Home again, home again

At home, I use one of my dining room* chairs at my desk, purely because it is more aesthetically pleasing than some kind of appropriate desk chair. However, it also sucks for sitting and typing for any length of time. I wanted you to know I am suffering for my art/for your amusement, the two things being more or less intertwined. (The art [which is a term I employ in this context only while snorting with laughter] and your amusement, not suffering and your amusement. I like to think you're nicer than that.) Anyway, I just went to fetch a more comfortable chair from the kitchen and said to myself "A'ight. Let's do some blogging up in here." I find it very entertaining to talk to myself** (and select others) in the manner of a hip-hop star. I think this is partially because I am the least likely hip-hop star in the world and partially because I still can't quite believe that hip hop became a mainstream thing. Back in 1988 when Amy stayed with us for the summer and we came across my brother's copy of Word Up magazine, headlines such as "Flava Flav Dissed Melle Mel" did not seem to be comprised of real words. Did we laugh? Yes. Indeed, did we laugh all summer long and hide notes saying "Flava Flav Dissed Melle Mel" in the kitchen cabinets for each other to find? Um....yes. I guess you could say we dissed both Mr. Flav and Mr. Mel. But I think it's safe to say that they had the last laugh.

*I do not want to mislead you into thinking I have a dining room. I do not have a dining room, nor do I imagine being able to afford a place with a dining room any time in the foreseeable future. I do, however, have a table that would like to be in a dining room and that table has chairs. All of these reside in the living room, in close proximity to the [small] desk. You know who does have a dining room? Flava Flav. I know. Who's a joke now, sucka?

**I also talk to myself in a normal way all but constantly. If talking to oneself "in a normal way" is a thing that is possible. Beware of living alone for 15 years. Particularly if you are chatty.

Today was a typical San Francisco sort of day.
1. The sun never came out. I wore a wool coat.

2. I was going to take the J Church to an appointment that was about a block from the Van Ness station, but for some reason the J Church wasn't running today. In general, the J Church and I have a fairly antagonistic relationship. I took BART. BART does not go to the Van Ness station. I was late.

3. Despite the grey, grey, greyness, people were out summering. I had tea at Two Sisters Bar and Books which meets all my aesthetic needs (cozy, books, charming, atmosphere-appropriate soundtrack played at background volume. Nicely done.) and many other people went to the beer garden nearby, just as though it were sunny.

4. I walked home (ten million blocks. Take that, Olympians.) down Valencia and passed FOUR restaurants I have never seen before in my life. I was only gone a few weeks. Sheesh. Culinary San Francisco is a slippery character. One of the places is a fancy pizzaria with exciting tile and doors that I find pleasing. (They're newly painted with glossy black paint and they have enormous wooden doorknobs right in the middle. If I were a proper blogger, I would have an Instagram photo of them, obviously, but you know this is a pretty rinky dink operation. Here's a link. You can go there yourself and Instagram the HELL out of it.) I look forward to going there, stuffing myself with pizza, and pretending I'm still in Italy, which should be easy since it, much like Italy, will be full of Americans. Next to it is a concrete place (San Francisco, please stop making all your restaurants out of concrete. Thank you.) that apparently serves all sorts of treats. Nothing about concrete says "come get treats here" to me, but I'm not very cool. Their menu belies their industrial posturing.

5. I think my neighbors may be borrowing some additional child for the evening? A child that cries relentlessly in a manner not unlike a siren? By which I mean an ambulance siren or similar, not a sultry seductress of sailors. Sigh. Surely their own, slightly quieter, baby would suffice. For the record, in Switzerland, you can't hear the neighbors. Also, they have the Alps. Not that I require the Alps at all, but they are impressive.

Life List update. July 2012

Buongirono amici.
I'm back.

Which is not to say that I'm taking the "vacation is over" thing particularly well. I am clinging to the vestiges. To wit:

5:15pm. Prosecco with a splash of limoncello and the mint I bought at the market yesterday because it smelled intoxicating, though I have no practical use for mint. Vacation's over, you say? Ha, I say.

Before embarking on my journey, I made a note in my journal of the Life List items that might potentially be accomplished. They were:
#8. Go to Rome.
#9. Speak basic Italian.
#38. Have wine in Tuscany with an Italian.
#39. Own something from Carli.
#40. Own grown-up lingerie.
#50. Visit Kath and KC in Switzerland (and pray they don't make me scale anything).

Well, hold on to your hats, friends, because many of these things came to pass.

Go to Rome. Si! Sono andata a Roma. Veni, vidi, ho mangato gelato.

Speak basic Italian. Hmmm. Well, that one's kind of a moving target isn't it. Did I use the past tense twice just moments ago? Si. Am I therefore amazing? Si. Certo. Was I able to confidently ask for a table for one and express my preference for sparkling water? Si. Did I feel like I spoke basic Italian? Not really. Though, by some measures, I think maybe I do. Perhaps I want to actually speak Italian. I will give myself a "quasi" on this one. A mezzo-check, if you will. Italian? I totally like you. Oh, sorry. I mean, Italiano? Tu mi piaci molto.

Have some wine in Tuscany with an Italian. I'm going to say no. I did have wine in Tuscany near Italians. I was even given wine by an Italian, and I did purchase wine from Italians, but "let us sit together at this tavola and raise a bicchiere insieme" still lies in the future, I'm afraid.

Me having wine in close proximity to Italians.

Own something from Carli. Not only did this not happen, this will probably never happen. However, I give myself credit for going to Lucca expressly to find out. I have been thinking about Carli since I first encountered it seven years ago, but at that point I was too intimidated to set foot inside. This time, I went; I asked to see two rings from the (gorgeous, perfect) case; I tried them on; I was told they were each more than three thousand euro; I laughed loudly in an un-chic manner and soon thereafter, departed. But at least now I KNOW. A rich man who is besotted with me is required. I'll see what I can do.

Own grown-up lingerie. I've got this one covered, people. Admittedly, I had envisioned exquisite, gossamer things, possibly purchased at La Perla. Indeed, I did go in to La Perla and let's just say that you could buy three bras there, or a ring from Carli. Still. Lace has been achieved. Matching has been achieved. This marks significant progress. And it's all thanks to a pre-vacation sale at the Gap. You laugh, but I'm totally hot and I can still afford to pay my rent.

A sampling. Not that, strictly speaking, it's any of your bee's wax.

See Kath and KC in Switzerland (and pray they don't make me scale anything). Yes! And hooray. My cousin and her husband have been living in Switzerland for twenty years and I have never managed to see them there. They live in a tiny town with the most dramatic landscape imaginable. I was overjoyed to see them there, at last. I found it unexpectedly moving to visit a blood relation in such an improbable place.

So, in short, it's been good. Stick around. I've got stories to tell you. Soon.

Presto

Presto is one of those words that doesn't mean what we think it means. For some reason it has come to be something we associate with magicians, as in, "Presto! The bucket is now a duck!" but it actually means "soon," as in, Presto, vado in Italia. Actually, soon I'm going to Switzerland and then soon thereafter to Italy, but in any case, I'll be far away. Some of you (rightly enough) are thinking that it will hardly matter where I am in that I never write anything anyway, and to you I say: shhhhh. I don't see the blog bully so much these days; he's got his hands full. I miss him. And so do you. This just in: I do not enjoy Bryan Ferry. At least not the song playing right now. I actually thought it was Roy Orbison, which, if you're me, is not a good thing. I realize that most of America comes down on the other side of the Roy Orbison question. Ditto Neil Young. I don't want to hear about it.

I leave in a week. Before I go, I will see three plays and a circus, because that's the kind of girl I am. I will also do various more typical pre-trip things like wondering if I secretly hate all the clothes I'm planning to pack; making all kinds of lists of international phone numbers; trying to figure out how to use my so-called "mobile devices", which I never use at home; practicing lifting the Too Many Books I am taking with me, making a last-minute trip to the pharmacy. Things like that. Also, I think I may need to buy some more socks. I know they have socks in Switzerland, but I imagine they are about $250 a pair. Switzerland? It costs a lot there. Consider yourself forewarned.

The importance of trifles

I made toast from two slices of the newly purchased loaf yesterday. I think I'm safe in saying that it is the worst bread I have ever eaten. Is it made of recycled paper? Possibly. And I'm not saying that that wouldn't mark an exciting advance environmentally, but I don't think it does a hell of a lot culinarily speaking. Only this morning did I notice that bread bag is proudly emblazoned with the words, "No Salt!"

I would not have previously thought that salt was a critical ingredient in bread, but I'm older and wiser now.

Friends, do not let this happen to you.

I cannot stress the importance of this enough. Constant vigilance is required. Be careful out there.

Phew

Right now, there is a flatbed truck parked directly in front of my building. On it, are six huge, unmarked wooden crates, approximately the size of elevator cars. They come up to the middle of my bedroom windows, which makes for a startling beginning to the day. There are three squabbling guys with crowbars fussing around and I waited anxiously as they pried open the first crate. I was afraid it might contain one of several robot overlords, here to take over the human race starting with my block. But it appears to just be some guy's furniture. I don't know where he's moving from, but apparently normal moving trucks can't drive from there to here. Welcome, exotic neighbor. Thanks for not orchestrating the end of civilization.

Buongiorno

The blog bully has lately been otherwise engaged and, as you can see, without the tsking, things go all to hell. But here I am. To be honest, I am still not feeling all that chipper. Meanwhile, I feel that all the world is Getting On With It and being all self-actualized and proactive. I secretly feel sort of small and glowery and envious instead of "Go Team!" about the whole thing. I'm not pleased with myself. There also continues to be a fair amount of tearfulness and hand wringing. All in all, it's not been terribly amusing chez moi of late, and I do my best to spare you the really bleak bits. Still, there are sunny moments.

1. I cleaned the apartment. Now, I know that this doesn't seem very noteworthy, but when you are suffering from a sort of tedious malaise, things can get rather untidy. The revolting dishes have been washed; the bathtub is gleaming; the seven wigs' worth of hair that seems to routinely fall out of my head and strew itself around the house has been vacuumed up; all the shoes have made their way back to the closet. And you know what? It's an awfully pretty apartment when given half the chance. It makes me happy to come home to its clutter-free surfaces in the evenings when, during daylight savings, actual rays of sun come into the living room at about 7pm. Sono fortunata.

2. Italiano! In my new class, I am the dumb one, but at least I'm also the funny one (in English, at any rate). I am ploddingly making my way towards an understanding of when you use avere and when you use essere in the passato prossimo. Soon I will be able to tell you what I did yesterday. Actually, let's give it a whirl now. Ieri sera sono stata in classe. La lezione è cominciata alle 19:30. Or (hold onto your hats now) La professoressa ha cominciato la lezione alle 19:30. That's right ladies and gentlemen, I have no fear of your direct objects and their crazy corresponding verb changes. At least not if we stick with cominciare. I feel pretty good about cominciare.

3. Yesterday I managed to do one of my very favorite things: get a phone service rep to talk to me like a normal person and (bonus points) to laugh. If the person is a native English speaker, I usually succeed, but it never fails to please me. Yesterday, while I was talking to a very pleasant woman at my credit card company, she was explaining the benefits of upgrading my reward-earning card to some other reward-earning card. I told her that I didn't see any difference between them.

"Oh no," she said. "There is a very significant difference. Right now, you're in a tiered redemption structure."

"A tiered redemption structure?" I repeated. "I'm pretty sure you're describing Catholicism. That's what I got out of Dante, anyway."

That got the best laugh I've probably ever gotten from a customer service rep. Fortunately, she was Catholic. I think it works better if you're Catholic. So that was a good day. Plus, I'm no longer in a tiered redemption structure, so I'm pretty sure I can do whatever the hell I want. With my credit card, at least. It's a start.

Collectanea

I am often compelled to entitle these posts "miscellany" in that, well, that's all they can accurately be said to be. Today, I thought I'd see if there were any useful synonyms on offer. (Hi, Thesaurus!) And so it is that I have been introduced to collectanea. I don't think it's altogether accurate to use it here, as I believe it implies a collection of writing by various people, not just a rambly assortment by one, but is it not a lovely word? Might it not be derived from the Greek goddess of collections? May Collectanea bless your baseball cards and bobble-head dolls, to say nothing of your depression-era glass pitchers.

1. I know I have mentioned this to you before, but I don't know whether you behave like proper minions and go look at things merely because I have told you to. Just in case, I'm telling you again. Letters of Note is fascinating. Fascinating, I tell you. And it will make you wish that people wrote you real letters. Sadly, today the first thing on the home page is a letter from Axl Rose, which makes the whole thing seem slightly less elegant than usual, but then, I am a snob. Perhaps Axl Rose is the very person you most desire for a pen pal.

2. Will I ever stop needing to blow my nose every three to four minutes? Ever?

3. Will I make an ass of myself in Italian class today in that I missed the whole first week and perhaps everyone else has totally mastered the passato prossimo? I intended to turn my attention to it in quite a serious way last night, but what with one thing and another, I pretty much just watched more old episodes of a show about FBI cases being solved with math. I did also pause to put some rotten chicken in the compost (Monday night is trash-collection eve) and that incited a lengthy bout of sink-scrubbing and window-opening and regret. These things take time, Italian. What can I tell you?

4. Why is "color-blocking" seen as a good thing while "matchy-matchy" is seen as a bad thing when, to me, they are the same? (And, what's more, I like to have things match. Secretly, I think many street-fashion blogs feature people who look as though they're homeless and only have access to a dumpster from 1986. So there.)

There really is no number 5 unless you would like to hear a long story about how awful the parking is on Tuesdays, and I'm sure you'd rather not. Anyway, I'm in dire need of a Kleenex.

Lest I forget how to write

April sort of passed me by. I spent, what? four days in NY? and then spent the rest of the month recovering from it one way or another. But now it's May and I will try, try again. A week ago I did a rather shabby job of telling a story at a show put together by my delightful friend Katy. To be fair, I was running a low fever at the time. I did wear a new dress and difficult shoes; under the circumstances, that was about as much elan as I could bring to bear. Now, solidly seven days later, I am suffering from a particular malaise entitled "Will I EVER Stop Blowing My Nose?" I walk around feeling such an enormous amount better, but not actually well. I think you aren't really well until you stop noticing your incremental improvements. I go about my tasks slightly dizzy and with a perpetual congestion headache, but encouraged that I am able to get off the sofa for long stretches of time.

Today, for instance, I managed to do the laundry which has been sitting in a heap on my bedroom floor for a week. It was (and is) an extravagantly beautiful day, so it felt quite Cinderella-esque to be at the laundromat while the rest of the populous wandered up and down the street--closed to traffic--enjoying some kind of Cinco de Mayo festival (though why they would have it on the 6th, I couldn't tell you) and, one imagines, eating organic ice cream. Still, it is a great relief to have it done at last and to boldly face a new tomorrow with a dizzying selection of clean underwear. Though I haven't the slightest doubt that I will face tomorrow morning with the traditional dread, please rest assured that my loins shall be most hygienically girded for the work week to come.

Meanwhile, as I lay feverish and depressed (sternly forbidding myself to cry for fear that the resulting supplementary congestion might actually cause my head to explode), my upstairs neighbors had a baby. The simultaneity of these events strikes me as Philosophically Meaningful in some sort of way, but perhaps I delude myself. Maybe it would have only been Meaningful if I had actually been dying, rather than merely very sad with a bad cold. I leave it for you to ponder. Currently, while he is extremely small, I feel quite big-hearted toward him. Obviously, history has already shown us what it will be like when he gets big enough to be audible. I am hopeful that I will be madly in love and Elsewhere by then. It is always possible. Weirdly, last night at a restaurant I used to frequent, I encountered the manager as I was leaving. "Ah!" he said, "You look gorgeous! I didn't recognize you!" [I have been puzzling over whether to be flattered or insulted by this.] "Are you married?" Generally, in this sort of exchange, the next question is, "How are you?" not "Are you married?" but perhaps it's different in France. I said,"No. But someday. Someday." and he said, "I am sure." And, really, he looked sure. So that makes one of us.

Just now, as I gazed out the window full of poetic resolve to enjoy my lovely apartment as long and as fully as I can [read: before the tyranny of the infant upstairs takes hold], a veritable flock of skinny jeans weekended their way down the sidewalk opposite. Ah, boys. However do you get your big feet through the ankle holes?

So many philosophical questions for one day.

Live and in person

Dear blog,
It's not you. It's me.
Love, Kari

If you live here and would like to see me wearing a dress and pretending to be a functioning member of society, please come to the Red Poppy on Sunday night for a 7pm show. The delightful and very talented Katy Stephan, has asked me to tell a story as part of her show. By Sunday, I should even know what that story is.

Spring break

I was just sitting here, compulsively checking my email in case my future spouse has just selected me among thousands of internet strangers (have you tried internet dating? It promotes all kinds of super healthy habits), when I suddenly remembered--hey! didn't I claim to be a writer somewhere along the way? Maybe I should give that a whirl. Now, before you get all excited about my new leaf, let me state for the record that I still haven't A) reviewed my Italian, B) set foot in the gym , or C)gone to the grocery store. But at this point, I'm celebrating all small accomplishments. To wit: I folded several sweaters that were strewn about and I put them...in the closet! Hooray for me!

New York!

The Algonquin was closed for renovations, which thwarted me from crossing a Dorothy Parker salute cocktail off my Life List, but I did get to meet Winnie the Pooh, so I think it all evens out. (It's true. The real Winnie was at the NY Public Library along with Tigger, Kanga, Eeyore, someone I didn't recognize who was wearing a string of pearls (who is not in the pictures, I note. Perhaps she was their chaperone), and Piglet, who is a good deal smaller than I imagined. No wonder he was afraid of Heffalumps. I got all teary-eyed immediately upon seeing them, but that is hardly surprising. I love those guys.)

If you go to New York, I would highly recommend that you do so in April during a week when the weather is perfect and everything is in bloom. When you stand waiting to cross the street, a flurry of petals from nearby trees will swirl around you in the manner of confetti and you will be the star of your own constant Easter parade. I further suggest that you stay with a terribly beautiful, funny, generous hostess who lives on Central Park West. I was fortunate in that I already had one of these, but you should take the necessary time to find one of your own. Truly, it makes all the difference: high ceilings, deco details, an expansive view over the treetops of Central Park to the East Side skyline beyond. It was like being on Fantasy Island. I had a delightful time.

Things I Meant to Do, but Didn't
1. See the Noel Coward exhibit at the Performing Arts Library.
2. Go to a museum of any kind, but notably the Tenement Museum (and apologies to the Blog Bully who wanted me to go to the Whitney)
3. Go out to tea
4. See 4,000 Miles at Lincoln Center (which was only about four blocks from the apartment). It was sold out.

Things I Meant to Do, and Did
1. See several friends, including Talya who came all the way down from Amherst, and two former students I hadn't seen in years. (Everyone's doing well; thanks for asking.)
2. Have dinner at Cafe Habana, as recommended by my friend Bill. Cheap! And delicious.
3. See a play. I knew I'd be sad if I didn't go to the theatre, but I kind of blew it on the half-price ticket booth, so I bought a last-minute mezzanine seat for David Ives' Venus in Fur. I liked about half of it very much.
4. Walk along the High Line. I am a very vocal fan of the High Line. Particularly in springtime. I can't overemphasize this enough: springtime.
5. Go to Smalls jazz club in the Village. Marvel that you can arrive somewhere at 1am on a Thursday night (Friday morning for all you sticklers) and have it be packed. Damn, New York. You're not messing around.

Things I Hadn't Particularly Meant to Do, but Did Anyway
1. Injure my foot with all the walk, walk, walking such that I was limping pretty significantly on the last day (and indeed well into last week).
2. Get completely lost in the Village. Again. Argh. Why is West 4th next to West 10th? Why is the Hudson River where I was pretty sure I'd find Washington Square? Damn you, Village. Damn you.
3. Have Pimm's cups in a sunny restaurant with Talya.
4. Eat an entire sea bass at a fancy restaurant with flocks of waiters.
5. Get in a taxi driven by a man who could not get me from 63rd Street to 53rd Street. (Before all you fitness champions get all "serves you right" about my taking a taxi a mere 10 blocks, I'll remind you that my foot was basically broken at that point.)

Things Many People Told me I MUST Do, that I Narrowly Avoided
1. See the Cindy Sherman show at MoMa. It's not that I didn't go to the show; I did. So did hundreds of other people. My feet hurt so much by the time I arrived that I couldn't imagine standing in line. I went into the lobby, mostly to sit down, but also to take a look at the gift shop. I perused a book in there that allows me to tell you this: as it turns out, I absolutely hate the work of Cindy Sherman. Hate. I couldn't be more thrilled that I discovered this before buying a ticket. Would that I had known before I limped my way to the museum. Should have gone to the Frick. Ah well.

I loved it. I'm wondering if maybe I should move there, even though springtime is not its natural state. I'll let you know what I decide. My upstairs neighbors are going to have a baby sometime this week, which may impact my thinking on this front. Meanwhile, in case you wondered, I have continued to check my email compulsively during the past many, many minutes it's taken me to write this, and my future spouse has not written. This may also impact my thinking on whether or not to move. Possibly my future spouse does not live in San Francisco. This would be inconvenient, but explain a lot.

To answer your question...

No. I did not die in New York.

I've been home for a whole week and yet I have said nothing to you, my faithful reader. Do I feel bad about this? Naturally, reader. Of course, I am assailed by guilt. Pretty much every lazy, inertia-based thing I [don't] do assails me with guilt. There is, therefore, a lot of guilt hovering around me, Pigpen-style. My aura is guilt-colored, which might make amends to some degree, but is hardly the same as actually going to the grocery store, now is it? Or the gym. Or reviewing my Italian. Or reading a book instead of watching television. On and on it goes.

I had a really delightful time in New York and I'll tell you all about it. However, I seem to be having a rough re-entry. Mi dispiache. (Ha! Look! Italian review! Things are already improving. I'll be back here soon.)

Chop chop

I got an email this morning from the blog bully with the subject heading "chop chop" and I steeled myself for some stern words about blog slacking, but that's not what he meant. Yay! It was a joke about the speediness/busy-ness of New Yorkers and how I'd better step up my game because I'm headed to NY in the morning. Don't worry, I had been planning to tell you: Hi. I'm going to NY tomorrow. I have to be on my way to the airport at 5:45AM, which is a time of day I generally opt out of, so please wish me luck. I hope to have stories to tell you when I get back.

Meanwhile, I'm in a dither about packing. April is a tricky time weather-wise. Will I be too hot? Will I be too cold? Will I look like a country bumpkin? (That has nothing to do with April. That has to do with New York.) What to do? This is also the inaugural journey of the very light suitcase I got for Christmas (thanks, Mom!) and I have discovered that its lightness may very well be related to its smallness. It is worryingly small. This doesn't concern me so very much for a four-day trip, but I am less confident about this summer's three weeks. Tell me, little suitcase, do you have the capacity for me to be consistently lovely for three weeks? On second thought, perhaps that is too much to ask of a suitcase. Have I mentioned the acne? It's true. My skin has been worse over the last month than it has at any point in my life. Why? Why, O ye gods? Whatever the reason, there is nothing the suitcase can do about it.

Something for you to ponder in my absence: why do pears rot from the inside out, so that you bite into their firm outer flesh without the slightest sense of trepidation, only to spit out a mouthful of mush? It seems odd for fruit to enjoy practical jokes. I win in the end though, because it's Free Cone Day at Ben and Jerry's (a mere block away). Ice cream! Take that, fruit.

(And don't go ahem-ing and raising your eyebrows toward the acne paragraph. I'm sure ice cream has nothing to do with it. In fact, I may apply an ice cream compress directly to my chin. Perhaps that will clear things up.)

As I keep saying...

Thank you, Married to the Sea.

Life-Changing Cinema

Last weekend, in a rather pleasing downpour, the blog bully and I went to see The Sound of Noise at New People Cinema, which is the year-round programming home of the San Francisco Film Society, located in San Francisco's Japantown. I had never been there, largely because the films deemed worthy of being shown all seem to be relentlessly depressing. I may be mistaken. After all, I have not seen them, but I do read about them and I cannot say that the descriptions fill me with yearning to hand over twelve bucks.

This time, in an exciting departure, the film was one I'd seen at last year's festival and loved. It's clever and funny and also inspiring of foot-tapping, which is a thing the blog bully seems to enjoy. I was quite excited to see it again and to share the joy, since I had seen it alone the first time around. Before the feature we were treated to what seemed like approximately three dozen (though I think it was just four) previews of capital "F" Films that, true to form, seemed ...anyone?... relentlessly depressing. There was one that was supposed to be "erotic" and "visually stunning" that seems to involve a great many extremely miserable (though lavishly dressed) prostitutes of a bygone era. Then there was one that made me feel like maybe "cinema" as such is just an elaborate joke and that perhaps no one really enjoys it at all, but smart, fancy people pretend to enjoy it just to see if we'll play along. I call this one The Freezing, Freezing Horse. There were others, but really The Freezing, Freezing Horse is sufficiently emblematic.

Voila:
(This is apparently the official trailer, a fact that makes me almost weak with mirth, but I will try to find something more akin to the preview we saw, which is to say longer and even windier. I know, I know. I am a Philistine.)
Ah, here we go.

Look. I'm not saying the thing is devoid of austere beauty and the like, but it also makes me want to kill myself in less than two minutes, which, I suppose one could say is an artistic accomplishment in and of itself. I just feel that if I want to be exceedingly depressed and meditate on bleakness, I could, say, spend an evening alone lying on the concrete floor of my garage. For free.

Just to cheer you up, here is the film we actually went there to see: See? Delightful, no?

But here you are waiting to hear what changed my life. And I'll tell you. The bathroom, that's what. Are you female? Do you live here? You should go to a very depressing foreign film (because, really, in spite of it all, hooray for art) and avail yourself of the ladies' room. The toilets look as though they may have the power to transport you back to your house after the final credits. So many buttons! I am not altogether sure how I feel about a heated toilet seat in a public restroom, but how I otherwise feel about a heated toilet seat on a cold and rainy night is A) surprised and B) good. And if I had a toilet that was equipped with bidet technology featuring heated water? Well, let's just say I would be well contented and very clean. I suspect that Japan is awash with high-tech toilets, but I've never been to Japan. By all means, if Japan is convenient to your home, just go there. Otherwise, you might find it easier to go to Japantown. Among other benefits, the buttons are identified in English.

Oh! I almost forgot. The movie theatre is also very nice.

Present and accounted for

I won't go so far as to call it depression, but the general malaise has continued apace and since I don't like to put all my "oh woe is me" nonsense here [read: did you just spend another evening in your filthy living room watching TV while consuming whiskey and chocolate chips?], it makes me quiet. But it's Friday! And tomorrow a trained professional will attend to my roots such that I may live to be carded at Trader Joe's another day. Also, I have plans this Sunday, which means I will not have the opportunity to sink into the morose, shuffly, sweatpant-clad inactivity that tends to befall me on most Sundays. So, see? All is well. And here I am to entertain you with miscellany.

[Overheard in the hall just now. Girl: Do you want to hear my poem? Boy (with no hesitation): No! Not at all.]

1. I have spent much of the week trying to prepare clues and endless other documents for upcoming scavenger hunts. I am remarkably bad at this. While trying to sort out the order of clues, I thought my brain might actually burst into flames.

2. The blog bully created a small sign to dissuade the oft-mentioned Urinators in the corner by my garage. Our trial run was St. Patrick's Day on a Saturday night, which was kind of a lot to ask of a very small sign, but, to be fair, there was only evidence of one voided bladder. We'll see how it goes this weekend. Also? The blog bully actually undertook this project entirely under his own initiative. He came by my house on the sly last weekend and posted the sign in Pee Corner. He is like a super hero. It may be because he eats so many vegetables.

3. It is a curious thing when you decide on a whim to go to a 9:30 movie on a Thursday night and emerge around 11:15 to find the lobby positively brimming with people. I mean, film festival levels of crowdedness. Wha...? Oh, right. Hello, Hunger Games. Dammit. I was so close to being on the cutting edge. And yet, so far.

4. Lionel Ritchie apparently has a new album out. You can't be more surprised than I.

5. For the record, I have a horror of men who, when not employing them to shield their eyes, put their sunglasses on the back of their neck. Seriously, men of the world, this is a choice that makes you look like a yahoo. Do not do it. Please.

And with that, I wish you a pleasant last weekend of March.

Disappointing fact

An email from NPR links to an article, but has a little paragraph to get you started:

People who consumed about one serving of red meat (beef, pork or lamb) per day had a 13 percent increased risk of death, compared with those who were eating very little meat, a study found.

I hate to bring this up, and I certainly don't think we should dwell on it, but actually we are all going to die. Even the vegans. I was pretty sure NPR already knew that. But since they apparently don't, I kind of don't want to be the one to tell them. You do it.

********
Bonus Unrelated Fact:
Yesterday I accidentally hit someone with a viola. True story.

In which I discuss television for lack of better options

I'm pretty sure I just heard a kid ask his friend, "Why do you want to learn about The Bible? Do you want to learn about, like, Hercules?" I hope that she says no. Otherwise she's in for a big disappointment.

People, it's already Wednesday and, despite what I like to think of as my improvements vis a vis actually writing things here, I am behind this week. It's only a matter of time before the blog bully starts scolding me. Why have I written nothing? Mostly because I have nothing much to say. I am grouchy and today has been a cavalcade of petty mishap. Also, I barely left the house all weekend and during the depressive shut-in festival, I ate a great deal of pasta. I enjoyed the pasta (I always enjoy pasta), but I do not enjoy its seemingly immediate roly-poly results. While skulking around feeling sorry for myself and adding to my girth, I watched two whole seasons of an English show called "Skins," which is kind of like "My So-Called Life" only with nearly continual drug use and a great deal more sex. I liked season one more than I ought to publicly admit, but in season two things became absurd. This seems often to be the case with second seasons; all the plausible dramatic territory has already been covered, so you have to move on to kidnapping! and comas! and stalkers! and hallucinations! and lots of death! I know it's uncool to ask this in a show about teenagers but, why doesn't anyone have any parents? I'm struck that parents would have come in handy in many of these situations. For instance, if my roommate suffered some kind of brain hemorrhage and died in front of me, I'd probably call my mom.

I also have watched several Miss Marple mysteries (more have suddenly become available on Netflix, which is excellent news if you are me). In the opening sequence of one, Miss Marple is in a taxi making her way through London. She passes many charming buildings and then the car turns a corner and a massive industrial building heaves into view, rather marring the landscape. "Oh dear." I said aloud. Almost immediately afterward, Miss Marple utters her first line: "Oh dear," she says.

So there you have it. As I have often suspected, nay, feared, I am secretly an elderly English lady in the 1940s. This may bode ill for my romantic future (and yes, I persist in believing I'll have one).

Opinionated again, but nicer

I recently wrote about a nameless, grandiose, yet still silly play. I cautioned you that the Wrong Response was to think "Ew. Plays. Blech." But in case some of you are feisty renegades who went ahead and thought "blech" anyway, I want you to know that last night I saw a great play. Generally, I would exhort you to go see it, but I got an email today announcing that the run is totally sold out. (In fact, the tone of the email was just slightly "nyah nyah nyah-ish," but one can forgive a small theatre for wanting to say, "See? We've been TELLING you to come." when they have the chance.) Still, for the record, The Aurora Theatre does good work and Body Awareness was a play to make me proud of plays. I laughed; I cried; I thought about human folly and feminism and sex and our eagerness to reject the different and our need to be seen and valued. All that in just 90 minutes. Hooray for the theatre!

Unrelated. Most mornings on the radio, I hear a publicity announcement about the upcoming celebration of the Golden Gate Bridge's 75th anniversary.

Dear copywriter, About this phrase:

A big bridge deserves a big party.

Really?

Pitfalls

This morning I went to the gym. AGAIN. In the MORNING. I amaze myself. I even ran into a colleague in the locker room who said I had inspired her to get back into the exercise habit. I find this far more hilarious than I could ever explain, but whatever works for her. I had put on my bathing suit under my clothes so I could be a time-saving swimming superhero, but I have once again been reminded of the perils of trying to do clever time-saving things in the morning. The thing about wearing your bathing suit on the way there is that you cannot wear your bathing suit on the way back. And while I'm proud to say I did not forget all my underwear, I do find myself accidentally braless at work. Fortunately a) the students are not here this week, b) I am no Dolly Parton, and c) I have a very bulky sweater. Still, oops.

As a somewhat untraditional breakfast treat I am eating a mango popsicle (a thing spell-check feels I am spelling incorrectly, but if that's the wrong way, what could possibly by the right way?) Why? Because there is no milk for my tea, it seemed like it might be more fun than drinking water and, mostly, it was in the staff freezer with a note that said "help yourself." As I raise the popsicle to my mouth, I am disturbed to find that it smells exactly the same as the lotion provided at the gym. The sensation, therefore, at least from an olfactory perspective, is not unlike sucking on my own hand. I do not recommend it.

Opinionated

Have you ever seen something (heard something, read something) that is hailed as sheer brilliance that you found to be...um....not good? Well, of course you have. And if that thing was Titanic we should be friends. Why do people love that movie so much? Why? It is the worst casting and possibly the worst dialogue in memory. (And while that would seem a weirdly out-of-date example, apparently it so beloved that it is being re-released. Nooooo!) However, that's not the bad thing we're here to discuss. We are here to discuss a play I saw recently. A play that shall remain nameless because I don't want anyone to say "See? Plays. Blech." On the contrary, I have a great love of theatre and I want more people to go see plays, so do that. However, I keep getting email that tells me this play is "shocking," "engrossing," and "not to be missed." When, sadly, it is none of these things.

Let's just say that a major plot point hinges on a Greek tragedy style recognition (think: "I too have half an amulet. Lo! You must be my brother"). Only, in this case the critical object is a clown nose. A clown nose that was tucked into a infant's blanket as he was carried off to an orphanage within, like, twenty minutes of his being born. In the Middle East. Through a war zone. A clown nose that we are meant to believe he somehow still has--in pristine condition--about 30 years later, despite having been moved around constantly his whole life to avoid slaughter. I have trouble even believing that bright red, foam clown noses are likely to be available in remote rubble-y Middle Eastern villages to begin with, let alone that the orphanage personnel would be all, "Do we have all the babies that would otherwise die in a fiery explosion? Great. Oh! Do we have the clown nose that came with that one baby? All right then. We're good to go." This is not, alas, the only problem with the play, but it is a major one. When you hit the big gasp-inducing climax of your very serious drama, you don't want anyone to think, "Are you kidding me? Is there a dramaturg in the house?"

But then, when the lights came up, I saw people in tears and a bunch of people gave it a standing ovation. So what do I know? Thank you, audience, for supporting live theatre and making it satisfying for the artists to perform and for generally being nicer than I am.

Also,we should definitely let those people know about the Titanic 3D re-release. They'll probably be super excited.

On the other hand

Yesterday I was all fired up to Take Advantage of the whole magical extra day phenomenon. I started strong what with the breakfast and the letter-writing and all, but the big Wednesday night extravaganza that I had in mind failed to come to fruition. At all. And that's why I've decided to recant and to let you know, belatedly, that the point of the 29th of February is that it doesn't really count as a real day.

That means that the fact that I got home; watched idiotic sitcoms; shed a few lonely, frustrated I'm All ALOOOONNNEE tears; had dinner comprised of chocolate chips, a glass of whiskey and then later, begrudgingly, some leftover rice; and, as a finale, fell asleep on the sofa fully dressed at 10pm while watching some show involving sorcery is all perfectly fine.

Welcome, March first. I am ready for you.

P.S.

About twenty minutes ago, I mailed my last letter for February. I did it! The challenge was to put something in the post every day in February that there was mail service. Somehow, I sent 25 pieces of mail, though with 29 days, four Sundays and one holiday, I think it ought to have been 24. I hope whoever got the bonus "my math is terrible" missive was extra pleased. So, 25 things mailed, 9 pieces of personal correspondence received. I liked it. The fact that I brought more dedication to this project than anything else I can think of (eating breakfast every day, going to the gym, keeping up the blog, doing any "real" writing, studying Italian, on and on and on) perhaps begs some kind of examination, but, with your kind permission, let's leave that until March and allow me this one bonus February day to bask in my accomplishment. Thank you.

Feeling rather pleased with myself for having written a six-page letter over breakfast (breakfast!) while the sun broke dramatically through the rain clouds (though, frankly, we need a great deal more rain), I drove to work quite smiley (a highly unusual occurrence, I'm sorry to say) and when "A Whisper to a Scream" came on the radio [which a quick Google search informs me is not even the title of the song. Apparently it's called "Birds Fly"], I turned it waayyy up. And that's how I came to discover--yet again, as I do every time it comes on the radio and I turn it waaayyyy up--that the only lyrics I know, or indeed can understand, in the entire song are "a whisper to a scream." The rest of the singing along is more like rhythmic mumbling, but I came in very solidly on the chorus. For those of you keeping score, I have a similar, though slightly less mumbly experience with "Shadows and Tall Trees."

Happy magical extra day of the year.

Broken news

I planned to say "breaking news" but I think we're about 6 hours too late for that.

1. I went to the gym BEFORE work this morning. There is no reason whatsoever that you should care about this, except that it is a MIRACLE. I also seemed to have pulled basically every muscle in my neck and shoulders because maybe I am a very bad swimmer? But I arrived there at a time when I am usually hitting the snooze alarm and therefore I am a Champion of Fitness.

2. Gas at what I think of as the cheap gas station is $4.21. And I don't own nor know how to ride a bike. This is concerning.

Nothing more to see around here. Carry on.

Half a double feature

I love double features. Two movies back-to-back on the big screen for which you pay one ticket price. Man. That's a great idea. I particularly like double features at the Castro Theatre because they have all the excellent qualities of double features everywhere [see above] and they are also at the Castro Theatre, my favorite place in San Francisco. However, things seem to have gone awry over there this month because one element of double features is that they ought to have some thematic link. Or actor link. Or director link. Or some damn link other than "they are both about couples." This week, Funny Face is playing (yay!) in a double bill with Love Streams (boo!). I was not previously familiar with Love Streams, but I watched the trailer and wanted to kill myself after about 70 seconds.

Here are some questions for you, Love Streams:
1. Do you have Audrey Hepburn? (no)
2. Do you make me wish to be kissed in a charming bookstore? (no) [To be fair I pretty much always want to be kissed in a charming bookstore, regardless of the movie I'm watching, so maybe I'll give you a pass on that one. Maybe.]
3. Do you make me want to glide down a marble staircase in Paris holding a chiffon scarf over my head and saying, "I don't want to stop. Take the picture!"? (no)
4. Does Fred Astaire ask for forgiveness by way of a dance in a Parisian courtyard? (no)
5. Do you make me wish to own at least 80% of the clothes worn by female characters? (Don't be ridiculous. You were made in 1984)
6. Just to be sure...no Audrey Hepburn? (still no)
7. Are you depressing beyond imagining? (apparently)

Right. So who the hell programmed you with Funny Face and ruined my Thursday evening?

Now, in the spirit of things that have nothing to do with other things: an anecdote.

This weekend I organized a meeting of some students at a student's house. The student's dog, Cinnamon, was terribly excited to have eight people in her living room, dropping snacks. She became a bit too, um, present for me at one point and I asked the student if he could rein her in. "Cinnamon!" he said, loudly and sharply. Then he looked at me and said, "Um, she's not actually trained." I laughed for about ten minutes.

Are you a dog owner who likes to entertain? Is your dog sticking her nose in your guests' laps with too much gusto? Feel free to say your dog's name with a great deal of authority. You never know, maybe something useful will happen. Perhaps she's trained herself while you were at work one day. Always worth a try.

Cruel and unusual

I check my email compulsively all day long because You Just Never Know when someone might be thinking of you and send you some amusing note or declaration of love or party invitation or something. Also, I'm quite bored much of the time. It is hardly surprising then that I become quite excited when the little (1) shows up, indicating that I have a new message. Nor is it the least surprising that when the new message--the sole message I've received in the last five hours--proves to be an offer of a coupon for a 2.5 hour Segway ride through Golden Gate Park, I become just that much more embittered.

Foresight

When you are brainstorming about possible mascots or icons for your athletic team, you should bear in mind that at some point, probably quite soon, whatever you decide on will be bandied about versus whatever some other team has decided on. And, because it's sports, you will want to sound all bad-ass and threatening. That's why--although they are widely popular things and would probably make for great fan appreciation days--nobody chooses The Puppies or The Cupcakes. And yet today, when I was half listening to a litany of imminent matchups on NPR news, I heard "The Sharks take on the Maple Leaves."

It's true that if unexpectedly covered by a flurry of maple leaves, sharks would probably be baffled and thus bested, but one wonders if that is the kind of battle that hockey fans are really looking for? I'm looking at you, Canada.

Weekend

In brief.
1. I told a story at Previously Secret Information and it was good! Not as good as Joe's story about his unreliable temporarily cemented tooth, but good nevertheless. It's always a relief when people laugh. (I mean, when you're trying to be funny.) It's hard to tell when you're rehearsing alone in the living room.

2. I bid farewell to a really wonderful man. It sucked. Though I choose not to blather on too much about my romantic endeavors here, I am still out there on the epic quest, trying to do the right thing along the way. Frankly, it is exhausting. And confusing. I'll miss him. The woman smart enough to hang on to him will be very lucky indeed.

I hope to be amusing again soon.

A sense of foreboding

Email subject heading from Yoshi's San Francisco.
Coming soon: The Music of the Grateful Dead & Pink Floyd.

I'm not sure they intended it as a threat, but that's certainly how I'm taking it.

A small collection

1. I've not listened to Sinead O'Connor since 1987, so learning she has a new album stirred some nostalgia. I'm listening to it on NPR, but the opening love song involves a buggy ride [seriously. "It's so warm inside when he takes me for a buggy ride," which I suppose might be intended as innuendo, but I'm not sure I ever want sex to be referred to as a buggy ride, so that doesn't help matters.] and the second song has the lyric, "for so long I've been a junkie; I ought to wrap it up and mind my monkeys." I think, like many people I knew in 1987, Sinead and I have grown apart.

3. I discovered today that someone rides their bike to work and then hangs their sweat-soaked garb to air out on the rack where we hang the tablecloths. This person perhaps never had a mother. Also? Ewwww.

2. If your dress no longer fits after you have had half a burrito, your dress really didn't fit to begin with. In case I forget this lesson in the future, maybe I should keep a caftan in my desk drawer.

3. Wait! A caftan you say? Well, you're in luck. When I went to purchase the aforementioned burrito, I passed the mystery store on the corner. (I have mentioned it before. It regularly goes out of business and then reopens under a different name with the exact same merchandise. It is currently called Things Lucky.) Displayed outside, they usually have several belly-dancing-type ensembles, but today they also had yellow caftan, the entire front of which features a life-like rendering of Bob Marley smoking a joint. I don't know if there is a more perfect "I'm in the Haight and I also accidentally ate too much" outfit. I should probably buy it right away.

Suggestions

Were I to arrange my life as informed by the radio commercials I hear every morning, I would wake from a restful night's sleep on my new mattress; drive in my newly insured car (saving hundreds of dollars!) to the warm, supportive fertility clinic where the doctors sound like members of a cult. Ultimately, though, none of this would matter since I would soon thereafter die of carbon monoxide poisoning. Apparently, it can happen to anyone, anywhere, anytime--regardless of the quality of your mattress.

Environmental

Standing in front of three possible receptacles, peering at a cup made of mystery material, it suddenly occurred to me that up until, say, the advent of metal being used for stuff, the question: "is this compostable?" was superfluous. Because--guess what--pretty much everything on the planet was compostable.

Aside from the fear, ignorance, pestilence, war and relentless labor, it must have been quite a carefree, restful time.

Treading carefully

A young woman with long hair, wearing an ankle-length skirt and somewhat eccentric combination of patterns, and carrying a sunflower is walking toward me in the company of a neatly coiffed young man, all in black, walking a bicycle. As I pass them I hear:

"Why don't you like Honey-Boo?" she asks plaintively. "What's wrong with Honey-Boo?"
He smiles diplomatically, "Well..."

Let us hope for the sake of the man--to say nothing of the currently nameless creature--that it is a pet and not a child.

Wednesday miscellany

1. According to an email in my spam folder, nir tsalach wants to be my friend on Windows Live. Poor nir. He probably doesn't have a lot of friends, not least because who even knew Windows was a place to be friends? Despite my sadness at his plight, he will have to carry on without me.

2. I keep hearing a radio announcement about a concert in which the band is described as "one of Philadelphia’s funkiest performers of laid back, alternative hip-hop blues." Are we therefore to understand that there are numerous performers of laid back, alternative hip-hop blues? Perhaps all of whom are in Philadelphia? This surprises me.

3. God bless the very young checker at Trader Joe's who scanned my wine, glanced at me, glanced at me again and asked to see my ID. As I've said before, they must be instructed to card people who look younger than 60, but, I admit it, being carded by people who could be my children thrills me a bit.

4. In honor of imminent Valentine's Day, a student group has festooned the school with paper hearts upon which are written affirmative statements. "You're a great friend." "I love having you around." "I love the way your mind works." "You just GET it." "I love your eyes and that messed-up tooth MAKES your smile." "I would totally kiss you." The one at eye-level on the faculty room door says, "You look nice today." Aww. I walk around all smiley. Grazie studenti.

5. I am on board with the month of letters project. It is more satisfying than I even imagined. True, I am sending far briefer correspondence than is my usual wont, but on the bright side, more people are hearing from me. If you sit down and write seven letters right now, you can catch up and join us. Hot tip: buy more stamps.

Janitorial-2

I'll bet you thought I was kidding about the hoses. Ha! Joke's on you. Why would I hold back when I have no doubt that you are enthralled by my detailed accounts of outdoor chores? Truthfully, I am positively assailed by doubts that you care about this du tout, but isn't blogging really just the author talking to herself? (a thing I do in actuality with increasing/alarming frequency. I find that I cannot make it through a grocery store visit without accompanying myself with persistent, audible narration. Surely this is worrisome?) And I find the sidewalk outside my house to be terribly compelling, so it is a hot topic of conversation with myself. I'm not even kidding. You have no idea how much time I spend thinking and muttering about my corner of the urban landscape. Shall I tell you why?

Peeing. That's why. And no. It's not dogs. It's dudes.

There is an absolutely unbelievable amount of urine that is dispensed by passing men in the corner by my garage door. Sometimes, after particularly copious amounts of beer have been consumed, one imagines, the quantity is sufficient to create seepage into the garage proper. The degree to which this disgusts and infuriates me cannot be overstated. I have lived on fairly significant urban thoroughfares since 1992 and never before have any of my dwellings been mistaken for a more than usually commodious urinal. The pee is always in the same corner and it happens with baffling frequency. Would you pee on a house? Of course you wouldn't.

I have spent a lot of time trying to figure this out and the best theory I can come up with is that between the bar two blocks away and my garage, there is no other deep-set corner. There are a great many doorways (but peeing in a doorway is even worse and maybe the urinators have standards? Once someone opened our front gate and came in to pee in the [nicely swept] entryway. I exploded with fiery indignation and have only recently been pieced back together.) and numerous garages. However, those garages are flush with the wall of their building and even with the sidewalk. Meanwhile, my garage is set back from the sidewalk by about three feet (which makes backing out without killing people a special challenge, but that's another story altogether) creating: Pee Corner.

MEN OF SAN FRANCISCO: HEAR ME NOW. THERE IS A SPECIALIZED PEE RECEPTACLE AT THE BAR. PROBABLY NEAR THE BACK. IN A SPECIAL LITTLE ROOM EXCLUSIVELY FOR PEOPLE WITH PENISES. IT IS NOT AGAINST THE WALL UNDER MY BEDROOM WINDOW.

Previously, my upstairs neighbor used to occasionally take it upon himself to hose down the sidewalk, the front stairs,and the gritty garage doors. But he moved (with his relentlessly noisy children. Goodbye, relentlessly noisy children) and took his hose with him. There is a hose in the back, but it must be about 300 feet long; I once tried to follow it from the faucet to the other end, but it is buried very deeply in the wilds of the thorny spider farm that we call the back yard, so I gave up. This means that in every pee incident (or in one extra special occasion on Christmas Eve eve, vomit) I am obliged to employ the bucket and broom method (actually, I don't have a bucket, so I go up to the kitchen, empty out my recycling bin, fill it with water from the back stair spigot and return to the grisly sidewalk and makeshift my way to a cleaner tomorrow). I should note that there is a mystery broom in the alley that I use for these bio-hazard jobs; my blue-handled broom undertakes the more dignified sweeping tasks for which it was raised.

All this has changed. "Why?: you ask, "Have the men of San Francisco suddenly decided to comport themselves in a civilized manner?" Well, no. Would that it were so. Instead, I have been presented with a hose by my thoughtful Home-Depot-frequenting friend. And it works too. I happen to know because, returning home very drowsily about midnight on Sunday, I pulled into the driveway only to have the beam of my headlights illuminate a glistening fresh swath of newly voided urine. I'll bet the hose would work on the actual pee-perpetrator too, but I've never caught one in the act.

I suppose that people's homes are peed upon in the country, as well, but presumably by woodland creatures or livestock, which seems, if not actually appealing, at least more forgivable. I think that when I opted for city life, I was hoping for urbane more than merely urban. Alas, what a difference an e makes.

Janitorial-1

At my old apartment building, my landlord was around all the time. He liked to keep busy. He may have been a bit overly present, in fact, seeing as how he didn't live in the building. However,as a result of his constant puttering, things were tidy without my thinking much about it. Not so, the new building. For one thing, it is run by a management company who didn't even come back to take their "For Rent" sign down after the available unit had long since been occupied. Clearly, they couldn't care less about the state of our front stairs (or the terrifying back yard, which is another story). For another thing, the exterior bits of the property are basically filthy. The back stairs are covered year-round by various plant matter from the neighboring yard, which is at a higher elevation--the better for showering leaves down upon us in every gust of wind (of which there are a great many). The sidewalk in front of the building, the entryway, and front stairs, are blasted daily with dirt and detritus that, once it has blown into the corner by the garage or into the gated passageway, is trapped there forever. In short (as though it were not far, far too late for that), there is a lot of sweeping required. There were two options: A) ignore the need for sweeping (because it is not, technically, MY responsibility) and live in squalor or B) be my father's daughter and, if sweeping is clearly required, just do the damn sweeping.

I chose B. I have found that it is surprisingly satisfying to sweep. It is fairly easy and yet makes a marked and immediate difference (unlike vacuuming for instance, which I know makes a difference, but one that I can not easily detect without crouching on the floor to admire up-close its post-vacuuming hairlessness [I shed like mad]). Besides, with the sweeping, I get to feel all Civic Minded and Neighborly. Once, in a particularly leafy, windy time, I even swept the sidewalk in front of the neighboring building. I expect to get a cookie in the afterlife.

I keep my broom just inside my garage door for easy sidewalk access. One day, upon returning from work, I found that the broom had been moved to a far less convenient corner and, perhaps even more mysteriously, that about two inches of its previously relatively pristine bristles had been stained black. I was very puzzled, since the garage is locked and I am the only one who has access to it, but I thought maybe I had done some sleep-sweeping or something. Who knows? Better not to dwell. Fast forward a few weeks. I was home sick and I heard someone open my garage. When I went to investigate, I found that the plumbers were working to deal with some kind of back-up in the drain in my neighbor's garage. I left them to it.

During the time of my fairly lengthy indisposition, the trash/dirt collection in the walkway became very condemned-building-esque, such that entering the building became a rather hopeless, depressing affair. Pulling the car into the driveway after work one night, I told myself that the gritty urban despair vibe had gone on long enough and that I might as well just sweep the entryway while I was already down there. And [cue ominous organ music]...the broom was gone! Gone, I tell you! The plumbers were clearly the culprits. They must have come on more than one occasion--the first time they used my poor broom to sweep drain sludge (egads!) and then put it in the Wrong Place. The second time, they either utterly destroyed it with further drain sludge and took it away for disposal OR they had grown so fond of it, they simply couldn't bear to part with it. In either case: vexing.

I called the management company to tell them my sad story and ask for restitution. They asked me to put it in writing and specify the amount of the reimbursement. This meant I had to purchase a new broom before I could send the letter and last week I found that I had no time to purchase a broom. I did try on Friday, but the brooms available at the hardware store I visited were strangely enormous and unless they came with Fantasia-style enchantments, seemed that they would quickly exhaust the sweeper. Particularly if the sweeper had no upper-body strength to speak of. Finally, finally on Saturday afternoon I went to a different hardware store, bought a broom of reasonable size, and returned home to address the now entirely deplorable entryway (seriously. The Blog Bully told me that he had noticed it in passing one day and considered going home to fetch his own broom to deal with it). As I was sweeping, my neighbors came downstairs and were quite surprised and grateful to find me cleaning a common area. I said that I was happy to do it and, indeed, would have done it sooner had it not been for the rascally plumbers who had stolen my broom from my own garage. "Who stole it?" asked the neighbor. "The plumbers, I think." I said. "Well, that's weird because there's a broom in our garage and we have no idea where it came from." "Does it have a blue handle?" "It has a blue handle."

And that, readers, is how I came to own two brooms, the more recent of which I can neither return nor can I, ethically, request reimbursement for it now that the other has been found.

On the bright side, the walkway is looking good.

Tomorrow: hoses!

Message from the past

I noticed today that I have eight unpublished drafts languishing around here, so I took a look at them to see if they were worth publishing now. It is now my rather unfortunate duty to report that on May 5, 2005, I titled a post "Vive les bivalves!" and then wrote nothing else. This is a great mystery to me.

Nevertheless, even having no idea what prompted this rallying cry, I would not want to leave anyone out. Therefore, if you are, say, a clam, I belatedly congratulate you and enthusiastically wish you well.

On correspondence

Earlier in my life I was a very committed letter-writer. Partially this is because I am old and my need to correspond predated email; partially it is because I like to write and it's nice to have an audience (to wit: this blog); and partially, even now when I feverishly check my email all day (just in case, just in case, just in case),I still believe that there is something truly joyful about receiving personal correspondence by post. I am notoriously (and only very slightly apologetically) sentimental. It means something to me to see my friend's handwriting and to know that the paper now in my hands was previously in his hands. Even that the paper had to make a physical journey to link the two of us strikes me as poetic. I have mentioned this before--here and here, for instance, always a bit wistfully.

Imagine then, my surprise and pleasure in finding I am not alone. This week I have been pointed in the direction of Letters of Note, a curated collection of correspondence by persons of some celebrity. It is terribly diverting. Albert Einstein writes admiringly to Mahatma Gandhi; Babe Ruth encourages an ill child; David O. Selznick defends "damn"; Mark Twain addresses burglars; E.B. White discusses his dachshund; William Saroyan advises his young son about love. There are hundreds of letters. I think you should read some; you'll be the better for it. As for me, I can only read a few at a time because so many of them make me cry--no great feat really, as it seems rather more remarkable when things do not make me cry. Still. Proceed with caution.

Then, as though that were not enough, I came across the Letter Writers Alliance. The very small fee required for membership seems well worth spending in exchange for the warm glow of fellowship which, frankly, upon learning that such an association even exists has already begun to spread through my letter-loving heart.

Mostly though, I'm struck by how comparatively few letters I write these days and what a pity it is. I will send away for my membership card and begin to mend my ways. Perhaps you would like to do the same. I'm sure that someone you love lives elsewhere. She'd very much like to hear from you.

Addendum:
Having read this, my friend Amanda let me know about the letter a day challenge for the month of February. We're three days behind, but I'll bet we can catch up.

Upcoming

On February 19, I will be telling a story at Previously Secret Information. If you are a real devotee of this blog, you will have already seen me tell this story though the magic of video, but you should probably come anyway. I'll wear something different to make it worth your while.

Interestingly, I had an anxiety dream about it last night. I showed up at the theatre all ready to recount my tale and it turned out that they had cast actors to perform it instead. So I had to stand in the wings--all dressed up--while two actors interpreted my personal mishaps. I was approximately 2% flattered and 98% really annoyed.

La lista

Buongiorno amici,
Aside from being briefly confused about celebrities, I have been pretty quiet. I realize this. The dreaded illness that required tea for days on end proved more miserable and tenacious than the average cold. I watched an absolutely incredulous amount of British period drama, coughed like a consumptive, and was reduced to tears on several occasions. Blech. Then I got well and was suddenly all fired up about my summer plans. I like to have a plan. I like it so much that I will often do things like make plans for July in January.

Indeed. Vado in Italia in luglio. Vero! Not just "gee, I'd like to go to Italy this summer" but, as of yesterday: tickets bought, apartments reserved, excitement afoot. I'll go to Switzerland to see my dear distant friend and then to Rome for four days and Florence for a week. That means that #8 on the list shall be accomplished at long last. I even sent an inquiry about payment in Italian so maybe that counts as #9. It's a start anyway. Maybe I'll learn to say enough things that I can charm someone into drinking with me and thus accomplish #38. What's more, I may be able to see my cousin while I'm in Switzerland (#50). It's shaping up to be quite the life list extravaganza. Since I moved two years ago and gave up my cheap rent, I've not been able to afford to leave the state, so you'll excuse me if my sundresses and I do a little jig around the living room with my new Christmas suitcase.

I'll tell you a secret, shall I? While researching Rome apartments, I stumbled upon this one that is so lovely it is even called lovely and it pleases me to the point of sleeplessness. It is also really too expensive for me. Having extended experience being smitten with those who are out of reach, I was familiar with the sensation. I thought I'd get over it. Why I thought this, I cannot tell you. The aforementioned experience certainly offers no "getting over it" precedent. In any case, I didn't. Instead, I thought about it every day. Frankly, I blame the bathtub. Ultimately, as the adage says, "when in Rome, be in love with your apartment." I think that's the expression, anyway. Yesterday, I confirmed my reservation. Vero! I am giddy with delight. As a result, it's possible that I will forget to go out and see the Colosseum, but that's okay. I'm pretty sure there are photos of it available online, right?

Oh! And I almost forgot! I am also going to NY for a long weekend in April. Algonquin cocktails (#12), here I come.

I predict that in 2013 I will be clad in a barrel and eating instant ramen every day to make up for all this reckless extravagance, but for now sono molto felice.
Ciao.

Wrong again

The frequency with which I confuse famous people's names makes my life more confusing, albeit more amusing, than yours. Notable misunderstandings of the past: Gary Cooper for Gary Coleman; Bill Cosby for Bill Clinton (I know. That was a bad one.)

Today, I am reading a list of books that will be made into movies in the coming year. Among them is The Hobbit. In a small blurb it is noted that Martin Freeman is playing Bilbo. I think you know what I thought.

Morgan Freeman? Isn't he kind of old to play Bilbo Baggins? And too tall?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Morgan Freeman:

Aaaannnddd....Martin Freeman.

Oh.

Sick

On the first day home with my seemingly entirely throat-centered illness, I discovered that I don't have a spoon that will fit into the mouth of my honey jar. If jar is the word. It is a plastic container that was designed as a squeeze bottle, but, of course, this presupposes that the honey remains in a liquid state. No one's honey remains in a liquid state.

I subsequently discovered that putting honey on the end of a knife, holding it over the tea cup, and pouring the tea directly over it, it is possible to melt the honey in an efficient manner while being simultaneously evocative of pouring absinthe over a sugar-filled spoon.

True, it does require significant effort of imagination to recast myself as a wanton flapper in a silken dress, rather than the hacking creature in sweatpants that I actually am at present, but it is day four of tea and Kleenex, and I'm doing my best.

Strategy

Hallway. Lunchtime. Group of girls.

Girl 1: Wait. What's happening right now?
Girl 2: What's happening right now is that I really have to pee. But I'm holding it 'til Spanish class.

Need knead

There are many things that people do for relaxation that I do only stoically because for me it's less "ahhhh" and more "ouch!" Pedicures fall into this category and, most of all, massages. I get massages occasionally when I feel there's no alternative, in the way you might finally go to the doctor to address your pesky rash only once you've exhausted all the home remedies you can think of.

Having finally accepted that the dreaded crick was unrelenting and that if I ever wanted to turn my head again, I would need to pay a professional to knead me, I made the appointment. My massage therapist turned out to be excellent. He also turned out to be pretty much cross-eyed. This made our pre-session conversation unsettling. We both tried to make eye contact in a respectful fashion, but, in the hopes that my gaze my accidentally fall in the right place somewhere along the way, I transferred my attention constantly from one of his eyes to the other in what must have seemed a very nervous or downright shifty manner. Meanwhile, his crooked gaze leant him a strangely disbelieving aspect, as though he were thinking, "Old back injury? Yeah, right. Tell me another one."

Still, I was impressed with his work and I emerged crick-free, though feeling rather bruised. And, as one is reluctant to eat anything after having one's teeth professionally cleaned, I was reluctant to engage my muscles at all, for fear of ruining everything. Turns out you have to use your muscles to even get home. Bummer.

Cut to the next day when I was still feeling pretty good and pretty careful. I had dinner with my friend and her remarkably hearty four-month-old son. And that's how I learned this valuable lesson: if you are kind of a weakling and you want to maintain your stress-free shoulders, do not spend the next post-massage evening carrying a squirmy twenty-pound baby around no matter him much his dimples may charm you.

Dear science,
Thank you for ibuprofen.

One guest

You know that thing where people ask, "If you could have dinner with five people living or dead who would they be?" Frankly, I hate that question. I always draw a blank as though I've never heard of any people living or dead, much the same way as when asked for a restaurant recommendation I suddenly feel like I've never been to a restaurant. Plus, I think it's some sort of test. As though you're supposed to say Winston Churchill and Einstein and Sartre or something. Big names. Big thinkers. Well, I just watched And Everything is Going Fine and now I have the answer. Just one guest. Spalding Gray.

The monologue he must have developed by now about being dead is one I deeply long to hear.

Unconditional

On Sunday, my family got together to celebrate my father's birthday via bowling. It was fun; I'll admit it. Plus, I think I injured myself more seriously by falling asleep on the sofa last night (seriously. People walk into my office, I turn my head to see them and...ow! I've had this stupid crick in my neck for about three weeks though. I kind of don't remember what it's like to not walk around compulsively [albeit fruitlessly] kneading my own shoulder, It's terribly elegant.) than I did by hurling a heavy object about. What? I'm spindly and I have a bad back. Bowling is anxiety producing. Yes. I know you're cooler than I am.

Yesterday I got an email from my mom that said, among other things, "You can go bowling with anyone. You were great."
My mother is totally biased. To the point of delusion, apparently. I wish you could have actually witnessed my "form" so you could be getting a nice hearty chuckle right now. But isn't it nice to have someone love you so much that they instill you with imaginary bowling prowess? It is.

On the other hand, in case I actually become a good bowler, I hear there'll be a venue in my very own neighborhood to showcase my mad skillz. I'll probably become some sort of local legend. Stay tuned.

Words Escape Me

Thanks to my friend Andy, I'm venturing into a whole new frontier. Were this the radio, it'd be a radio show. Instead it is a computer, so it is a podcast. And that, friends, is as technical as it's gonna get around here.

Episode 1 is up. Exciting, no? Go listen why dontcha? You'll find that I'm the mumbliest person on the show. And possibly in the world. Discuss. Also, Silvio? Silvio is hilarious.

Oh. In case you're wondering what all the talk about Wiretap and Jonathan Goldstein is about, all will be revealed here.

What are you doing hanging around here? Go listen.

Class discussion

I sent an email to a colleague inquiring whether a board member could visit his class.
He replied, "Yes, though we will be reviewing a violently (and sometimes sexually) graphic story that the class is reading. If you don't think that's inappropriate for the visitor to see, by all means."

So, it's not inappropriate for the students, then? Just checking.

New Year's Eve Eve

Things have been pretty lackadaisical (a word it turns out I'm not very confident about spelling) on the blogging front and I thought in this moment between one thing and another, I might try to say something. If 2011 has taught us nothing else, it's that just when one thinks the Blog Bully is lying dormant, or, at any rate, otherwise engaged, he may suddenly spring from the metaphorical bushes and shake his head disapprovingly. Besides, yesterday I had lunch and Project Planning with the, frankly, almost ridiculously adorable Katy Stephan (was she wearing a woolen cap, a bright blue sweater and a bright green coat-- looking every bit the heroine of some movie I'd happily see on a chilly afternoon at the Clay? She was.) who makes a song a week. Then I see that the highly impressive Lisa Congdon plans to embark on some kind of daily artistic endeavor for a year. Well. It's not like I don't have time on my hands; I've been watching Jeeves and Wooster for hours. Sometimes (read: again and again and again) it takes the example of my very prolific friends to nudge me in the right direction.

Katy, having seen the oft-mentioned list, has offered to take #13 in hand and make me a dress. Apparently, she also sews. I know. It might be better not to dwell too much on it. I don't think does it to make us feel inadequate; some people just like making things and others like, say, eating things prepared by others and sitting on the sofa. I'm terribly excited about this Dress of the Future. I think the very idea of it augurs well for 2012.

Christmas afforded me the opportunity to give my horse-loving nieces cookie cutters that will enable them to make a small celebratory herd of their own. I can only hope that they find it a less overwhelming task than I did. Royal icing? Is very sticky. Blue food-dye gel? Is very, very blue. It's possible there may still be some on the cutting board. I'm not saying. They did seem pleased, which was gratifying, although my younger niece was visibly disgusted to have been given an apron. She is ever vigilant lest we try to foist any gender normative accoutrements upon her. I would argue, however, that cookies, horse enthusiasm, and sticky hands are gender neutral. As is--ahem--the gracious acceptance of gifts.

In other Christmas news, apparently the Bible has been re-translated. Beware, lapsed Catholics. In case you missed Christmas and were planning to drop by for Easter, if the priest says, "Peace be with you," you can no longer rest in the calm assurance that you know the proper reply. "And also with you" has gone the way of hoop skirts, apparently. The (seemingly much more peculiarly translated) response, "and with your spirit" has taken its place. This sort of thing is going on throughout all sorts of prayers I thought I knew. It made for a lively mass. Well, that and the bongos. Yes. Bongos. The thing traditional carols have been just crying out for.

As 2012 rises into view, I wish you well and thank you for keeping track of me over here. I am always astonished (to say nothing of touched) when anyone tells me they read it. Though it may be difficult to detect though the veritable wall of complaining, I do live in a near constant state of gratitude. Were anyone to scratch the complainy surface, in fact, they would probably be sickened by the gooey sentimental mess of love and admiration they'd find. There are so many extraordinary people in my corner, I imagine it's pretty stuffy and uncomfortable. They don't seem to mind. I'm lucky that way.

May your 2012 be sparkly and full of people who love you and small personal hoorays.

Christmas spirit

I bought a goofy little wooden ornament from some bygone era for my bother. It's a very cheerful cat on skis. Here he is:

Unfortunately, he came to me with one broken ski (which seems to bother him not at all, so I see no reason for it to bother me) and missing his little loop from which you can hang an ornament hook. That seemed a graver problem since he is, after all, meant to go on the tree and, besides, he can't stand. Yesterday, I wrapped him in tissue and took him to Tuggy's Hardware a few blocks away. When the man helping me discovered he was out of the very small size of eye hook required for the job, he opened up a prepackaged picture-hanging kit that was hanging there for sale, removed a little eye hook and screwed it carefully into the hole already on the cat's head. Then he just handed it to me, refusing my offer of payment and said, "That's my gift to you. Merry Christmas."

Sheesh. Hooray for neighborhoods. And kindness. And generosity. And fixing what's broken.

In case you need one, here's my gift to you:

#63: Check.

I checked something off my oft-mentioned Life List.
#63: Buy a real painting.

I really wanted to own a painting--you know--with actual paint. Not a print. But I hardly knew where to begin. You know what there are a lot of? Paintings. Many I don't like, and more I can't afford, which narrows the field a little, but not really enough to give me a starting point. I thought that it would be really great if I could buy a painting from a friend. In that way, I would be supporting the work of someone I care about while also owning art that was that much more meaningful to me. Great idea. However, I didn't actually know any painters.

At least, not when I wrote the list. Enter: Lisa Congdon.

It's very fortunate when the painter you befriend at the moment you're in the market for a painting happens to make art you think is beautiful. She might just as easily painted a bunch of stuff with bleeding eyeballs. (I have a particular horror of bleeding eyeball paintings of which there are more than you might think. Often hung in cafes, which seems to show a real lack of foresight.)

Instead, I am really delighted to have this beautiful little forest to call my own.

Maybe she's made something just for you and you didn't even know it. You should probably check.

The results are in

NPR posted their top 100 songs of the year.

I have heard 8 of them. Eight. I counted. And one of those is by Paul Simon. Of the other 92, I had heard of maybe six of the artists.

So that's official then. I will never be cool.

It's this or silence

In which I write something for fear of slipping back into the black hole of writing nothing. The lack of what I believe is nowadays called "content" should not thwart us, right? Right.

Last night, the blog bully and I went to see a play at Shotgun, where the box office manager is perhaps the nicest man in the world, in addition to being a very snappy dresser. I enjoyed the play, and its sparkly lead actress (seriously, she just glitters up there despite being dressed in Puritan garb), however, I would have enjoyed it, say, 32% more if the songs had been much, much shorter. The songs were a little bit like "you know the story that you are watching? Well, I'm going to tell you, through the magic of song, all the things that are happening, even though you're right here. Understandably, this will take me quite a long time." Perhaps this was a popular device in Ye Olden Times? Perhaps people could not pay attention to things that were merely spoken? I don't know. On the bright side, though: sparkling girl. I cannot overstate this. Also, the blog bully brought snacks in very tiny containers, in the manner popular among parents of preschool-aged children. However, later, as he is ever-vigilant lest people develop any treacly sort of feelings about him, he mocked me for not being able walk up a steep hill at his insane rate of speed. I have a sub optimal level of fitness, yes, but I'm the one with the blog. So there.

Speaking of sub optimal fitness, the needlessly renovated gym reopens today (it really seemed quite nice before; I can only hope they have transformed it into some kind of unimaginable nirvana such that I will long to go there as often as possible) and I intend to go. This very afternoon. I have been in a pool once in the last month and a half, but that was in Palm Springs where I was floating languidly around in my un-serious bathing suit and, thus, doesn't count. Indeed, I dread shimmying into my serious, unembellished bathing suit, which more than any other article of clothing, should quite bluntly reveal what my bread-eating days of leisure hath wrought. [I suspect "hath" and "days" fail to agree grammatically, but I've no idea what the plural of "hath" might be.] Anyway, the point is, I will look silly and then I might drown. So, I look forward to that. I'll let you know how it goes.

Update: The figure I cut in my serious bathing suit was downright demoralizing, but I did not drown. This might have occurred to you since you're so smart, but it didn't occur to me: when the gym is under renovation for three weeks, they turn the heat off. That pool was cold. I hope no octogenarians (of whom there are usually many in the pool) were speeded towards their graves. In other news, there are no longer any curtains in the showers--a strange "improvement"--so my unexpected fascination with the Boobs of Others (seriously. I really had no idea they were so variable) and the cautionary tales writ large on the bodies of the elderly will presumably run rampant.

Is this even legal?

The incense-scented purveyor of saris and scarves and beads and things on the corner by my work is, according to a large banner, having a "Grand Opening!" How is this possible? By my count this is fourth time the store has reopened under different names while continuing to sell exactly the same merchandise. Sometimes they actually go out of business and have a liquidation sale before completely emptying the shop before they bring it all back--display cases, lighting, cash register, ten million incense holders, boxes and boxes of merchandise--a month or two later. It seems like a great deal of work for nothing. Perhaps they have come to share that view because, this time, I'm pretty sure they never even closed. They painted over the awning and changed the shop name to "Things Lucky," (which, frankly, is not too great as shop names go). This new method seems less exhausting, certainly, but also kind of like they are--um--big cheaters?

Are you a tax lawyer? Or maybe a mafia boss? Terrific. Please explain this to me. It's been baffling me for years.