Carry-on baggage

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

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

Another one

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

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


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

All dressed in black

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

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

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

Shhh

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

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

Him: I have some squeaky shoes too.

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

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

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

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

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

Postcard from a Foreign Country

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

One week old

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Assorted

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

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

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

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

Conspiracy

Saturday

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

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

3. 8:24am wrong number.

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


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

Also? I hate you.

Vive la France

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

Two things the French enjoy:

1. Cheese
2. Labor strikes


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

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

Scope

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

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

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

Advent calendar

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

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

The answer is:

Yes.


Today the question is:

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

The answer is:

Yes.


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

NYC

Things I learned during my weekend in NY:

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

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

Here we go:

1. My mother is a very organized traveler

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9. Many, many, many people enjoy running.

10. My father is a rock star.


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

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

Perspective

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


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

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

Ruby: I'm playing a rabbit.

All assembled adults: A rabbit?

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


All assembled adults: Ohhhhh.

Lessons learned at dinner

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

2. Ditto celery root.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Common ground

Dorothy Sayers' summary of Canto XVIII of Purgatory:

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

And so do I.

Birdhouse

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

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

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

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

You smell delicious

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

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

The great unknown

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

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

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

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

And now I know.

Several letters

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


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


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


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


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


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