kilimanjaro
6. Provide some sort of service work (e.g. Peace Corps, NPS VIP Corps, etc.)
7. See as many of the US national parks as possible
8. Be a more diligent biker or kayaker
9. Do "the" road trip across the US
10. Water ski.

At first blush the last year has been a disappointing one because I haven't come substantively closer to achieving any of these things.

No one WANTS to be disappointed with themselves. Well, at least I don't. So I dug a little deeper. How would I characterize my 41st year?

One of the most significant changes is the evolving sense of peace I feel in my relationship with my mom. A light bulb was turned on and I realize that, while I am fundamentally different than she is, this doesn't preclude our having hundreds of ways we can appreciate and enjoy one another.

"Coming to peace with mom" isn't on my bucket list. But it probably should have been. Not only because being at peace with one's parents is a noble endeavor but also because, for me, the energy I put into my psychic wranglings with my mother (my childhood, my (mis)perceptions of my adult capacities) kept me from feeling the confidence I need to take bold steps towards achieving my goals.

I'm one year deeper into my life, and not outwardly any closer to crossing anything off my short list of aspirations. But inwardly, I'm ready for year 42 to begin.

When I First Believed in God

2011-06-02T17:56:00.008-05:00

I first believed in god after my initial glimpse of Yoesemite Valley from the road to Glacier Point in Yosemite National Park.

I was struck by the clarity with which I could see the power of glaciers that sheared off Half Dome, carved the valley to Mirror Lake and Tuolumne Meadows, and created water ways from the Sierras to locations like Vernal and Bridal Veil Falls. I know the geological mechanisms that continue to shape the topology of this National Park. I also felt the presence of something much larger than myself as I entered the park for a six-day car camping trip in 1999.

The last 24 hours in the Park I went backcountry camping through the the Wawona region, in the less traveled southern part of this national treasure. At the start of strenuous 8.2 mile hike, through endless switchbacks to the curvy Chilnualna Falls, I fell in love with the gorgeous ingenuity of the manzanita shrubs that covered the mountain side. At the end of the first day of hiking, tent pitched in a dry creek bed, I had the privilege of seeing the Northern lights, confused at first for white fuel-induced visions. The beauty of the earth and the sky, along with my own triumph at having accomplished the hike, only reinforced my sense of a power greater than that of any single species.

*****

The blog post was written in response to call for stories about the National Parks. Share your story with the National Parks Conservation Association.

Photo credits to The Cachegetter.

Saving a Marriage

2011-05-30T11:23:00.005-05:00

"I'm kind of embarrassed to ask this, but, I think you can help me save my marriage."

So starts my conversation with Ryan at Hingham Bathing Beach this morning. He is a tall man pulling kayaking gear and children out of a shiny SUV parked one spot away from my battered sedan and my sand-covered kayak.

"Do you live near here?" he continues.

I nod, cock my head and squint one eye, indicating he should continue.

"My wife is ready to kill me because I left one of our paddles at home. We drove all the way from Newton to go to World's End, only to find out they don't let people kayak from the Reservation. We got caught in a Memorial Day parade in Weymouth. We left 2 hours ago and we still aren't in the water. She's really ready to divorce me."

I look at the woman carrying an infant and ferrying a toddler towards two kayaks on the shore maybe 20 feet away.

Ryan then asked tentatively, "Are you done for the day? Can we, uhm, borrow your paddle?"

I thought for a moment about BMG, and how mad he'd be if the paddle was lost or stolen or damaged. And then I put myself in Ryan's shoes, feeling the frustration and anger and disappointment that comes from best laid plans that are about to be thwarted.

"Sure," I replied, "You can borrow my paddle. I'm done for the day."

We exchanged numbers, and I told Ryan to call when they got back to the Harbor. He could leave the paddle at the gazebo on the town green, just beyond the asphalt where we both had parked our cars.

As he triumphantly ran down the beach with the paddle and I started tying up my kayak, the elderly couple in the car on the other side of mine said to me, "Nice work. You really did save their marriage. You should have heard them arguingI"

I smiled and said in my most pious voice, "Do unto others, for you never know when you'll need a favor from a stranger someday."

****

If feels good to do something nice for someone you don't know - particularly something that is immediately recognized as a an act of generosity. Why? For me I feel like I've done just a tiny bit to create joy for someone else, and through my actions, reinforced my own wish for a world filled with kindness and respect.

Gifts from Brisket

2011-04-30T15:45:00.001-05:00

I wish my cat had the uncanny ability to bring me winning scratch tickets and Pringles.

Instead, Brisket, the more aggressive of the #meatcats, seems to have a sixth sense for finding and scavenging small mammal graveyards. He is also an excellent, stealthy and non-stop hunter. Just this week Brisket brought home:
1. Bunny rabbit, dead, and missing only one foot
2. One distraught duck, who was quacking non-stop because she was missing her chicks and upset about being chased around by a tiny grey cat
3. A live garter snake, which was ferried up the stairs and down the stairs, over and over again
4. The most raggedy and tiniest dead mouse I've ever seen.

This complements the 1 dead squirrel, two squirrel tails, and myriad moles and mice he has brought home over the course of his short kitty life.

Thank you Brisket, for sharing your gifts with me and BMG.

Love,
-CF-

The bravest people I know

2011-02-24T17:45:00.003-05:00

In spite of all of its faults the subway in Boston offers a wide view of the human condition. A man, who looked Chinese, caught my eye on the 70 minute ride home tonight. He was petite, appeared to be in his late 50s, dressed practically and appropriately in brown corduroy trousers that were rolled up at the the ankle, and he had the front jaw of someone who didn't have stellar dental care over his lifetime. Most interesting was that he carried a bundle of six empty soda bottles tightly shrink wrapped in plastic.

As we traveled to the suburbs South of Boston I wondered who he was and what reason he could possibly have for toting around a bundle of empty redeemable bottles. It isn't unusual to see men pushing shopping carts on neighborhood streets, pulling bottles and cans worth $0.05 each from recycling bins, to be redeemed for their daily income. I've seen Chinese women with wide brimmed straw hats walking up the middle of minor highways dragging shopping carts in both hands piled high with bottles in filmy garbage bags. Never have I seen someone carrying six bottles as if it were a lap dog.

"There must be something special about these bottles," I thought to myself, "or this man is so poor the $0.30 he has in his lap is like gold."

Still wondering what story guided this man's life as I poured out of the train station, I espied an elderly African American man selling copies of the Boston Globe to evening commuters. He had no obvious teeth, the hood of his worn and frayed winter jacket pulled up over his head. He wasn't talking, just holding a hand written sign that read "Boston Globe, $1.00." He was a different seller than the white, heavy set but gnome-like man I'd seen selling the paper in the morning.

"I didn't know the Globe had an evening edition," I mused. The dialogue in my head continued. "I've lived in Boston for nearly 18 years, I'm not aware of an evening edition to the paper. Is he just trying to sell papers that no one bought this morning? Sheesh, are things that rough? Are people that desperate or scrappy or stupid?"

Walking towards the next stop on my way home I realized that immigrants and poor people are among the bravest people I know. There is no way I could imagine picking up my life here - whether it was a comfortable one or not - and moving to another country where I might not have (a) documentation legitimizing my presence, (b) money or other resources, and (c) the ability to navigate my way culturally or linguistically. And, if I had the cojones to do this, I don't think I have the creativity or resilience to try everything to make it work so that I could have the better life I was seeking. I don't imagine I'd sell discarded newspapers, or spend all day looking for bottles to earn a meager $0.30. I often see the glass as half empty, and can't imagine having the vision to believe that one day I'd be selling real newspapers rather than old ones I fished out of a recycling bin, or the desperation to try to sell discarded papers because nothing else I was capable seemed to work to put food in my belly.

I pitied the Chinese man I saw on the train and the African American paper vendor. And I also admired them. For their imagined scrappiness and hopefulness. These two men are some of the bravest people I know.

Who are the bravest people you know? Why?

Park and Shop (or structure binds anxiety)

2011-02-05T08:47:00.004-05:00

I lay awake in bed this morning anxiously running through my list of errands:

Post office - mail packages, buy stamps

Gym - exercise

Transfer station - trash and carboard recycling

Library - return books (get more?)

Bank - for cash

"In-laws" - return book, leave newspaper.

I also want to go shopping for a new wallet, check out the possibility of getting new gloves (on sale) and look at late season winter coats. The house needs to be cleaned, dishwahser unloaded, laundry started, cats' nails trimmed, and homemade bacon smoked.

By now the horse is out of the gate and my mind starts to race.

If I really wanted to go nuts I could also mention that I want to return a book I borrowed from my sister and send her that t-shirt I don't want anymore while I'm at it, stash the spare buttons from the new suit jacket, and find a place to store all of my pashminas.

Am I going to hook up with that guy who wants to buy my mom's old beer steins?

I probably should start getting my tax receipts in order too. And research plane tickets to Orlando for May, And return that Christmas gift, and look for an olive oil vessel for the counter.

I could go on. But I'm getting anxious.

So anxious that I just ate dinner for breakfast.

And I haven't even finished one cup of coffee.

Stop. How do I manage this?

Structure binds anxiety. What this means to me is that the more boundaries I create to control my life - my day - my errands - the less likely it will seem out of control. You know the feeling - like you can't relax until you've cleaned the house, or you can't get started on that paper for school until your desk is straightened up.

To manage the anxiety about "everything I have to do" I turn to Park and Shop.

This is a board game that belonged to my mother when she was a girl. My siblings and I played it when we visited Gramma, and eventually it made its way to our home. The object of the game is to run your errands downtown more quickly than anyone else. You start in your car at your house on the game board. You drive to a parking garage and then start your errands on foot. Your errands are assigned to you by the dealing of yellow errand cards labeled "Fish Market," "Laundry," or "Haberdasher." The idea is to find the most efficient walking route, grouping your errands together and avoiding "red lights" marked on the board.

My siblings and I use the phrase "park and shop" as a verb i nour adult lives.

How will I park and shop my errands.

The Post Office, gym and bank are all downtown. I could go by way of the transfer station. (Ugh, if I carry trash in my car then I need to add "car wash" to the list of errands.) I really want to get the gym over & done with. But, if I do that first I'll be sweaty and likely cold when I run my other errands. Augh! In the amount of time I've been fretting over this I could have had all of these shenanigans done.

Deep breath. This is what I'm planning to get me through the first (functional) 2.5 hours of the day.
0. Write a note to put into the book package for my sister.
1. Post office
2. Gym
3. Library - drive through book deposit
4. Bank - drive through
5. Transfer station.
When I come home I'll get the pork belly being magically transformed into bacon out of the over. Then I'll shower. Then I'll make another list to get me through the next part of the day.

Easy does it, one step at a time, park and shop.

Would you rather....

2011-01-12T14:36:00.003-05:00

...Drink apple juice, red grapefruit juice or carrot juice?

...Travel by train, bike or car?

...Vacation on a cruise, go camping or visit a new city?

...Own a dog, cat or bird?

...watch "Punk'd" or be punk'd?

...Play tennis, football or World of Warcraft?

...Drink beer, wine or bourbon?

...Have a lavish wedding, elope or live in sin?

...Remain age 23 or younger forever, remain between 24 and 39 forever or be over 40 forever?

...Go for a run, lift weights or watch "The Biggest Loser"?

...Shop at Target, Wal-Mart or K-Mart?

...Buy coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, Starbucks, or a McDonald's?

Don't look a gift horse on the Web

2011-01-09T10:32:00.004-05:00

From 7:30-8:45 or so this morning I drank coffee, ate pancakes, and read the online version of The Boston Globe.

I "liked" one story about a recent philanthropic gift made by a Boston gazillionnaire. My tweeted commentary on this story was retweeted twice. I tweeted another story from the same online version of the paper, which has led to two separate, albeit short, twitter dialogues. I emailed yet a third story to a friend.

About 15 minutes after I wrapped up the quiet online review of the Sunday paper, I was outside brushing snow off my car so I could make a run to the gym for a quick workout. A car came around the bend of my sleepy street and slowed down in front of my house. I have a 1/2 a kayak on the lawn, waiting for trash day later in the week. I thought the driving was a garbage picker. As his window came down I thought for sure the driver would ask me some questions about the storm-battered boat.

"Is this (insert my address here)?" the driver asked.
"Yes," I answered slowly and suspiciously.
"The Boston Globe would like to give you a free copy of the paper," he said, handing a waterproof package to me.
"Is this because I've been tweeting stories all morning long?" I asked, my suspicion changing to glee.
"Don't know," he replied, "but the free paper lasts until the 23rd. Congrats and enjoy."

Then he drove away.

****

Now I'm not sure there is any correlation between my high use of social networking tools this morning and the free paper.

If there is it seems like a weird incentive. If I'm a high e-user of the paper, and I get a free print copy of the paper, my e-use is likely to go down, at least for the two weeks I get the hard copy delivered to my home. Maybe a better gift would be a free link to my blog or a free copy of The Boston Globe app in the Apple store.

Nevertheless, I am delighted with my free paper. I had actually intended to buy the paper today, so I could enjoy the magazine and the puzzle. About half-way through my e-browsing I remembered this with a Homer Simpson-like "D'oh!"

Now, home from the gym and freshly showered, I'm looking forward to brewing another cup of coffee and enjoying The Boston Globe Magazine. Thank you @bostonupdate.

Awesomely ordinary

2011-01-08T15:54:00.004-05:00

I found myself close to happy tears earlier today as I wrapped up four hours of errand running.

I took a minute to consider that I might be confusing tears of sadness with the unfamiliar welling up of a joyful expression.

I didn't think so.

"Why? What happened today that would make me feel so happy?" I wondered to myself. "I had a perfectly ordinary day." This is what I did:

Got up late (9:30 AM)

Drank coffee, read the online paper

Started laundry

Cleared the hardwoods of clutter and mopped them

I returned a gift for which I had no receipt with no hassle given
Picked up a special order at the bookstore for my sweetie

Discovered an item I wanted at Crate and Barrel, while advertised, was no longer available

Returned a handful of superfluous gifts I purchased for others in exchange for things I needed (bird seed, hair products, birthday cards)

Braved the long lines at Trader Joes in exchange for $55 worth of coffee, faux meat products and frozen foods

Drank 12 ounces of carrot juice

Went on a duck buying odyssey that came up short

Picked up three books at the library

Filled the bird feeder

Emptied the recycling and took out the trash.

Boring, right?

So why so happy?

I think because my day felt like it was completely my own. I felt accomplished in my errands. I didn't let irritating traffic, shopping frustrations, or a lack of nourishing food get me down. And right now, at 4:11 PM on a gray Saturday night, I don't feel like there is anything else I HAVE to do tonight.

So what am I going to do? I've lit candles around the house and am surrounded by a peaceful glow. I'm going to pour a glass of wine soon, start preparations for an early dinner, and then settle into the couch with one of my borrowed books.

Today was perfectly, awesomely, ordinary.

Celebrity Look-Alikes

2011-01-04T22:05:00.007-05:00

Facebook memes often invite us to change our avatars to our celebrity look-alikes. I usually post a picture of Velma, the smarty-pants crime solver from "Scooby Doo."

In the last three months I've been told by colleagues that I remind them of celebrity chef Rachael Ray
,

and the smarty-pants crime fighter Garcia on the TV show "Criminal Minds."

I feel glad to (a) have celebrity avatar options, and (b) remind people of sassy smart gals.

How about you? Who is your celebrity avatar? Why?

10 things you might not know about me

2011-01-03T08:39:00.007-05:00

The blogosphere is rife with lists of resolutions, non-resolutions, 2010 "best of" and 2011 "trends to watch out for" lists. I love lists, but don't want to be derivative. So...here is my list...of 10 things you might not know about me. I invite you to share your list in the comment section.

1. Like Filmmaker Ken Burns I love the National Park Service and have visited eleven national parks including the remote Dry Tortugas (FL), and Guadalupe Mountain and Big Bend (TX).
2. I was hit by a truck while riding my bike to work in October 2001 and literally saw my life flash before my eyes.
3. I lived in a commune for two years.
4. I will always consider myself bulimic, having lived with this disorder from 1986-1995.
5. Since I started working at age 11, I have held more than 30 different jobs yet I have never worked in a restaurant.
6. I published several academic articles on reform in medical education.
7. I am trained as a liberal sexuality educator using the Our Whole Lives Program created by the Unitarian Universalist Association. If I could make a viable living teaching I would.
8. In spite of this training and experience, I consistently find myself challenged by transgender men and women. The good news is I know it and am able to learn through these challenges.
9. I have two regrets in my life: not accepting my placement with the Peace Corps in 1992 and not going to public college for my undergraduate degree.
10. I am actively afraid of worms, snakes, and any creature that moves on land without benefit of legs.

What are 10 things I might not know about you?

Birds at my feeder

2010-12-23T17:36:00.004-05:00

I am mostly ignorant about the creatures who partake of the nearly 2 pounds of feather-friendly kibbles and bits I put in my bird feeder every three days. Someday I'll start researching who is visiting the feeder hanging off the porch.

The birds at my feeder today - at least the ones I could identify - included:

Chickadees

Sparrows

Female cardinal

Male blue jay

Female turkeys.

Yup, in addition to feeding nearly a pound of seeds to neighborhood birds and squirrels every day I am apparently also feeding turkeys.

I suppose it is only fair, in a Karmic kind of way, as I have a toasted turkey sandwich every morning for breakfast.

Dr. Goldman, You're Fired!

2010-09-29T19:45:00.004-05:00

Dr Goldman, my all-in-one primary care doctor of the last nine years, is fired. Here is the list of infractions over the last three months:
1. Flagging low blood sugar during my recent well check
2. Flagging high cholesterol during my recent well check
3. Telling me I am healthy as is and don't need to lose weight (I LOVE her for that, but it is bad advice)
4. Insisting I come in for an office visit for what I was pretty sure was a cold by telling me I might have pneumonia
Having an auto referral system that prevented a local urgent care clinic from getting a live time referral and therefore prevented me from getting what ended up being a strep-free throat culture closer to home.

This is not a story of customer service outrage, but rather a reflection on the messed up state of health care services in America. It took me 5.25 hours, a 1/4 tank of gas, and either visits to or communication with five separate medical practices to get a throat culture today. Let's review:
Step One: At 10:30 this morning, concerned about my fever seeming unabated I called my primary care doctor, who insisted I come in to the office for a throat culture.
Step Two: At 12:22 PM BMG checks in while on his lunch hour to see how I am doing. Hearing that I didn't feel well enough to make the 2-hour round trip drive, he suggests I might be able to get a throat culture closer to home.
Step Three: At 12:37 PM I call my primary care provider only to learn the entire office is shut down for an hour while they take lunch.
Step Four: At 1:06 PM, I call my primary care provider to ask if I can get a throat culture closer to home, like, for example, at the urgent care center at South Shore Hospital. They say, "Sure, you can do that."
Step Five: I hop into the car and drive to South Shore Hospital. Arriving at approximately 1:45 PM, I park, head to the concierge and ask for directions to the urgent care clinic. That's when I'm told they South Shore Hospital doesn't have an urgent care center. "I'm told they are concerned about competition with CVS," says the nice man at the hospital concierge desk.
Step Six: At 1:56 PM I call BMG who helps me find another medical practice in the area with "Urgent Care" in the practice name.
Step Seven: At 1:59 PM I call the new practice only to learn they don't provide urgent care services to anyone other than their patients. They give me the name of ANOTHER nearby medical practice.
Step Eight: At 2:02 PM I call what is now the fourth doctor's office I've talked with today, explain my need. They say "Sure you can come in."
Step Nine: At 2:22 I arrive at the fourth practice. It is sketchy inside, but I'm desperate. I explain my situation and they ask me if I'm in the market for a new doctor. I look at them and say, "I'd like to take care of my immediate need for a throat culture before I answer that question." The receptionist insists they can't see me without a referral from my doctor. I give them my doctor's phone number. They call and claim the phone just "rings and rings."
Step Ten: At 2:26 I call my primary care provider from my cell phone, and go through the voice activated referral line and submit a referral request. I hang up and tell the sketchy practice the referral has been requested. They say they won't see me if they can't talk to my doctor's office directly. My doctor's office won't talk with them directly and apparently the sketchy practice can't make a phone call.
Step Eleven: At 2:29 PM I leave in a sweaty huff and call BMG and tell him I'm giving up.
Step Twelve: Concerned about my apparent lack of concern for my health he (a) tells me again my doctor sucks and I need a new one, and (b) realizing that isn't helpful in the moment (after I scream, "That doesn't help me right now"), he finds a CVS 1-Minute Clinic a short 8 miles from home.
Step Thirteen: I drive back towards home to the CVS clinic. The medical provider administers a rapid strep test, affirms I don't have strep, and sends me home at 3:15 PM with an order to drink fluids and get plenty of rest.

Aughhh!

What if I didn't have a car? Or a cell phone? Or someone who could help me with web research during my muddled state? What if I were toting kids around with me on this stupid odyssey?

It is no wonder to me that America's health status relative to the cost per capita spent on health services is lowest among industrialized, shoot, even developing, nations. If I was more than a little sick, had kids, or was using public transportation I would have stopped at Step Five and gone directly to the emergency room. As it was I had resources, including a degree in public health, that led me to make the choices I made today (for better or for worse).

And it is with these resources that I'm going to find a new all-in-one primary care provider who can see me with minimal travel hassles the next time I'm too sick to drive to work.

Homeless cats

2010-09-19T07:00:00.004-05:00

As I was waking up this morning I had a dream about taking Brisket, one of my kittens, for a walk to visit one of his cat friends. Brisket was curled up all cozy and warm in a cardboard box I was carrying.

I had seen Brisket and his friend cat hanging out on this busy street corner before and, like a good cat mama, wanted to meet the cat and make sure the two were safe as they played. This is why I was escorting Brisket there.

As we rounded the corner I realized that Brisket's friend cat had a sibling and two owners. They were all on the corner together, and they were all obviously homeless. The cat parents were an elderly couple, wearing coat upon coat upon coat, each with a different pattern of tears in them. They were pale white with stringy white hair, his hanging out from underneath a black beret, hers from underneath a kerchief. The homeless wife stood in front of the homeless husband, his arms at her side, with tens of ragged bags at their feet. She held a cat while Brisket's cat friend sat nestled atop a suitcase. Both the homeless wife and the homeless husband stared straight ahead, neither person talking.

In my dream I stopped short and wondered, "What next?" If I continued with the kitty play date I would naturally have to introduce myself to them. And, while our pets played I'd need to talk with them, and I knew there was no way I could avoid learning more about their circumstances, and then I'd naturally need to dedicate myself to helping them.

****

It was at this moment of wild panic and conjecture that I woke up. Brisket was resting on my pillow. I was safe, in my home, in my warm bed. I moved Brisket to my chest, absentmindedly stroked his back, and reflected on the dream.

*****

Homelessness is one of the issues that cuts to the core of my heart. Everyone should have a home where they feel safe and comfortable - where they can escape from the perils of their world. This, I believe, is a basic human need. When I hear of children who are homeless my heart breaks.

Given the depth of my empathy for individuals struggling with homelessness, I know I cannot have a career doing this work. This is why I give money and time to homeless causes. I give money to organizations that are relieving immediate suffering by providing food, clothing, and shelter. I give money to organizations that are creating points of normalcy for homeless children and families. And I give money to organizations that strive to prevent homelessness or to create long term solutions to the problem in US society.

One of these organizations is the Somerville Homeless Coalition. They recently had an anonymous donor give them a $20,000 challenge grant. For every dollar I give the donor gives $1, up to $20K. This can go a long way to helping building permanent housing for homeless families in Somerville and surrounding communities.

If ending homelessness, or being part of a challenge, strikes a chord with you, then I invite you to give to the Somerville Homeless Coalition during this $20K challenge grant period.

If homelessness isn't your issue, no harm, no foul. Take a moment to think about the last time you gave time or money to a cause that made your heart go pitter pat. Share your cause in the comments section below, and consider making a gift this week.

If I were just a stump would you feed me Doritos?

2010-09-17T18:42:00.004-05:00

I haven't yet documented my DNR, but I'm clear that I don't value life (or fear death?) enough to crave extraordinary heroic life saving heroic measures in the event (knock on wood) that something terrible happens to me. I haven't documented my DNR yet because I'm not sure where the line gets drawn.

My older sister and I were talking about this issue today vis-a-vis her decision making about heroic measures for both of her dogs who are suffering from slightly out-of-the-ordinary maladies.

Big Sister H articulated her (also undocumented) DNR beautifully when she said, "I don't want heroic measures if they will result in me breathing but with a poor quality of life."

"But how do you define 'poor quality of life'" I asked. "This is why my DNR or living will isn't yet written down. I'm now sure where to draw the line."

My sister explained that if she is in a position where she is in constant pain or severe discomfort, or she can't enjoy her life x% of the time - regardless of her mobility, she'd experience that as low quality of life.

I persisted. "What if you had no arms and no legs, but still had full capacity to 'enjoy' things. Is that quality of life?"

"Well, I don't think I'd have good quality of life if I were just a stump," she conceded. "Unless....there was always someone around to feed me Doritos, because I think that would bring me enjoyment if I were just a stump." She paused. "In fact, if they just put a big bowl of Doritos near my stumpy self that I could then stick my face in to eat whenever I wanted, that would probably be a good enough quality of life."

*****

I'm still not sure what my 'quality of life' threshold is. Join the conversation. Share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Interspecies Communication

2010-09-14T20:10:00.003-05:00

I want to detail two very different interactions I had just minutes apart while on an early evening walk through my neighborhood.

The first interaction took place as I passed another walker, a man in early middle age also walking at a brisk pace:
Me: With a nod in his direction, "Hey."
Man: "I'm fine, how are you?"
Me: Puzzled, "I'm fine."
Man: "Thank you."
We both continued to walk throughout the brief interaction. Once he was clearly behind me I started shaking my head, thinking, "That might have been one of the most inauthentic conversations I've had in a long time. That man didn't hear a word I said." He was merely going through the motion of social niceties.

The second interaction was maybe three minutes later. I rounded a corner I heard a rustling in the decorative brush in a neighbor's side yard. I slowed my pace, wondering what might be making the noise.
"Is it a cat?" I wondered. "Maybe the neighborhood fox. What would I do if I ran into a fox?"

As my internal musing continued an animal burst out of the ornamental grasses. It was a skunk.

I froze.

The skunk froze, with its gorgeous tail waving slightly in the ocean breeze.

I slowly started to back away.

The skunk did the same.

When it assessed there was enough distance between us it finished scurrying across the road into the bushes of another neighbor. With the skunk out of sight I hurried past our rendezvous point and continued my walk.

As I did so I thought to myself, "I think the skunk and I understood each other better than me and that other man did. We both communicated we were scared. We both knew to back away, and we both knew the skunk needed to safely cross the street before I could continue my walk. And all without uttering a sound."

And now for an immature moment

2010-09-06T18:53:00.003-05:00

My jaw dropped a few moments ago, when I learned that BMG had never heard this popular nursery rhyme:

"Artie Farty had a party
All his friends were there.
Tutti Fruitti blew a beauty,
And they all went out for air."

Please leave a note in the comment section if you have heard this before. I want to figure out if I had the warped childhood, or if BMG is the deprived one.

The Miracle of Potlucks

2010-09-05T10:45:00.003-05:00

I grew up in a handful of church communities where potluck suppers, particularly during Lent, where de rigueur. My family would show up with casserole, a bag filled with our plates and silverware, and we'd sit down to eat. I was always intrigued by the smorgasbord on the table. How many other people brought homemade mac and cheese, I'd wonder as I scanned the table deciding what I'd want to eat. Potlucks provided an opportunity to share one of your family staples with friends, while also trying something new.

As I went through graduate school, potlucks were a strategy for hosting a dinner party without breaking the bank. Later, when I moved through my hippie phase, they were democratic social gatherings. Everyone gets to contribute, the meal was never extravagant, and there were no class barriers for we didn't know who brought the Tofurkey with all the fixings, or who brought the bag of mealey apples.

Wikipedia, for better or for worse, tells us that a potluck is a meal with no particular menu. For me, a potluck is a meal where the whims of the guest create the menu. What you eat is the amalgam of luck, desire, and individual taste. Everyone brings brownies? Awesome! Brownies for dinner. How lucky is that?

Potlucks are never planned, always a surprise.

So, for all of you people who call to ask "what can I bring?" when invited to a potluck, I offer you the Eight Commandments of Potluck Dinners:
1. Stop asking "what can I bring?" If your host or hostess wanted to tell you what to bring s/he would not have planned a potluck.
2. Take a deep breath and think about what you want to eat at the party, what meal you'd like to share or show off, and what your time, budget & energy level can handle. And then bring that.
3. Don't worry if everyone else brings the same thing you did. That's the fun of a potluck. Seriously.
4. Don't bring anything to the party that requires (a) baking, or (b) extensive preparations before it can be served. I once went to a New Year's Eve potluck where someone brought a bag of dried black eyed peas to cook. She ended spending the whole time at the stove while everyone else danced and drank. She missed most of the party and, by the time the peas were ready to eat, people were too full or had actually left the party.
5. Don't have a lot of time or a lot of cash? Who cares. Go to the grocery store, buy two Granny Smith Apples, a box of Triscuit, and an 8 oz. block of cheddar and you're done. Is that too much work? No problem. Swing by the corner store en route to the party and grab a bag of chips. You won't be the first person to do this and you won't be the last.
6. Don't bring anything that requires other ingredients. For example, if you bring margarita mix (fun!) and expect your host to have tequila, a blender and ice, you may end up bringing the loser dish of the day. The lesson here is if you bring margarita mix, also bring the tequila, the blender, and the ice.
7. Don't bring anything that requires unusual serve ware. No soup, no gallon tubs of ice cream (popsicles or Hoodsies are fine), no lobsters. Period. Expect your host/ess has plates, cups and plastic silverware and plan around that.
8. Expect that the food you bring will be served in the vessel that carried it to the party. If you want your great-aunt's silver tray back, put your name on it in a discrete place so the host/ess knows who it belongs to as s/he cleans up after the party. If you want to bring your serving vessel home with you plan accordingly.

What potluck advice would you add? Leave a note in the comment section so we can help each other develop the faith needed to believe in the miracle of potlucks.

Feeling Groovy

2010-09-04T17:53:00.003-05:00

I think I've been a little depressed lately. Not Abilify depressed, but definitely not myself.

Today things feel like they've turned around, even for for only a day. How is it different? I noticed I had energy for yard work I've neglected literally for three months. When I was 95% done with yard work I pushed myself to take another 30 minutes to get to 100% done. Then I cooked, not a gourmet meal, but a satisfying meal for myself, without worrying if it would work for BMG. I have a new book from the library that I'm excited to read and don't feel an ounce of guilt about wanting to read when then house is coated in dust and I have a satchel full of work to do.

I've been on the go for 11 hours I don't feel exhausted, sad, or listless. I haven't felt this energized at 7:00 PM in a very long time.

I'm not sure what shifted.

Maybe, because BMG is doing more chores around the house I feel less burdened at home?

Is it the cumulative effect of nearly 15 years of personal introspection settling into my soul?

Maybe it is the long weekend with nothing I HAVE to do? (That's not it, I rarely have anything I HAVE to do. So much of the "HAVE to" is created in my own mind.)

I listened to a snippet of a moving story featuring Holocaust survivors' memories on NPR while running errands today. Could that be it? Or maybe the stirring cry I had while finishing "The Hour I First Believed" by Wally Lamb?

I am in the midst of a brief reconnection with a dear friend and spiritual touchstone and saw my best friend from childhood last weekend too, which is causing me to look inside of myself and the person I have been, or people have believed me to be causing the shift?

No idea why, but I know it feels good.

Zukanscrewups:

2010-08-15T15:43:00.005-05:00

(or, when life hands you zucchini latkes gone horribly wrong, you make zucchini-ade.)

Finding new and delicious things to do with zucchini has been my mission this summer, a mission made possible by a freakishly productive zucchini plant in the otherwise anemic garden.

On Thursday night I made up a zucchini latke recipe that failed horribly, resulting in massive piles of egg and matzo meal-soaked zucchini strands coating my non-stick griddle. Dejected I scraped the mess up, dumped it into a 1 quart clean wonton soup container, stuffed it into the fridge, and forgot about it.

On Saturday morning I picked two more gigantic zucchini from the garden (along with 3 cups of grape tomatoes, two cucumbers, one "nice first try" head of cauliflower, and one red pepper) and set them all in the dish drainer as I contemplated their fateful trip into my stomach.

This is where the deliciousness comes in.

I find a recipe in my risotto cookbook for zucchini stuffed with risotto topped with handmade tomato sauce. Interesting. So I start. First, I blanch the largest zucchini and set it aside. Then, I get distracted by efforts to make a raspberry/peach pie with handmade whole wheat crust. I get the pie into the oven after struggling with the recipe-free crust and remember I now have to make tomato sauce followed by risotto followed by a period of baking in the oven. Ugh.

I persevere. I chop the grape tomatoes (a fine substitution for the required plum tomatoes). While chopping I'm crisping 1/4 pound of pancetta I bought earlier in the day. I pull the pancetta out of the cast iron dutch oven given to me by Sitboaf and prepare to drop in the tomatoes when I remember I love the smell of onions cooking in pork fat. So I quickly mince 1/8th of an onion and toss it in the pan. Then I remember I harvested a bulb of garlic from the garden this morning and I quickly tear it apart, peeling the tiny tiny cloves. While I'm deconstructing the garlic the onions become soft. Good timing! I press the garlic into the pan of aromatic onion, I scrape the chopped tomatoes from the cutting board into the pan, and enjoy the smell of the sizzle. I'm psyched I'm almost done with this recipe, because I've been cooking for nearly two hours.

Then I remember I still have to make the rice. Ugh. That will add 30 more minutes to this cooking trip. I don't want to cook for another 30 minutes.

And this is where the inspiration hit.

I thought to myself, "I don't need to make rice. I have that shredded zucchini in the fridge." So I pull it out to bring it to room temperature (which is hot, because the oven has been on for two hours. I hollow out the blanched zucchini while the tomatoes continue to soften. When the tomatoes are nearly deconstructed I dumped in the zucchini formerly known as latkes, mix it together and taste. Oh, so delicious! It was hard not to gobble the entire pan.

Restraining myself, because I know I'll be pissed if I eat all of the stuffing without ever putting it into the zucchini, I toss the tasting spoon into the dishwasher, and pull out a new spoon. I then stuff the four hollowed zucchini, cover them with Parmesan cheese, and toss them in the oven for 20 minutes.

That will be dinner for the next two nights at The Tiny Bungalow. Psych!

Gas Station Gratitude

2010-08-13T06:37:00.003-05:00

Yesterday morning, at 6:10 AM, I sidled up to the pumps at a local full-serve gas station - filling the tank with gas before starting the 18 mile commute to the office. On the passenger seat next to me was an open purse overflowing with receipts, my half-eaten breakfast (turkey on wheat toast), and coffee soaked napkins from the drippy Venti Bold coffee I had just purchased at Starbucks. The stop for gas presented time to create a little order out of the chaos beside me.

As I saw the pump guy leave the booth and head towards my car, I hit "down" on my window and flipped the gas tank open. As he arrived I turned my head and called out, "Can you please fill her up with the least expensive unleaded?" Suddenly, there was a smiling brown face in my field of vision, and the pump guy looked at me and said, "Good morning!" I was startled, and realized that I was interacting with this man as if he were a machine designed to pump gas, rather than a human being providing me with a service. I stopped my front seat multi-tasking, looked at him, and said "Good morning to you."

*****

It is good to be reminded of the dignity of the people who provide services in this world. People who work in grocery stores are making it possible for me to enjoy beautiful and life sustaining food. Post office workers make it possible for me to stay connected with the people I love, and garbage men keep our society safe from disease by hauling away our trash. I invite you to remember to acknowledge the people who provide services that make your life easier, safer and more pleasant by saying hello, or thank you, or taking the time to find out just a little more about who they are and what makes their heart go pitter pat.

PMS Cafe'

2010-08-01T08:52:00.007-05:00

This is my new restaurant, open 24 hours, seven days a week and serving an all-you can eat buffet that includes:

On the sweet side:

Chocolate bars

Chocolate ice cream

Cupcakes (all varieties)

Boston cream pie

On the salty, greasy side:

Chinese food

Cheese (all varieties)

Pepperoni pizza with extra cheese

Crudite with french onion dip

Potato and/or tortilla chips (all varieties except baked)

Carnitas, hold the rice, hold the veggies, hold the beans, hold the tortillas

Movie popcorn

French fries - with cheese, gravy or ketchup

Macaroni and cheese

On the salty, greasy, sweet side:

Chocolate covered potato chips

Peanut butter by the spoonful (side order of M&Ms optional)

All special orders honored upon request.

Private booth seating for one comes with complimentary headsets with affirmations that repeat, "Yes dear, you're right dear," "No, those shorts don't make you look fat," and "I didn't even notice that blemish on your cheek;" televisions exclusively tuned to Lifetime for Women, Wedding Central, Discovery Health, and the Oxygen Network (coming soon - the Oprah Network!); and collectors' editions of OK, Star, and US magazines featuring movie stars with the worst bikini bodies and botched plastic surgery procedures.

Forget the mint! All checks delivered with a complimentary pair of ibuprofen and your choice of diuretic.

Smells of Summer

2010-08-01T08:52:00.003-05:00

Some of my favorite summer smells include:

Fresh basil in the refrigerator

Tomato plants

Newly mown grass

The beach at low tide

Sea spray

Baking ice cream cones

Hot asphalt

Freshly sliced limes.

Every one of these smells evoke a memory of a favorite summer activity or a feeling of decadence and relaxation. What are your favorite summer smells? Why?

Getting Older Part One: No longer sweating the small stuff

2010-08-01T08:28:00.005-05:00

As I get older I'm finding things that once aggravated me to the point of being incensed no longer have the same head spinning effect on me. Things like:

Inappropriate use of apostrophes

Professional correspondence with obvious spelling errors

Grammatical errors in general (printed or spoken)

People playing loud music in cars with the windows rolled down

Disruptive teenagers in public spaces

People who wonder why other people don't do things exactly like they do

Heavyset people wearing horizontal stripes

Designers and manufacturers who produce clothing for heavyset people with horizontal stripes

Panty lines, whale tails, or colored/printed underpants with see through pants or skirts.

My boss often says, "If people knew better, they'd do better." I've come to believe this. People and institutions don't do the things above to aggravate me, and make the world intentionally ugly and unhappy.

To be fair, there ARE things that continue to inspire irrational responses from me, like:

Dog poo left in public spaces

People who are rude to retail and restaurant employees

Screaming children left unsoothed in public spaces.

You COULD say I was once a very uptight person who let minor issues take over her life. I would counter by saying I once had expectations that the world could be a harmonious and beautiful place. What I know now is that the world will never be perfect.

What is even better is knowing that I no longer "need" it be perfect in order to feel safe and at peace in my day-to-day life. Expecting, needing something to happen that is impossible is only a set-up for failure - mine and those of the people around me.

Ah, it is good to grow older.

Starving cats in China

2010-07-25T15:54:00.003-05:00

I just reflexively said to the cat, who looked at me plaintively from her perch next to an uneaten bowl of chicken flakes in gravy, "If you you don't like what you are having for dinner you can make yourself peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

I'd pay to see my cat making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Cynalytic

2010-07-25T14:37:00.003-05:00

Are you one of those Facebook quiz junkies? I am. My Facebook profile is littered with the "answers" to questions like: "Who were you in a past life?" "What 80's television show are you," "What color are you," and "In what soap opera would your relationship star?" I also know my Myers Brigg type and my enneagram type, just to be on the safe side. I know my sun sign, moon sign and ascendant sign.

I am relentless in my pursuit of silly, unimportant, self-knowledge.

This fascination with all things quizzes has been aided and abetted by Facebook, but certainly didn't start there. I'm not a Cosmo girl, but I DID take the Cosmo quizzes. Does anyone else remember the game played by little girls wherein you draw a square and pick four types of houses and write them on one side of the square, four numbers that are written on another side of the square, four boys' names, and four cities? Add a spiral drawn in the middle and a complex counting system and voila! Future predicted? Yeah, I played that game. A lot.

Which is why, when my friend Alicia Staley posted a Facebook link to the "I Write Like" writing style analytic website, I sat down, cut and pasted a blog entry into the machine, and was compared to Margaret Atwood with one keystroke. In two more keystrokes I had revealed yet another nuance of my personality on Twitter and Facebook.

I KNOW human beings like you and me, bored at home, are making up Facebook quizzes. I know that I fall nearly in the middle of nearly every personality test I've ever taken, and I'm cynical that one analytic of one blog post can definitively say my writing style is like that of any other author, poet or journalist.

It is this cynicism about self-reflective analytic tools that led me to create a new compound word today - cynalytic. It is an adjective meaning cynical about the pursuit of personal understanding and improvement through the use of quizzes on Facebook, in Cosmopolitan magazine, or other places in print and on the Internet. Pronounced 'sin-a-lit-ick' you might use it like this, "I'm a little cynalytic about my results in the latest New Yorker magazine quiz. Did you take it, the one that allegedly determines the perfect New York home for you? My results show my ideal Manhattan home would be in Ossining."

I've made up lots of words before, only to find someone else has invented them before me. This new one, cynalytic, is nowhere to be found on the Internet. While it may not ever make the top ten list of made up words, I think it is going to catch on.

Compromise at home (or, What would you do differently if your sweetie were away on a trip?)

2010-07-25T07:17:00.008-05:00

BMG started a two-week assignment in New Orleans yesterday. I spent most of the day at home, reveling in my temporary bachelorette-dom. Reflecting on my Saturday, while waking up on Sunday morning, I realized there are a host of small things I would do differently if I lived alone. These include:

Turning the air conditioners to "fan" at night; turning the air conditioners to "fan" when I'm not home for long stretches (I'm not psyched to see our electric bill for the last month.)

Making the the bed immediately after getting up (My motto? "Working hard to keep cat hair and litter out of the sheets.")

Turning off the bathroom light, unless I'm in there.

Lighting candles at night, and leaving them lit until I go to bed.

Forgetting to shut the fridge door and the dishwasher for longish periods of time (Okay, maybe I do this when BMG is here, but with no one around facetiously and lovingly calling me "The Closer" I have to notice it now.)

Preparing fewer meals with meat and carbs

Throwing more food away that I think may trigger a mini binge ("Olive oil chips, you were delicious in Canada, now you are being thrown away.")

Doing situps and stretches in the middle of the living room at totally random times.

Looking out over the living room in The Tiny Bungalow I'm also aware that I apparently leave abandoned shoes and mail all over the place (I guess I'm a little obsessed with tidiness when there are two of us in the 925 square foot house. One person's clutter is okay. Two people's clutter is too much.)

We all compromise at home. If you didn't have to - if your sweetheart and/or your kids were away on a two-week trip - what do you do differently - consciously or unconsciously? And for those of you single folks who don't live with a partner, what do you think you'd have a hard time compromising in the event you do move in with someone?

The Great Pumpkin Part 5: Gay pumpkins and droughts

2010-07-22T14:25:00.005-05:00

My giant pumpkins were all gay (not that there is anything wrong with that). And a drought has killed them all. While I grew better, stronger pumpkins than I did the previous year, I now have only three yellowed plants with anemic squash flowers on them to show for my Giant Pumpkin Experiment.

It was obvious to me on Independence Day that there would be no giant pumpkins at The Tiny Bungalow when I had no fruit starting to mature on the vine. The book said that I should have one fruit that I was starting to bet on by this time. Scurrying, I did some background reading on hand pollination and realized, to my dismay, that I had no female flowers on any of the six plants stretched out across the backyard. The male flowers were crawling with bugs, confirming that the lack of a tiny giant pumpkin on any of the vines was not a problem of insect inactivity. So I began checking obsessively and daily at dawn and dusk - when the shy female flowers are more likely to be open - in the hopes that a female flower would emerge that the bugs would fertilize once, and I would follow up with the double fertilization by hand.

But nothing. I began to think that my pumpkins were gay.

Then our swank suburb by the ocean entered into a state of water emergency, restricting to the use of hand operated sprinklers (or hoses in everyday parlance) every other day. Irrationally I began to worry that the reason the pumpkins were producing no female flowers was because they didn't have enough water and this was going to cement the fact that I'd be carving watermelons at Halloween instead of a carriage sized pumpkin. In my mind I had made my pumpkins gay by withholding water from them.

Now, home from vacation, three weeks after the initial realization that there would be no giant pumpkins this year, I have given up hope for the three shriveled up plant mounds. My pumpkins, in defiance of the word of God, have literally not been fruitful, nor have they multiplied. They have remained a joyful handful of male flowers on increasingly yellowed pumpkin vines.

I am now putting all of my pumpkin eggs into the watermelon basket. This morning I fertilized the watermelon vines, which proudly boast at least eight of the tiniest and most perfect miniature melons I have ever seen. I hope to have watermelon to give away to my family and friends by the end of August. And one I will keep to carve as a jack-o-lantern for Halloween.

Over the winter I'll read more about giant pumpkins and try to figure out how to make year #3 even better than years #2 and #1. I will not give up until I have a giant pumpkin to call my own.

*****

In other garden news, I've discovered, in this year of gardening at The Tiny Bungalow, that one side of the garden gets TONS of sun. The plants growing there are going bananas - I have cherry tomatoes entwined with zucchini which have locked leaves with peppers, cucumbers and cauliflower. I am practically drowning in zucchini, and the cherry tomatoes will need to be picked daily to keep up with their gorgeous, jewel like selves. On another side of the garden the zucchini plants from the same six-pack are tiny and have yet to produce one dark green, squashy bat.

In the spirit of learning I know (a)where to put tomatoes versus brussel sprouts and cauliflower, (b) I need to find better strategies for fencing off the garden from rabbits but NOT from me, and (c) my charge for the Winter is to find organic ways to keep the invisible bugs from eating all of my cabbage-like plants. I also need to make more space for the sun loving veggies and to give each plant wide enough berth to do their enormous veggie-making thang.

I'll be solo for the next two weeks, while BMG is in New Orleans on assignment. This means lots of vegetables will be cooked and enjoyed for lunch and dinner. Give a holler if you want to visit for a garden fresh meal.

So this is what an anxiety dream looks like in my 40s

2010-07-06T04:32:00.005-05:00

I had an anxiety dream last night in which I was literally running to make it to my advanced colonoscopy procedure on time. What made me late? Stopping to pick up meat - pork ribs and sausage, taking a detour through the pet shop to look at the snakes and turtles for sale, getting lost in a medical office building, misunderstanding subway routes, and arguing with a cab driver. Realizing I wasn't going to get to the hospital (a) on time, or (b) using public or other transportation, I started to run. The city blocks were huge and unfamiliar, and the more I ran the more I realized I was much farther away from where I wanted to be than I thought I was. My anxiety in the dream increased exponentially with every block I ran and every roadblock I encountered. This was exacerbated by my own dream knowledge that I hadn't read the pre-op instructions that told me what time to show up, what I was - or wasn't - supposed to eat in the 24 hours before the procedure, and how long I was going to be in the hospital. In my dream I don't remember how or when I finally arrived, but do remember the doctor looking at my test results and telling me everything was beautiful.

*****

Climbing up or down something is the usual tell-tale indicator of an anxiety dream for me - I need to go up a rickety ladder to reach a decrepit solarium roof, I'm scaling down the side of a wet lighthouse to get to my boat to sail away from danger, etc. I'm amused at the idea that my first anxiety dream in my 40s involves a colonoscopy. I guess Dr. Freud would say it was a dream about handling my own shit, ja?

Patriotic Thaw

2010-07-04T07:00:00.006-05:00

Create your own country? Who thinks they can create their own country? I don't have the kind of hubris or creativity that would let me consider seriously the idea of throwing in the towel in my native land and just starting my own republic.

This Independence Day I've been thinking much more gratefully about the events that led the European settlers to travel across an ocean to begin the process of starting the nation that is, for better or worse, my home country.

Like a good progressive Democrat, with a dash of hippie thrown in, I've spent much of my adulthood feeling more ashamed than proud of being an American. What contributes to this shame? The perception that we're the bullies on the international playground, we consume more than our share of the world's resources, we are xenophobes who don't respect differences among people, and we hoard more wealth than people of other nationalities. This ethos of shame has only been cemented by experiences like the time, during the presidency of the second Mr. Bush, a cranky European yelled at me for being a loud American while I was traveling on a French train.

I've been surprised, in the lead up to this Independence Day weekend, by feelings of patriotism popping up at unexpected times. Observing homeless vets begging for spare change from passers-by in downtown Boston, cruising past Adams National Park in nearby Quincy, MA on my to and from work, looking at the rather unimpressive Plymouth Rock on a weekend excursion, watching fireworks while mindlessly humming the lyrics to the "Star Spangled Banner," and stopping to watch local firemen hang a large American flag across an intersection the night before the big parade. In these and other activities what I'm feeling is a sense of timeless and single-minded hopefulness, expansive possibility, and chutzpah. The strength of character or depth of pain one needs to feel to travel by ship across an ocean, or by wagon across a prairie, to settle a new land inspires me. I yearn for the intellectual excitement and repartee of writing a brand new national constitution, one that could become the model for many young republics follow. I want to create something brand new that makes a positive difference in my life, and the lives of the people who come after me.

I am certain this patriotism is partly inspired by the work of President Barack Obama. I'm not a Pollyanna however, I work for a local government and I know firsthand our system of government has flaws. That's because our nation, like all nations, is run by human beings. I'm sure the Iroquois chieftains fought amongst themselves, and Mayan peoples engaged in nation building and underhanded political acts for their personal benefit. (Europeans wiped out many native peoples as the Americas were colonized, which is crappy. But said native peoples weren't any better than we are.)

What I do know, this July 4, 2010, is that the values and experiences - the hope, the possibility, the hardship - that have shaped this nation have different meaning to me today. When I look at our flag, with its 50 stars and 13 red and white stripes, I feel an appreciation for the chutzpah it takes to declare independence from a nation or set of ideals, and for the on-going struggle to sustain and adapt these new ideals in an evolving culture. With my eyes wide open to the realities of our nation's flaws and strengths, today I feel proud to be an American.

A blessing for one who is exhausted

2010-06-15T06:33:00.004-05:00

This is not my work, but that of John O'Donohue. I read it on the InnerNet Weekly email I get through Charityfocus.net.

"A blessing for one who is exhausted" by John O'Donohue

When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
Then all the unattended stress falls in
On the mind like an endless, increasing weight,

The light in the mind becomes dim.
Things you could take in your stride before
Now become laborsome events of will.

Weariness invades your spirit.
Gravity begins falling inside you,
Dragging down every bone.

The ride you never valued has gone out.
And you are marooned on unsure ground.
Something within you has closed down;
And you cannot push yourself back to life.

You have been forced to enter empty time.
The desire that drove you has relinquished.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
And patiently learn to receive the self
You have forsaken for the race of days.

At first your thinking will darken
And sadness take over like listless weather.
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.

Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.

Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.

Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.

Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until its calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself.

Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
Learn to linger around someone of ease
Who feels they have all the time in the world.

Gradually, you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells far within slow time.

--John O'Donohue, from "To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings"

Grocery shopping like my daddy did

2010-06-13T12:35:00.005-05:00

My mom, in my experience, places high value on efficiency - in shopping, planning and home making. She has literally hundreds of bars of bath soap stored on the stairs to her attic - all different brands based on what has been on sale, and all faithfully unwrapped - exposing the soap to the air which allegedly hardens it and makes it last longer. Buying up lots of soap when it is on sale and storing it in such a way to maximize the longevity of the soap would earn high marks in her book. Daily shopping, in my mother's opinion, wastes time, wastes gas, and wastes money by not maximizing sales and succumbing to impulse.

I have memories of my mom disparaging my dad, from whom she was separated and then divorced very early in my childhood, because he appeared to go to the grocery store every day as part of his household management strategy. He apparently was not organized enough to know his 5 mostly estranged kids would be visiting on the weekend and therefore he'd need to buy Cheerios and milk for our breakfast. He couldn't do advance menu planning to determine that when we'd visit we'd eat hot dogs with mac and cheese on Friday night and meatloaf with instant mashed potatoes and frozen peas on Saturday night.

I write this as I prepare to head to the grocery store for the second time today - this time to buy ingredients for dinner tonight. I went earlier to run a favor for a friend. I, in fact, was not organized enough to know what I would want to cook for dinner at 8:30 this morning, when I was off to buy newborn-sized diapers and People magazine to give to GPA, who had her first daughter on Friday (congrats). So now I plan what is, in fact, my third trip to the grocery store in less than 24 hours.

I'm okay with this. I love the grocery store. When I'm feeling uncentered I know that visiting a beautiful grocery store perks me up again. I love visiting markets in foreign countries, to experience grocery shopping as a cultural exchange. I'm also at peace with being a little unorganized. I have the resources to buy what I want to buy - which is usually the store brand which is cheaper than the brand brand even if it is on sale. I'd rather carry three bags into the house once a day that carry 10 bags into the house once a week. I believe it is reasonable to want - even need - to compartmentalize my life in order to manage it (e.g. separating the gift shopping trip from the food shopping trip). I like being whimsical and instinctive in my meal planning. The daily shopping has a European flair to it, where I am driven by what looks or sounds good to me on any given day - rather than having to make do with what I have in the fridge. Today is a chilly, cloudy spring day and I'm inspired to roast a chicken. The trip to the market is to buy fresh poultry and the ingredients I need to complete the recipe from my cookbook.

I have no idea why my dad shopped daily. I know that I do and, it often reminds me of one small way in which I am more like my daddy than I am like my mom.

Fist for punching

2010-06-10T19:35:00.005-05:00

"The Office: Scott's Tots (#6.11)" (2009)
Dwight Schrute: In an ideal world I would have all ten fingers on my left hand so my right hand could just be a fist for punching.

*****

I've experienced work as very stressful lately. During supervision with my boss, a fantastic boss, today he commented on how fried everyone in the office is.

In my traditionally female, empathic way, I said, "Yeah, I'm so exhausted that I've been on the verge of tears for about a week."

My traditionally male boss stopped, turned, narrowed his eyes, and looked closely at me. "Don't cry. If you cry my respect for you will go down by a significant percent."

"What about punching? Is punching allowed?"

"Yes, punching is allowed."

A recipe for my favorite 12-minute dinner

2010-05-28T17:43:00.004-05:00

1/4 sliced onion in rings
3.5 oz. Gimmee Lean Sausage style (1/4 package)
1 garlic clove, peeled and pressed/diced
1 4 oz can tomato sauce
Capers
Fresh ground pepper (black or red)
Goat cheese

1/4 pound uncooked pasta

Put on a pot of water to boil the pasta in.

While you wait for it to boil:

Saute onion slices in hot olive oil until soft
Add Gimmee Lean and garlic
Cook until faux sausage is crispyish
(Optional - add sliced or chopped mushrooms to the saute)
Add tomato sauce, capers to taste, fresh ground pepper and enough goat cheese to make creamy

In the meantime, cook pasta. Add frozen peas to pasta if you want to make a (nearly) one pot meal.

When pasta (and peas?) is done, drain and toss with the tomato/faux sausage/goat cheese mixture.

Eat.

The whole meal takes about 12 minutes from start to end. Seriously.

*****

I adapted this recipe from one called "Penne with Woodsman's Sauce," which was a fav of a former friend now affectionately called "Bad Steve." This was a friend who contributed to my, at the time, low self-esteem. I harbored ill feelings towards Bad Steve for a long time. I'm over it now. And I'm psyched to have this awesome, meat-free, healthy, hearty and filling pasta dish as evidence of the friendship.

The Great Pumpkin Part 4: Co-opting the neighbors

2010-05-23T18:21:00.010-05:00

"Hey guys! I need a favor. Do you want to hear more?"

The two Dennis the Menace clones who live next door, stop pulling beach gear out of the family minivan and looked at me. Their dad turns inquiringly.

"Did you notice we plowed a big strip of land in the backyard?" I ask.

"Uh huh."

"Can you guess what we're trying to grow there?" I continue.

"Flowers?" says the younger of the two uncertainly.

"Nope."

"Corn on the cob?" says the older one, the ring leader of the duo.

"Good guess, but that's not right either. You'll never guess, so let me tell you. Giant pumpkins!" Both kids leaned in with interest. "Yup, we're trying to grow pumpkins that might be as big as 400 pounds! Regular pumpkins are only maybe 15 or 20 pounds." I mimed lifting a big pumpkin. And then mimed trying to lift an even bigger pumpkin. "I need some help."

"What kind of help?"

"Well, I'm in charge of keeping rabbits and other animals away from the plants. And I wonder if you could help me keep kids in the neighborhood away from the pumpkins. Can you help me keep *other* kids from running on the plants and throwing balls on the plants?" (Here's the secret - these are the very same kids I'm worried will trample the pumpkins. I need them on my side to keep the plants safe.)

"Do you need us to keep birds away too? They can hurt plants."

"Good point. I'll be in charge of birds and rabbits. I really need your help keeping kids out of the garden. If you help I'll let you help carve a 400-pound jack-o-lantern," I say temptingly.

Dad, who encourages rambunctious behavior by organizing the boys "play" hunt neighborhood cottontails in the backyard, chimes in, "Well guys, that seems like a pretty good deal. Are you in?"

The older brother, with the poorly cut blond bowl cut says, "Yes!," while the younger brother opens his mouth to say more. He then simply nods, closes his mouth, and turns away.

The kids are hellions. I've had visions of them digging up the garden, playing soccer with the tender fruit, using their play machetes to tear apart the 3,000 square feet of vines, and building a fort in the giant squash should it mature to be big enough to play in.

I'll keep you posted on the saga of the neighborhood brats and the Great Pumpkin.

The Great Pumpkin Part 3: In the ground

2010-05-23T17:54:00.006-05:00

I planted nine giant pumpkin plants last weekend. It may have been too soon to put them outside without a protective shelter, but I was afraid the tiny root balls were rotting. Why you ask?

About three weeks earlier I had repotted the seedlings into a larger pot temporarily because I was concerned the baby pumpkin plants had leached all of the nutrients from their seedling pots. And the larger pot, stolen from a gorgeous and coincidentally orange begonia, had bad drainage and the pumpkins were swimming in a slurry of enriched potting mix, Neptune's Harvest All-Natural Organic Fertilizer, and two weeks worth of water that hadn't been absorbed by the atmosphere of my home.

So, after working 30 quarts of cow manure into the freshly tilled soil, I transplanted the pumpkins outdoors. The plus side of the plants swimming in slurry was that they weren't root-bound. I smoothly eased each of the three clumps of pumpkins out of the pot they shared, dropped them into three freshly dug holes, and then scattered the soil slurry around the base of each freshly housed seedlings.

We've had two chilly nights, one rain storm, and several beautiful, temperate days. I've hand watered the plants twice.

I've examined the seedlings at length today. It appears as if one grouping is doing better than the other two. This group - made up of three plants - has fewer dried out leaves, more budding leaves/stalks out of the center of the plants, and was standing just a little taller.

I planted four watermelon plants nearby just to cover my bases in case none of the pumpkins survive.

#3 or "If I knew then what I know now"

2010-05-10T11:09:00.004-05:00

CAUTION: This is a scatological - and mildly humorous - blog post. If poop stories aren't your thing then feel free to stop reading here.

*****

I recently headed into the bathroom at my sister's house, immediately after one of her kids exited the room.

As I turned the door handle I received the following warning. "Aunt Clownface, I wouldn't go in there right away. I just did some #2 and #3."

"#3? What is #3?" I asked.

"Diarrhea. You know, #1 and #2 mixed together."

Deep breath. "Uh, diarrhea isn't #1 and #2 mixed together." Then I explained what diarrhea is.

Affronted the child responded, "THAT'S what diarrhea is? How come no one ever told me?"

*****

One of my sisters used to carry a very tiny chip on her shoulder that our mom never "taught her that she needed to rinse conditioner out of her hair." My mom claims that she didn't want to point out my sister's greasy hair (which was made so by the unrinsed hair conditioner coating it) for fear of making her feel bad about what my mom thought was an unfortunate, temporary and unavoidable aspect of puberty.

Hearing my niece complain about never having been told what diarrhea is made up of reminds me that you can never predict what your child "needs" to know in order to live a fully informed life.

Good luck parents.

Say Yes to the Dress

2010-05-09T18:44:00.011-05:00

"I am not getting a wedding dress. Instead I want a wedding bathing suit." So starts my niece, CMR, in reply to my mother who asked her if all of the women in her life could go with her to Kleinfeld's to pick out her wedding dress when she is ready to be married in 30 years or so.

To understand the genesis of this line of questioning posed to a 9-year old, one must go back in time 12 hours earlier to the Kohl's in Fayetteville, NY.

With CMR in the backseat, I was driving to my sister's house in rural NY to spend the night when I realized I had left my pajamas at my mother's house, now 15 miles away. I knew a pants-free sofa bed night with my other niece, the Divine Miss M, was unacceptable. So I told CMR we'd need to take a few minutes to stop so I could buy some pajama pants. So, at 8:47 PM we roll into the Kohl's parking lot and head in to buy a cheap pair of jammie pants.

After finding an acceptably soft pair of sleeping pants for under $15 we we were headed to the registers to check out when CMR was distracted by girlie dresses. This itself was odd. CMR is generally not a girlie girl. She makes fart noises in her armpits, wishes they dissected more things - really anything - at school, and claims she'd rather be friends with the kids everyone else calls 'nerds'. So the in-store detour from women's pajamas to party dresses for 'tweens was a surprise. I decided to roll with it (a) because there was nothing we HAD to be home for, and (b) I wanted to see what happened.

After 4 minutes of frenetic browsing she had two dresses over her shoulder - a flowy pink number with sequined flowers under the bodice, and a polyester white dress with an asymmetrical hem and lots of ruching. She turned to me and said, "Now can we try them on?"

"You want to try them on?" I replied, somewhat disbelieving. I've never known CMR to enjoy shopping for clothes, and she especially hates the trying on part.

"YES!" and she made a beeline for the dressing room. Aunt Clownface gamely followed, wondering what amazing thing would happen next.

She chattered with me like I was her best girlfriend as she slipped into the first dress. She curtsied, twirled, and primped in the mirror. But it wasn't the right dress - too big.

Next came the white dress, a polyester number with black straps and a built-in bolero jacket. The white dress transformed this tomboyish 9-year old, who entered the dressing room in faded lack yoga pants, kiddie-sized barn "muck boots," and a fleece jacket over a purple t-shirt with sequin butterflies on it.

She ogled herself in the mirror, gushed about how pretty she felt, and was inspired to play an extended air guitar set in the dress which ended with an impressive split.

She begged me to buy the dress for her.

We hadn't planned to stop at Kohl's, nor had we planned to buy a party dress. In fact, CMR has no parties on her size 8 agenda. But she loved the dress, and, more importantly, she loved herself in the dress. So we made a spit shake deal - she'd pay me half the cost ($22.40 marked down from $56) AND if her parents said "no" she'd have to return the dress.

All the way home, she said repeatedly "I hope they say yes to the dress! I hope they say yes to the dress! I hope they say yes to the dress."

We arrived home by 9:25 PM and CMR immediately asked if she could try on the dress for her parents. While she changed, under the supervision of her 6-year old sister, I explained the conditions of the spit shake to her mom and dad, and told them the story of the unexpected shopping trip.

Then, with a drum roll played out on my thighs, CMR was introduced to her parents in her fancy party dress. It was impossible to ignore her excitement, and they "said yes to the dress."

She wore the dress to mother's day brunch the next day. Everyone oohed and ahhed over CMR's fancy dress. Together, she and I relayed the story of the dress adventure to the gathered crowd. When we got to the part where CMR was praying her parents would "say yes to the dress," my mother interrupted and said, "CMR, when you get married, will you let EVERYONE come to Kleinfeld's with you to pick out your wedding dress?"

My sister smirked and said, "CMR doesn't want a wedding dress when she gets married. She has other plans. CMR, why don't you tell them your plans?"

"Well, I am not going to wear a wedding dress. I'm going to wear a wedding bathing suit."

All of the adults in the room cocked their heads quizzically.

"Go on CMR, tell them why," prodded her mother.

"Well, instead of having a wedding aisle, I'm going to have a Slip n- Slide. In my wedding bathing suit I'm going to SLIDE down the aisle, pop into my husband's arms, and then we'll kiss."

The adult heads remained cocked as my sister added, "This plan started out as a wedding via water slide."

"Yeah!" CMR continued enthusiastically. "I was going to go 'whoosh' down the water slide and at the end, in the pool, I would end up in my husband's arms and then we'd kiss and be married. My husband and I will have already built a beautiful house with an in-ground pool and that's where we'll have our party afterwards."

'nuff said.

*****

I loved hearing my niece, who has fully entered the confusing world of pre-teens, chatter on about her ideal wedding plans. I love that she has these dreams, and they are so characteristic of a nine-year old mentality. I've never had wedding dreams that I remember and listened to her with the curiosity of a loving anthropologist. I loved being a catalyst in the chain of events that triggered her plans being revealed to her family, and being part of the circle that gave her a dress that made her feel so special.

Being an aunt is great.

The perfect gift for your favorite paranoiac!

2010-05-05T09:14:00.006-05:00

Does your mother sleep with a knife under her pillow to attack bad guys who might sneak into her home while she's sleeping?

Is your brother-in-law actively preparing his family to fight back in the event of a zombie apocalypse?

Does your partner maintain a list of things to worry about online?

If so your family is JUST like mine. And that's why I recommend that you consider purchasing the Zombie Table. This solid and attractive table features a small, circular table top almost impossibly cantilevered on a center leg resting on a reflective pedestal. The Danish modern style table will add to the decor in any home. And...when bad guy, zombies and bees strike, the table can be converted in two quick moves into a solid wooden shield and a bat that you can use to defend yourself and wound your enemies.

Consider buying one to give it to your mother to use as a bedside table so she can put away the knife and immediately reduce her risk of stabbing herself in the brain by 100%!

How about buying two for your brother-in-law to put by the front and back door to his home so he is ready should zombies ring the bell before they break in?

And increase the peace at home by buying one for your partner to strap to his scooter so he is ready for whatever perils the world has in store for him.

Tables are ready to be shipped immediately. Some assembly required, and the table comes with a helpful zombie fighting training video.

Search for "zombie table" online and get yours today.

The Great Pumpkin - Episode 2 (aka more questions than answers)

2010-05-03T19:59:00.008-05:00

So I actually read, well skimmed really, the Giant Pumpkin Book. This is what I learned:

1. There is more to the exciting history of giant pumpkins that I have to learn. Things like the first giant pumpkin weighed in at like 400 pounds. The award winners are now weighing in at 1,400+ pounds. That's a lot of pumpkin.

2. Soil preparation is really important. I need to use manure and sea kelp plant food to enrich my soil.

3. Giant pumpkins can take up to 3,000 square feet of space. I cleared 180 square feet of space for the pumpkin plants. I need to plan for the pumpkins to take over the entire yard. Which still is not 3,000 square feet of space. I need to tell BMG I am taking over the backyard with pumpkins. I'll be standing in front of the mirror, practicing smiling broadly while I say: "Honey! I've got some awesome news. You don't need to mow the yard at all this summer! FTW!"

4. I have left the seedlings too long in their little seedling cups. I may be over watering my seedlings and they may not be getting enough food right now. (Last year my seedlings rotted on the vine because of the wet weather and my ignorance.) I need to work the sad 1.5 cubic feet of manure I bought into the pumpkin seedling prep areas, find and add the sea kelp food, and then plant these little sweethearts right away. But I'm going out of town this weekend and I don't want to plant them if I won't be home to check on them, and water them, and make sure the bunnies don't eat them. I'm anxious about the pumpkins and my ability as a giant pumpkin grower. One MORE reason I'm not a parent.

As this adventure evolves things I'm going to need to pay attention to include:

Fertilization of the flowers. Nature is SUPPOSED to get pollen from the stamen to the pistil, but if nature doesn't work I need to plan to fertilize by hand. Like IVF, but for pumpkins.
Trellising and burying the stalks to protect the fruit and encourage growth.
Fertilizing the fruit with more manure, more kelp and unprocessed compost (e.g. veggie trash)
Preventing the soil around my pumpkin from getting compacting by building board trails throughout the vine lands.
The pace and timing of the weight gain of my giant pumpkins. During the last 10-30 days of a giant pumpkin's growth it could gain as much as 25 pounds daily. The pumpkin should be ready by October 15th.

Things I'm now wondering about include:

Will the bunnies that eat my vegetables also try to eat the pumpkin? I know the kittens have been gnawing on the seedlings' leaves. Will bunnies like them too? What about the red foxes in the neighborhood? And the turkeys, ducks, and coyotes? What are the natural predators of giant pumpkins?
Speaking of which, how do I keep the obnoxious and violent rug rats who live next door away from the pumpkins? I may need to enlist them as partners in pumpkin care.
How am I going to get what could be an 800-pound pumpkin out of the backyard? If I can't get the pumpkin out of the yard my dream of an 800-pound jack o-lantern in the front yard may be for naught. Maybe I'll turn it into a carriage that can be rolled into the front yard? I may need to get an engineer on board with this plan.
Speaking of which, how will I gut and carve an 800-pound pumpkin? Has anyone ever done this? I'm thinking I need to begin planning the carving party sooner rather than later.

I'm going to sign off to take a Valium and practice my speech for BMG about the potential take-over of the yard by the pumpkin. More answers - and certainly more questions - later.

The Great Pumpkin - Episode 1

2010-04-18T15:28:00.007-05:00

For the first time in my adult life I have a yard big enough to grow giant pumpkins. Why? Because I want to have a giant jack-o-lantern on the front porch at Halloween.

I tried growing them last year. But my efforts were half-baked and woefully uninformed. As a result, no giant, candle-lit face adorned the stoop of the tiny bungalow.

This year things will be different.

The first thing I learned in my giant pumpkin odyssey (part 2) is that the pumpkins need a lot of space to grow. So I rototilled a 25' x 6' plot in the back yard just for the pumpkins.

Two weeks ago I started giant pumpkin seeds indoors and had 19 giant pumpkin plants with their second sets of leaves baking in the dining room window. I've thinned the plants and now have only 15 plants baking in the window. It is possible I did not start them early enough. We'll see.

I have a book on order and a website bookmarked to take me through my pumpkin growing odyssey. I know I'll need to fertilize my soil and my plants nearly constantly. Am I up to the meticulous challenge? Do I want a 500 pound jack-o-lantern so badly?

I'll keep you posted here on my blog.

Where does my time go?

2010-04-17T17:20:00.004-05:00

I spend an average of 8 hours a night sleeping.

My work schedule is the equivalent of 7 hours a day working every day of the week.

My commuting hours are the equivalent of 1.5 hours a day, every day, driving to and from work.

That's 56 hours a week sleeping, and nearly 60 hours a week working or going to work.

That leaves 7.5 hours a day or 52.5 hours a week for cooking, grocery shopping, cleaning, playing, relaxing, gardening, running errands, parenting my cats, and having fun with Jeff.

Something isn't right here.

Tilting at Pistachios

2010-04-16T15:22:00.006-05:00

So I'm at the fancy new supermarket that opened 9 days ago, waiting at the fish counter to get a 1/2 pound of shrimp. A very well coiffed, older woman appears next to me. She is a walking stereotype of the moneyed class - you know the type with Louise Vuitton (or was it Gucci - I can't tell) purse hanging off her forearm, uberbranded sunglasses on her face (she was indoors and it was raining outside), riding jodhpurs, and very shiny gold hanging off whatever body part could accommodate the expensive hardware.

I glance at her briefly, turn back to the fish case, and then hear a small ping. I look back at the woman, see her staring at the ground, and realize she has dropped a pistachio shell. I can see it plainly, resting on the brand new floors maybe 1.5 feet from her own well clad feet. "Can she see it?" I wonder. "Well of course she can see it! It's right there!" I mentally point.

The woman looks up from the ground and begins staring straight ahead.

"Oh my god! She's going to leave her trash on the ground. I can't believe it. She knows she dropped it. She knows it couldn't have gone too far. What the heck?" I'm in a state of irritated disbelief.

The internal dialogue continues.

"Should I say something? Should I pick it up? Do I just leave it for the staff to find when they clean up after the store closes? If I dropped it and KNEW that I dropped it I'd pick it up. I mean, this is a BRAND new store - it isn't like we're at an outdoor market or something. Picking up your trash is respectful of the people who have to clean up after me. But she must not be respectful of the "peons" who work here, who wait on her. I mean, look at her, she is obviously accustomed to people taking care of her. Oh my god, she is such a bitch."

The rant goes on while I continue to wait.

"I really have to say something to her, to hold her accountable for her actions, to let her know people are watching and judging her behavior. I won' forgive myself if I don't say something. This is what it means to believe in something, and I believe in respect, and beauty. I cannot let this type of behavior slide without commenting. If I do what else will I be silent about. I CANNOT BELIEVE she did that!"

I turn to her and say haltingly, "Uhm excuse me, I think you dropped something." I point to the shell on the floor, "You surely weren't going to leave that there, were you?"

The woman looks at me and then to the ground. She leans over, picks up the shell, and places it in her palm, which then slowly closes around the once discarded object. All without saying a word.

Kids say the darndest things

2010-04-15T19:31:00.005-05:00

I had the privilege of reading to a group a second graders today, as part of a local celebration of "National Library Week." I was reading an interpretation of the classic Hans Christan Anderson tale The Ugly Duckling. You know the story - where a swan is accidentally born into a family of ducks. Until the swan grows up he feels ugly and unloved because he looks different.

Early on in the story I paused and asked the question "Has anyone here ever felt like they were being made fun of? Raise your hands if you have ever been made fun of in your life." My goal was to have a brief conversation about how everyone has felt like they didn't belong at some point in their life.

Of course, all of the adults, being good role models who were familiar with the lessons embedded in the story story, raised their hands. About 2/3rd of the children raised their hands too.

One of the little people sitting in the front row declared loudly, "I've never been made fun of."

"Well you are a lucky boy," I replied emphatically.

"Yeah!" he said. "Sometimes my cousin and I play this game where he hits my head like a bongo. That's a really fun game!"

I'm thinking, "Well that's apropos of nothing."

The little buddy on his right spun his head around and accusingly said, "You told me you didn't like that at all!"

I looked at Mr. Bongo Head with my eyebrows slightly raised.

"Well, sometimes I don't like it when my cousin hits me," Bongo Boy conceded.

"Yes," I said, my own head spinning, "Sometimes life is confusing."

Grocery Wars

2010-04-11T12:51:00.008-05:00

How did you pick the grocery store you shop at? I'm curious because I am currently rich in grocery stores. As of Wednesday a third supermarket opened up within 2 miles of my home here in the picturesque seaside suburb. We now have the standard big box store, a local market with fresh meat and seafood counters, and a grocery opened as a direct competitor to the Whole Paycheck eight or so miles away in the tony outdoor shopping mall.

I was raised by a fierce woman who did whatever it took to make her meager income work for her and her five kids. This meant clipping coupons and strategically planning the Saturday shopping to ensure she got the best deals for her dollars. If ground beef was $0.03/pound less expensive at Price Chopper than it was at Wegmans my mom would make the special trip to Price Chopper to get the cheaper meat. Marketing was tedious with my mom, often taking hours as we went from one store to the next snapping up the best deals, regardless of cost to one's time or psyche. Once a month or so one or more of us kids were given the task of going through mom's voluminous coupon files and weeding out the expired ones, and putting those that were just about to expire in a special file to be used right away. My mom's pantry, to this day, is filled with canned goods bought on sale because she had a coupon or the sale was too good to pass up.

Growing up relatively poor I've developed a cautious attitude towards money. However, I tend to believe coupons are a waste of time because store brands are almost always cheaper. I don't have the energy to clip, store, and sort coupons. I don't have the space to store mounds of "good deals." I zealously believe that if something is on sale once, it is likely to be on sale again when I need or want it. The net effect is that I tend to favor expedience in my grocery shopping over bargain hunting. That means I'd rather spend $1/pound more for pate' because I like the pate' at Store X and I'd rather not spend 30 minutes driving to the store with the cheaper pate' looking for parking and wasting time and gas.

Now with three grocery stores in such close proximity I find myself reconsidering my shopping attitudes. I'll always go to the big box market - deli-sliced American cheese, yogurt, bread, canned vegetables, cat food, toilet paper, and ice cream will always be cheaper at the big box store.

But what about the two boutique markets? Both are beautiful on the inside - think open market style fruit displays, aromas of fresh roasted coffee, enticing bulk food bins, and beautifully displayed prepared foods. And how do their prices compare? Well, today I went to both and compared prices for the ingredients for cheese fondue. Here is now it stacked up:

Local market - $24.13
1/2 pound of emmenthaler cheese - $8.98
1/2 pound of gruyere cheese - $6.48
1 bottle of white cooking wine - $4.49
1 loaf of French bread - $2.19
1 head of cauliflower - $1.99

Fancy new market - $26.43
1/2 pound of emmenthaler cheese - $8.98
1/2 pound of gruyere cheese - $7.48
1 bottle of white cooking wine - $3.49
1 loaf of French bread - $2.49
1 head of cauliflower - $3.99

By price alone, the local market is the winner. However, if cauliflower hadn't been on sale at the local market ($2 under both the new boutique market and the big box store), the grocery bill for the cheese fondue would have been roughly even.

So how do I decide? The new store has more varieties and sizes of bread than the local market. The new market has bourbon praline pecans in bulk, beautiful flowers, and a more robust wine, craft beer, and organic and international foods section. The new market doesn't require, like the local one does, that I pay for meat and seafood separately (and cash only please). In the local market's favor they have the best snacking prosciutto sliced to order, terrific Italian foods, are a reseller of locally produced candies, cookies and other delicacies. They also have the best salad bar on either side of the Mississippi.

(Have I mentioned that I love going to beautiful grocery stores? It is one of the things I do to relax. A trip to NYC without going to Zabars or Citarellas is beyond me. Whenever I travel grocery stores always make their way to my tourist itinerary. I routinely stop at Wegmans when visiting my family in Central New York - even before I see my mother.)

If I'm to stay true to my "keeping it simple" grocery shopping philosophy how do I pick which store to patron? Even thinking about bopping between three grocery stores to do my weekly-ish shopping gives me hives for its high maintenance implications. Do I abandon the locally owned business in favor of the new, slightly more convenient but globally owned market? Do I plan to price veggies each week online and pick whichever store has the lowest prices, and just trust that the other things I need will come out in the wash?

The values I'm balancing include value, quality, business loyalty, beauty, convenience, and adventure. Which of these do you value most highly in your marketing? In your life?

The new store has been open five days. I think I'm going to wait to decide until the low prices intended to hook consumers go up as I'm told they will. In the meantime, you can find me shuffling between three suburban grocery stores, stalking the aisles for bargains and interesting foods.

How will you celebrate National Cheese Fondue Day?

2010-04-11T07:55:00.004-05:00

Thanks to the magic of Twitter I learned that today is National Cheese Fondue Day. Now accepting facts in one's Twitter stream as the gospel truth is like believing everything in Wikipedia is true, so I went to the Web to verify.

And I got distracted by the first web page I found, titled "American Food Holidays." While it also had no references, I became entranced by the more than 600 alleged food holidays. Things like "Lobster Thermidor Day" (January 24), "Crab Stuffed Flounder Day" (February 18), "National Turkey Neck Soup Day" (March 30), "Lima Bean Respect Day" (April 20), "National Spumoni Day" (August 22), "Biscuit and Gray Week" (second week in September - which apparently and not without some philosophical conflict is also "National Vegetarian Awareness Week), "Eat a Cranberry Day (just one, really?) (November 23), and of course, "National Chocolate Covered Anything Day" (December 16). Every day of every year there is food that calls out to be eaten in celebration.

Of course I checked my birthday to make sure the acclaimed foods were good ones; cheese, frozen yogurt and cognac are all honored along with me on the fourth of June. En route to June 4 I noticed that May 28th is National Brisket Day. I have a cat named Brisket. "Awesome!" I thought. We can make May 28th his special day. Now I also have a cat named Ducky. So I searched for celebrations of duck too. I found Peking Duck Day (January 18). "Perfect!" I thought, "There is balance in the food and cat universe."

It has been more than one hour since I started to poke around on this website. My mind is reeling with the possibilities. Do I pick the weirdest ones and put them in my calendar to celebrate? How about I strategically select my favorites from the list of celebrated foods and plan parties that feature them? Do I go all "Julie and Julia" and plan a year of eating the foods and write an blog about my adventures? Who would play me in the movie when my blog attracts the attention of Hollywood and they option the rights to my year-long, albeit derivative, laudatory feasting? I've been craving a hobby lately - maybe this is it?

In the short term, I was planning on making a nice dinner tonight. Cheese fondue as part of the repast in the Tiny Bungalow is an inevitable part of our menu. If you will be in our picturesque seaside suburb give a holler; we'll be eating cheese fondue later.

If you aren't tooling around our town, I invite you to check out the list of unsubstantiated American Food Holidays online, and share your favorites with me.

Princess MCKTP

2010-02-09T20:19:00.007-05:00

My niece MCKTP is a six years old. She has a wide smile, shy talent, and refreshing curiosity and honesty about the world. She is also adopted, living with two (and White) dedicated moms, and is African American. My sister, one of her parents, is committed to raising a daughter who is confident, smart, and loves how she looks. Her home has a healthy dose of Black Barbie, stories featuring Black characters in positive and healthy roles, and art depicting African Americans in ordinary and appropriate scenes.

For whatever reason - maybe living in a predominantly Caucasian family in a mostly Caucasian neighborhood, and being raised in a culture where books, toys and TV shows featuring African Americans and other racial and ethnic minorities in supporting roles far more than in lead roles - MCKTP has expressed a kind of dislike for African Americans for most of her little life. "I must make made choices because all Brown people make bad choices," she declared conclusively to her parents one day. She distastefully pushed the African American American Girl Doll away when she received it for her birthday a few months ago, and she adores her blonde haired, blue eyed cousins.

On a recent visit to see my family my sister and the Divine Miss MCKTP were enjoying hot cocoa and conversation at a local bookstore. I was chatting with the little princess about the new Disney Princess, Tiana.
"Is she beautiful?" I asked.
"Yes, Auntie Clownface" she replied assertively, squirming in her seat as she absent-mindedly sipped her cocoa.
"What does she look like?" I prompted her. "You know I haven't seen the movie yet."
"Well she has a sparkly green dress, and..." MCKTP stopped in mid-sentence as a light bulb started to glow brightly over her braided head, "Hey, she looks like me! Does that mean I can be beautiful too?!"
I looked at my sister, who was grinning from ear to ear, fighting back tears of joy and relief. "Of course you can be beautiful too! You ARE beautiful MCKTP!"

*****

I'm smart with an overly developed empathic gene. I've read Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye several times, and the film version of The Color Purple brings me to heart shaking tears. It wasn't, however, until this brief conversation with my niece that I really understood the pervasive power of popular culture, no, of American culture in general, on African American identity. This beautiful girl who is only 6 years old and surrounded by a family who has loved her since birth, listened carefully to social cues and came to the misguided conclusion that she was ugly and bad. And something as seemingly simple as one movie, one schlocky Disney movie, helped my niece reach the tipping point in her articulation of her beauty.

Breaking the cycle

2010-02-02T19:22:00.003-05:00

My mother lost her father to a heart attack when she was 14.
I lost my father to divorce when I was 14.
Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not?

My grandmother became a widow when she was 40.
I'm turning 40 this year. I'm so glad I'm not married because there is no way I can become a widow when I'm 40.

This is how I'm doing my part to break the cycle of family tragedy.

An imaginary conversation with my dying self

2010-01-31T16:43:00.006-05:00

An old acquaintance whom I respect mightily recently included me on a mass email inviting her friends to think about their "bucket list." She didn't use that made for Hollywood phrase, but instead couched the invitation within the context of dying without regrets.

So, I imagined myself lying at home in cozy jammies with a glass of wine at my side, knowing that my life is shortly ending. "What," I thought, "DON'T I want to hear pass through my brain or my heart at this time?" I don't want to say,
"I wish I had hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro,"
"I'm sorry I never made it to Hawaii or the Caribbean,"
"I don't know why I never bought a house,"
"I wish I had taken each of the kids - nieces and nephews - on a special trip,"
"I would have liked to have lived in New York City, even for a short period of time,"
"I could kick myself for never having tried to live in Paris or somewhere else overseas."

If I listen just a little more closely, I might hear the following:
"I'm sorry I didn't have a bigger wedding,"
"It would have been cool to work for the National Park Service,"
"Not going into the Peace Corps when I had the chance was mistake I'll never forget,"
"I regret I didn't give more to ease the ache in my heart over homelessness,"
"It would have been fun to enter a giant pumpkin - or something - into a county fair,"
"Why didn't I apply myself more as a biker (or a kayaker or a hiker or a xc skiier)?"
"I wish I had seen my daddy one more time."

These are some of the imaginary conversations I'm having with my imaginary, dying self. The timing couldn't be more perfect as I prepare to start the second 40 years of my life. Turning 40, for me, means embracing my adult decisions, lifestyle, attitudes and values with confidence and enthusiasm and purpose. As I head into the final six months of my thirties, I will ask my real self, "How do I prevent as many of these imaginary conversations from happening in real life?"

Are you willing to have imaginary conversations with your dying self? What would might they sound like?

If you don't get presents does this mean you aren't good?

2009-12-03T20:56:00.004-05:00

The legend of Santa says that "He knows if you've been bad or good." We have songs about this. Parents in Christmas-celebrating households use this liberally as a threat throughout December. Every visit to Santa's mall helpers includes a question about whether or not you have been good this year. The net effect is to create a culture in which children believe they get presents from Santa only if they have been good.

So what is the effect on poor children in Christmas celebrating who have been good, but don't get presents? If I apply MY kid logic I'd believe that I wasn't good enough to deserve a present. What is the emotional impact of this?

The national unemployment rate is 10.2%. Nearly 60% of the 308 million Americans are of working age, which means as many as 31 million adults who previously were working for pay now are not working for pay. Which means there are a whole lot of children who may end up believing they weren't good enough to get presents from Santa this year.

The magnitude and implications of the recession hit me in a new way while I was shopping at a local discount retailer earlier today. I encountered at least half a dozen adults considering what Christmas decorations to buy, what toys they could afford for their children, what grocery items were too far out-of-date to be safe to eat. I overheard children wistfully talking about the toys they wanted, adult daughters and their mothers talking about how they could possibly get x and y for the little ones in their families, and husbands and wives trying to figure out how they could possibly give as much to their extended families as they had last year. Overhearing all of these conversations made my heart sad. These conversations reminded me that this year is different. That this year children - and adults - won't get as much as they hope for, as much as they believe they deserve as recognition of their efforts to be the best they can be.

My shopping experience also created an enormous feeling of guilty gratitude. I don't have to find a way to try to fulfill my child's wish list while managing unemployment or other forms of public assistance. I don't have to tell my child mommy's unemployment makes our house invisible on Santa's map, so he might not find us this year. I have the privilege of giving myself almost everything I want (and my wants are small, so this is easier for me than for some). I have the privilege of consciously making choices on what to buy and what not to buy to give to my sweetheart, my family, friends and colleagues, service professionals who make my life easier, and even strangers. I have the privilege of not having to worry about whether a lack of presents under my tree is evidence of my inherent unlovable or badness.

I wish I had the power to change our cultural messaging about the meaning of Christmas and the role of Santa. If I did I would encourage families to tell children that Christmas is a season of love, and we share love with each other in many different ways - by sharing a hug, reading stories together, and sometimes, when we are lucky, giving and receiving gifts.

However you celebrate the holidays, I hope you can find love in small gestures, kind touches, AND simple gift giving this year. Merry Christmas.

"Do you ever miss Santa"

2009-12-03T19:54:00.007-05:00

My nine year-old niece asked me this earlier today when I was telling her that I was at the mall to buy my brother a gift for his Christmas stocking.

"Wait a minute!" she declared after half a beat. "Why are YOU filling Uncle TK's stocking. Doesn't Santa do that?"
"Santa only fills the stockings of kids. He has his hands pretty full taking care of children all over the world, so at a certain age he stops giving people presents."
"How old were you when Santa stopped bringing you presents?" she asked in a quiet voice.
"Twenty-one or twenty-two," I swiftly replied. (I hope Santa reads this so he knows how long he is on the hook with the present giving.)
"Do you ever miss Santa?" she asked, in an even quieter voice.

Of course I miss Santa! I'm also grateful that the spirit of gratitude, surprise, and fulfillment can be experienced through buying gifts for my family, populating my online registry with things I've found online, and quietly contemplating Christmas lights that bathe the front of my home, the homes of neighbors, town centers, and many businesses.

Where do you find the spirit of the season - whether you observe Christmas or Hanukkah, Kwaanza, Solstice, or New Year?

The more things change...

2009-11-07T18:14:00.005-05:00

..the more they stay the same. And nowhere is this aphorism more apt than on Facebook.

An old acquaintance from high school and I recently reconnected through the ubiquitous social networking app. This friend looked fantastic in her profile picture. In the 21 years since we had last seen one another she had transformed from a pudgy, needy, and nerdy type to a fit, tanned, confident-looking woman. I was so curious to poke around her profile and learn more about her journey to her present place in this world.

The first time I get a status update from the long lost acquaintance in my Facebook Feed she sounds EXACTLY the same way she did in high school. Whiny, accusing and complaining.

I laughed out loud when I read the update. I was amazed that someone who had obviously done something over the last twenty years to radically transform her exterior appearance had made almost no evident change to her interior self.

How funny we people are.

Memories of Halloween

2009-10-31T16:39:00.003-05:00

"Halloween was always a struggle for me," my mom said to me on the telephone earlier today. "364 days a year I taught you NOT to take candy from strangers, and then, on one night I was supposed to dress you up so you were unrecognizable and send you out to beg for candy from strangers. I never understood it."

To her credit, or perhaps in homage to my naivete, I had no idea my mom had such anti-Halloween feelings. I have very fond memories of the creative costumes she made; and our costumes were always homemade, never store-bought. One year she made me a bumble-bee costume, with the body made of poster board hung sandwich-board style on my body with and styrofoam wings. I remember the bubblegum machine costume she made for my brother - a clear garbage filled with small colored balloons and a little hat with a fake nickel coming out of it. As a kid I loved the creativity involved in thinking up a costume and finding a way to construct it. I remember being an angel, a zombie, and a fisherman.

I also loved trick-or-treating. We went out for what felt like hours, unsupervised. (I learned today the unsupervised part was because my mother refused to go candy begging with us.) We lived in a densely packed community filled with children, the bustle of kids and lights and doorbells was intoxicating. Mr. Schenk, one of the 6th grade teachers at my elementary school, lived about a mile from us, up through tony Twin Hills, and we'd strive to make it to his house before he ran out of the full-sized candy bars he and his wife allegedly gave away to the kids who legitimately lived in their neighborhood. I remember an old woman who lived in a pink and strangely foreboding house at the start of the fancy street that bordered the local park. She always gave away creamy Life Saver pops, but only after you did a trick like recite the alphabet backwards or sang Yankee Doodle. Every year we'd draw tiny strips of paper out of a glass bowl to discover the trick we needed to do to earn our treats. My siblings, and, as I got older, my friends, and I would wander the streets for hours, careful not to miss a house with the lights on as we weaved from one street to the next for blocks. There was never a clear line of demarcation that told us we needed to stop and go home. We walked and rang and laughed for as long as we possibly could. I remember being out so late that many neighbors would leave their candy buckets out on the front porch so they didn't have to answer the door anymore.

When there were no more houses with lights on, my five siblings and I would troop home and eagerly dump our plastic pumpkin-shaped collection buckets on the floor. And then we would sort the candy into piles for favorites, piles for things we'd be willing to trade, and always, one or two Snickers bars for mom. And then we'd start trading. I'd give away Good and Plenty, boxes of Dots with two or three of those faux jujubes in them, Tootsie Roll midgies, Butterfingers, and hard candy. Chocolate caramels, Twizzlers, Peanut Butter Cups, and Baby Ruth were among the candy bars I eagerly sought. When we were done sorting and trading and counting, the candy would go back into our buckets and I'd carefully dole out one or two or ten pieces a day for my lunch bag or snacks I'd try to sneak at school.

As an adult, I actually have no great fondness for Halloween. While I enjoy the sweetness of seeing young children excited by their costumes and the novelty of getting candy, I generally find this holiday to be disconcerting. I feel unnerved by, and disingenuous around adults in costumes. I've dressed up only once in the last 15 years, at a Halloween party hosted at the commune where I once lived. (I felt like an idiot in my rented green sequined mermaid outfit carrying a tinfoil covered pitchfork intended to look like a trident.) I don't understand why some people want to trick out their houses in order to seem spooky or dangerous or pagan. And the greediness that I embraced as a child is now a little gross to me. I was at the mall earlier today during the "trick or treat" hours, and the place was teeming with kids and their parents trying to angle for the best treats. "Let's hurry up and get to Godiva. They better be giving out something good," was a frequently heard exclamation as I dodged and weaved to avoid the crowds.

We do have a jack-o-lantern on our porch, carved with enthusiasm by me. And a plastic cauldron, courtesy of the neighborhood "Phantom", sits by the front door filled with white chocolate Kit-Kat bars (dyed orange), boxes of Nerds, and those hateful Midgies. It is 5:15 now. And I imagine in the next 30 minutes or so we'll start to see the dozen or so neighborhood children begin to trickle through the neighborhood, nervously prodded by their parents onto strangers' porches, to ask for candy. And BMG and I will "oooh" and "aaah" over the costumes and make a big show out of the generous handfuls of candy we toss into the brightly colored receptacles carried by the princesses, robots, and medieval knights who roam our suburban street. I do this because I remember how much fun this was when I was a kid and I want to do my part to offer this same delight to the little people who creating their Halloween memories tonight.

This body is not mine to own

2009-10-25T10:38:00.004-05:00

I read an explanation of the Easter story of the crucifixtion that, for the first time ever, made sense to me. It is in the book Breakfast with Buddha by Roland Merullo. Given to me by BMG for Christmas last year, I have been trying to read this short novel for nearly 10 months. It is the kind of book I've read eagerly and then had to put down to reflect on what I was experiencing through the author's words. I have repeatedly lost my place and unintentionally re-read several chapters as a result.

I came upon a passage I had not yet read this morning, while reading at the dining room table as I munched a leftover salad. In it, the Buddha incarnate, is trying to explain the process and the rationale behind reincarnation. Or maybe he is responding to our protagonist's question about the existence of evil. Regardless, the Buddha character, Volya Rinpoche (which I've learned is pronounced "Rin-poh-chay"), explains that Jesus was nailed to a cross to remind us that our bodies do not belong to us, that they are temporary vessels that house our spirits.

This makes more sense to me than any Christian explanation of the Easter story I have ever heard. And as someone who has struggled with loving and taking care of her body, it is one of the move moving and profound "aha"s I've had in a long time. Who cares what my body looks like? What is important is the cultivation of my soul, the love I feel for the essence I bring into the universe. Now and forever after.

That crazy sawdust smell

2009-10-23T19:47:00.005-05:00

I had an olfactory experience today that reminded me of one of my childhood fears. The fear of being "that kid" who threw up at school and caused a chain of event that resulted in that VERY distinct smell of puke mixed with sawdust permeating the classroom. I can remember classmates throwing up in class fewer than a handful of times, and I still remember the intense fear that I'd do it someday, and everyone would be mad at me for making the classroom smell terrible. And how about those poor teachers, who had to content with the smell and the riled up students? Or the custodiam who had to clean up our childhood sickness. Ugh all around.

What were your childhood fears? Did you ever throw up at school? What do you remember of it? Are you a teacher? Have you ever had a kid throw up in your class? What was that like?

Which way do you blow?

2009-10-18T07:53:00.005-05:00

It is allergy time for me - either Fall or the new kittens are leading to torrents of messy sneezes here in the Tiny Bungalow. While in a snotty crisis in the kitchen this morning, I grabbed a paper towel to empty my nose. While blowing into the rough surface I wondered, "Am I wasting paper towel with these actions? Should I have dashed into the bathroom, nose covered, to do this, rather than grabbing the nearest disposable surface and having at it?"

So, I ran the numbers to see which is less expensive per sheet - paper towels or facial tissues. The results, I decided, would determine all future nose blowing actions for me for now until the end of time.

Here are the caveats. We're a tiny family in the Low Rent District of the beautiful seaside suburb. This means we buy the smallest packages and cheapest brand paper towels and facial tissues. I'm sure the numbers would be different if we were buying facial tissues with age defying exfoliants embedded in the paper fiber, or paper towels that could be used at least 100 times before needing to be tossed.

With that out of the way, this is what I found:
Paper towels cost $0.013 per sheet.
Facial tissues cost $0.012 per sheet.
This makes facial tissues the more economical choice for blowing your nose. UNLESS, as BMG points out, you have a big mess on your face, or maybe a nose bleed, and need more than one tissue. If this is the case, then head into the kitchen and grab a paper towel because they are more absorbent and it is likely you will still need only one to contain the body fluids.

I also ran the numbers on toilet tissue (again, the brand and size we use) and found that, if one were to use 15 squares of toilet paper for a single nose blow, the price would be IDENTICAL to the price of one facial tissue. So, in the interest of efficiency, I may stop buying Kleenex knock-offs and just place rolls of toilet paper in strategic locations around the house during allergy season.

PS: I give credit to this blog for the awesome photo which accompanies this post. Thank you!

"The missing man was last seen wearing..."

2009-10-12T06:42:00.004-05:00

"...white Nike sneakers, blue jeans, a green T-shirt, and a red North Face jacket."

It strikes me that this is the dumbest way to get the public psyched up to help find missing people, kidnapped children, and criminals. Putting on a new outfit is the EASIEST thing to change about oneself or one's captive. So why is it one of the first things our public safety officers and journalists report on when they need help finding someone?

Imagine this scenario: I see the man above (who has been missing from a nearby suburb for a week). I've scrutinized his photo in the paper and realize this guy, who is hitchhiking along a highway, looks identical to the missing man EXCEPT he is wearing Green Chuck Taylors, black jeans, a black t-shirt and a dingy Members' Only jacket. And I decide not to call the police tip line because the guy I see isn't wearing the identifying clothing reported in the paper. This could happen, right? People aren't that smart.

Maybe this is why we have scores of websites in this nation dedicated to finding fugitives, missing children and missing people?

Reflections on turning 40

2009-10-11T07:48:00.006-05:00

"Hyperopic (far sighted children) are able to pull things into focus which is how they manage without glasses..."

My ability to pull things into focus sans spectacles has come to an abrupt end in the last week or so. Seriously. As a far-sighted person I've often bragged about my ability to compensate sans spectacles for the 33 years I've been a four-eyed girl. My glasses are more often found perched atop my head acting as a hair styling aid than an eye sight aid.

Until this week. Now if my glasses are off for more than 10 minutes during my waking hours I find myself with an excruciating headache which nearly incapacitates my ability to find said glasses. So, with all of my 39 year-old wisdom, I've come to realize that the glasses cannot come off. Not without painful consequences.

This makes me feel old. Well, older anyway.

I'll be marking the end of my 40th year on this planet in eight months, in June 2010. With this important milestone circulating in my subconsciousness I've been finding myself reflecting on other milestones not reached, items on my personal "Bucket List," and stages I've burned through in my adulthood.

How did you mark your 40th birthday? I've thought about planning to jump out of a plane (too fleeting?), whitewater rafting down the Grand Canyon (too expensive and time consuming), trekking to Mount Kilimanjaro (too expensive and time consuming but maybe worth it), or having a giant party (too narcissistic). Nothing feels quite right yet.

I've been pushing BMG on the topic of marriage lately. On Friday night, while driving home from a favorite Boston restaurant, I said to him "I don't want to die at age 85 having never been married. And if it isn't going to be you, then I need think about the point at which it will be too late for me to find someone I love enough to want to be married to." I also want to own a home, to feel like I've accomplished something significant in my life, and to be the kind of aunt my nieces and nephews regard as super cool and interesting. I want to be less hung up about my body, the loss of my father to divorce, being as impressive as Nelson Mandela or Forrest Church.

I'm not afraid of turning 40. If there IS a party I won't buy the stereotypical "Over the Hill" vulture and tombstone party favors. What it feels like is a time of reckoning, a time of transition as I get serious about and settled into this life, as I celebrate both my choices and the paths I have yet to take on this journey called living. I expect to embrace my 40th birthday, even if I don't feel fully ready.

I have eight months to keep my eye glasses on and pull my life into focus in time to celebrate turning 40. I look forward to sharing it with you.

Reaching a milestone in my adulthood

2009-08-24T16:45:00.005-05:00

My kittens are being spayed (Ducky) and neutered (Brisket) tomorrow. In my adult life I've had kittens three times. This is the firs time I've ever had the kittens long enough for them to reach the sterilization phase. Usually I get bored with the kittens after a couple of months and give them away to someone who is less likely to get bored with them.

Is this a measure of my arrival into adulthood, that I can love a kitten long enough to shepherd it through the bits chopping phase of its life? I like to think so.

In Defense of Talking to Strangers

2009-08-09T06:57:00.011-05:00

My mom broke her pinkie while she and I were visiting Martha's Vineyard this week. She slipped getting off a bus and, in her frantic effort to right herself, she torqued the pinkie on her left hand out of joint and broke it at the base.

We were in West Tisbury, en route to a connecting bus that would take us to Aquinnah and Gay Head, the most remote area of the island. We had no car. And my mom broke her finger. Sigh. Rather than getting back on the bus to a more populated part of the island (and an ER) we pushed forward and continued our journey. Our bus driver, alerted to the problem, flagged down a bike cop as we approached the stop at Gay Head and he met us with an ice pack for my mom's finger. We secured the pack to her hand using a white linen shirt I was wearing. We walked to the highest point at Gay Head, mom's hand looking rather claw-like, took a half-dozen pictures of Gay Head cliffs and Gay Head Light, and then parked ourselves at a picnic table to wait 45 minutes for the next bus out of there. (The picture at the top of the post is AFTER we had iced it for 30 minutes.)

The break was bad. Her pinkie was sticking out at a right angle from its base. Always a good bruiser, my mom takes blood thinners and the hematoma evolving in her palm was spectacular. It was 3:00 in the afternoon and we were three bus rides away from the ferry terminal and at least another 90 minutes from the mainland from there. And the ice pack was melting.

I left my mom at a picnic table and headed to a food vendor to get some more ice for her finger. Ahead of me was a woman in bike gear looking to buy a Gatorade. As we waited I asked about the biking conditions on the island and we chatted about road versus off-road biking. As the biker was being served she mentioned she also wanted a cup of ice. I chimed in that I wanted one too, for my mother's broken finger. The counter girl ruefully informed us she'd have to charge us $0.50 for the ice. I started to trot off to grab two quarters from my purse when the biker with whom I'd been chatting pressed a quarter into my hand. "For your mother," she said. When I returned to the counter with a second quarter to pay for my ice the biker was still there. As we continued to wait she said to me politely, "Is your mom going to be all right?" "She's being brave," I replied. "But the break looks pretty bad. We need to get off the island and get her to an emergency room."

Then the biker said something extraordinary. And this is why it is important to talk to strangers. She said, "My husband is an ER doctor. I'm sure he wouldn't mind looking at it." In wonderment, I fetched my mom and we met the ER doctor, fully outfitted in HIS bike gear. He affirmed the finger was broken, yanked it back into place and asked me to go ask a shop keeper for some tape, even cellophane tape, so he could affix the broken digit to its neighbor. My mother, go-getter she is, was already ahead of me, in the entrance of the nearest shack selling Wampanoag handicrafts. The artisan, upon hearing of the situation, pulled a first aid kit off a shelf, rifled through its contents and offered gauze for the cause. He also has a roll of masking tape, which was deemed a suitable substitute for the first aid tape missing from his kit. The ER doctor, using supplies in the first aid kit of the Native American crafts person, stabilized my mom's broker finger.

After my mom made it back to her home town she visited urgent care and learned her pinkie is indeed badly broken. And the ER doctor pulled it perfectly into place; no additional work was needed on it. She does need to have her hand guy take a look at it to follow up (she's had extensive hand surgery over the course of her young life), but for now she just needs to wait until it heals.

The Abolitionist

2009-08-09T06:49:00.004-05:00

If I were Queen of the Universe I would abolish the following things:
1. Horizontal striped outfits for plus sized people,
2. Transition lenses for children, particularly adolescents and young teens,
3. White pants in all sizes
4. Black sneakers, particularly with white socks.
Some might say I am restricting human liberty. This may be the case. However, there are examples of US law that have held up in court that put the interests of the people over individual freedoms. Using this as my precedent, I would abolish the manufacture and sale of the above items in the interest of helping every human being look their best to avoid teasing and social branding on the basis of clothing choices.

I dream of high school

2009-08-02T07:43:00.004-05:00

I'm living in a funky condo complex in Cambridge and I've suggested an impromptu high school reunion with all of my Facebook high school friends. My old friend Laurie Ward is still really close and she, along with BMG, are around discussing the party. At some point in time a light goes on in my head that people may actually show up for the party, that this isn't just Facebook and we won't just send virtual beers to one another, but will actually see one another. So I realize that my house needs to be cleaned up. A pile of hardware on the floor from some sort of home improvement project gets put into plastic bags, and I tidy up the outside deck. And then people start arriving. Tons more people than I know through high school - including some I don't recognize (it was 20 years ago after all). As people arrive I find myself marveling at each one, trying to guess who they are and learn what they've been doing. At some point I realize I've been a terrible hostess, not just because I haven't offered anyone a drink, but because I forgot to buy drinks and snacks. I know I have some red wine somewhere - because I always have red wine in the house. So I start to rummage around a cluttered counter to find a bottle of wine. As I'm frantically searching, but trying to remain composed, the person with whom I'm speaking says, "I don't drink anymore. Do you happen to have ginger ale?" Someone else chimes in (I think it was Dave Gates), "Yeah, I'd love a glass of ginger ale." I NEVER have ginger ale, in fact, I never have anything to drink in the house except red wine, seltzer, Gatorade and beer. But the Gatorade and beer are BMG's beverages and I don't want to use them. So then I start to stammer and wonder how I can sneak out of the house to buy soda for my guests who don't drink and adult beverages for the friends who do. When I look up and see a rack of soda and boxes and boxes of Drakes cakes that have miraculously appeared. The Drakes cakes have weird names like "Zips" and "Twitter" which is how I know BMG, the Twitter Consultant, has saved my hide.

****

Not a very dreamy party, but nevertheless the high school party of my dreams. I'm pretty sure the impetus was my older sister's picnic with Facebook friends from high school in Marcellus Park yesterday. What is all the panic about? Is there a part of me who thinks I'm so unprepared to actually live my life in the present? How could I understand having BMG save me? Is he better at being present in the here and now? Interpretations from Junior Freuds most welcome.

"I would rather die...

2009-08-01T14:51:00.004-05:00

...than sleep on sheets that have been in a dryer!" This is s recent declaration made by my mother after I suggested that, while her torn rotator cuff remains unrepaired, she abstain from hanging her laundry on the backyard clothesline.

"Let me make sure I heard you right. You would rather die, or at least be in constant and burning pain, than sleep on sheets that have been in a dryer?"

"Yes Clownface. I would rather DIE than sleep on sheets that have been in the dryer."

BMG's response, upon hearing this utterance retold? "What is she going to do when you have to put her in a Home?" Good question. Does anyone know of any nursing homes that hang their clients' sheets out on the line?

Generation Google

2009-08-01T14:32:00.008-05:00

There is some confusion about the generational name of children born in the 2000s. I've seen "Generation Y", "Echo Boomers", and the "Millenials". My favorite so far is "Generation Google". Let me tell you why.

My sister and her two kids, CMR and The Divine Miss M, were visiting just last week. As the five-year old "M" walked into the tiny bungalow I share with BMG she spied an olde tyme typewriter in our entry hall. You know what they look like:
What do you imagine The Divine Miss M said when her eyes lit upon this piece of nostalgic office equipment? That's right. She said, "What's that Aunt Clownface?"

She had never before seen a typewriter. NEVER BEFORE SEEN A TYPEWRITER! I typed my college applications on a typewriter only 20 years ago. Boy did I feel old.

But it got worse. A few moments later I grabbed my keys on the way out the door with the kids en route to a nearby playground. The Divine Miss M noticed my key chain.
"Why do you have a 'g' on your keychain?" she asked of her aunt (whose name actually begins with the letter 'g').

"Good question. Why do you think I have a 'g' on my keychain?"

"Hmmm." She thought. "Is it because you love to Google?"

Generation Google. I rest my case.

Undeniable cuteness

2009-07-12T15:19:00.001-05:00

Oh Brisket! You look so much cuter sleeping than anyone - or thing - else in this house. And you are using a seafood cookbook as a pillow. Perfect!

Take that MBTA!

2009-06-23T19:59:00.001-05:00

Dear Secretary Aloisi,

I have long stopped trusting the MBTA, a quasi-governmental agency, to act in the public interests. Apparent exclusive reliance on fare increases and service cuts as the strategy for "saving" public transportation - rather than examining administrative efficiencies, salary decreases, and other cost-savings measures on serves to reinforce my belief that the MBTA is irrevocably corrupt. At this stage in the game, regardless of the decision made by the agency, I am not likely to EVER use public transportation again - on the principle of not wanting to spend my money on corruption. Futhermore, I am very willing to share my opinions with others in the interest of influencing them to boycott the T. If the MBTA were to dramatically increase transparency in its efforts to staunch the financial bleeding then I might be inclined to be more forgiving of an agency struggling to make it work. Thank you for your attention in this matter.

-clownface-

****
Have something to say to Secretary Aloisi of the MBTA? Write your own letter by clicking on http://www.masspirg .org/action/ transportation- agenda/public- process?id4= ES

Dad's Day = Sad Day

2009-06-21T14:11:00.005-05:00

I'm feeling the loss of my father today, this Father's Day 2009. He isn't dead. Instead he is lost to that affliction unfortunately known to too many children - Deadbeat Dad Syndrome.

My dad and my mom separated when I was fairly young. Their divorce, as I recall, came some five or six years later. My siblings and I visited dad irregularly during the period between separation and divorce, and then, as I remember, for about five years after their divorce. Then nothing. My mom tried to sue him for the $15/week he owed for child support (that's $3/week per kid). I was told later that he moved around every six months to avoid lawsuits. He avoided his kids to avoid being sued for $15/week. Fast forward eight years, to 1993, when daddy decided he was ready to be in touch with each of his five birth children again and he wrote us all letters saying how sorry he was for everything he didn't do for us.

I didn't reply to my letter. At the age of 23 I didn't know what to say.

What I'd say now goes something like this,

"When I was a child I felt so special when I was with you. I was the most important little girl in the world when you held my hand. Nothing else mattered but me.

I don't remember how you and mom explained the divorce. I DO know that I felt like it was something I did that led you to leave. So the explanation could have been better. Or your efforts to help me hang on to that feeling of being special after the divorce could have been better.

What happened? I assumed that you stopped loving us -stopped loving me - because I didn't understand how does someone could let their fears become so overwhelming that they cannot express love to their children? That they cannot honor their inherent worth and dignity? How can someone be so self-absorbed as not to realize the impact of their actions on those special little people in their lives?"

My oldest sister, H, has heard from Daddy. She knows where he lives (Arizona? New Mexico?). He is married for the fourth time, to a Latvian woman he met on the Internet. He still works under the table to avoid having his wages garnished for back child support - even now more than 35 years after the separation. I look for him on the Web - googling his name, checking for him on Facebook. I'm curious about this person I once loved. And there is a little girl inside of me who still misses him terribly.

Cat hair in my coffee

2009-06-15T04:28:00.004-05:00

We have new kittens. Two of them. Two adorable, solid, furry balls of energy.

We also have a dishwasher. One efficient, powerful and effective dishwasher.

The kittens love to hop into the dishwasher when it is open to scavenge for goodies. They lick dirty flatware, investigate detritus left on plates, and have been seen hopping into the lower basket to get a closer look at caked on baked on residue on 9x13 Pyrex. Not knowing the difference between a dishwasher filled with dirty dishes and one that has done its dishwasher duty, they investigate while we both load and unload the machine.

The effects of the kitten police work came home to roost this morning when I lifted my 20 ounce mug of fresh espresso to my lips for a gulp of wake up elixir and noticed a white cat hair affixed to the handle. A solid white cat hair resting firmly on my clean mug pulled from the cupboard. My clean rooster mug pulled from the cupboard and placed only on the kitchen counter, a place currently unknown to the kittens as it is much too high for them to leap onto. (Oh I hope it stays that way forever.)

(Deep sigh followed by a little chuckle.)

I've heard the coffee described as strong to "grow hair on your chest." I can now proudly say that I drink coffee strong enough to grow cat hair on my chest. I better call my waxer.

Birthday week: a chronology

2009-06-04T20:42:00.008-05:00

Day One - Sunday, May 31: BBQ and chocolate cake. Surprise rainbow. (Hooray rainbows!)

Days Two and Three - Monday and Tuesday, June 1 and 2: Off the sugar free diet. Phish Food Light at Night.

Day Four - Wednesday, June 3: Work late the day BEFORE my birthday. Get home at 10:30 PM. Decide to go to work late on birthday. Stay up until midnight, hoping to get presents as promised at the stroke of midnight. Snoring - or is it human purring? - instead.

Day Five - Thursday, June 4 BIRTHDAY!: Up at the luxuriously late hour of 7:00 AM (often at the office by 6:45). Greeted by sweetness and presents (magazines and books and pjs and organic treats - which could have risked J's rep if ANYONE knew he went to the natural food store). Contact lens aggravation. Glasses instead and then out for big breakfast. Birthday cake at breakfast (our waitress was also celebrating her birthday). Off to work. Love from mom underground en route. Work? Unfocused, and a little aimless. M&Ms as snacks. Forgot lunch. Niceness from dillard57 and the great Alice Comack before All-America City, followed by celebratory fist pumping from Rick. Drive home. Love from Sister E. Greeted at home by with love from J, GORGEOUS flowers from D and BA, tens of Facebook greetings from close and far away friend, and fuzzy sweetness from Brisket and Ducky. Dinner with the "in-laws" - cheese, wine, scallops and CUPCAKES. Earrings, an apron and unconditional love. Home again home again, seriously hopped up on sugar.

Day Six - Friday, June 5: Still hopped up on sugar (oh my belly hurts) and determined to solider through with margaritas and delicious homemade cake at the C-A household later.

Day Seven - Saturday, June 6: Girly girl day with a haircut, pedicure, and dinner with J at The Capital Grill and the inaugural outing of my first ever "little black dress."

Birthday Week Round-Up - the morning of Day Six:
22 Facebook wall messages
8 presents
4 cards
4 cakes
1 pint of ice cream
1 bouquet of flowers

Nuclear Equity

2009-06-03T21:52:00.004-05:00

As I listen to the latest public radio discussions about nuclear non-proliferation talks with North Korea I find myself with a sneaking suspicion about the motives of the nuclear powers.

I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around the justice or equity of a nuclear power telling emerging nuclear power they can't have this authority because it is too dangerous. It plays to my heart and mind like a rich person telling a poor person they don't really want lots of money - because it is a lot of responsibility and it is scary and they (the poor person) aren't really equipped to deal with that. What makes the U.S. or any other nuclear power any better equipped to handle nuclear power than another nation? Our leaders aren't necessarily smarter (you can make that argument from either side of the aisle depending who is in The White House). Is it because our leaders are democratically elected and therefore more accountable? If we have nuclear holocaust the last thing I'll be worrying about is government accountability. Because I'm pretty sure I'll be dead or hanging on by the skin of my, well, skin. I know there is a nuclear non-proliferation treaty signed in 1970 (seriously) that was really driven (I think) by the zealotry of the Cold War. Not because nuclear power and weaponry is inherently bad. But because the U.S. and the then Soviet Union were out of control.

My instinct is that we don't want India or Iran or Pakistan or North Korea to have nuclear power because then they'd be as powerful as we are.

Before my liberal friends pop in righteously, I want to be clear that I'm not pro-nuke. Instead I'm anti-hypocrisy (or pro-integrity if you will). IF the U.S. were both advocating for developing nuclear powers to back off AND working towards our nation's own nuclear disarmament I wouldn't be writing this blog post. No moral dilemma and no sneaking suspicion about the power motive being the dominant motive behind our rhetoric on the world stage.

The well is dry

2009-06-03T05:19:00.003-05:00

It strikes me that there is no such thing as a "typical" year in my chosen profession, education management. Last year circumstances of tragic proportions at the office kept everyone off track by more than six months. Finally back on our feet by September, I was hoping this year would be a "normal" year, when I could meet my goals, work on a handful of fun projects, and generally be a better colleague and community partner. And then a month later the bottom fell out of the market. The last six months - like the year before - has been a series of one enormous distraction after another as the senior team in my office (which includes me) struggles to keep the organizational ship moving forward in the face of enormous financial adversity. I have submitted more than $9 million in grant requests in the last three months alone in an effort to stem the tide of layoffs and operational derailment. All while maintaining my best calm, anxiety-free demeanor.

I am exhausted.

Worst nightmare

2009-05-31T09:26:00.005-05:00

The Living Social app on Facebook recently invited me to identify the five things that terrify me the most. On my list were snakes, becoming homeless, having all of my limbs amputated, gaining weight, and being brain dead. What is on your list?

If I were a parent I could imagine one of the things that would be on my list is having my child taken away by social services. And this nightmare is happening to a friend of mine right now.

Put yourself in their shoes for just a moment, if you can bear it. Imagine every waking moment filled with a yawning emptiness created by the absence of your child. Would you feel sadness? Anger? As you stare into this abyss realize that you are also required to muster the energy to think aggressively and strategically about what to wear to court, how to stage your home for the case management visits, choreographing interactions with your sweetheart, deciding who to tell to garner support without losing too much face among family and friends - all in the interest of convincing social workers, lawyers, judges that you are a loving and capable parent - not a sad, depressed and overwhelmed parent. Or a furious and bitter parent. Could you do it? I don't know if I could do it.

My heart aches for this little family. I'm loathe to read updates that come by email for fear that the child will be permanently separated from its family. Even if the case is settled in their favor, their lives will never be the same.

I saw a snake in the front yard yesterday afternoon. A long garter snake. It startled me but didn't terrify me. I'm not a parent but merely having a friend who is living what I imagine is among a parent's worst nightmares is obsessively scaring me more than I could imagine. I hope I never have to live through my worst nightmare - being a bystander to someone else's greatest terror is bad enough.

My life with poison ivy

2009-05-30T07:36:00.016-05:00

This morning I convinced myself that my repeated bouts with poison ivy is the result of childhood re-enactments of the heroics of the Justice League of America where I was ALWAYS assigned the role of the villainess, yup, you guessed it, Poison Ivy.

The first time I remember an allergic reaction to poison ivy was on a family camping trip to Lewey Lake in the Adirondacks. I don't have any idea how I got it or what it felt like. But I do remember taking repeated showers and using Lava soap to scrub my body. I have poison ivy again and it itches like crazy. And one of the sets of rashes has become infected. And in my effort to treat the infection, I've given myself ANOTHER allergic reaction, this time to a topical antibiotic. After a trip to the ER I'm now on three different types of medication to treat the infection and have a divot in my right arm where the infection is the worse.

Poison ivy is an allergic reaction to a plant oil called urshiol found in the omnipresent and chameleon-like poison ivy plant. Poison ivy plants can have anywhere from 3-9 leaves (not just three), change color, can be bushlike or ivy like or a ground cover. It grows in marshy areas, woody areas and on beaches. Those of us who are allergic aren't even safe from DEAD PLANTS because urushiol is found in the leaves, the stems, the stalk and the roots and is potent even if the plant is technically dead. Urushiol is also found in poison oak and poison sumac. I wish I were a botanist or had a photographic memory. Because, while I know that anything with the word "poison" in its name should be avoided, I can't seem to remember what poison ivy looks like.

Urushiol is slowly absorbed into the skin and the allergic reaction starts once the urushiol has really settled in - usually 12-48 hours after exposure. That's right as much as 48 hours later! My brother-in-law introduced me to called Tecnu, an anti-poison ivy wash that. If used within 8 hours of exposure Tecnu can significantly reduce the allergic reaction. From the smell of the stuff I imagine Tecnu uses petroleum mixed with soap to wash the oil off. I'm afraid to let my cats near me after I've washed with the stuff because it smells so much like gasoline. There is also a Tecnu Extreme that has microbeads in it that abrade the skin and feels wonderful if you are even the slightest bit itchy.

The key to Tecnu's effectiveness is knowing when you've been exposed so you can wash right away. Tecnu's window of effectiveness is within 8 hours of exposure. BUT, the allergic reaction usually begins in 12-24 hours. So, once those itchy red bumps and blisters appear, you are simply left to cope. Which is what usually happens to me. (If you want to know what the rash looks like, visit the online "Poison Ivy Skin Rash Hall of Fame".)

However, even if you can't stop the skin reaction, you can prevent yourself from getting re-exposed by washing EVERYTHING that might have come in contact with the oil at the time of exposure. During this last bought I washed every piece of clothing I had, threw away a pair of shoes and a washcloth, washed sheets, comforters and futon covers, and doused my gardening tools liberally with alcohol. Urushiol seems to NEVER go away. So, if I touched something that got the oil on it - or something that touched something that got the oil on it - it could set off a different and separate reaction.

I've read figures that say between 15% and 85% of the population is allergic to urushiol. If the higher figure is true then I really should buy stock in some of the companies that make poison ivy itch relief agents. In my experience:

24 allergy tabs with antihistamines work pretty well. On my current bout with the urushiol allergy I'm finding that the 24-hour tabs take about 2 hours to kick in. Which leaves me in excruciating agony for 2 hours. Why excruciating? Because you aren't supposed to itch the blisters or the rash. Not because you can infect other people with the rash (poison ivy isn't contagious), but because breaking the rash can lead to an infection which can lead to blood poisoning.

Cortaid 10 as a topical anti-itch agent stinks. Cort-aid doesn't dry quickly enough and maybe staves off the itching for only an hour or two. The wetter the rash stays the worse it feels.

Calamine lotion or a product like Ivarrest is satisfying because the entire rash can be visibly covered. This makes me feel like I'm doing SOMETHING to soothe the discomfort. I'm not sure it really helps with the itch and in fact is pretty messy. Particularly if the allergic reaction is in an awkward place. My current allergy is on the underside of both arms AND on one complete side of my torso. It is hard to wait for calamine to dry before putting my arms down. As a result, most of my clothing is covered in lotion and needs to be washed all over again.

Covering with lotion is okay. Covering the rash or the blisters with band-aids is terrible. Remember, the goal is to dry out the rash and let it "breathe." If a blister breaks, loosely cover it with gauze fixed with surgical tape.

Drying out the rash with alcohol washes is recommended. I'm afraid of the ouchiness and have never done this.

Hot showers are heavenly, as are warm oatmeal baths (like with an Aveeno brand oatmeal product. Something about the wet heat provides itching relief. But, be careful of the scope of the heat and the length of the shower or soak. Why? Because sweating makes the itchiness worse. There is a fine line between a blissfully comforting hot shower or bath and a gale of sweat-induced body shaking itches.

When the rash is really bad or doesn't go away after 12 days or is in sensitive parts, one can go to the doctor to get steroid shots and pills and prescription creams to address the problem. By Monday, June 1st, I'll have been to the doctor three times for this horrible itchy episode. Sigh.

The takeaway is this. Poison ivy stinks. And I'm a dope for repeatedly getting into it. I'm now six hours into my latest round of treatment. Antihistamines (to stop the itching), prednisone (for itching and swelling), and Bactrim (to kill the agents causing the infections). My infected arm is covered in a 4x4 gauze pad fastened with paper tape. And my arm, right now, doesn't hurt. It is a beautiful day and I shouldn't go outside because of sun sensitivity due to the meds AND the problem with sweating and itching. I'm not supposed to drink alcohol either because of the possible drug reactions.

The good news is the medicine is working and I'm not yearning to peel my skin off to make the itching stop. My kittens are sitting beside me snoozing. And there is a bowl of fat-free, sugar-free pudding mixed with sugar-free cool whip waiting for me on the counter. I have the names of three tree companies I can call to inquire about poison ivy removal services so I can feel like I'm really taking action to protect myself. And I've just arrived at the startling murder part of the story in the latest mystery I've plucked from BMG's considerable collection of paperback mysteries. So, I'll stay inside, regretting getting into this mess in the first place, and relax.

Crazy cat products

2009-05-29T18:43:00.003-05:00

I was getting a prescription filled at the grocery store pharmacy* today. While I was waiting I wandered up the pet products aisle to look at toys for my new kittens.

During my ten minute slow stroll down the aisle I found some amazing and weird pet products. Things like:
Stink Finder - an ultraviolet light that illuminates pet stains that are invisible to the naked eye (but not to the nose);
Ensure for cats, called CatSure;
And, if your cat is lactose intolerant, there is lactose-free milk treats for cats;
Baby wipes, but for your cat. When I looked later at Petco online I learned there are TONS of different pet wipe products - for dental cleaning, ear cleaning, dander damping.
This doesn't include the products with imaginative names like "Dried Fish for Cats."

Have these products always been available? I grew up in a cat household and have occasionally had cats in my adult life. And I can't tell if these products are new signs of the coming apocalypse, or if they have always been around? What I DO know is that my kittens - who have not had their stools examined for signs of milk allergies (in fact they haven't had milk since being weaned from their mom-cat), don't have dried fish to snack on, and have no toys except for the tin foil balls and paper bags littering the house - are looking for a lap to sit in. And mine is taken up with a laptop, so I'm going to sign off here and play with a kitten.

*Jodi Thomas at the Pharmacy at the Super Stop & Shop in Hingham is the BEST pharmacist I have ever worked with in my life. I've been getting prescriptions filled there for only 6 months. She recognizes my voice on the phone knows my medicine needs, and is exceptionally friendly and informative.

Tonsillectomy

2009-03-11T20:06:00.003-05:00

By the end of tomorrow, both my nephew, NWTP, and my niece, MAR, will have gone under the knife to have their tiny tonsils removed. NWTP was well enough the day after surgery to crave toast, and MAR is exuberant at the notion that she can "eat all the popsicles I want and then SOME MORE!" I have strong olfactory memories of Hawaiian Punch, so strong that the smell of it even now transports me back to Upstate Medical Center, the teaching hospital affiliated with the state medical school. On the phone tonight my mom said, "I hope she comes through this better than you did." "What happened to me?" I asked. And then my mom told me the story of the blood clot at the surgery site rupturing while I was in recovery, which resulted in my appearing to vomit blood uncontrollably. I was rushed back up to surgery to have the incision cauterized a second time. Suddenly my older sister's story of being so afraid that I was going to die that she walked tens of miles from our home to the hospital (in the snow, uphill both ways) to visit me because my parents wouldn't (couldn't?) bring her. I know the surgery was preceded by three hospitalizations for severe infections accompanied by 105 degree fevers and trips to the emergency room. I remember visiting our pediatrician, Dr. Cantor, so often that I became bored with the fish tank and the games and the same old tired books in the waiting room. My tonsils were what young doctors call "a finding" and I distinctly remember medical students being endlessly rotated into my exam room to peer into my throat.

****

It was good to hear stories of my childhood as told by my mom, however briefly. My memories of growing up are, like everyone else in the world, skewed towards a particular worldview. In this case, my world view is undoubtedly affected by my child's understanding of the break-up of my parents' marriage, which was happening at around this time. You know the rap - either the break-up was my fault or I was going to be left alone because both of my parents hated me. I felt comforted hearing my mom talk about rubbing my back as I rested in recovery, and hearing her recollections of being afraid when I was rushed back into surgery. I have a different understanding of my sister's story of walking to the hospital (seriously, like seven miles) in the snow to visit me because she was so afraid I was going to die. (Or maybe she thought mom and dad were fighting so much that they couldn't possibly be paying attention to me?) Regardless, I understand that place of sisterly caring just a little differently tonight. And I'm grateful.

Dream Aunt

2009-03-11T18:28:00.005-05:00

The week before my oldest niece, CMR, started Kindergarten I took her out for "Special Aunt Clownface/CMR Day." I took her for her first mani/pedi (she had her nails painted blue with daisies painted on them), we went to lunch (Friendlys), then we went to a nearby state park and played chase (her idea), and wrapped up with a trip to the craft store where she picked a new craft kit that we did together.

She is now 8 and deep into the second grade and we haven't had another "Special Aunt Clownface/CMR Day" since. Until this week. When I pull her out of school on Friday. We set our agenda by phone today.

Step one: Have breakfast with Gammie (that's grandma to the rest of the world).
Step two: Go have our nails done (this went over VERY VERY big two years ago).
Step three: Go to Syracuse's Everson Museum of Art to see the Central New York Scholastic Art Fair Exhibit, which goes up on Friday.
Step four: Go out to lunch.
Step five: Make art together at Gammie's house or her cousin's house or her own house - if we feel so inspired.

I suggested the museum to CMR's mom by email, who then asked the wee one if she was interested (she apparently recently read a book about a little girl who goes to an art museum independent of this plan being hatched). When I told CMR I wanted to take her to the museum to see art made by teenagers from her town I could hear her eyes pop out of her head. She said to me "Do you mean someday I could have art hanging in a museum?" "Yes Little Bear, someday YOU could have art hanging in a museum. Let's go see what kind of art is good enough to hang in a museum!"

I feel like a great aunt because I get to help CMR have a unique experience that will open windows and doors to her imagination and stoke her aspirations.

I have six nieces and nephews. CMR is the first so she gets to have these types of experiences before anyone else in the passel of little people who are being raised by my sisters. I hope I can sustain this type of effort for each of them, so they can come to know how fantastic they are as individuals - and I can feel as if I've had a little role in helping them unfold themselves into this world.

How I use facebook

2009-02-18T21:14:00.002-05:00

"Thank you for asking me to be your friend on Facebook. I've found that I use Facebook mostly to catch up with old friends and to stay in more regular touch with current friends. I try to keep my personal and professional lives separate, and prefer not to use Facebook to connect with colleagues. I'm very happy to connect professionally through Linked In. Look for me there!"

This is a message I've found myself typing more frequently to the handful of people from work recently ask to "Friend" me on Facebook.

I use Facebook to affirm/strengthen friendships. Why? Because Facebook is both silly and efficient. I can get caught up with a whole slew of people without spending money in one fell swoop.

Some of the people with whom I'm FBFs (Facebook friend) are current or former colleagues. But, because of my current position, I'm careful about my boundaries in the office - not too friendly, not too aloof, not too allied with one person (or type of person) or another. And my colleagues who are also FBFs are people I've decided pose no political risk if I tell them I'm exhausted or really angry at my boss (not that THAT would ever happen), or would be concerned about sharing something that might be deemed too personal or inappropriate in the work environment. The upshot, I try to be careful about my personal relationships in the office.

So, I find these Facebook requests from colleagues who want to friend me to be a little mystifying. Are they writing because they think we ARE friends? Or, do they think because we're colleagues we must also be friends? Or, are they less guarded about their personal boundaries?

Whatever the reason, I feel a little funny when I send my now standard response, fearful I'll make the requestor feel rejected at best and angry at worst. But, I know it is the right thing to do. I need to come home and wax philosophic about "The Office," and voodoo, and war stories from Grade 12 without worrying about how my colleagues will judge my choice in television shows, religion, or high school hijinks. So, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to my search for former employees of the Erie Boulevard Hechinger Store and people who hate the State of Pennsylvania.

Gimp

2009-02-17T21:09:00.004-05:00

Gimp is slang for a person with a physical disability, refers to some sort of open source photo editing software. The word gimp is a combo term for gay wimp, and is used to describe a man who likes to wear rubber suits as part of sex play. And it is also a common term for plastic lacing used at summer camps around the world to make lanyards and other useless crafts.

Or at least is USED to be a common term for plastic lacing used at summer camps around the world.

Is there anyone out there who can explain to me how the derogatory slang for a person with a disability became associated with a summer camp activity? I'm not looking for conjecture, but rather an explanation. Seriously.

I was called on the virtual carpet by a colleague last week for sending an email to three people asking for information on where they buy "gimp" for student activities. This was after getting a request to buy "gimp" from a teacher, and asking three purchasing professionals in our business office if they had any idea where I could buy "gimp," AND searching the online catalogues of myriad retailers for "gimp" using multiple search terms including "boondoggle" and lanyard craft kits. All with no result. So, at the suggestion of a member of the purchasing team in my office suggested I contact colleagues in the summer camp division of our office where they buy the plastic lacing. And that's when my awareness was raised about the link between summer fun and making fun of other people.

Had it every occurred to you that gimp, the plastic lacing, was politically incorrect? It has occurred to me now, and I feel embarrassed about the email I sent around the office last week. Oh, and I found and purchased the plastic lacing online, using the search term "gimp".

Liberal dilemma

2009-02-09T19:16:00.003-05:00

Is there anyone out there who feels there is a dearth of cell phone storefront operations available in their neighborhood? If yes, I'd like to hear from you. Because I cannot, in my wildest dreams, imagine that there are people in this world who find themselves in a quandry over the lack of bobo cell phone shacks. Along my 18-miles commute I've seen two new cell phone stores open up in just the last month.

The liberal in me is desperate for the hopeful franchisees from Pakistan and Vietnam or whatever down and out locales either foreign and domestic from which they hail to make it in our capitalistic economy.

And the smart person in me thinks these people are stupid for sinking their savings into a business that no one wants, in an overcrowded marketplace where many people can use the Internet to get their needs met on their own time in their comfort of their own homes.

Love letter from God to me

2009-02-08T12:22:00.002-05:00

"Hi Gurch!"

How ya doing?! I'm real glad to see you are finally getting confirmed. I can remember as far back as your baptism. I rember (sic) that because you screamed and screamed because the water was cold. It was so funny.

I also remember your first day at kindergarten and first grade and second grade. You were so little and so unaware of all that went on around you. Now look at you, all grown up and being confirmed. I've kept (a) special eye on you, and I know you are going to go far with your life. That newspaper thing you go to? Everyone else is going to drop out, but you'll go on to be the editor, and someday you'll be editor of the New York Times.

Good luck with your life +
remember,
I love you, and
I'm always watching you.
God."