The Epitome of Lazy (aka the napkin caper)

I was recently at a cafeteria-style quick serve restaurant. While there, I observed a woman open the napkin dispenser to pull out a paper napkin.

"Oh aren't you clever," I started to exclaim.

But my voice dropped off when I realized she was pulling a 4" stack out of the machine. My eyes got wide and I finished my sentence with "And apparently very messy!"

She smiled at me and said, "I do this because it takes too long to pull out each napkin one by one."

In a past life...

...I was clearly an animist.

The evidence, you ask?

I intentionally rotate my underpants in the drawer, out of a concern that underpants that might not get as much wear will feel bad because I'm not using them.

Beets and Asparagus

Photo courtesy of the 
William & Sonoma website.

I've finally arrived at a point where I can remember I've recently eaten asparagus, and not be surprised when I'm assaulted by that weird asparagus smell the next three times I pee.

Beets, however, are another issue. I still have a mini cancer panic every time I use the toilet in the 18 hour window after I've consumed the delicious, sweet, red tubers.

That is all.

"Sugar just isn't good for me."

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 bravest people I know

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?

How will you celebrate National Cheese Fondue Day?

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.

Which way do you blow?

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!

Crazy cat products

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.

How I use facebook

"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.

1908 Cement Mixer?

Operating on the philosophy that one man's trash is another man's treasure, Freecycle is a series of email listservs sponsored by Yahoogroups which allow people in communities around the world to post electronic "ads" offering to give stuff away or seeking free, used stuff. Members of the local Freecycle communities either get an email with every new ad that is posted, or they can get a weekly(ish) digest with all of the ads posted for the week.

Still not clear on how it works? Let me give you a concrete example. Say I'm cleaning out my closet and find a bunch of old purses I don't use any more. Rather than dumping them in a landfill or putting them in an Africa box, I can post them on Freecyle to give to a neighbor who might be able to use them right away. Likewise, if there is something I need/want that I am happy to get in used form, I might post a request on the Freecycle community in the hope that someone has a spare one kicking around they are willing to give away for free. I have received exercise equipment, plant stands, lawn/leaf bags, iris rhizomes, and moving boxes through Freecycle either by responding to ads with "offers" or getting answers to my "wanted" ads. And I have given away innumerable pieces of "trash" to individuals looking for treasure including lamps, a DVD/VCR player, drop ceiling panels and half-empty cans of paint.

In my experience there is some weird stuff posted on Freecycle. This includes:
*Half full bottles of bubble bath (the former owner found she was allergic to it and couldn't use it anymore),
*Partially consumed bags of potato chips,
*Twist ties saved over a lifetime of eating bread, and
*Broken electronics (we can't figure out how to fix it, but maybe you can?)
In my experience packing materials, toys outgrown by one's children, books/movies, and clothing (see outgrown reference above) are among the most common items posted.

And today, while reading the Freecycle digest for my little suburban neighborhood, I found this:

Freecycle™ Hingham, MA
Messages In This Digest (1 Message)

1.
OFFER: 1908 cement mixer

View All Topics | Create New Topic
Message

1.
OFFER: 1908 cement mixer
Posted by:
Fri Jan 23, 2009 7:44 am (PST)
This cement mixer dates back to the early 1900's - we think about 1908 (not entirely sure). It worked until at least the early 1970's. There's a lot of rust & the engine probably seized up a while back. You will need to pick this up in Marshfield & it's really heavy - so you will probably need some sort of machinery to lift it. It's in the back yard, so you will have to get through the snow to retrieve it. Wheels are not attached, as they are no longer any good (the wood rotted). This would be a good project for someone who likes to restore old mechanical things - or sell it for scrap. Photos available upon request.

*****

WTF? Who has an old cement mixer in their backyard. That hasn't been functional since the 1970s? What is it doing there? Is it being used as a planter? A kids' toy? A conversation piece at cookouts? A rusty punch bowl? And who among my neighbors would want a 100 year old, broken cement mixer? Maybe there is someone who has a museum of old construction equipment that could use it. But what is the likelihood that person lives in the same town where an antique cement mixer just happens to live?

I'm always amazed at how the world works. Or better put, how the odd individuals in the world work.

Hellooo Kitty

Hooray for the folks at "Who Sucks" who pointed out this excellent news story which I found while I was searching for Hello Kitty paraphenalia to buy for my niece. I really need to get a cat.

What to eat at a funeral

So I'm reading my newest favorite blog, www.cakewrecks.blogspot.com. The cover cake wreck is a three dimensional rendering of the twin towers in NY with an emotive "We will never forget" in curlicue writing at the base of the towers. Trolling through more than 175 comments I find this curious nugget:

"In my opinion cake is normally used for celebration. (At funerals you usually see pie[.])"

True? I must admit I'm not a big fan of funerals. I express my sympathy better in writing, and my sadness in less public forums. But, of the five or six funerals I have attended, I can say for certain I've never seen cake NOR have I seen pie. I've seen plenty of deli platters and pre-fab fruit platters, and I have a vague recollection of one of those giant chocolate chip cookies decorated like a cake. And never have I heard someone say, "At funerals you see pie." What makes pie more suitable, more solemn, more commemorative than a cake? I know plenty of women (and some men) who drown their sorrows in brownies and cookies. Is there something about pie that just says, "So sorry someone died"? I don't get this comment at all.

This brings me to another question. What is it with funerals and grocery store catering? Where are all of the people who channel their grief and sadness into cooking? Why haven't they opened "Funeral Foods Catering Company" so they can make delicious food for post-funeral gatherings and wakes for the foodies who are too bereft to cook? Maybe this will be a challenge on the next Top Chef the funeral food challenge? What foods would you want to assuage your sadness at a funeral?

Need a laugh? Visit this blog...

Oh, dear GPA! I am so grateful to you for sharing the funny Cake Wreck blog. I now share it with all of you. My only advice is to use the bathroom before you read this because you may end up wetting your pants because of the uncontrollable laughter.

"Why is it so dead around here?"

Saturday afternoon BMG and I settled into a sidewalk cafe' in what appeared to be a trendy part of Providence, RI. We were being served "High Cheese" (wine, cheese, sausage and pate) at a restaurant that adjoined a gourmet food shop. A high end shoe store and home goods store were across the street. It was the kind of retail district that, if situated in Cambridge, would have been bustling 24/7. In Providence, there was no one to be seen.

"Why is it so dead around here?" I asked curiously.

BMG pointed across the street and drew my attention to the following sign. "That may be why," he said sagely, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.


"Oh. It is dead around here, because everyone around here is dead," was my amused reply. I returned my attention to the cheese plate, which featured a Morbier, a soft cheese marked by a thin vein of ash running through its center. Raising an eyebrow I looked up at BMG. He shrugged, raised his glass of beer in a toast, and we ate.

Beware of men bearing Italian cookies in grocery stores

I had an odd interaction with the Stella D'Oro Cookie Man man at my local big box grocery store yesterday. It happened as I studied the shelves in search of the perfect cookie for the chocolate creme pie I was planning to make at home.

This started when an elderly woman commented that I seemed to be very serious about my cookies. I explained my intentions, and she chuckled and said, "Well, aren't you ambitious."
The Stella D'Oro Cookie Man, stocking the lower shelves where his sub par cookies lived, looked at me and said, "You don't have kids, do you." Not a question. A statement.
"Uh, no," I replied.
"I used to like to cook, but now I have teenagers and all they want are pizza and hamburgers."
I murmured some words of consolation and began examining cookies further away.
"Hey! Do you want some teenagers" echoed up from the bottom shelf, in a tone that was curiously both joking and imploring.
I laughed and said emphatically that I was childless by choice, a fact which occasionally engenders grief from those members of our society who judge people for making choices different than their own. (I was trying to make him think that not having kids wasn't all that and a bag of chips.)
Mr. Stella D'Oro replied. "Those people are just jealous of you. I mean, the good things about having kids are really great. But, the bad things are just worse." He sighed.
At this point we were about 8 feet away from one another, and I hoped he couldn't see the slight consternation that passed across my face. Who WAS this guy complaining about his kids to a stranger in a grocery store. "Hang in there!" I called as I grabbed a package of Nabisco chocolate wafers off the shelf, and quickly rolled away.

But you aren't the kitten's mother!

More than ten years ago I had a roommate who was a little odd. We'll call him "The Whale." We'll call him "The Whale" not because he was fat, and not because he spent lots of money in casinos. In fact, why we call him "The Whale" is irrelevant to the story at hand.

"The Whale" and I had two kittens. (I have a history of getting kittens and then becoming quickly bored with them and giving them away.) I have NO IDEA what the names of the kittens were. (Perhaps because of the aforementioned kitten revolving door in my life?) Anyhow, one morning I came out of my bedroom and saw "The Whale" walking down the hall with one of the kittens. In his mouth. Seriously. The kitten was in "The Whale's" mouth. Granted, he was clenching the scruff of the kitten's neck between his lips, so the kitten was not full on in his mouth. But, he was carrying the kitten. IN HIS MOUTH.

After double-taking, no, make that triple-taking, I said, "Uhm, why is the cat in your mouth?"

He replied, "This is how their mother carried them around. I thought they would like to be reminded of their mother."

I furrowed my brow. "But you aren't the kitten's mother!!"

He smiled and continued down the hallway.

Afro Can't

I'm a little behind the times with my knowledge of Japanese anime. I've just discovered Afro Ken, pictured here at right. Better late than never, says me, for I do believe I love this little puppy with his rainbow nappy locks. And I want him. And, as I was sharing my Afro Ken delights with my dear BMG, he said, "Don't you get it? Afro Ken = African. You can't get him, you can't buy an African!" I am now crestfallen.

Sigh. It is so hard being a liberal. Really, she said.

****

Speaking of the Japanese, here is a little gem retold by BMG today. "Do you think when Japanese people type LOL they actually type ROR? Raughing Out Roud?"

(I really am going to hell, for having repeated that in print.)

Peyos

Peyos are the extra long ringlet sideburns that Hassidic Jews wear. It is not very "tolerant" of me, but I have to confess they both fascinate and creep me out. In the same way that transsexuals fascinate and creep me out.

BMG and I were in New York City this weekend, biking through Brooklyn as part of the Five Boro Bike Tour. One of the reasons I love biking is because it gives one the opportunity to really observe large swaths of community. On the tour we biked through Harlem, Astoria (Queens), Soho and Tribeca, along the Upper East Side by way of Central Park, and through crowded Hassidic neighborhoods in Brooklyn. In between waving to the hordes of adorable children waving at the 30,000 cyclists, I had the opportunity to observe many Hassidic males in their black uniforms of trench coat, wide brimmed hat, and long beard. And their peyos, swinging from the sides of their heads like freakish extra limbs.

Embarrassed by my emotional reaction to the mass of dead skin cells hanging off these obviously religious people, I decided to do a little research to educate myself on the symbolic function of peyos in the Hassidic community. What I found was that the Talmud tells men they cannot cut their sideburns (referred to as the "corners of their heads" in some English translations) - in a gesture of humility and an act against vanity. There is some argument among Talmudic scholars and spiritual advisers as to the interpretation of the Talmud - with some believing the written passages simply mean one cannot use a particular type of cutting implement to cut the sideburns, with others believing it forbids cutting entirely.) What is clear it is that the Talmud does NOT tell men to grow pigtails that hang in front of their ears. Hassidim do this in order to go above and beyond the Talmud, to show they are extra pious or extra devoted to God or the Talmud, or their Jewish identity, or something.

Aha! This is why they creep me out. They are an indicator of zealotry and identity (like gang colors), which is a condition I have a hard time understanding. I find myself unable to live in a state of black or white commitment to an ideal, issue or belief - I find myself more comfortable residing emotionally and intellectually in the folds of gray that lie between the poles of any issue or emotional state. In my adulthood I have tended to be more comfortable living as Zelig, bouncing between the various identities that make me, well me: hippie vegetarian, intellectual, foodie, former welfare kid, government bureaucrat, philanthropist, athlete, spiritual seeker, cynic, devoted sister and aunt - the list goes on. I don't identify with the desire to firmly plant oneself in one identity - I couldn't be "all aunt" or "all hippie." Or, "all Jew" if this were part of who I am.

Phew! I'm not an intolerant and anti-Semitic jerk. I'm just comfortable with being somewhere in the undefined middle of life.

Learning beyond my limits

Flipping channels tonight I stumbled upon a program on "The Learning Channel" about a man who has a mysterious medical condition that has caused his hands and feet to grow into tree-like appendages. Seriously. He can't use his hands and feet to work, do basic household tasks (he is raising two children alone because his wife left him), or hug another human being. The video footage made me feel seriously nauseous and gave new meaning to the type of question asked at co-ed slumber parties hosted by UU parents for their hippie kids. "If you were a tree what kind of tree would you be and why?"

I love train wreck television, but this pushed me over the edge.

I did a quick web search to find out exactly what I had seen (if you follow this link be warned that it contains pictures I find to be extraordinarily disturbing), and then chose to watch and read no further.

I learned tonight that there are limits to the human horror I can bear witness to. Thank you TLC.

Fridgewatcher

I do believe that my 15 minutes of fame, my vicarious 15 minutes of fame, has begun. BMG and I spent Friday night sitting across from one another in his bungalow, trolling fascinating websites like Found, and Post Secret. In a fit of artistic inspiration, we submitted photos of his refrigerator for Fridgewatcher.com.

And they are now up on the web! BMG's fridge is the featured icebox on Fridgewatcher.com!

PS: Coop, I know you are going to LOVE this site.