Request

Terms I find I do not enjoy:

Scrapbooking

Webinar

South paw


Let's never use them again, okay?

Disparities

I cannot help but be struck by the thought that a time in one's life when one is obliged to wear a girdle in order to fit into the majority of one's dresses should not simultaneously be a time when one has a sizable and almost awe-inspiringly tenacious whitehead on one's face.

And yet, life is full of interesting little disparities, is it not?

Weather Report

At 9am, the radio newscaster read that today would be sunny with a temperature of 68 degrees at the coast after the morning low clouds burned off.

It is now 4:23pm. I glimpsed blue sky at 4:14pm. It now has disappeared. Therefore, by my calculation, we have had 9 minutes of summer in my neighborhood since Monday.

Had I known exactly when they would occur, I would have organized a BBQ.

Public Transportation

On Monday, my ride downtown on the trusty N Judah seemed more focused on the "public" than the "transportation." The train was surprisingly crowded considering it was going the opposite direction of the rush-hour commute. I stuffed myself on and found a place to stand without jamming my bag too, too much in anyone's face. At first we were doing okay, but once we reached the second stop, we just stayed there for many long minutes with no explanation. During this time, two young children, perhaps 7-year-olds, snaked their way from the back of the car to the driver two or three times trying to sort out the paying of their fare. Finally they settled in the forward corner behind the driver's compartment. All the standers among us relaxed into our stances now that we no longer had to accommodate the passage of the children. I was all the more surprised, therefore, when something struck me heavily at the back of the knees, causing me to stumble. What th...? Was it someone's luggage? Was it a big dog? I turned look and saw that a small child, presumably the sibling of the other two, was ricocheting his way down the aisle between the legs of commuters. He looked to be about three years old. He was wearing an adult sized tee-shirt that extended to his feet and he was filthy. There was no parent in sight.

Finally, after several passages of the child, a woman, presumably the mother, appeared. She yelled to one of the older children "Is Chance down there?" She was assured that he was and that seemed to bring her to the limits of her parenting responsibilities. Chance continued to travel from the other children toward his mother and back again, propelling himself by grabbing onto people's legs and pushing off as he moved forward. This may have been cute once, after all, he was a very young child, but it was not charming six times. It was clear that she had no intention of stopping him.

At one point, he grabbed onto me hard from behind, wadding up my coat in one hand and clinging to my leg with the other. He just hung there, content to stay in one place--my place--indefinitely. I turned to look for his mother but she had disappeared from view. I pulled away from him and turned to look him in the eye. "Where is your mother? You need to go to your mother." He glared at me. "No!" he yelled. "Yes." I countered and stepped back. He squniched up his eyes, made a fist and punched me in the leg, the highest point he could reach. "Bitch!" he yelled.

The adults in closest proximity to me and I all looked at each other with slack-jawed amazement. "Wow." I said. "I think being called a bitch by a three-year-old may be a new MUNI low." We craned our heads to look for the mother, but she was nowhere. I suspect that's where she usually is.

Compared to being punched and called a bitch by the three-year-old child of a total stranger while standing in an immobile vehicle, looking for parking downtown seems like it might a very pleasant pastime indeed. And this, boys and girls, is why global warming is unlikely to be abated in the near future.

And for Chance, sadly, global warming is likely to be the least of his problems. Good luck, small furious man. May someone take care of you soon.

GPS

9pm. August 6, 2008

Man: Damn. It's really cold out.

Woman (employing a tone that suggests he has missed the obvious): Well, it's August.


Even if you were blindfolded, overhearing this conversation would enable you to know instantly that you were in San Francisco.

And yes. It is really cold out. And damp. And windy.
The men beside me on my flight home from Nashville were incredulous when I told them they would require jackets. I hope they have heeded my warning. As for me? I've been wearing my winter coat every day since I got home. My sun dresses look at me reproachfully from the closet.

No use for the truth

I got an email last night from my friend in Paris in which he mentioned casually that Tom Waits was there and that he (my friend) was thinking that maybe, possibly, he might go see the show. Now, if you are me (which, frankly, I hope you are not because things are quite confusing enough already, thanks) you do not find out that Tom Waits is playing in your town and then wander around pondering whether or not you might go see him. No. If you are me, you thank God and fairies and karma and whatever else has blessed you. Then you go empty out your bank account and pay whatever they're asking. And then you go. See Tom Waits. Live. Because he is Tom Waits.

If you are me, you also have a whole lot of romantic nostalgia about Paris, so finding out that Tom Waits is playing Paris while you are thousands of miles from Paris makes for a rough evening.

But then, a little self-pitying internet searching of the why-is-he-not-playing-MY-town variety unexpectedly reveals this shiny bright side. So, no. It's not Paris. It's Atlanta, kind of. But really it's your living room. And it turns out that that is a really, really good second best. Merci NPR.

In praise of talking to strangers

Since last we spoke, I have been on several small vacations and I have also had a birthday. One or the other of these things seems to have addled my brain as evidenced by the fact that the first time I left the apartment upon my return, I promptly locked myself out. Then, upon my return to work on Monday I saw on my work calendar that I was meant to be going to a Shawn Colvin concert that night. A concert that, at the time I bought the ticket, I had been quite excited about. Also a concert that I had not remembered was taking place. At all. No matter. The venue is not far from my home, and I had no other fixed plans, so it was fine. I congratulated myself for not having missed it and for not having wasted thirty bucks. Woo hoo and hooray for calendars.

I presented my ID at the will call window and was handed my tickets. Plural. I stared at them for quite a while perplexed. Was one a receipt? Was one an error? It slowly dawned on me that months ago when I was excited about this outing I no doubt also thought, "Well, I won't want to go by myself. I will employ amazing foresight and purchase TWO tickets." I may have even been so bold as to think, "Well, I currently have a boyfriend. Perhaps I will STILL have a boyfriend in two months." Bah ha ha ha. So there I was, standing in the lobby, clutching my two tickets, waving goodbye to thirty bucks after all, and, in general, feeling like a big, capital "L" Loser.

Seating at this venue is in groups of four chairs around little cocktail tables. What with my two tickets, I had my choice of seat A or B. I chose B and sat there by myself feeling silly. When the cocktail waitress came and said brightly, "How're you doing tonight?" I hesitated rather a long while before coming up with "Um...Okay." "You're not too sure, though?" she asked. And so, I told her my sad little story. "Really?" she said, eying seat A. "Because my mom really wanted to come to this concert. If she can get here she would totally give you thirty dollars." I told her I would be only too happy if someone could use the ticket. She was delighted; I was delighted. She took my spare ticket and hurried out to the lobby to call her mom.

Around that time, a friendly couple, the the holders of seats C and D arrived. And so I told them the same sad little story with the new happy ending: that we would soon be joined by our waitress' mother. They were able to join in the general delight. We then spoke quite amicably for about a half an hour as though we were old friends.

About three songs in, the waitress' mother was ushered in to seat A. The waitress came and embraced her and proceeded to bring me a dish of sorbet and a second glass of ginger ale on the house. The goodwill at Table 11 was flowing like the mighty Mississippi.

After the encore, we all told each other what a great pleasure it had been to make each other's acquaintance, what a pleasant evening it had been, and generally, to our view, how Table 11 was superior to all other tables in the world. The mother told me what a marvelous favor I'd done her by allowing her to see the show, and the waitress handed me thirty bucks, while clearing away my empty sorbet dish.

Oh, right. Shawn Colvin did a fine job too.

Waste

My young cousin, a Marine, has just lost his leg in Fallujah.


What more is there really to say?

Community service

Walking home today I passed a box of miscellaneous computer equipment in a cardboard box on the sidewalk. I don't know what any of it is, but it all looks large and clunky and it is all the same beige "computer equipment" hue. There is a sign above the box written in enthusiastic bubble capitals. It reads:

FREE!
YESTERDAY'S TECHNOLOGY TODAY!

The geinus of commerce

Anthropologie has just sent me an email with this breaking news:

SKIRTS!
They're back on the scene and better than ever.


Here's how to wear them.


I'll be honest, I didn't click the how-to link. Frankly, I find skirts remarkably simple to wear. However, I may have an unfair advantage since I've been wearing them all my life. I missed the part, I guess, when they went away. But they must have, right? Since they're back now?


Meanwhile, up on Haight Street the place that used to sell smoothies has closed down. There's a sign up now telling us what's coming next. Apparently, it is to be the city's best smoke shop. Well, thank god. Because you know what Haight Street needs more of? Smoke shops. There is a desperate lack. Oh. And tattoo/piercing joints. Obviously. Delicious juice based beverages? What need have we of those?

Not the same

There have been a great many commercials on the radio of late encouraging us all to play the California lottery. Basically the message is "winning even a little money is better than winning no money, so you really should spend the money you already have and play." They feature little vignettes of people having pampered themselves in some way. They're not millionaires, but they've been able to buy a bunch of shoes, or go on vacation or something.

This morning, I heard a new one from the series. A woman describes how she spent the day doing whatever she wanted to do: watching Italian movies, playing with her dog in the park and then seeing a guitar in a shop window and buying it on impulse. "Why not?" she asks. Then she says something about how living with cancer doesn't mean you should stop living to the fullest or some such. I'm all for that. You have cancer? Embrace your life. Play guitar if you want to.

And yet.

is it not disturbing that "living with cancer" sounds just like "winning the lottery?"

State of mind

The way I feel today I suppose it is unsurprising that, although I drove to work, I just walked home. This means that I just unintentionally left my car at work, which is not so bad since I need to leave there by car tomorrow afternoon to go to school. However, since it is parked in an 8am street cleaning zone, it is less than ideal. Yet, am I going back there to get it now? I am not. Will I get there before 8am to move it in the morning so I don't get a ticket? I will not. Am I therefore just throwing forty bucks out the window? Yes, yes I am. Now leave me alone. I'm very tired and I have to read about 150 pages of The Creation of Patriarchy by tomorrow. (This is also unlikely to happen, but we're not discussing that.)

Carry-on baggage

Walking home one day this week, I happened upon a man who had taken two of these and made them into one of these.

I don't really even know what to say about it, but I thought you should know.

Another one

Today I've gotten an email from MSN, the subject heading of which is "Date night? Be sure your friend is ready."

All I'm saying is, if that doesn't sound like some sort of condom euphemism, I don't know what does.


On the bright side, MSN seems open to the fact that I may actually be dating, rather than headed down the aisle. So, thanks MSN. Maybe you could have a little chat with J. Crew.

All dressed in black

The Paper Source catalogue I received in the mail on Saturday is entirely devoted to wedding invitations--having them printed, making them yourself with little kits, coordinating them with your guest book and gift boxes.

Just now I got an email from my old friend J. Crew with the subject heading "Engaged?"

People. Seriously. I have a mother. This sort of thing is her job. I really don't need miscellaneous vendors to be similarly perched on the edges of their proverbial seats. Should I ever be engaged, I'll be sure to let you know. J. Crew? I know how to reach you. Meanwhile, please calm down.

Shhh

I am escorting a visitor through the school. I don't know him, so we're not saying much. This makes the loud squeaking of my shoes embarrassingly noticeable.

Me: This gives you a chance to listen to my squeaky shoes, which is good.

Him: I have some squeaky shoes too.

Me: I always forget that they do this until it's too late. I should just replace them.

Him: Mine are really nice shoes actually, it's just that they squeak. (Pause) They're not really worthy of the name "sneakers."

And next up..."Grandpappy's Mitzvah"

On Monday, there was a special activity day at school and I spent an hour of the morning with a group of students who were playing Bluegrass. I sang along as gamely as possible despite 1) not being a very able singer, 2) not being able to read music, and 3) never having heard of 80% of the songs. Still, the melodies are fairly simple and the song titles, even when unfamiliar, are generally pretty genre-appropriate. They have to do with family, God, journeys, love. So, when Courntey called out the name of the next song, I was taken aback. I leaned over to Zach. "What did she say? There's a song called 'The Mensch on the Hill'?"

Turns out there isn't. It's "The Mansion on the Hill." The good news is that means "Mensch on the Hill" is still available. In fact, I believe the whole genre of Yiddish Bluegrass is wide open. Knock yourself out.

Postcard from a Foreign Country

Two things are simultaneously true today that are normally mutally exclusive: it is 6am and I am up. This is unaccountable. Typically I would be up at six o'clock in the morning only if I had jetlag or needed to get to the airport. Today neither is true and yet, after lying awake since 5:23, I decided to give up the charade and actually get out of bed. Now here I am, with one tiny lamp on, listening to The Cure's "Pictures of You" on auto-repeat, waiting for the kettle to boil. Upstairs, I hear my neighbor's shower; across the street, I see a lamp on in the upstairs apartment--signs of life. These other people are citizens of the early morning. Me? I'm just visiting. Tomorrow there will be no pot of tea, no pre-dawn sky. Tomorrow there will be 48 minutes of the snooze alarm followed, quite possibly, by profanity, like every other morning. Meanwhile though, the weather continues fine. Wish you were here.

One week old

2008 is now a week old. How's it been going for you? Well, I hope. And may it continue so for us all.

After a month of writing nothing, it's best not to try to accomplish too much. We're going to start small. Hair shall be the topic.

1.
For 2008, I have embraced hair dye for the first time in my life. Hair dye for me falls into the category of Things I Was Meant to Have Experimented with as a Teenager, but Never Did. I have always been content to let my hair be the color it was when it grew out of my head. That is, until so much of it grew out of my head white at a moment when dating was destined to begin anew (again). I am hoping that this level of vanity may spur me to actually start swimming again, and thus address other unfortunate aspects of aging, but so far it's extended no farther than my darker locks. Interestingly, my ex-boyfriend does not like the new look, but perhaps this is symbolic--a clear sign that some future, as yet unmet, boyfriend will find it exceedingly attractive. As I was walking toward my building recently, my next door neighbor whistled at me in an appreciative manner, so I remain hopeful.

2.
A colleague's 8-year-old daughter walks unexpectedly into the faculty lounge.
"Oh! Hello there. Are you still on vacation?"
"No."
"Really? What are you doing here then?"
"I have lice."
"Oh. I see. How long will you be out of school?"
"Until it's gone."


Um...if your child is not allowed to go to school because she has lice, does it make sense to bring her to your workplace, which, just to be clear, is also a school?

I think we all know the answer to that, my friends. The last time I had lice was 13 years ago, but the memory is all too vivid.

Wishing you a vermin-free new year filled with passers-by who think you look pretty hot.
Love,
Kari

Assorted

I'm back. Did you miss me? What am I saying? Of course you missed me. Well, I'm sorry , but it couldn't be helped. Since I was last here, I have been to Paris and back and also turned in my accursed Dante research paper. Is it a good paper? No. Not particularly, but it is a done paper. A nothing-I-can-do-about-it-now paper. And second only to a work of complete genius, that's my favorite kind of paper. All this to say, I've been busy.

No doubt there will be forthcoming Paris stories, but for now let's just say that due to a lapse in packing attention, Marja somehow managed to come to France with neither her pants, nor her socks. This meant that she spent our four days in the dress and tights she'd worn on the plane and...looked fabulous ALL THE TIME. It was really a remarkable thing to witness.

In more current news, last night while I was in the living room contentedly decorating my wee, yet costly, impulse-buy Christmas tree, my kitchen sink was ever-so-quietly filling with foul water that had been mysteriously regurgitated through my disposal. When I went in to make dinner, it was a nasty shock. Turning on the disposal made the water level rise alarmingly rather than lower. A plunger, even when wielded by a strong neighbor, did nothing. At an inch and a half from overflow level, I called the landlord who came and bailed the water into a bucket with the intention of doing further repairs today. All was well until the upstairs neighbor took a shower and the water crept back up the drain into my sink, filled with a revolting sort of silt that I can only hope the neighbor had not just washed from his body. The good news is that now I know how to fill my apartment with the delightful aroma of vomit without having to go through the exhausting process of actually vomiting. Woo hoo.

Speaking of the aroma of vomit, apparently an ice show is coming to town: Brian Boitano skating his heart out to '70s hits by Barry Manilow. Which, incidentally, Barry will be on hand to perform live. How is that a real show?

Conspiracy

Saturday

1. 6-7am upstairs neighbors' accursed cat.

2. 7am-present next door neighbors' newborn infant.

3. 8:24am wrong number.

4. 8:33am next door neighbors' attempt to soothe infant with liberal application of techno music.


8:36 am. Okay, okay. I'm up, people. You win.

Also? I hate you.

Vive la France

I am going to Paris for Thanksgiving--just as soon as I finish my accursed Dante research paper. This very short trip has been the light at the end of the tunnel of this darkish fall. Only four days there and, counting the way there and back, another day spent in the air, but still worth it. That is, if I can actually get from the airport to the city.

Two things the French enjoy:

1. Cheese
2. Labor strikes


Oh, how they enjoy a good labor strike. This time it's a transit strike which means the trains, buses, and metro are essentially shut down. Presumably the taxis are gleefully running to and from Roissy, but with the strike-induced traffic, I can only imagine how long that ride would take. Or, more alarmingly, what it would cost. 100 Euros? 200?

It kind of redefines the whole "bargain travel package" thing.

Scope

This morning when my radio alarm went off, people were calling in to the station to discuss this tragic oil spill that has befouled our beloved Bay.

Two of the most distraught callers ranted about accountability and the need for San Franciscans to rise in protest. I was right there with them until BOTH of them mentioned their dogs. "I mean," said one, winding up the call, "I have an old dog who loves to run on the beach...and now he can't."

Seriously? With the scope of this disaster, you're primarily worried about how it affects your dog's routine? Well, ma'am. I'll be honest. You just lost me.

Advent calendar

Some people in my neighborhood have raised a few holiday questions in my mind. Last month the question was:

Is October 8 too early to cover the front of one's house with spooky cobwebs, witches, skeletons, etc?

The answer is:

Yes.


Today the question is:

Is November 4 too early to erect a fully-decorated ten-foot Christmas tree in one's front room?

The answer is:

Yes.


Let's all calm down here people. Do not let retailers entirely skew your sense of time. Halloween is not actually a month-long festival and Christmas is in December. Late December. If we start counting down before Thanksgiving, advent calendars are going to have to get a lot bigger.

NYC

Things I learned during my weekend in NY:

1. NY, NY is a hell of a town
2. The Bronx is up
3. The Battery's down
4. The people ride in a hole in the ground

Oh wait. Wrong list. I already knew all that from "On the Town"

Here we go:

1. My mother is a very organized traveler

2. It is possible to become quite intoxicated on two glasses of sangria. Particularly at Alta.

3. There are still hotel rooms available in which countless thousands of people seem to have been smoking since, say, 1952.

4. On the 19th floor the windows only open two inches.

5. Even if the website says student tickets will be available if you come in person to the box office, there will be no student tickets available.

6. Jules and Talya live way, way too far away from me and my life would be much improved if they lived within sangria-drinking distance all the time.

7. The R will get you there, but not back.

8. The F train will get you back, but not there.

9. Many, many, many people enjoy running.

10. My father is a rock star.


Actually, I knew a lot of that already, particularly #'s 1 and 10. Oh, and #6--I am definitely all too aware of #6.

If I were a millionaire, or, heck, a billionaire, and I had a warmer coat, I would probably move. For this year though, two days will have to do.

Perspective

A conversation yesterday regarding my seven-year-old niece, Ruby.


Ruby's mother: We've got to take Ruby to school. She's playing the villain in a melodrama or something this afternoon.

Ruby's father: A melodrama? I don't think that's what it is.

Ruby: I'm playing a rabbit.

All assembled adults: A rabbit?

Ruby: Yes. But a rabbit is a villain to a garden.


All assembled adults: Ohhhhh.

Lessons learned at dinner

1. In certain contexts, brussels sprouts can be surprisingly delicious.

2. Ditto celery root.

3. It is difficult to read by the light of one candle, even when the waitress, seeing your plight, brings you a bigger candle than anyone else has.

4. When the book is any part of The Divine Comedy, it will automatically be harder to read than any other book you might have thought to bring.

5. The first time you have dinner in a restaurant alone after a break up is far lonelier than you will be prepared for it to be.

6. If your recent ex was (and presumably is) a big fan of chocolate pudding--if chocolate pudding indeed was one of the major elements of your relationship--you may find eating chocolate pot de creme to be a bit heartbreaking.

7. This is a bummer because you love chocolate pot de creme.

8. When you are already extremely full, it is foolish to eat chocolate pot de creme even if (lucky you) you do not find it to be a particularly emotional experience.

9. If it is part of a prix fixe menu, you will eat it anyway (see #7).

10. When you are very, very full, it is even harder to read Dante.

Common ground

Dorothy Sayers' summary of Canto XVIII of Purgatory:

Dante is just dozing when he is roused by the noisy approach of the spirits of the Slothful , who run continually around the Cornice crying aloud examples of Zeal and Sloth which form the Whip and Bridle for their meditation. The spirit of the Abbot of San Zeno, as he rushes by, calls out directions for the Poets' journey and tells them about his convent. Presently, Dante falls asleep.

And so do I.

Birdhouse

Do you ever find yourself in a situation where something is suddenly just profoundly wrong? I don't mean like you've made a mistake. I mean deeply wrong. I have experienced this while snorkling, for example. All was well, there I was swimming merrily along the reef, breathing like Darth Vader through a rubber tube, marveling at flippery, shimmery, multi-colored nature. Then, quite suddenly, something swam innocently by and I panicked completely. Suddenly, I was overcome with the clear knowledge that I had no business trying to participate in the underwater kingdom. I was a land mammal for God's sake. I very clearly DID NOT BELONG HERE. I took off for shore as fast as I could.

Today was like that. I had a lot to bring in from the car, so after the first load, I just left the front door of my parents' house open. I went back to the parking lot, got the rest of my stuff, and came back to the house. I was gone for maybe seven minutes. I walked in, put everything down, and closed the screen door behind me. When I turned away from the door I saw something, sort of half registered it, and then did a complete cartoon double take. There was a bird about the size of a pigeon sitting on the window sill in the living room. This wouldn't have been such a big deal except that the window was closed and the bird was on the inside.

Seeing a bird inside the house is strangely shocking. The wrongness of it almost took my breath away for a moment. I was looking at it; it was clearly sitting right there, but my brain was saying: THIS SIMPLY CANNOT BE. The panic was soon to follow. Oh-my-god-that-is-a-a-big-bird-how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-get-it-out-of-here. I opened the screen door and just stood there for a moment trying to formulate a plan. Meanwhile, the bird looked at me, lept lightly from the window sill, flew toward me, and, making a graceful turn into the entry way, flew straight out the door. It sat for a few minutes on the porch railing before heading for the trees. Throughout our encounter, it was as calm as though it had just dropped in to pay a social call.

The equilbrium between inside and outside was restored almost as quickly as it had been disturbed, but I stared disbelievingly after that bird for several long minutes. When, at last, I reached to close the screen door, my hands were still shaking.

You smell delicious

One thing about having a smallish apartment is that there is no way to achieve anything akin to "what happens in the kitchen stays in the kitchen." My kitchen has no interior wall even, it just sort of opens into the living room and it a mere four steps from the bedroom. Therefore, the smell of anything I cook permeates the entire apartment and lingers for days. Last night I made quiche. It smelled pretty delicious at the time it was cooking, it even smelled good an hour later when I ate it. However, it was less delightful to go to sleep in this quiche-compromised air. And it was downright revolting to wake up this morning having marinated myself all night in eau de gruyere.

But who knows? Maybe as I walk home, I'll find a group of Frenchmen trailing behind me, entirely bewitched.

The great unknown

It's kind of like this. Let's say that the world was suddenly filled with a blinding light. To protect yourself, you cover all your windows with black-out shades and you stay inside. The question of course is, how do you know if the blinding light is still there? Do you dare peek? How long do you wait?

After nearly two months of sleeping under a mosquito net, I have lately been wondering if it's still necessary. Am I no longer plagued by mosquitos solely because of the net? Or have the mosquitos, in fact, gone? And I'm just being a paranoid weirdo? It is, after all, mid October. How long can mosquitos even survive as the weather gets colder?

While the net doesn't bother me when I'm asleep, it does present some difficulties when I'm awake. For example, I can't turn the lights off and on once I'm in there, nor can I reach the snooze alarm. I am nostalgic for the old days when I could freely extend my limbs beyond the mattress perimeter.

Tuesday night, I kept the net open and was entirely undisturbed all night. I congratulated myself for my courage and foresight in having undertaken this experiment. Last night, filled with a renewed sense of well being, I left the net wide open again. At 2am I was awakened by an intense itching on the side of my neck. Soon after I heard the tell tale whine in my ear. I reached (easily) for the light, searched for the interloper, saw nothing except one stray fruit fly, turned the light back off and, groping in the dark, pulled the net closed around me.

And now I know.

Several letters

Dear Food,
We used to be so close. What went wrong? Why must everything I eat make me sick? Wait, I know. If you're food that won't make me sick, raise your hand; the rest of you, hands down. Okay. Great, great. Thanks, seltzer water. Thanks, rye crisps. I'll be seeing you at dinnertime.
Thanks, bye.
Love, Kari


Dear Men in my Building,
I know you. You are all quite fit. Really--looking good, fellas. So, why have you all adopted the Fee-Fie-Fo-Fum tread? You are not giants. You are not even slightly overweight. Why the crazy stomping? Could you please stop? Because you're waking me up. Thanks, bye.
Love, Kari


Dear Fruit Flies,
Fun is fun, but it's time to go.
Thanks, bye.
Love, Kari


Dear Neighborhood Cats,
Shut up. No, really. Shut up.
Thanks, bye.
Love, Kari


Dear Lady Upstairs,
Before you moved in there was a family with a toddler in what is now your apartment. This toddler used to run flat-footed up and down all day over my head. Things in my apartment shook. It was noisy. I didn't like it. Fortunately, you don't have any children of your own (you do have a stompy boyfriend, but I've already written to him, so don't worry). Why then, have you been compelled to borrow someone else's flat-footed toddler? I can't imagine any reason that I would get up at dawn every morning, go out to borrow a small non-verbal creature, bring it back home, and let it run wild in my apartment. And yet, that's what you do. Huh. Weird. Do you think you could stop? 'Cause you're waking me up.
Thanks, bye.
Love, Kari


Dear Dante,
I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'm not really enjoying your long, long poem. Do you have any idea how I can write a paper about it while secretly really writing a paper about something else? Like maybe Jane Austen? I'd appreciate any tips.
Thanks, bye.
Love, Kari

And the socks?

On my way to work I pass two guys in mid-conversation:

Guy #1: What are you gonna do today?

Guy #2: I don't know what I'm gonna do. [Pause] These shoes are telling me I should do what I wanna do.


Foolishly, I didn't even ask my shoes for their thoughts this morning. They probably would have had a better proposition than "walk to work." Next week, I'm definitely going to check in with them before we leave the house.

Either way

I'm on one of those word-a-day lists and today's word is lugubrious. This was the example given to illustrate the usage of the word:

"Although the program notes characterize the piece as dark and lugubrious, it's actually rather playful and matter-of-fact, a reflection of Russian acceptance of life's inequalities and perils."
Roy C. Dicks; Russian Reality (dance review); The News & Observer(Raleigh, North Carolina); Jun 16, 2007.

I find this unaccountably hilarious. Mostly though, whether the dance be dark and lugubrious, or a playful reflection of Russian acceptance of life's perils, I find that I'm not particularly keen to see it.

When superpowers fail

Walking home yesterday, I saw a little boy and his mother headed toward me from the other end of the block. He was quite small, maybe four years old. He also happened to be a super hero--as evidenced by the rather dashing red cape he was wearing with his street clothes. He was running a little ahead of his mother. Clearly there were superhero-type tasks to which he needed to attend with considerable urgency.

His mother caught up to him and, to my surprise, pulled his pants down at once. She guided the wriggling boy toward the curb, took his tiny penis between her thumb and forefinger and directed his stream of urine toward a tree. Apparently bladder control was not one of his superpowers.

Fortunately, I don't think there were any arch villians in the vicinity at the time, because that kind of thing can be damned embarrassing.

Defying reason

Somehow I have ended up with a little swarm of fruit flies in my apartment. They are not those extremely tiny ones; they have some substance. And yet, despite being plainly visible, they are impossible to kill. I wander around clapping wildly over my head like a lunatic and still they dart erratically around, entirely unfazed.

I truly don't know where they came from or where they are having their little fly orgies that result in still more flies. Nevertheless, I've done my best to dissuade their permanent residency. Basically, aside from the wild clapping campaign, my strategy has been to put all my fruit in the refrigerator.This is quite a sacrifice
since I am a fruit bowl user generally and don't actually enjoy cold fruit. Still, desperate times....

Imagine my dismay then when I opened the refrigerator this morning and four flies flew out quite cheerfully from its chilly depths.

Really?

What then? What then must I do? Burn down the house? I can just see it now, all my worldly goods smoldering in a black heap on the sidewalk. And what's that moving above the cinders? A plume of smoke? Why, no. I believe it's a little cloud of fruit flies.

Incognito

When my new license plates arrived from the DMV, the best I seemed able to do was to put them in my back seat of my car for several weeks. Last week, I finally borrowed an appropriately large screwdriver from the facility guys at work and put the plates on the car rather than simply in it. The upside is that now that the dealer plates are off, I'm in full legal compliance and all; the downside is that I no longer recognize my car.

Crank it up

Browsing through the International section of iTunes streaming radio options, I run across this enticing description:

"French songs since 1890 of the dead artists."


And if that doesn't say dance party, I don't know what does.

Like a bad and hard soldier

On NPR last night there was a special edition of Youth Radio focused on young people in New Orleans. Unsurprisingly, it was full of stories of kids struggling, but ultimately triumphing even in the face of horrible circumstances. One segment was about a family who'd stayed in their house for a week even though it was full of water. The father felt it was safer for them to stay together at home than to evacuate. The sister narrates. She says that her family is stronger now than they were before. She says that she is far more self confident and is no longer bothered by trivial things like namecalling at school. She speaks about how her brothers are stronger too--physically stronger and more fearless. I picture these boys all lean and muscled and tall. I picture them looking people in the eye and taking all comers. Cut to the voice of the younger brother:

Like a bad and hard soldier, I got very very brave. I used to be very very scared of crickets. One night one got on me. I was about to scream at the top of my lungs, but I just looked at it and was like wait, it’s going to be alright, that cricket can’t do nothing, it’s not going to bite you, and it just flew off. And I said wait, that’s just a harmless little bug.

Miss Manners

Sophie is one of the most charming and gracious children I've ever met. Yesterday at her 5th birthday party she greeted each guest with true enthusiasm and told them how glad she was to see them. When it was time for her to choose an assistant for the magic show, the other girls clamored for her attention. She said, "I will pick someone who is being very quiet." And she did. True, she was a little panicky about being first for face painting, but come on, she was the birthday girl.

When she was opening her presents, she always said her thank you's and frequently said, "These are the best presents ever." Still, who among us has never made a faux pas? She opened a big present and said happily, "A kite!" "Wow. It's a pirate kite," said her mother. Sophie, fairy-loving child that she is, replied, "I don't like pirates." Instantly, she knew her mistake. You could actually see the dismay flicker over her face. "But I love Uncle Billy's present, though!"

Nice save, Sophie. Emily Post would be be proud.

No comment

I was doing so well there for a while. Did you notice? Writing and updating and making humorous observations and all? It was great. Then my boyfriend and I broke up and now I find that the humorous-commentary energy has transformed into crying-all-the-time energy.

Nevertheless in the spirit of looking at the bright side of life here are three nice things from today:

1. Whole Foods sells oatmeal in the morning. They even have brown sugar and raisins and milk there. This may not strike you as exciting, but when you are obliged to go to Whole Foods at 8am because you forgot to buy flowers for a work event, hot oatmeal is very welcome indeed.

2. Dahlias. One bunch is dark pink and the other is purple. I find them so cheerful that I would like to just carry them around with me.

3. This morning I heard the Mill Valley song on the radio. I learned it in elementary school, but apparently it was an international hit before I was born. Go figure. I sang along. I got all misty eyed and nostalgic about my home town. Aww.

That's it people. That's all I got. I hope to be funny again sometime soon.

Today's lesson

Today for lunch I had a bowl of onion soup. Or rather, I had several spoonfuls of onion soup before I gave up on the whole project and poured the rest down the drain. However, while eating those few, inadequate spoonfuls, I learned something-- something I shall generously share with you.

French onion soup is delicious. Why is it delicious? Because in the wee tureen of steaming onion broth, there is also half a pound of melted cheese and a quarter of a baguette. When you have onion soup from a can both the cheese and bread are necessarily, albeit tragically, absent. Therefore, onion soup from a can is not delicious. Not at all delicious.

Heed my words.

War is Hell

Knowing how much I love the performing arts, you may be inclined to buy me tickets for this. Thank you for the kind thought. Sadly, as much as sitting through an opera by Philip Glass about the civil war seems like a fantastic way to spend an evening, I find I am busy for the entire month of October.

Speaking of hell, we spend a fair amount of time discussing it in my Dante class--quelle suprise. Yesterday the professor asked us to share our own notions of hell. One woman said, "Well, what about here? Marin County?"

Um...right. Or Darfur. Whichever.

Changing sides

Yesterday I dragged my poor, sick self to the drug store to buy more Nyquil and tissues. By some miracle, I remembered that I also needed to get toothpaste. I stood there in my viral haze, overwhelmed by the dazzling American array of toothpaste options. Tartar control, dual cavity fighting action, dazzling white, etc., etc. My eye fell on a new type of Crest called Pro Health. "Hey," I thought, sniffling pitifully, "I'm pro health." And so I bought it.

This morning I used it for the first time. It tastes sort of like baking soda and glue sprinkled with cinnamon. What's more, it lingers for hours. I'm not sure if it's meant to promote oral health or general health or if Crest just wants you to know where they stand on the general question of health, but one thing is clear. If this is the taste of health, I'm going to have to side with illness.

Where have you been all my life?

Today my printer revealed to me a previously unseen error message. It stated that Tray 3 was not programmed and then gave me two options, one of which I was to select.

1. Resolve all problems for me automatically.
2. I will resolve this problem myself.

Oh, Option One, I knew you had to be out there somewhere. Goodbye insomnia. Goodbye indecision. Goodbye worry. Hello Option One.

If you see me around town dragging a massive printer behind me everywhere I go, you'll know why.

Tidying up

They tell me that I am soon to get a new computer at work, so yesterday I dutifully cleaned all the random documents off my computer desktop. They frown on us saving things to the desktop because they will not be magically backed up in the night like all those things saved to more appropriate files. If it's on your desktop and your computer crashes, it's gone forever. Frankly, I don't care very much if the things on my desktop are lost forever, but still would prefer to avoid the "too many documents on your desktop" lecture, so I refiled them. That is to say, I dragged them all into a file called "Misc. from desktop" which is also on my desktop. But still, it looks better and I figure I'm ready for the new machine any time.

Today though, I noticed my actual desktop. You know, the top of my wooden desk here in physical reality. It turns out that my real desktop is a good deal less tidy that my virtual one. Not only are there dozens of documents that ought to be filed into real labeled folders, there are also scores of little scratch paper notes to myself, five pens, a calculator, a message pad, a notebook, a phone extension list, a variety of loose power cords, an envelope sealer, a plastic cup, a saucer, a small teapot, a long spoon, a pitcher, a tee shirt, and a slightly used kleenex. If the IT guys came in here to replace this computer, they'd have to excavate it first.

Here's what I'm thinking: I go to the garage and get a big cardboard box. I sweep all this stuff into it and with a big black marker label it: Misc. from Desktop. Then I'll just put it on the corner of my desk.

Perfect.

Narnia

My neighbors sleep, Narnia style, in the back of my closet. Or at any rate just beyond the back of my closet. Who am I to say whether or not they exist in a magical kingdom? They might. I've never been in their apartment. I know they're over there though because I hear them. When they retire at night, I hear their bed squeak; I hear their murmuring voices. If I go to bed after them, I'm sure they hear me jostling hangers in my closet as I undress. They probably wish I wasn't addicted to the snooze alarm in the morning.

Last night I was awakened by something. I lay in the dark listening for the mystery disturbance. I could hear nothing alarming, just a little muffled repetitive noise that I identified as a carpet sweeper being run back and forth over the same crumb-covered bit of rug. Then I realized that no one in 2007 has a carpet sweeper and that the apartments in my building have wood floors.

What else makes a muffled repetitive noise late at night? Oohhhh. Right. That. Now I'm all embarrassed.

There's a special place in hell...

Lately I have been reading Dante. (Let's just leave that there by itself for a moment since it looks so literary and highly-educated and self-improving and all.) Actually, I'm reading Dante under duress because I was obliged to enroll in a class called something like "Dante, Dante, Dante." Who knows? Maybe I'll grow to love the Divine Comedy. I don't love it yet, mind you, but I'm only four cantos in, so there's time. Lots and lots of time.

However, this translator's explanation from the end of Canto I is already worth mentioning:

The gay Leopard is the image of the self-indulgent sins--Incontinence; the fierce Lion, of the violent sins--Bestiality; the She-Wolf of the malicious sins, which involve Fraud.

All right, I think I can agree that bestiality counts as a sin, but incontinence? Surely not. Messy, yes. Humiliating, yes, but not a sin. Even to call it "self indulgent" seems a trifle harsh.




[Okay, okay. If you really want to know, incontinent can mean "unchaste," but I'll be that's not the first thing you thought of either.]

Waste not...

I had a dream this morning in which I had been hiking for days through a treacherous mountain range full of Mayan ruins. I believe I also happened to be Leonardo DiCaprio, but that is not too critical. I/Leo was fortunate to run accross another group of explores who A) knew the way down and B) had provisions. We came to rest and the head of their group ripped open numerous packs of Oscar Meyer bologna and distributing them among the travelers. We began devouring it by the handful. Just then many starving villagers appeared. The travelers ignored them, but I/Leo could not bear this injustice and vowed to go hungry if it meant I could feed even one starving child. I tossed my pack of bologna into the crowd.

Cut ahead dream style. We, the viewers, are standing in a cave where a youngster is proudly displaying some kind of peculiarly textured what? hide? on a rack. In front of it is a little rack of bottles filled with yellowish liquid. Apparently, the villagers have managed to extract olive oil from the bologna and then they have made it into a kind a jerky which they split among themselves and chew for two years.

When I woke I spent some time considering what exactly constitutes a nightmare and whether a drying rack of bologna jerky would be allowed to count. I decided that it would.

Not saying much

Things have come to a pretty pass when I'm actually more afraid of my blog (a word I still hate, for the record) than I am of the gym. Did I remember my password? No. No, I did not. Was I a wee bit ashamed? Sadly, yes. But here we are! Again! New leaves all around, say I. Let us turn them together. Ready? Go.

Last night I heard an ad on the radio soliciting support for a summer camp for terminally ill children. They said that this exciting summer escapade would create "memories that will last a lifetime." Which, when you're talking about terminally ill children isn't saying a whole hell of a lot. They may want to rethink that.

And besides, it's true

I saw a review of the new movie Bridge to Terabithia (which, in case you don't know because you never cried over it yourself as a child, is based on a very sad, Newbery Award winning book of the same name). At the very end of the review where there is generally an explantation of why a movie has its particular rating (violence, language, nudity, etc.) it says this:

-- Advisory: This movie contains mild violence, mature themes and false and defamatory claims that "TV kills your brain cells."


I don't even really know what to say about this. Is this somehow legally required? Or is it a weird joke by the reviewer? Have we ever seen a joke in that section of a review?

But it has to be a joke, right?
Sure.
Let's just stick with that theory.

Small thanks

Thank you, Weather, for stuffing all those clouds into the linen closet and keeping the rain in your various buckets and pots and barrels for just one day. I'll have wet feet when I get home today, sure, but I wanted you to know that I did appreciate the sunny Sunday. We went on a longish walk that took us to delicious waffles and tea and contributed to the breaking in of my new shoes. Sure, we might have done that even with umbrellas, but we did like the sunshine very much. It was thoughtful of you. Tonight I have to write a paper, so if you would like to keep going with the precipitation, you have my blessing.

New math

I had a dream that a friend of mine had decided to engage in bigamy. There was nothing sneaky about it. She and her two finaces were planning to get married all at once in the same ceremony. She called her parents excitedly and said, "I can't wait for you to meet the men I'm going to marry!" "Men?" they repeated, alarmed by the plural. "Yes," she said. "You know how people wait and wait to get married because they are waiting for the one? Well, this completely solves that problem."

Be Mine, but maybe next year?

Trader Joe's has produced what may well be the best Valentine's Day merchandizing commercial ever. It goes something like this:


Everyone knows that roses and chocolate make perfect Valentine's Day gifts, but what if your relationship hasn't reached the dozen roses stage? Finding a gift that reflects your feelings for your "friend" can be stressful. What should you do if you're not sure just how special your special someone is? Trader Joe's recommends a jar of marinated mushrooms with garlic. They are wonderfully flavorful and at just $2.69, your budget will be in line with your feelings. Of course, if you're sure, TJ's also has a large assortment of roses and chocolate at great prices, but a jar of marinated mushrooms with garlic is a great way to say, "I like you, but let's not rush into anything."

Frere Jacques

I had one of those nights of shallow sleep where I was plagued with the fear of oversleeping. Even my dreams were about being late to work. So great was my dread of somehow missing the alarm, that I was only able to relax after it had woken me up at the appointed time and I had turned it off. Only then, finally free from Alarm Anticipation Syndrome (AAS), was I able to really sleep. Which I did. For an hour. And then was very late to work.

Considering other possibilities

I heard on the radio this morning the very sad news that a missing Stanford grad student had been found dead in the trunk of her car. The police, according to the report, suspect suicide.

What?

Now clearly I haven't been through any extensive police training, but if I found someone in the trunk of her car, I probably wouldn't go with suicide as a first guess. These police officers have apparently never seen any movies. At all. Because if the cinema teaches us anything it's that dead body+trunk of car=murder. Unless there is also suikidnapping involved, which, obviously, changes things.

Color me crazy

but, no matter how arty your film may be, I'm having a hard time imagining a scenario in which it makes sense for Cate Blanchett to play the role of Bob Dylan.

Youth ministry

Grafitti scrawled on the side of a church in my neighborhood:

"Jesus is my homeboy"

Armed and Famous

This morning I heard an ad on the radio for a thoroughly ludicrous new television show called "Armed and Famous" in which "stars" are trained to be police officers and then apparently are somehow qualified to go on actual police calls with um...real police officers. There are many reasons that this seems to be a terrible idea, but from a marketing perspective, the primary problem is that the "stars" are no one I have ever heard of with two exeptions: LaToya Jackson (what?) and, gloriously, Eric Estrada. And that is pretty darn amusing.

Oooh

To distract you from the fact that I don't maintain this with any regularity, I have selected this snazzy new layout. Less readable? Hmmm. Perhaps. But fancy, no? And you know how much I enjoy fancy. And I cannot create fancy myself because, well, I have basically no computer skills. Sad but true. Don't tell the blogger people. They'll probably kick me out of the blogosphere. (Another word I hate. Definitely don't tell them that.)

I have brought my old radio into work. Benefit: Vastly increased musical variety compared to my iPod. Drawback: Being repeadtedly subjected to a commercial that says "Fajita Fiesta. When it comes to fresh we're obsesseda."

MLA

I got a paper back in my literature class yesterday. I did quite well, but had numerous marks noting my failure to adhere to the various idosyncracies of the approved Modern Language Association style. The fine folks at MLA have gotten together and decided such things as that we ought to double space our papers, indent our paragraphs five spaces, and make parenthetical source citations sans commas, please. I don't do too well with this, because, mostly, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing. I look up guidelines online as questions occur to me, but, of course, many of these questions never do and never would occur to me.

There is a simple solution to all this.

However, apparently, although I'm willing to spend thousands and thousands of dollars on my higher education, I draw a firm line at spending $17.50 to purchase my own copy of the MLA style guide.

It's not failing if you're not trying

This is apparently National Blog Posting Month and many online diarists (I hate the word blogger. It sounds vaguely revolting. Can I admit that?) have made a sacred vow to write every day in November and have signed a list of commitment. I have neither made a vow nor signed a list because I knew I'd fail to live up to the promise (nice attitude), but I do feel a nagging sense of guilt about it anyway. I thought you'd be pleased to know.

Keen business sense

Near where I work there is a lonely little retail site a block away from a major shopping street. It is just far enough out of the way as to go largely unnoticed. For quite some time, this location was the home of a store called Love of Ganesha which sold such things as saris, scarves, random knitted hats, jewelry, and incense. It tried valiantly, but was obliged to close.

The location stood empty for several months, but we are gearing up for the grand opening of a store called Lotus Blossom, All Powerful Lotus, Healing Lotus Flower--something like that. What is remarkable is that as far as I can tell, Power of the Lotus is IDENTICAL to Love of Ganesha.

Money laundering?
Religious propoganda?
Really, really bad business plan?

You tell me.

Sure signs

On the way home from the theatre I excitedly summarized both the plight of Catharine of Aragon and the events surrounding the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre for my companion (who, to be fair, seemed interested). Once home, I got ready for bed and climbed in with the novel I need to read by Tuesday. About midnight, I gave up the losing battle with sleep. It was only after I turned off the light and lowered myself to the pillow that I realized I still had my trusty pencil behind my ear.

Ah, grad school.

Feel free to be amused

I have a small piece up, bizarrely enough, on the Huffington Post. You'll find it in the Fearless Voices section. When my friend asked me to submit something about Women Overcoming Fear, I did tell her that I don't have anything about climbing mountains or struggling with breast cancer. She said not to worry, that it didn't have to be intese, that it was allowed to be funny, so I sent it in. Now that it is in a section called Fearless Voices, I am a wee bit embarrassed since it's surrounded by pieces about politics and saving our children, but sometimes you need a break from striving for a better tomorrow and, apparently, that's where I come in.

So far, luckily, only one person in the comments secion has busted me for not being Fearless in the capital F type of way. Additionally, she managed to be offended, which is sort of hilarious. It may not be deep, but I'm pretty sure it's not offensive.

You, of course, can decide for yourself.

Unforseen benefit

They don't advertise this in the catalogue, but it turns out that now that I'm in grad school I have much more erudite insomnia. Whereas before, sleeplessness mostly inspired thoughts about how nice it would be to be asleep, now I apparently contemplate Voltaire and the Enlightenment. For hours. I still feel like someone marinated my eyes in sand and vinegar all night, but see? I'm also quite fancy.

Street Fair

Pretty much every weekend one neighborhood or another is hosting a street fair. This weekend it's mine. As these things go, ours is pretty modest: two blocks, miscellaneous artisans, one bounce house, one historic firetruck, one music stage, and a mere two food booths. The first one is selling pizza and the second, according to their large sign, is selling TACOS. There is a small posted menu listing agua frescas and the varieties of tacos available. First on the list: Duck Confit.

Welcome to San Francisco.

*********


One woman is selling a line of handmade cards called GirlyWhirly. The vast majority of them feature a simple sketch of a completely ecstatic stick figure girl--she is singing, or dancing, or skipping though daisies, happy as can be. Then, on the corner of the table I see a smaller assortment of cards with the same girl, but with scowly eyebrows and big angry black scribbles over her head. You don't want to mess with this girl; she is NOT happy. I laugh when I see it and say, "So it's not all sunshine and smiles in your world?" The artist replies, "Oh no, that's me too. That's Surly Girly."

Best. Sign. Ever.

In the unisex restroom of a neighborhood Thai restaurant last night, I had the great good fortune to encounter an instructive sign.

It was very neatly printed on a scallop-edged paper placemat. Two colors of marking pen had been used to create an eye-catching shadow effect. The completed masterpiece was hung directly over the toilet. It read:

Please do not flush
any such down toilet.
Thank you


"Do not" was double underlined. They were serious.

I'm afraid that in the end, I was obliged to flush some such down the toilet, but I think (although obviously I'm just guessing here) it was appropriate such.

Shhhhhh

Hey. Do you remember The Horse Whisperer? Wherein Robert Redford calmed a dangerous horse by whispering ever so quietly in the equine ear? In the special language of horses? Thereby restoring in the horse a sense of well being and safety such that the distasteful behavior no longer need be exhibited?

Yeah. I remember that too. Which is exactly why I was so horrified when I found a brochure for a program called "teen whispering"(TM) in the mail at work. Teen whispering is apparently "a training system for speaking 'teen'" which allows one to "Get through! With skill, peace, and impact!"

Thank god. At last a way to gentle the skittish teen without resorting to repeated beatings. This will really change the way we do things around the ol' high school.

Subjugation of all mankind

I know, I know. Things were going so well for a while there. There were all those stories about bocce ball and all, then I disappeared. Again. Why? Whatever could have happened? I'll tell you. Grad school, that's what happened. Lordy. So far I've had one week of my two year program and it seems that I've forgotten how to be smart and yet I am suddenly oh-heck-up-to-my-neck in homework. So, best of luck to me on that.

When discussing this with some young friends of mine, one asked what the degree would be. "It's a Masters in Humanities," I said, "so basically it won't particularly qualify me to do anything."

"What are you saying?" said Susanna. "You'll be more than qualified. You'll be the Master of humanity."

Ah ha! I hadn't thought of that. In two short years, you will all bend to my will.

Prevention

This morning I woke up with horrendous allergies, but, on the bright side, I had passed a mosquito-free night. On the previous three nights, we had been plagued. We don't know where they come from, but we certainly know when they arrive. We had staggered around bleary-eyed in bright light at 3:36am looking for a slender black shape on the wall. We had failed to find it. We had gone back to bed, trust shattered. I spent the remainder of the nights sweating copiously with the covers defensively up around my ears; F spent the remainder of the nights itching and slathered with some mysterious French ointment. True, in the bright light of day, we did find and kill two culprits one morning and one the next. We were briefly exhilerated by the killing, albeit sleepy.

This morning on the news I hear the announcer say "The only Bay Area victim of West Nile Virus is being released from the hospital today. There is only one way to prevent West Nile Virus," Cut to some sort of scientific expert who says, "The virus is real. It is here. It is very important that you heed our warnings. The only way to avoid West Nile Virus is to avoid being bitten to by an infected mosquito. Inasmuch as it's possible, do not expose yourself to mosquito bites."


Great.

On the other hand...

Yesterday F. and I were sitting in a slightly goofy restaurant in Fairfax, where we were very pleased to be looking out at sunshine and about to partake in homemade pasta. F. was particularly overjoyed that the waiters lugged around an enormous wheel of parmesan cheese from which they carved off individual chunks for every diner.

"I think we enjoy our lives more than we would if we were really rich," he said. I thought it over and agreed that this was probably true. We listed several things that fill us with delight which we might regard with indifference or disdain if we could afford fanciness at all times.

This morning, though, I woke from a dream in which F. told me that he'd been given a raise at work and would now be making $200,000 annually. In the dream, we did not seem concerned that this would make us jaded. Indeed, I believe we may have actually shed tears of joy.

I am secretly shallow, as it turns out.

Friend or foe?

I know many people are addicted to caller I.D., but I find it to be largely unhelpful. I'm of a mind that you could just answer the phone, find out who it is, and either talk to them or not as you wish. I know no one agrees with me.

We have caller I.D. at work, where it is even less helpful because what choice do I have? I have the remarkable good fortune of being the back-up receptionist, which is to say that if she can't get to a call after some (apparently small) number of rings, the call then rings at my desk. It is essentially my job to then answer it. This being the case, I'd just as soon not know in advance that the incoming call is from "Invisible Child."

Um...yikes.

Politesse

I am pleased to report that manners are still being taught to children. Yes; it's true. I know this because yesterday I was approached by not one but two remarkably self-possessed, polite little girls.


Little girl #1: San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers

F. and I were on the lawn in front of the Conservatory of Flowers yesterday playing a little bocce ball (I know, I know. It's possible that henceforth all my stories will involve bocce ball.) when I heard a small "Excuse me." I looked down and on my right was a small girl perhaps three years old. Approaching somewhat unevenly behind her was her smaller brother. Their mother was a rather distant third. "Yes?" I said. "What are those?" said the girl, pointing at the balls. "That's a game called bocce ball." Apparently favorably impressed by my answer, she quite civilly asked, "Can we borrow these?" "Well, not right now," I said, "because we are in the middle of playing." "Oh." she said. "Can we play with you?" "Um...okay."

I explained the goal of the game and she interpreted the rules rather broadly, but did, in a sense, touch the big ball to the little ball. Her brother wasn't quite as successful, but seemed to be enjoying himself. At this point, their mother caught up, swooped down, and with many prompts of "What do you say to the nice people?" bundled her children off. Over her shoulder, the little girl said, "Thank you. Can you come over there to Mr. Frog's birthday party?" Unfortunately, we weren't able to attend. It was nice to be asked though.


Little girl #2: Trader Joes

A few hours later I was staring vacantly meat case in Trader Joes, as I generally do before invariably buying chicken breasts, when I heard another little "excuse me" in the vacinity of my left elbow. Sure enough. Another little girl. This one was maybe seven and possibly just doing her own grocery shopping. In any case, I never saw her parents.

LG: Excuse me.
Me: Yes?
LG: Where is the turkey?
Me: For cooking or for sandwiches?
LG: Sandwiches.
Me: Hmm. (indicating almost entirely empty section of the case) It's usually right here, but it looks like they don't have much.
LG: We get the kind in the box.
Me: Me too, but they don't seem to have that kind today. They only have that (pointing to sad little low-sodium turkey packet).
LG: (After a moment of thought)Okay. Well, could you give me one of those please? We'll just break it up.

And so I did and with a thank you and a packet of sub-par turkey, she was off.

Perfect

If we were being responsible adults, my boyfriend and I probably would have started the drive home from Ashland earlier than we did, but we were having a perfect day and no one should interrupt a perfect day to be a responsible adult.

First we had our final breakfast at the inn we love. All you need to know is that the third course of this breakfast (you heard me) was chocolate cake.

After we checked out we went downtown to sunny, grassy Lithia Park where we broke out my brand new (birthday present) bocce ball set for its inaugaral game. Games, that is. We played for almost three hours. As the sun rose higher and it got hotter and more sunburn/skin cancer incuding, I fetched my new (birthday present to myself) red paper parasol from the car. Bocce ball, being a one-handed game, is ideal for parasol holding. The only risk is that the happiness generated by holding a new parasol while playing bocce ball may be overwhelming. Proceed with caution.

We were the big feature of the park that day. We drew interest and spectators and questions. We were also enormously popular with toddlers who would have loved to play with us if only the balls weren't so darn heavy. At one point Flavien said "We're really the cool kids today." This was delightful because A) we were totally the cool kids and B)this is not an observation Flavien would have made before he met me. I have introduced him to the very concept of cool kids. This is an international triumph.

Why is my real estate imaginary estate?

I am back, officially and with sad finality, from vacation. I used every last day, but I think that's as it should be.

I have come home from Oregon with pretty serious house envy. I hear yoga is supposed to help this kind of condition. I will consider it with the tiny bit of my brain that is not devoted to coveting the property of others.

In Portland, Ben and Stephanie have a very charming little house (which I think is officially meant to be called a bungalo, but as I do not know what really defines a bungalo, I will stick with "house") in a neighborhood overflowing with charming houses. They are currently living with a kitchen-in-progress, which creates a certain level of general discombobulation, but it will be lovely and bright and inspiring when it's finished. The fancy new refrigerator did arrive on the same day that I did and there was much rejoicing and drinking of cold beverages. Some of those beverages were consumed in the back yard because, well, they have a back yard. In back of their house. That they own. Yeah.

Fortunately, I had some practice with house envy before I visited Corvallis where Anne and Peter seem to have acquired a vast, sunny, beautiful house with a back yard of astonishing size. Had I not had practice, I might have gone into some sort of house-envy seizure and required costly emergency care. They seem to have five bedrooms, but they also have a full apartment over the garage, so if you visit them you could just stay there. That way, if you want to cook your own food, you can. However, I think I'd rather eat with Anne and Peter since their dining room is adjacent to the sun room from which there is a lovely view of the, ahem, grounds. I told Anne that my new mantra was going to have to be "I don't want to live in Corvallis. I don't want to live in Corvallis." Maybe I can incorporate that into the yoga. We'll see.

Le Retour

You know how there are things you're supposed to do regularly? Like going to the gym, for example? And how once you start to slip out of the schedule you suddenly aren't going at all and it gets harder and harder to go back because you sort of have to start all over again? Well, it turns out that having a blog is like that. Upon reflection, if you're me, pretty much everything is like that.

The good news is that coming back to the blog is still a great deal easier than going back to the gym because 1. I can do this sitting down and even, should I be so inclined, while having snacks and 2. Once I post this I can do a small victory dance because the achievement is instantaneous, unlike fitness which seems a very distant prize indeed.

Anyway, hello. Four of you tell me you read this and I'm sorry if you've been lonely without me.

We'll start small so as not to overwhelm ourselves.

Things I Learned on Vacation

In Los Angeles:

1. That theory that on a hot day you should drink hot beverages to somehow trigger your inner cooling mechanisms is absurd. If it is hot out, your inner cooling mechanisms are well aware of it and are already doing the best they can. Introducing recently boiled water into the system only confuses things.

2. Under certain conditions, Arianna Huffington's sister may give you a ride to the airport. Well, not you, maybe, but me. It will be somewhat awkward.

In Amherst:

1. The approved siren noise to make when you are playing any game related to firetrucks* is "Wee-oh Wye-oh! Wee-oh Wye-oh!" This should be repeated many times at top volume.

2. Babies can smile at you very contentedly, throw up on you without so much as blinking, and go on smiling in quite a winning fashion as though nothing has occurred.

3. In Britain, there are kinder, gentler children's programs including "Postman Pat" and "Fireman Sam."


*Note: All games, no matter how they may seem to begin, are evetually related to firetrucks.

In Transit:

1. If you attempt to fly out of Newark anytime between 8-9pm, you will be obliged to sit in the plane for one a minimum of one hour before the plane will be able to actually go into, you know, the sky.


In NY:

1. People who are in the act of buying theatre tickets cannot be assumed to actually like theatre. Example: A woman reaches the ticket window next to me after standing in a long line. She asks if tickets to a certain show are available. They are. She ponders this and asks "How long is the show?" The box office person says "An hour and a half." There is a pause. The patron says, "Don't you have anything shorter?"

2. There is nothing shorter.

3. Although they may be the most popular sites, there is no reason for sweating to be limited to your feet and armpits. Anywhere you have skin, really, is a good place for sweat.

Clarity

I am lunching with a four-year-old, her mother, and her aunt. When the mother comes back to the table with a small cup of soup and a small cup of cut fruit, it is the fruit that causes excitement. "Fruit!" the child exclaims, as if greeting a long absent friend.

Nevertheless, she is obliged to eat her soup first. "Finish your soup," her mother says, "and then you can have your fruit salad." The child ponders this for a moment and then says "Um...I'll just have the fruit. I don't eat salad."

It's official

You've probably been saying this anyway, but I thought you'd be pleased to know that yes, it really is a word.

plashy (PLASH-ee) adjective

1. Marshy; watery; full of puddles.

2. Splashy.

Star Struck

This is very old news now--for me, at least--but since I haven't told you about it, I guess it still counts as news for you.

On Saturday, April 29, I had occasion to see both Tilda Swinton and John Turturro live and in person in Kabuki Theatre #1. I was giddy.

Tilda Swinton is elegant and beautifully well spoken and smarter than us. She wore a high-necked grey striped suit, but she also wore bright red three-inch heels. For me she simultaneously inspired complete awe and a desire to put on a large woolen sweater and join her for tea and a long chat in her Scottish kitchen. The text of her meditation on the state of cinema is available now. You will simply have to imagine the shoes for yourself.

John Turturro is considerably less intimidating. He is, well, a little goofy. He was there for a screening of his star-studded musical Romance and Cigarettes. Yes. He has written and directed a musical. I hope you get to see it. At the beginning of the movie, he stood in the back of the theatre and watched. This put him just a few feet away from me, so I was able to watch him watch his film. Here's what I know: he likes it. A lot. He thinks it's pretty darn hilarious. He leaned back on his heels and laughed a big, crooked teethed, delighted laugh. I liked him enormously for it.

The difference between us

When you read an article that references Bill Clinton, you nod sagely and see myriad nuances and implications in the context of the current political situation.

However, apparently when I read an article that references Bill Clinton, I confuse him with Bill Cosby and become hopelessly bewildered, not to say a little frightened, for several long minutes.

Film Festival

Last night as I waited in line for a late showing of a Danish film, I chatted in French to a diplomat from Brazil who inquired whether or not I was Irish.

I love that.

The eagle has landed

I got home today to find this message on my voicemail:

"I am returning your call from A.C.T. lost and found. You reported a lost umbrella. We did not find your umbrella. Repeat. We did not find your umbrella. We have your number in case it turns up. But, we did NOT find your umbrella."


Is this a coded cry for help?

Haiku

I would like to dedicate this haiku to my next door neighbor, who gets up earlier than I every morning.

Your shoes like hammers
From bed I beg silently
Please buy some slippers

Pacifist

This morning on my way to work I was walking behind an imposing looking man for a couple blocks. He was at least six feet tall, broad, and wearing a big leather jacket. His hair was cut into a sort of double mohawk, each ridge of hair dyed bright red. At one point, he turned around to throw something in the trash and I could see his face. At first I thought he was smoking, but no. He had a baby's pacifier firmly in his mouth.

I'm rubber, you're glue

Setting: a four-way-stop intersection.

A car heading east stops at the western stop sign before proceeding into the intersection. As the car is three-quarters of the way across, a pedestrian steps into the eastern crosswalk. The car stops so as not to flatten the pedestrian.

Meanwhile, a helmetless cyclist speeds down the street heading north. The cyclist does not stop, nor even pause, at the southern stop sign. He is then obliged to swerve around the car that has unexpectedly stopped in the intersection. (Unexpectedly, that is, if you expect cars to routinely run over pedestrians in crosswalks.) As he pedals on, he screams back over his shoulder "ASSHOLE!"

Three things

1. Kiss Her, She's Irish. Well, She's Not, but Whatever!

Recently I found myself in the backseat of the car of a friend of a friend. As she drove through inclement conditions, she suddenly emitted something between a gasp and a scream. I assumed death was imminent (I'm kind of glass-half-empty like that). But no. She turned to her friend in the passenger seat and exclaimed "Oh my god! It's green so I can totally wear my I LOVE FRAT BOYS t-shirt on St. Patrick's Day!"


2. Quickly

Daniel Handler, aka Lemony Snicket, just spoke here at the school. He is hilarious and I wonder if he would like to be my friend. Should I ask him? He reminded the assembled group that Word for Word's production of his new book Adverbs is closing after this weekend. I saw it; it's great. If I had either a green I LOVE DANIEL HANDLER t-shirt or a green I LOVE WORD FOR WORD t-shirt, I would totally be wearing it today. Go see the play.


3. Chicken and Cat

Do you have children? Well, neither do I, but that doesn't mean I didn't buy five copies of this completely delightful book by my brilliant friend Sara Varon. I see no reason you shouldn't do the same. And anyway, you do so have children. Everyone I know has children, so enough with the lying already.

Published!

You know, in a way that involved payment. Exciting stuff. If you'd like to read the essay, you'll find it here.

M & M

Last night I went with Cathleen and her mother to hear Maile Meloy read from her new novel. She is a pretty woman with red hair, a wide smile, and a shy demeanor. She mostly seems as though she'd rather be curled up alone in deep armchair with a book, rather than standing behind a podium with one in front of a bunch of strangers, but she was very charming.

During the Q&A, she was asked about the origin of the name Maile. "It's Hawaiian," she said. "People always think it's Irish because of Meloy." [longish pause] "My friend says it sounds like 'Molly Malone' after six pints."

Um...okay. I promise.

From a recent fortune cookie:

You are a perfectionist. Don't spoil it.

Dear John

Today being Valentine's Day there are multitudes of those chalky little candy hearts to be had. You may remember these from elementary school. They say things like "Cutie" and "Be Mine" and "Love Ya". But today I picked one up that said "Good Bye." Ouch. That's a break up that's going to require a little therapy.

"Yeah, I thought things were going really well, you know? We had planned a romantic valentine's day-- I brought her flowers and she gave me a bag of candy hearts with little messages. Cute right? But turns out that every single one said 'Good Bye'. Then she walked out."

Third time's the charm?

I write this knowing that it may not reflect the new millenium sensitivity that we are meant to display towards any type of difference, but heck.

In a later chapter of Nick Hornby's delightful book, he references a book about autism written by the mother of two autistic sons. The author also has a third son who does not have autism, which presumably makes for a nice change. The thing that I find absolutely flabbergasting though is that the boy without autism is the youngest of the boys.

What?

1. First of all, if you already have two autistic sons, how do you imagine you will have the energy to raise a third child at all? How would you have the energy to have even, say, a goldfish?

2. If your first son was autistic you might perhaps think, "We love him, of course, but this is not entirely what we imagined. Let us have another child who may let us fulfill our original vision of parenting." Fine. I can see this. But when your second child is also autistic do you really roll your genetic dice again?

I am baffled by this. And yes, I am a terrible, heartless person. Obviously.

Love for a friend, love for a stranger

My friend Cathleen, whom I love because she is witty, ridiculously smart, literary, dramaturgical, and a snappy dresser, just loaned me The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby, whom I love for many of the same reasons. Now, let's be clear. I don't actually know Nick Hornby, so I have to hold out on a couple of things. First of all, I don't think he's a huge theatre fan and, having never seen the man, I have no idea how he dresses.
So far, if you're keeping score, that's Cathleen: 5, Nick Hornby: 3.

However, funny? He's got funny nailed down. To wit, his musing on Zoe Heller's Desperate Characters:

Toward the end of the book, Otto and Sophie, the central couple, go to stay in their hoilday home. Sohie opens the door to the house and is immediately reminded of a friend, an artist who used to visit them there; she thinks about him for a page or so. The reason she's thinking about him is that she's staring at something he loved, a vinegar bottle shaped like a bunch of grapes. The reason she's staring at the bottle is because it's in pieces. And the reason it's in pieces is because someone has broken in and trashed the place, a fact that we only discover when Sophie has snapped out of her reverie. At this point, I realized that with some regret that not only could I never write a literary novel, but I couldn't even be a character in a literary novel. I can only imagine myself saying, "Shit! Some bastard has trashed the house!" No rumination about artist friends--just a lot of cursing, and maybe some empty threats of violence.

Poor forever

The reason I will never be rich is that whenever I look at the job listings outside the nonprofit section, I am overwhelmed by this sort of nonesense:

XYZ Ltd. provides technologies and services for optimizing the production and playback of entertainment content in the professional and consumer markets.

Please. Is that even English? Besides, don't you think that secretly "playback of entertainment content in the consumer market" translates to "watching a DVD in your living room?"

Unbridled passion

1. Last night, I was valiantly trying to get to Berkeley, but was stuck in maddening rush-hour traffic trying to merge onto 580. It was that sort of back-up where every time a little space opens up drivers are filled with hope and scoot their cars eagerly forward to fill it. Except the driver in front of me. The driver in front of me seemed to be suffering from a seriously delayed reaction time such that the space in front of her would widen and stand empty for long stretches before she would suddenly realize it and move ahead. What's more, when she would finally go forward, the car was listing significantly to the right with only occasional corrections. Since we were in the far right lane it wasn't as dangerous as it might have been, but still erratic enough that I was glad to be behind her where I could keep an eye on her.

Was she drunk? Sleeping? Typing on a laptop? No. Further peering in through the back window revealed that actually she was making out with her boyfriend. Making out with one's boyfriend in a car is a time-honored tradition, but it is best done in a parked car. It is an exponentially more difficult feat to execute in a moving car when one half of the couple is the driver. After about fifteen minutes I guess she came to the same conclusion--she pulled onto the shoulder and turned on her hazard lights so they could get serious.


2. Grafitti scratched purposefully on a windowsill with a ballpoint pen reading, "I do love the world."

Specialist, mind you

Perhaps my all-time favorite Craigslist job posting title:

Youth Prevention Specialist

So, that would be what? People who kill babies?

Hello, old friend

Today when I saw "giant cock" among the subject headings in my junk email box, I felt a little wave of sentimental nostalgia. For several months, all of my fifteen daily spams have been about obtaining cheap medications (they're 100% safe! they're available online!), whereas they used to be almost exclusively about increasing the size of my nonexistant penis. It's been challenging to change my priorities so dramatically, but I'm doing the best I can. Still, nice to know someone's still concerned about my ability to please the ladies.

Will I need a secret password, too?

It is 11:20pm. The local NPR announcer reads the Community Calendar. He makes it through several event listings with appropriate mellow-voiced professionalism. He even gets through "Women's ritual dance of ancient Europe. Join in simple, repetitive dances from Bulgaria, Estonia, and other ancient countries." But when he reaches the next sentence, "this Thursday in the alley behind the Sebastopol Cookie Factory," he chuckles. He just can't help it.

Nearly true

I have been looking at apartment listings lately to entertain myself. I just saw a posting entitled WHOLLY CRAP!!!

I looked at it and I think they were being a bit hard on themselves. Certainly it's quite ugly, but I wouldn't say that it's entirely crap. After all, it seems to get a fair amount of sun.

Revelation

Isn't it delightful how one never really knows oneself? How little discoveries about one's personality can come, unbidden, one knows not when?

This evening, for example, I found out that when the tram begins moving forward only to be suddenly, spine joltingly, slammed to a halt, I am apparently the sort of person who yells "JESUS Christ!"

Even more intriguing, it seems that of, say, thirty passengers in the very same sitution, I am the only one who feels the need to utter any sound at all.