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.

Merry Christmas

I woke up with strong indications of having been finally overcome by the traditional Christmas cold, so it was with even less enthusiasm than usual that I set out to the grocery store, whch for me, even on a good day seems to be a the sort of quest worthy of a nice 200 stanza epic poem. Trader Joe's was bustling, of course, and I did allow myself to indulge in a little self-pity as I filled my cart with juice and soup and Airborne, while everyone else's cart was brimming with wine and chocolate and poinsettias.

I headed home feeling exhausted and snuffly, but somewhat optimistic about my ability to face the immediate future now that I had Kleenex, tangerines, and spicy apple cider. Then, about a block from home, right there in the crosswalk was a sight that banished the dreariness from my heart and filled it with Christmas joy. Because what really signals Christmas so much as a little blonde girl skipping across the road all dressed in her red...Spider Man suit? Complete with spidery face paint.

Ho ho ho, little girl.

Merry Christmas.

And the winner is...

A group of girls is sitting together on the floor surrounded by their backpacks, laptops, and various outerwear. As I walk by, one looks up, eyes wide with excitement and announces to her friends, "I've been playing classical music so long, I now have a favorite composer! And it's not Bach. [suspense-building pause] ...It's Chopin!"

English Major Saves the Day

I often despair that I do so little writing as part of my job, so today was a refreshing change. A colleague came up and said "Um...Can I ask your opinion? A group of parents wants us to attach this little poem to some treats they are leaving for the seniors. I'm thinking no." She extended a piece of paper to me.

The poem:

Ho! Ho! Ho! It's so sweet to be free.
Start right now and...
EAT ME!


Yikes. You really can't give a poem that ends with all caps EAT ME to a bunch of high school seniors. Especially when you're planning to attach it to a chocolate Santa. Let's just leave Santa out of that sort of thing. Additionally, what does eating have to do with freedom? Not an enormous amount. Anyway, I have offered an alternative, equally bad, but less offensive version in which I have even allowed them to keep Santa's hearty greeting:

Ho! Ho! Ho! Vacation is great!
Start your holiday now with
This festive chocolate.

When dealing with teenagers it is less painful to be mocked for a near rhyme than for sexual innuendo. Really. I promise.

Superheroes beware!

I just read of something which claims to be a printing technique (in this case, for putting a design on a mug), but I think we all know what's really going on here. Thermo-sublimation is clearly something worked up by one Arch Villian or another to thwart the powers of good in the universe. It involves subliminal messages of evil. Along with heat. Very bad combination. Superheroes! Do not be fooled by this "mug printing" disguise! Be ever wary!

Oh. And thank you, as always, for keeping us safe here in the Metropolis.

Awww

You may have been wondering how to create the cutest thing in the whole world and I just found out, so I thought I'd let you know.

Here's what you need:

1. A drizzly day
2. A preschool class
3. A small field trip
4. The buddy system, reinforced by hand holding
5. A brightly-colored rain slicker for each child
6. The hood of each slicker decidedly up

Then you just stand about a block away and view the procession from behind. Voila.

Operation Flush Em Out

I am in the bathroom stall at work. On top of the toilet paper dispenser there is a green plastic soldier who seems to be crawling toward me stealthily and painfully. With his belly flat on the ground and his assault rifle held aloft he can use only his feet and elbows to propel him forward. I don't know where the rest of the platoon is, but he seems determined to carry out the mission alone. I anticipate the toilet will be a US territory by dawn.

Postcard

A young friend of mine who is a funnier writer than I am sends me this email message, an excerpt of which I am quoting here entirely without her knowledge or permission. Shhhh. Don't tell anyone.

"i'm in norway. so that's truly where the cool kids are. and the babies. and the large stacks of meat. and the cheesecakes with neon yellow grape studded jello. and the bracelets about christ. see what i mean? tomorrow we go to the graveyard and the mall. yesterday was my grandpa's 80th birthday party. highlights included my 9-year-old cousin singing a pop song about jesus, and a rather elderly man giving an exceedingly long speech about sheep (and no, the sheep were not a metaphor)."

New knowledge

A woman came to school to speak about her work in Zimbabwe. Here are two things I've learned.

1) Many men in Zimbabwe have exciting names. Among them, Jealous, Xmas, July, Doubt, Aloicious, and Blessing.

2) If you have a garden in Zimbabwe, it is likely that elephants may wander in to snack on it. This sort of puts the wandering deer of my childhood into perspective.

Yeah right

I was reading a little article today in which the author references numerous exotic foodstuffs. Among them were truffles from Pierre Herme. "Hmmm," I thought, "I like Paris. I like chocolate." So I went to the website, which features a video of a Pierre Herme runway show. I admit that the idea of gorgegous, expensive desserts having their moment to "do that little turn on the catwalk" has some appeal to me. However, having no legs of their own, the desserts must be carried--in this case by half-naked zombie-like models. Every so often these creatures take a little dip of mousse or what have you and lick it from their fingers with maximum sultriness. I laughed aloud. Whatever fantasy they may wish to inspire, one thing we can all be sure of is that these girls do not spend a lot of time eating dessert. Their asses are pretty much on full view and they are not asses that are familiar with Pierre Herme's oeuvre.

Later in the video the man himself shows up. Ah ha. Now there is someone who looks like he knows his gateaux.

Yesteryear

I'm telling you, I just can't get enough of old time radio.

Philip Marlowe says, "As I drove back to Hollywood, I tried to figure it out, but I had about as much to work with as Gypsy Rose Lee after the third encore."

The cool kids

My boyfriend and I go to a wedding reception where he knows no one but me and I know no one but him and the bride. During the cocktail hour, we stand together, drinks in hand, surveying the other guests who are in happy little chatting clusters. Near the buffet table I spot a group of guys who are decidedly unlike the rest of the crowd. One guy has a tattoo on his neck and carefully sculpted facial hair, one guy sports a buzz cut and frilly pink tuxedo shirt, one guy wears a hint of arrogance like an accessory along with his slightly disheveled blazer; he seems somehow Italian. Of all the people in the room, these are the people I want to talk to.

"Check out the cool kids in the corner," I say to my boyfriend. "Those are my people." It's odd that I would say this since I am not myself a cool kid, but I felt a kinship nevertheless.

We are ushered into the dining room which is set up with dozens of tables for ten. The happy chatting groups select tables where they will become happy dining groups. The two of us wander around like orphans as I search desperately for the cool kids. Finally, as tables fill all around us, I give up my quest and we stake a claim at a table beside two perfectly pleasant couples.

When we get into the buffet line a few minutes later, dinner music is already playing. I look up at the stage and start laughing. The cool kids are all in the band.

Plays galore

Here I am wielding my illusory cyber power yet again.

PlayGround is back. Are you some mysterious stranger out there who's never heard of PlayGround? Well, today is your lucky day, my anonymous friend.

One topic.
36 playwrights.
Four days.

Six plays selected.
One night only.
Fun, fun, fun.

Monday, October 17. 8pm. Berkeley Rep. You can buy tickets for Monday or, better yet, subscribe. It's a crazy bargain.

Desert Mountain Marsh Road

I am addressing envelopes and have just found that someone lives on Reedland Woods Way. You know, life is full of tough choices, but I think it's best to stick with one major geographical feature per street name.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel

I am getting things out of my trunk when with much clattering and many cries of "dude!" three skater boys tumble out of the the house across the street. There is some experimental skating, but all is not well.

"Dude! Dude!" The boy yells up to the open second-story window. Another remarkably similar shaggy-haired youth appears. There is some discussion about how Dude #1 has unwittingly hit the street with an undersirable board. They plan an exchange. Dude #2 suggests that, instead of coming all the way back upstairs, Dude #1 should throw the unwanted board up, and he (D#2) will throw another one down. Although I never considered it before, I have to say that it's impressive to see someone throw a skateboard straight up two stories. Dude #1 gets it high enough for Dude #2 to catch on his second try. The first-floor windows remain intact. Nice work, dude.

Dude #1 specifies his needs "Dude. Gimme the one in the hall. Not the really big one. The little one with the fat wheels. It's the only other one."

So, apparently he only has three.

Teen antics

Conversation overheard in the hall:

Girl: Hey guys! Yesterday? I went to Target? And I got this big pack of lacerations that I'm going to put all over my face.

Boy: Oh. For, like, Halloween?

Girl: No! Tomorrow!

****

P.S. Who knew you could buy lacerations at Target?

Revolutionary union

Ben and Stephanie got married this weekend. To suit their own needs and they re-imagined the part of the Jewish ceremony where Seven Blessings are read and the bride circles the groom seven times. (This is daunting when the bride is wearing a floor-length dress and is, well, a shiksa.) Instead, they read aloud what they referred to in the ceremony program as the Seven Core Values of their marriage.

But secretly? Between themselves? They refer to it as The Manifesto.

Conspiracy

Anne asked if we found that our Netflix service was declining over time. She suspected that it was part of their business model to be great at the start to lure you in and then progressively get worse and worse. She based this on the fact that she was regularly receiving the "Have you received your movie yet?" emails two days before the arrival of her film. She wondered if they were taunting her.

We told her, basically, that she is crazy. Not that we don't love her and all, but seriously. We have no problem with Netflix. We get our movies and our corresponding emails in a timely fashion. Netflix is not engaged in a conspiracy against us.

The next day I received one of the numerous French movies in my queue. The film was, indeed, in French as anticipated. The subtitles and all menu text, however, were in Chinese.

The plot thickens.

Oh. Well, bad example then.

I am walking down Valencia Street and two people are walking behind me. I tune into the conversation they've obviously already been having for a while.

Woman: So, I tell her, "You can't just say that. You can't just tell me that Tim is a rapist. I mean I know Tim. That would be like me just coming up to you and telling you Seth is a rapist. I mean you would know that's not true because you know Seth." But then she told me that actually he is.

Man: A rapist?

Woman: Yeah. One time. And apparently they're okay with that.

My new best friend

I am at one of those big warehouse-type stores with two colleagues. We are buying things in bulk for school events. In addition to endless paper cups and plates, I have put at least ten boxes of assorted teas in the cart. The cashier is swiping the boxes one by one over the price scanner without incident. Until the Tetley's English Tea Time, that is. As he scans it, the machine makes a loud repeated beeping sound, more like an alarm than the sound of a price registering.

"Oh no!" I say. "Look out! It's poison tea. Alert! Poison tea!" (I frequently think I'm amusing to strangers. I may be misled in this.) He gratifies me by chuckling.

He holds the small box over his head and shouts across the store "Hey Mike! Can I get a price check on this?" "What is it?" Mike yells back. The cashier squints up at the box for a moment looking for identifying marks. He shrugs and yells back "Poison tea!"

Sign me up

Today was the school club fair. Club representatives stood in a line in the gym and made brief summary statements to entice students to join their clubs.

A boy takes the mic. "For those of you who think there's more to life than cooking, there is the Martha Stewart Club. Because there is also gardening and home decorating."

He hands the mic down the line. Two Asian boys step forward. One is holding a boom box which he never turns on. The other speaks "Hey. Yeah, so we're starting the Asian Club. You don't have to be Asian to join. We'll teach people how to use chopsticks. And we're giving out sandwich cards."

Three-day weekend

When I returned home late, late last night after being away for the Labor Day weekend, I was thrilled to find an open parking place a block from my house. What's more, it was a Tuesday street cleaning spot. Cool. No need to wake up in a car-moving panic in the morning.

Oh. Wait. The realization slowly dawned. Tomorrow is Tuesday.

Mondays off throw me every time.

Why to date a Frenchman

My boyfriend and I are at a restaurant studying our menus. He puts his down before I do.

Me: Qu'est ce que tu desires?
Him: Toi.


Good answer.

Um...94?

In the novel I just finished, the protaganist's mother is declining into dementia. Every time she goes for a check-up, the doctor asks her various things to establish how far gone she is. The usual: her name, the date, the name of the President, and then, invariably, she is asked to count backwards from a hundred by sevens.

By sevens? For the record, in case this skill is ever the thing that stands between me and the loony bin, I just want to state that I can't count backwards by sevens. Not now and probably not when I'm on the brink of senility either.

Wish you were here

This is from an email sent to my friend by a friend of hers who has recently been in Peru. I have no right whatsoever to reproduce it here, but am doing it anyway.

"We mostly had perfect weather on the trek, except for the couple times it hailed and the one night it snowed, and one of our donkeys died."

But where can I get MORE copies?

This morning when I left my apartment I noticed that there was a book propped against the wall. It was in a little nook on the landing where someone would have had to climb the stairs to put it. I looked a little closer and saw that it was entitled Jennifer and the Master: A Unique Erotica by John Vandeveer. In the corner of the cover someone had written in ballpoint pen "Free Copy." I'm hoping it was John Vandeveer himself and that this is just a small part of his vast "unique erotica" guerrilla marketing campaign.

Rebellion brewing

Believe me, I know I'm losing my audience. I realize that it is essentially my job to continue to provide you with amusing morsels and that I've been slacking. I got a testy email on the subject today. What can I tell you, people? I got nothing. Truly. I've been trying to think of something. I loiter about in restaurants and on street corners in the hopes that someone will say something eccentric, but it's been a dry time.

Today a colleague was interviewing an insurance salesman in my office (I don't know why. She does have an office of her own.) At one point I thought he said something about the policy covering "out of body expenses" for the insured. I think it was just sloppy diction, but I hope not. I'd be curious to know how pricey those out of body expenses are.

In other news, while at my friend's house for a southern dinner (which basically means that everything involved staggering amounts of Crisco) her water heater sort of exploded and shot flames out the top. No damage, but I think we barely escaped with our lives. A Crisco-based meal and an errant open flame? This is not a good combination.

That's all I have for you. Please don't storm the castle. I'll try to do better. I may dust off the last Italian anecdote for you.

Okay. I'll give you that one

Often I am too curmudgeonly to be excessively charmed by the antics of animals. However, when I walked out into yet another grim August day (is it fog? is it rain? hard to say), and saw the neighborhood Great Dane gambolling down Cole Street with an excited Dachshund, I admit it. It was joy inducing.

Some might call that proof

My formerly surefire "are you a crazy person" test must be updated to take into account the new proliferation of hands-free cell phone devices. That is, many people who appear to ranting to themselves as they walk down the street are actually having a phone conversation. Annoying perhaps, rude perhaps, but not necessarily crazy.

In any case, I assumed the young woman with the pink hair and tattered jacket walking up Masonic this morning was a cell phone person. Ah, but no. Wrong category. Plenty of chatting to...no one. As she walked past me she treated me to this little snippet of song:

"Dear father, if Jesus esists, how come I sucked his dick? Yeah, yeah yeah."

Now, for all I know, this is some major hit and not the ramblings of a deranged street person. Nevertheless, crassness aside, the lyric has a significant flaw in my opinion. After all, is it possible to suck the dick of someone who doesn't exist?

Just wondering.

Hello from the construction zone

So, it's true that no one is required to wear a hard hat at work anymore, but there are new challenges.

Today's question: How long does the fire alarm need to go off during a "test" before it's pretty clear that it's working just fine?

The new fire alarm goes off in blasts of three deafening buzzes, followed by a little pause, then three more deafening blasts. Apparently this can continue for any length of time--five minutes feeling roughly equivalent to an hour. In case you are deaf (which at the moment seems a pleasant fate) there is also a very bright flashing light--the kind that I think would induce an epileptic fit in some.

Morale, needless to say, is very high.

Dov'e?

I know. Promises, promises. Where are these oft discussed anecdotes? I've been back from my travels for nearly a month now. You probably don't even remember I was gone, but I was. And amusing things happened while I was elsewhere. Really. The thing is that I'm terribly lazy. I don't mean to be, but there it is.

Amusing Anecdote #1

One day, Marja and I got up in the morning and headed off to the tourist office. True, we had nothing particularly urgent to do there, but the fact of an actual plan involving a specific destination made us feel rather busy and important. I promised Marja that we would find her some coffee on the way, which seemed a certainty except that the route to the tourist office seemed strangely devoid of cafes. When we finally passed a tabacco shop/bar there was no time to waste. There was a bit of a caffeine emergency in the works.

It was an ideal location, in fact, because although I don't drink coffee, I did need stamps. I left Marja at the bar and I headed to the back where, by speaking Close-Enough Italian, I was able to purchase some francoboli for my carte postale to the Stati Uniti. When I came back, Marja was standing at the bar* drinking her cappuccino.

* NOTE: My Italian teacher particularly stressed the important fact that in Italy you may either drink your coffee standing at the bar, or you may drink it while seated at a table. BUT BE WARNED: you will pay a great deal more for sitting at the table. This was imparted with the gravity of a true insider tip. Clearly no self-respecting local would pay the exorbitant "table sitting" surcharge. However, being tourists with little or nothing to do other than sit at a cafe table, we were generally willing to pay up the extra Euros. But obviously, on a morning where we had such big plans, there was no time for that sort of thing.

"Hey." I said. "Look at you. Standing at the bar. How'd it go?"
"Well," she said, "it went pretty well up until he asked me if I wanted to drink it here or at a table. At least I think that's what he said. I just smiled and shook my head a lot."

While standing there, I decided I would get a pastry. Fortunately, I knew how to say "I would like a pastry," so that was pretty easy. The man got it for me and I was prepared for him to tell me that it was 70 cents, because, well, that's how much it was. Whatever he said though, was something entirely different. I didn't really concentrate on what it was, I just thought "Ah ha! This is the part where he asks me where I want to eat this. Luckily, Marja forewarned me." Immediately, the word for "here" evaporated from my brain, so I just kept saying it in English. "Here," I say. "Here. Um...Here." I began pointing elaborately from above my head to indicate the very place I was standing. "Here. Right here." I got the giggles. I looked at Marja helplessly. This seemed to go on for ten minutes.

Finally, the bewildered man furrowed his brow and says "A Lucca?" In Lucca? Well, yes. I would like to eat it in Lucca, but far more specifically, I would like to eat it right here, standing at your bar, not even taking one step toward your very expensive tables. I was puzzled. He was puzzled. He turned to his son for aid. The son slowly, but very clearly translated his father's original question. "Where are you from?"

Oh. So I've been insisting for ten minutes that I'm not only from Lucca (despite the fact that I don't speak Italian), but that apparently I was born right here on your bar? Here in your tabbacco shop? Yeah. Well, I was just kidding.

Here's your 70 cents.

A second butcher's hook

Driving home I saw a billboard that said "You bet your Daisy Dukes." Immediately I thought "Oh, it must be rhyming slang." I spent the time waiting at the red light trying to guess what Daisy Dukes rhymes with that would make sense in a beverage ad. I was coming up blank.

As the light turned green, I turned to give it a second look and discovered that it actually said "Bust out your Daisy Dukes." Oh. Short shorts. Summer. Refreshing drinks. Got it. I shook my head and chastized myself for having read something entirely wrong.

It was several blocks before the more relevant thing dawned on me. This is California. We don't HAVE rhyming slang.

T-shirts of Italy

As promised. Now, I realize that t-shirts may not seem like a fascinating subject, but that's because you just don't know. They are costly or I would have purchased them. And framed them.

There's really no need to editorialize (although you know how hard it is for me to stop). The beauty stands on its own.

Without further ado, I present: T-shirt Text of Lucca.


Shirt #1

Wear the art in the free style's paradise


Shirt #2 (envision purple puff paint)

SRF all waves in board time


Shirt #3 (quotes theirs, not mine)

Marcello "Come Here"


Shirt #4

GO STRAIGHT GUY


Shirt #5 (this is a long one--take a deep breath)

Red and yell
blends standy
jovial and na

Look yo the rose

rose carry
a lot of body
language

yellow roses
usually stand
for joy and gladness

tussie
mussies


******

What else is there to say? Wear the art in the free style's paradise, my friends. And tussie mussies to you all.

No more lollygagging

Yesterday I received a postcard of Vienna that had been mailed from Estonia. It said (among other things) "Hope all is swell with you and your blog. Look forward to checking back in..." Dear god. Thre are people in ESTONIA who are thinking about my blog. This is a high-pressure situation. Clearly, the laziness must be beaten into submission. I cannot fail you, the faithful reader. Who knows how many anonymous Estonians may be fans of mine. Food for thought indeed.

You want travel anecdotes? (Say yes. It will make the fact that you're about to get travel anecdotes less painful.) There are definitely some chart-topping tales, but I'm not going to give them all to you today. We're going to ration them. Sort of more like Hannukah than Christmas.

Today's feature: Miscellaneous facts

1. I met a woman on the plane from Paris to Pisa who was French but lived near Lucca. She was impressively multi-lingual and terribly helpful. Upon meeting Marja in Pisa, she became alarmed and drew me aside to tell me that Marja AT ALL COSTS must purchase a particular sunscreen or risk imminent death. She explained that this particular sunscreen had the powder of um...something...in it that was not chemical and would not change its properties when mixed with persperation. Marja and I henceforth referred to it as the Powder of A Thousand Virgins, but I think it was actually something else. We could never find it in the pharmacy, but we both managed to escape the Tuscan sun sunscathed despite using sub-par American sunscreens.

I have always considered myself quite pale. Skin cancer runs in my family. Nonetheless, Madame Toussaint expressed no concern for my skin whatsoever. She did not even gently suggest that I get the Sunscreen of 1,000 Virgins, let alone insist. Apparently though, compared to Marja, I appear swarthy and perhaps leathery. Now that I am also thirty-five, I do not find this encouraging.

Nevertheless, we are immensely grateful to Mme. Toussaint and I therefore give you this link to her rental property, Le Glicine We did not stay there ourselves, but I'm sure it's nice. Just in case you find yourself in Lucca and Apartment La Mansarda is unavailable. Which it will be because Marja and I are going back as soon as possible.

2. The people of Lucca do not seem to go to bed before 4am.

3. Yet, at 7:30am, the people of Lucca seem to be quite eager to begin driving small trucks which may or may not be towing running lawnmowers and motorcycles and carrying loads of marbles and broken glass. We never actually saw these trucks, mind you, but we heard them.

4. Lucca is allegedly a pedestrian city, but we spent a lot of time leaping out of the way of cars. This is to say nothing of the bicycles.

5. To save you having to look it up as we did, I'll just tell you now that the Italian word for mosquito is zanzara. Sadly, you will probably need to know the plural: zanzare. If you react as violently to zanzara bites as I do, you may find that it is helpful to put ice on them to reduce the swelling. The Italian word for ice is ghiaccio.

6. The most beautiful confections in Lucca are at Cafe di Sima.

7. Despite being a very small city, Lucca hosts what Marja refers to as the Monsters of Rock festival. Crosby, Stills, and Nash; Jamiraquoi; Lauryn Hill; and James Brown among others will all be rocking Lucca this August. Unfortunately, we were only there for the opening performance by some random Italian man who performs nothing but Ray Charles covers. He is neither black, nor blind, nor dead. I know. We didn't get it either. However, we did get to stand next to a cute policeman during the concert. We also ate gelato.

8. There really is no such thing as bad gelato. This is not true of pizza. Another useful tip: limoncello is very bright yellow which makes it strangely appealling like candy. Don't be fooled. It's stronger than you are. It laughs at you as you slide under the table.

9. If you have a very small wrist and you wish to buy a watch in Italy, just forget about it. All watch faces are the approximate size of Flava Flav's clock.

10. If you are secretly in love with me and planning to propose, I would very much appreciate it if you would purchase the ring from Carli on the Via Fillungo. It is the only store that has ever filled me with jewelry lust. I still wake crying because I did not purchase various antique diamond brooches for 6,000 Euros.

Tomorrow's feature: The t-shirts of Lucca.

Vocabulary

There should be a special word that means "the dread experienced by one who is about to go to bed in a room where, during the previous itchy, sleepless night, one has tried and failed to kill the mosquito." I'll bet the Germans have one.