Personal faults

I believe that everyone is entitled to one personal fault. One simple thing they cannot and will not overcome.

For me, it's driving stick shift.

I know, I know... millions of people do it everyday. Whole countries do it as a rule. But me and the clutch do not mix.

My hatred of the H-shift began at sixteen when I tried to learn to drive Stinky, the CJ-7 Jeep that I shared with my brother. I sucked. I once stalled over and over through an entire green light, all the while being heckled by a van full of third grade boys. Even the mom laughed at me.

I was lucky to get another car and successfully avoided manuals until just after college. I was going to visit high school buddy AP in Maine, and we planned a road trip to PEI and Nova Scotia. She warned me that I would have to learn how to drive stick.

A week before I left, I practiced on Husband's old car Bubba on country roads. It wasn't pretty, but I could do it if no one else was watching.

I started off OK, driving through Maine and even pulling off for gas. My second shift took us across New Brunswick to PEI. But it was in Anne-of-Green-Gables-land that I fell apart. I had eluded the evil stick shift, and now it was time to pay. AP drove us all the way up Nova Scotia and all the way back down again (i.e. a very long way).

It got to the point that on the way back, AP stopped on the on-ramp and we hopped out and swapped places. She'd driven for the last three days and there was no choice. I carefully made my way down the New Brunswick coast, dreading the evitable: the toolbooth at Saint John.

I started sweating at 100 km, watching for the "Toolbooth ahead" signs and trying to psych myself up. Finally there it was on the horizon. I slowed way down and eased in, so I didn't have to stop behind a car. I fumbled for the change, hands sweaty, and ignored the cheery greeting from the tollman. Focused intently on getting out of there without stalling, I slammed my foot on the gas. The car lept, the tires squealed, and the toolman yelled "Ride 'em cowboy!" at my jerkily departing form.

As I finally put it in fifth and let out my breath, I thought, yeah, everyone's entitled to one fault, right? It's not like I'm afraid of heights or hate puppies. I can give myself permission to fail at this.

And so I've never operated a stick shift since.

As you like it

Potpourri Day!

Book: The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. Read the first page and if you can stop, do. If not, continue blissfully along.

Random info plus new vocab word: Merriam-Webster tracks which words are looked up most for a given year, and they offer sort of a microcosm of the issues that plagued the nation that year.. This year: natural disasters (tsunami, refugee, and levee). We also appear to be pretty tired of incompetence (insipid, contempt, and inept). Last year was all about the election (incumbent, electoral, and partisan) and Iraq (insurgents and sovereignty). 2004 also had "cicada" and "blog" and "defenestration," and a new vocab word! "peloton" (the main body of riders in a bicycle race).

Kittens: still pesky. To be fair, I crushed Cadbury last night because he was sleeping in the crook of my arm and I had a dream I was swimming and attacked by eels.

Knitting: a cat toy. Realize this mixes two scary personas: knitter and cat lady. But it's OK! Only one toy.

Recent mishap: Losing a needle inside my favorite down pillow. Luckily, crisis averted. Also getting stuck in the snow trying to pull into the garage from the alley. Luckily, nice boys out shoveling for cash rescued me.

Up next: winter sports extravaganza. Anyone looking to ski or snowshoe knows who to call. Also, risking of life and limb (and tooth): broomball starts this weekend. Also: Christmas recaps, then it's UK ho!

Thanksgiving

My freshman year of college, I sort of... forgot… to make female friends.

I'm not sure how it happened.

I made a lot of female acquaintances, I had guy friends, and I had a great boyfriend, but I sort of missed the part when you spent hours giggling and telling secrets with a gaggle of girls.

I had never had a shortage of female friends before, so it took me almost the whole year to realize that I didn't really have any good female friends.

Throughout the rest of college, I'd make lists of women I wanted to get to know better. I eventually made a few good friends my junior year, then got the hang of it and made camp friends and Japan friends, then reacquainted high school friends, and finally work friends and post-college friends.

So many girl friends that when entertaining a camp friend a month or so ago I effortlessly put together a cracker jack pub quiz team of female friends. I realized that to my camp friend, we probably looked like a regular group of girls, the kind that I used to gaze at in the cafeteria at college.

As I sat there, perched on my barstool sipping Guinness, surrounded by my smart and gorgeous friends, I remembered those sad little lists. And how glad I am that I don't have to make them anymore.

Stilton takes after Husband

Who doesn't love a cat with a martini shaker? This photo could have been one in a series (cat licking beer bottle, stealing nip of vodka tonic, tasting wine) but I had exercised restraint until I saw this just hours after shooing him away from a Summit Winter Ale.

Holiday spirit

I have no holiday spirit.

Me, the person who was so taken with the clever seasonal containers at Starbucks that she wrote about it in her blog.

The tree is up. The decor is in place (such as it is, a candle and a knick-knack). I even bought a pine-filled planter for the front step (after noting that all the other houses on the block had some type of front-step decor).

Where art thou, Christmas cheer? Residing in some volunteer opportunity I should explore? In church? In eggnog? In a viewing of Love, Actually?

I think this all might have started with the discussion with my dad about the where-when-how of Christmas. It was all schedules and driving times and fitting everyone in and obligations... when what we both wanted more than anything was to spend Christmas with our family how it was a few years ago. With my uncle Fred. With my aunt and cousins, happy and getting along.

I have one good picture of it... the last Christmas we had like that. We’re all looking into the camera with pure, honest grins, it never occurring to anyone that this picture will be different from the hundreds we’ve posed for before.

Shopgirl

Jesus, I thought, spying my alarm clock as I pushed Cadbury off my face (What is his deal?). 5:10 a.m.

Twenty minutes later I was on my way to the car, absently noting the beautiful dusting of snow as I slugged my Hansen’s smoothie.

When I called my parents Thanksgiving night to confer on the meeting time for the annual day-after-Thanksgiving-shopfest, I was expecting the usual: 8 a.m…. maybe 7:30 for coffee.

“We’re going to be at Walmart at 5, Herbergers at 5:30, and Marshall Field’s at 6,” my dad chirped.

My god.

“I’ll see you at Marshall Field’s?”

By 12:30 p.m. we’d filled my parent’s trunk with bags, hit two malls and one restaurant, and guzzled six coffees between us.

While the day fell short of our glory years (at SuperMall before opening for breakfast, hitting a record four malls in one day…) there is nothing like sprawling book in hand, kittens in lap at 1 p.m. with a full day of shopping behind you.

Wiener roll-ups

Husband and I, for all of our cooking skills, were not being taken seriously at family holidays.

"Oh, if you really want to bring something, you could bring the relish tray," we'd hear biannually.

And bring the relish we would, god dammit. We'd bring the world's best relish trays, overflowing with carrots with the tops still attached, stuffed olives, marinated peppers... a rainbow of organic goodness complete with homemade dips.

Last year we decided to corner the roll market. No one on my side of the family made rolls, so we were going to stake our claim in baked goods.

That year we were up to 2 a.m. the night before making three batches of rolls at once, a complicated schedule of rising and resting times scrawled all over our white board. Our criteria were 1: rolls that raised properly and 2: tasted good, and we succeeded.

This year, several other experiments with yeast successfully behind me, I decided to up the ante and add in 3: look pretty.

My first attempt (one batch honey wheat cloverleafs, one batch butter crescents) reminded me what I didn't like about the crescents last year.

They looked... well... wiener-y.
















Eww.

As we'd decided to make two batches of the crescents, I tried again Thanksgiving morning. (Tactic: decrease size, make crescent shape more pronounced, omit egg glaze).

And despite my poor photography skills, you can see I was successful.
















Yummy rolls. Not at all wiener-y.

Medium rare

Kate Spade peony vases, 2
Le Creuset cast-iron baking dish, red
Oxo measuring cups, set of 3

My eyes scanned down the registry list, looking for a good shower gift. The marble mortar and pestle, paired with some spices from Penzeys? Perhaps. Then my eyes alighted on the prize:

Rosle meat hammer

How could I resist? How tempting and wonderful those words sounded... meat hammer. With sneaky meat even hidden in the latter part of the title!

But it was my friend with whom I've giving the gift that came up with the piece de la résistance.

Actually giving meat as a shower gift.

Her dad raises cattle and she has one of his big-enough-for-two steaks in her freezer. How romantic! And it's a gift for the groom as well!

Let's hope the bloody juices don't leak through the white wedding bell paper.

Garden hopeless

After weeks of warm gorgeous weather,
I choose the first real day of winter
a nice hearty frost overnight
a snowstorm imminent
[i.e. the very last day possible]
to go outside after work,
[i.e. in the pitch blackness]
shivering, swearing,
wielding a pitchfork,
to finally dig up my calla lily bulbs.

Cats for sale--cheap

I took up knitting because I like crafty old-timey things and I have a lot of excess energy sometimes and thought that it might be nice to have something to do while chatting with friends or riding in the car.

I wouldn't call myself a knitter yet--I've only completed two projects, and they've been scarves. (Scarves are to the knitting world what macaroni and cheese is to the cooking world, or what Uno mas is to the foreign language world.)

Here is my second scarf, The yellow scarf.




















Oooooh. Pretty exciting, eh.
And here is my work-in-progress, Legwarmers in blue.




















At the rate I'm going, they'll be ready in March.

Unfortunately, after taking this picture I returned to blogging.
I just went to get a glass of water and found this:















So, any takers?

Breaking out of my "shell"

I'm a black turtleneck sweater sort of girl. Or a black v-neck. I like the basics--the clean lines that go with anything. And I look good in basics.

But today when I dug out the black merino wool blend v-neck sweater from the sale rack at Banana Republic ($19!), I knew I had to put it back.

Because I've faced it: basics are boring.

Would anyone compliment me on the black sweater? No. Because although it looks good, it looks like everything else in my closet. It resembles a similar shirt I bought five years ago.

So I made myself try on things today with embroidery, sequins, and bits of ruffle. I ignored the black and reached for teal, forest, plum, chocolate, and that pink/brown color. And while much of it was cringe-worthy, there were a few things I liked. And they didn't scream "Banana Republic!" or "Ann Taylor!"

While I'm not pinning on flower brooches or buying sequined shoes yet, I'm making progress.

I'd share

Ever at a loss for birthday or Christmas ideas? If you have to get me something, I'd take one of these. It doesn' t have to be this fancy, though. Simple metal or even ceramic would do. I'd even let you use it, as long as you obeyed the proper ofuro etiquette.
Only one month to my half birthday, and eight weeks until Christmas. You'd better order now.

Go away trick-or-treaters

Because I am tired of answering the doorbell and shoving the kittens off my as soon as they settle in.

SECRETS SECRETS
Anyone who knows me knows that I like to find out how people work. Why they do certain things. What events in their past have informed who they are. Not everyone shares my curiosity, and it’s interesting to see what kind of people volunteer stuff about themselves and what kind of people wait to be asked. But even the most loquacious won’t volunteer everything… and will wait to be asked or for it to come up before sharing. That made me think about my own “right questions”… the ones that few ask but if they did they’d learn a lot. It’s not like I’m harboring state secrets, and I’m not asking to be grilled. I just think it’s interesting… those questions. What’s on your list?

BOOKITY BOOKITY
Due Preparations for the Plague suckered me into reading and liking an international suspense book [by Janette Turner Hospital, fiction, story about an ’87 hijacking and the children who survived and their search for answers twenty years later.]

Better Off made me want to barter everything in trade and abandon cash [by Eric Brende, nonfiction, about a man and his wife living off the grid.]

Smart Women by Judy Blume made me want to write, because Blume is so adept at creating realistic and compelling characters [about two divorced women, their kids, and their complicated relationships with their ex-husbands.]

Whale Talk made excellent car listening, being light and fast-paced [by Chris Crutcher (young adult novel about a guy who starts a renegade swim team at his school and battles racist jocks.]

Summer at Gaglow made me want sisters but not the ones in the book because they were mean. [by Esther Freud, fiction, Germany, pre- and post-WWII life concerning three sisters at the family’s country estate.]

Right now I’m reading The Best American Travel Writing 2005, and it’s quite good so far, although I was so disappointed to open it up and see only one female author. I’m so sick of that.

The good life

Suckers, I thought, as I took off running down the road. All of those people who at 9 a.m. are chained to their desks. Sure, that's me every other day of the work week, but today I am living the good life. Wake at 7:30, watch gray flat sky slowly intensify with color. Read for an hour from the cozy enclave of my bed. Finally get up and head out for a run, set free with the knowledge that there is nowhere I have to be.

I'm at the cabin, again, and if I weren't on dial-up I'd link that back to other cabin entries. Grizz came up early with me last night, as to get some of the nice, relaxing, quiet part of the weekend along with the fun, crazy part that will start when our nine other weekend guests arrive later today. Not that Grizz and I didn't have fun, sharing some aged provolone and drinks while reminiscing about college... our worst semesters, the random people we thought were cute until we actually got to know them, mistaken illusions we had about ourselves.

Well... I'm off to enjoy the good life. Tea, perhaps. Knitting. Finishing my mystery novel (set in Yorkshire, to get me in the mood). And certainly a nap.

He exists!

I haven't mentioned Husband in a while. In fact, you may be thinking.... What ever happened to Husband? Is he OK? Well, I'm glad to report he is just fine. Quite busy, unfortunately, with that thing called "work," which is keeping him gone in the evenings. I find myself quite lonesome for him while he's gone... but mysteriously, when he returns, I often turn into Bad Wife, reminding him of chores and being annoying. Why is this, I ask. As I never know quite when he'll arrive I cannot have his drink prepared for him like a proper Wife. And I'm afraid my heels were tossed in the shoe basket hours ago, and instead of dressing nicely I am in clothes that one could sleep in.
But married life is indeed good. I'm amazed at how much we're still figuring out about ourselves.

Boo

I've never been one for Halloween. Sure, I like the individually-wrapped Reese's, but orange and black have never been my colors, and I have never been really into dressing up.

Halloween: A brief history

Age 4: Boogeymonster, which from the picture, somehow required a headdress that you had to blow up.

Age 6: Pumpkin. Gorgeous handmade costume made by my grandma. Some classmate wore it the next year when he showed up to school with no costume and my mom, helpful room mother that she was, pulled it out of her things and loaned it to him for the day.

Age 9: Not really sure... it just involved a lot of that greasepaint makeup that you could buy in those little crayons. Maybe "punk rocker."

Age 11: This is where Halloween really falls apart for me. I wanted to go trick-or-treating with my friend Sheila from the east side of town, and my parents wouldn't let me because her neighborhood wasn't that great (looking back, they were right). Defeated, I went alone (well, my dad tagged along and walked on the street) wearing a pumpkin T-shirt and my favorite black Guess? jeans. I got a lot of candy that year.

Age 15: Impromptu trick-or-treating with my friend Vanessa. As I had just come from my shift as a candy-striper... I went as a candy-striper. It was sort of sad to see the gentle reproving looks from people.

Now that I'm older, Halloween's a bit more appealing. Pumpkin-flavored things are yummy. Scary movies are fun. And candy always sweetens the deal.

When kittens attack

When I got home today, this is what greeted me:

Curious yet wary, I followed the trail of paper bits...and found:

Right: One decimated roll of toilet paper (rest of roll is MIA).
Left: One teething cat.

That cloying Swiss Miss

Today I got the brilliant idea to eat a cocoa packet dry.
I had just had lunch and had drank a whole Nalgene bottle (lunch was a bit salty), so felt overhydrated and thought dry cocoa would hit the spot.
Mmm. Boy did it. It even had those little mini-marshmallows that dissolve instantly when you add hot water.
It was soooo good that I wanted just a bit more... so I opened another packet.
Halfway through I’d hit the wall.
I never want dry cocoa or possibly even cocoa again.

I'm not the new me

Do you spend a lot of time thinking about what you eat?

I pressed my index finger next to the sign's question until my gym buddy had finished reading it. Although I'd quickly dismissed the first two questions on the "Do you have an eating disorder sign" posted in the locker room, the third question caught me. While neither of us had anything near an eating disorder, it made me sick to think about how much mental energy we and most women devote daily to just thinking about food and exercise.

I just read I'm not the new me by Wendy McClure. McClure, a self-described "fat girl," struggles to lose weight while defending herself against stereotypes, such as that people who are overweight have low self esteem. There's a great scene when she's trying to recalibrate her bathroom scale and she ends up breaking it, and gets pissed and starts smacking it around, and then realizes what a perfect Made-for-TV-movie moment this is - fat girl finally loses it and takes it out on her scale.

The book is wickedly funny and I recommend it highly (although the ending is tough. The book manages to avoid ending in a cliche, but you also realize how satisfying those cliches are and how much you long for them). But it also made me really sad how much thinking it all required... and how easy it is to slip into that dangerous vortex where your daily happiness level is determined by how much you ate or exercised.

Which all made me wonder... maybe the secret to body image contentedness is not embarking on a new plan or making new charts, but thinking less about it all.

I need structure

On my first day off I kicked ass. I went to Target, Home Depot, the fabric store, the drycleaner. I cleaned the bathroom, organized files, cleaned the office closet. I paid bills, bought stamps, checked my account. I went running and gave myself a facial. I mended pants and created a master list of friend and family birthdays.

On my second day off, I took a nap at 10 a.m. I stared at nothing for an hour. I bought a lunch I wasn't hungry for. Once I got going, I bought yarn for my next knitting project (leg warmers) and sat watching bad TV for hours while knitting on the yellow scarf.

I don't think I'd make a very good stay-at-home mom.

Almond, beechnut, cashew

Almond, beechnut, cashew...

When I can't sleep, I play head games.

I started doing this in high school, during debate season. We'd compete on Friday nights and all day Saturday, and during the night in between I'd lie awake, brain still on hyper-drive and nerves still jangled, worried about who I'd have to debate against the next day. Since I have always loved word games, I started forcing myself to play the alphabet game.

Margaret Atwood, Judy Blume, Truman Capote...

You know the one, pick a category, any category, and start with A. Some nights I'd go several rounds.

When I got better, I'd fall asleep by K.

I had another game in my repertoire, the one where you start with a topic, like licorice, and see what word/phrase pops into your head, like, makes-my-jaw-hurt, and keep going and going... headache, sleep, can't sleep, stupid debate, I can't believe we lost that last round... but you can see why the game sucked: it always led back to whatever I was trying to escape.

Auburn, Burnt Sienna , Chestnut...

Now, many years later, I've gotten quite good and have exhausted the list of potential categories. And making up creative categories, like "things that make me happy," doesn't work.

My favorite was the time I got Husband in on the game and we played smoothie names.

Alohaberry Luau, Banana-rama ding-dong,,Choco Making Me Crazy...

My Husband, the marathoner

Husband ran a marathon today. It was amazing. I am so in awe of him.
I kept being overcome with emotion seeing all the people struggling mentally and physically and wanting it so bad, and all the people rallying to support them... I had to finally stop looking people in their faces to focus on finding Husband, because I almost missed him the first time.
The whole day was like the anti-State Fair - a great community get-together, but instead of eating all day you run or run around cheering for people who are running. I saw tons of people I knew, including an old college podmate, a guy I went to high school with, and the boy I used to kiss in preschool (who now bears a striking resemblance to Teen Wolf).
We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening lazing around and eating. It's 8:24 now and Husband is in bed! I keep wanting to check his pulse or make sure he's breathing. I think I read too many articles about hyponatremia.

My cat threw up on my houseguest

Actually, he threw up on my houseguest’s bedding...but maybe that’s worse.

I thought I spelled something pukey last night with my uber-sensitive-woman’s-nose, but a quick search revealed nothing.

When I came downstairs this morning I saw the guest room’s bedclothes piled up in the hall. Please don’t be pee. Please don’t be pee, I pleaded as I searched frantically for the wet spot. (The cats haven’t recreationally peed yet, but cats’ previous behavior is never a reliable predictor of their future behavior.) Nope, it was a nice slime of puke on the fitted sheet. The morning got even better when I went to turn on the washer and nothing happened. Spin dial, select load level, pull. Nothing. I tried the dryer. Nothing too! I flipped the circuit breaker and we were washing with gas.

What a nightmare. The cats have only puked one other time... but they seem to have a knack for selecting terrible locations.

Mincemeat: Never a good idea

Fall! I've missed you so. It actually felt GOOD to wear real shoes and socks today. I can clomp down the stairs, legs flailing about like a puppet, instead of stepping carefully, toes gripping clammy leather.

Husband and I watched prime time CSI last night--it was an event! We had feeling-sorry-for-ourselves-too-all-of-the-above-to-cook pizza while we watched. You know how most mystery series fail because after some point it becomes unbelievable that there would be so many murders in one town? Well, the creators of CSI were brilliant when they set their show in Las Vegas. The week after week of slimy bastards, vengeful wives, and low-class hustlers are totally believable!

Where are all the books recommendations that I couldn’t care less about, you ask? Well, I’ve been reading titles more frequently found under BEACH READS than RECOMMENDED READING, so I’ll get back to you when there is something to write about. But in place of books, I have TRIVIA.

DID YOU KNOW
Mincemeat is one of many dishes that was created to be heavily spiced in order to hide the rotting meat that was a reality of dinner tables in Marco Polo-era England?

Before the Atlantic slave trade, the English didn’t drink coffee or tea? Of course tea and coffee had to be imported as well, but it was sugar that made tea and coffee palatable to the English and led to its popularity, making tea the quintessential English beverage, ironic since tea comes from China or India and sugar came from the West Indies.

SHORT BITS
My hair is no longer a source of woe. I heart Laughing Cow cheese and hate Mt. Olive pickles (I shown have known – olive, pickle, They Are Not The Same). Husband is going to be gone Saturday night and I keep finding myself thinking...only Saturday night? That doesn’t quite seem long enough. I got all geared up for finishing projects and having the cats all to myself that I forgot it's going to be only twenty-four hours or so.

Siamese in more than name only

Can-do

My first attempt at canning - success! I was inspired by the selection of jams at the craft fair to turn our surplus of peppers into jam (technically jelly). I was a little nervous to try canning because I didn't have any of the proper equipment and I'm kind of cavalier about recipes, but all three jars both sealed and set! (Just ignore the pepper bits all jumbled up at the top.) Now all I need is some cream cheese and crackers.

Purple mascara

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I play favorites with the kittens. Cadbury’s dog-like enthusiasm, affection, and big nose win me over every time. I love Stilton too, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes my attention to him is more... obligatory, more of an “Oh hey Stilton. I like you too!” kind of thing. Do parents have secret favorites with their children, too? I didn’t think so before, but I do now. It’s easy to love two things a lot but hard to love them equally all the time.

I sometimes feel like a kid playing dress up at work. When I’m on the phone with someone who doesn’t know me personally and they’re taking my opinion really seriously and trying to curry favor, I feel like I’ve fooled them.

Speaking of dress-up, I had my makeup done today at an Aveda event, and it’s driving me crazy. I couldn’t even wait until I was out of eyesight of the stylist to wipe off the bright gooey smear of lipstick/gloss. Ugg. And the eye makeup! White eyeliner with purple shadow, both over and under my eyes, and dark purple mascara... do I look like someone who would wear purple mascara? I hardly wear black mascara! I suppose it’s good to be pushed out of one’s makeup comfort zone once in awhile. I did like the tinted moisturizer and powder, and eye shadow (in smaller quantities).

Making farm kids cry

TUNNEL LOVE
I love driving through tunnels.
I go through two every day on my commute, and while I'm usually plotting my post-tunnel lane change, every once in a while I remember where I am at and get a little thrill.
I'm not sure why... it's sort of big city savvy Mary Tyler Moore thing. I can navigate insane freeway passages that would make farm kids cry.

REOCCURING DREAMS
I make it a practice not to share my dreams*, because I read somewhere that no one really cares about other people's dreams, and I think that's pretty true. But I do think reoccuring dreams are interesting... those dreams you watch over and over like a bad rerun of Saved by the Bell (I suppose "bad" is redudant). This is all prompted by the recent revisiting of my number one reoccuring dream: encountering raging impassable rapids while canoeing on some remote river.The sense of hopeless despair and impending death usually jars me out of sleep and spares me from having to witness my own demise.

CRAFT FAIRING AND LIKING IT
This weekend I'm going to a small town arts and crafts fair... and I'm excited about it. It's girls' weekend at the H house, when my mom, two aunts, and grandma get together and act like kids again, and I tag along for the fun. After packing as many finds as we can into the van, we're heading up to the cabin. I'm hoping to get a lot of knitting done during the long rides, since scarf weather is nearly here (Hurrah!)

*OK, I did share that one about Kate Spade. But it was an aside.

“Sorry I’ve been a bitch” cake

I'm back! On Tuesday morning, two weeks after returning from vacation, I finally felt back to my old self. It took a few random acts of kindness, including a “Sorry I’ve been a bitch” French yogurt cake, but it feels great to be back. Good riddance crabby post-vacation self!

When will I stop being mistaken for an 18-year-old? Women-friends, I am pleading for honesty: Is there anything I can do? A new haircut? Different makeup? I know I have a "youthful" face that people tell me I will come to love in ten years, but really. It's hard to think that people take you seriously at work when you are mistaken for an 18-year-old.

Current obsessed with: Ben Gibbard’s song, “You remind me of home.” I haven’t been this desiring of constant repeat play since last winter and the Postal Service’s “The district sleeps alone tonight.” Also: pudding pops -- mmm! I don't know where you went, but I'm glad to have you back.

Those damn funeral processions get me every time

I try to give off a tough exterior, but I'm as Husband said once, I'm "surprisingly emotionally available." Translation: I am brought to tears easily. Not in the boo-hoo playground crybaby way, but in the overcome-by-humanity tear-up that I'm usually able to hide. Here’s a list of things that have made my eyes well up/cry in the last week:
- Viewing photos of friend with her brand new baby boy
- Reading about Katrina destruction
- Friend sharing a story that had nothing to do with me but that made her eyes well up
- Watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (don’t be fooled by its silly exterior)

I also dependably well up/cry:
At funeral processions
At weddings, graduations, and funerals, even if I didn’t really know them
At cheesy but earnest displays of patriotism
Whenever anyone asks me how I’m doing when they know I’m not doing too well
At music of all kinds, especially odd but poignant Dar Williams songs, such as “The Babysitter’s Here,” and “The Christians and the Pagans.”

I'll stop there, but it's a pretty long list. Those damn funeral processions get me every time.

Black days and Beets

In The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, the protagonist, Christopher, an autistic boy, knows the day is going to be bad when he sees four yellow cars. ("Four yellow cars in a row made it a Black Day, which is a day when I don't speak to anyone and sit on my own reading books and don't eat my lunch and Take No Risks."*) My omen is when the word game of the day on m-w.com is Bee-cubed (shudder). But today it’s Dictionary Devil day, my favorite, and a sure sign of a good day if I’ve ever seen one.

My cousin’s best friend and brother live in Bay St. Louis, and she hasn’t heard from them yet. I can’t comprehend the scope of the devastation.

On a much lighter note the kittens are wrecking havoc on our home in their own way. The tally so far is three pairs of headphones, cords chewed through; two large glasses; and one bowl... and they’ve only been able to jump on to the kitchen counters for a little over a week. I was so angry after the bowl incident because they insisted on playing with the shards as I tried to clean it up (look, a new toy!) that I had to lock them upstairs until I was done. I’ve now approved judicious use of the faucet spray attachment on all occasions.

BEETS, BEETS, the magical vegetable,
THE MORE YOU EAT the more stained red your kitchen (and pee) is,
THE MORE YOU EAT the more you despise those little rattails they come with,
SO EAT MORE BEETS (’cause their tasty and in season!) with every meal!

*I've found myself longing to declare Black Days recently. Except my version includes lunch, a heating pad, and maybe a few good movies.

Steam heat

I am consumed by thoughts of having my own sauna. You know when I wanted a pool? Yeah, now I want a sauna, in a little cedar shack in the back of the yard. I’d use it all the time, I swear. I can’t decide whether it should be stove-heated or electric... maybe have the option for both? Think how great my complexion would look. Surely it’s cheaper than the fancy moisturizers and facials I will someday require?

Ennui typhoon

These last few weeks I’ve been all take but no give. All reading but no writing. Why? Because I’m in some kind of ennui typhoon where I have nothing of interest to say. My excitement has consisted of eating ice cream and having my face bandages downsized (I heart steri-strips). My angst has been grievances about my hair and whines about the library reservation system being down.

I did the depressed smoldering poet thing only once. It was in 5th grade, and I stayed home from school and typed out pages and pages of poems and short stories on the typewriter, pausing only to stare morosely out the window at the rain. (Oddly, a lot of the poetry was upbeat, like limericks). By the end of the day I had several inches of writing that I never looked at again, and I’d cured myself of any poet aspirations. Another childhood milestone that I passed too soon (along with abandoning Barbies in 2nd grade and canceling Seventeen at thirteen).

The guy who tosses the turkeys into the killing chute

The kittens were crazy this weekend. They were fighting on top on me while I was reading in bed, so I crumpled up my library receipt and threw it. I watched smugly as they scampered after it, and turned out the light. Five minutes later the paper wad returned. I thought their dog-like ability to fetch was charming earlier, but I was not amused during the next half hour, when Cadbury eagerly deposited the soggy wad by my pillow and I tried in vain to throw it further and further away. I hid it under my pillow only to have Cadbury crawl all over my head seeking it out. Defeated, I fled to the guest room.

I keep thinking that guys are checking me out, but then I remember the bandages on my face.* And while I think they’re checking me out, I’m not thinking to myself, Yeah, that’s right, I’m thinking Is he thinking about stealing my purse? or Does this guy think I’m trying to be suggestive by bending over when I’m really trying to read the bottom row of titles in the travels essays section?

* I saved the explanation for last, because it’s really lame: I had some moles removed. Mmm... attractive. As they were snipping away I wondered, What do they do with those little bits that they remove? Toss them into the trash? Put them into neat little biohazard bags? I know now that they probably incinerate them... but what about the person who has that job? I once knew someone whose job it was to take the turkeys off the truck and toss them into the killing chute. That’s so good it deserves to be in a novel.

Big Hunk

I'm back, but I don't know quite what to do with myself. I'm tired of all my leisure time activities -- reading, watching, knitting -- yet after an initial burst of enthusiasm (our bedroom has never been cleaner) equally reticent to do chores. I did a good bit of shopping, for me (shoes, wallet, baking dish) so now I can't do that either. Vacation has ruined me! Now that I have broken free from the shackles of oppressive routines I find myself longing for direction.

Consumed by thoughts about:
1) What it's like to date after being divorced. How do you transition from a dozen years of marriage to Sex and the City without getting the giggles at inappropriate times?
2) The "Big Hunk" bar I just ate part of. How can nougat taste so good?
3) Why I really felt bad for the man rather than the woman after hearing that two distant acquaintances accidentally produced a baby during a random encounter despite trying to be careful.
4) Whether or not the occasional stomach cramps I've experienced lately have anything to do with the Nalgene of unfiltered water I chugged on trail.

Read: Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker - the best book I've read this year. Sort of Salinger-y but without the pretension. Don't be put off by the naked woman on the cover. Also Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell, who's always great, and The Writing on the Wall by Lynne Sharon Schwartz.

Nature 2, Self 1

A mid-vacation post! I am partaking of my first internet cafe experience. Fortunately with the prevalence of wireless internet use it is now cheap cheap cheap. The place is actually owned by my friend and trail buddy N's parents (with whom we paddled the Mighty Mississippi).

Wilderness trip summary:
Self's trace left on nature: 2 Nalgenes, one headband
Nature's trace left on self: 5 blisters, countless scrapes, the worst sunburn I've ever had.
Summary: Nature 2, Self 1.

Friends K and F were excellent trail companions, v. compatible for wilderness travel. There's no other couple I'd like to be lost deep in the woods well down a trail that doesn't exist on the maps and miles from where we need to be .

There is nothing more indulgent than the slow pace of vacation. Breakfast is a luxurious affair, comprised of simple food arranged purposefully and eaten slowly. Running with no thought to the time is a invigorating and at the same time, relaxing. Evenings I've been working my way through a gorgeous bottle of white wine and a round of camembert.

Read so far: No Last River, an extremely dangerous trip down a river in Tibet, The way men act by Elinor Lipman (confirming that The Inn at Lake Devine is by far my favorite), Ethel and Ernest by Raymond Briggs (a cute graphic novel about a couple in 1920-1970 England), Perseopolis (a really good graphic novel about a woman growing up in Iran c. 1980s). In process: On death and dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross (should be required reading for life), Harry Potter, and The best American magazine stories 2004.

Relax! Now!

When I was getting treated for my headaches, I visited a psychologist who taught me biofeedback. The first day he hooked me up to a machine and made me count back from a thousand by sevens. After I was good and stressed, he stopped and wrote down the number. Then he told me to do whatever I could to bring it down. Have you ever tried this – to relax yourself under pressure? It’s interesting. The first time I did OK, but on the second visit he upped the ante: I had to watch my progress on a screen and listen to a high-pitched whine on headphones that got louder when I became more stressed. Over the course of six sessions I got very good at this – one of the best he’d seen, actually.

You can tell the biofeedback is working when your hands get really warm. Some people do this by visualizing hot things, but I was never able to get into the whole “you’re on a warm beach...” kind of thing.

This all made me feel like I was some loser who can’t handle stress, but my doctor said the science behind it is that migraine sufferers’ blood vessels don’t contract as readily after stress as other people.

I’ve always wanted a stupid human trick. I can’t wiggle my ears or dislocate my elbow or sneeze on command. But I guess I can make my hands really warm really fast. I’m sure David Letterman will be calling me up to see that one.

Salad days

I keep wanting to have a food blog like those that I admire, but this always deters me: Either Husband or I make some gorgeous dish, and I think, "I should get the camera!" But then I think about what I'd be doing: Taking a picture of my dinner and posting it on the Internet. That stops me every time.

I think recipes and anecdotes are still permissible, though. Here's a really good reliable vinaigrette recipe from Rue Tatin author Susan Loomis:
1 T balsamic vinegar; sea salt; 1 shallot, sliced paper thin; 1/4 cup olive oil; freshly ground black pepper. Whisk vinegar, large pinch of salt, and shallot in a small bowl. Slowly whisk in oil. Add pepper to taste. Toss slowly and thoroughly into mixed field greens. Let rest a few minutes before eating to tire the greens.

I'll let you imagine how gorgeous it looks.

The time I tied myself up with rope

Like boarding schools, I always wanted to go to camp. I finally went during high school, and while it had the camaraderie and inside jokes, we didn't actually spend much time at camp (we went on extended excursions). I made up for it all by being a counselor and then co-camp director during college. It was a small girls camp, so we had a lot of flexibility in programming. So if we wanted to make candles, we made candles. If we wanted to swim a lot, we swam a lot.

Sometimes we took this flexibility too far. My second year there we got a hold of this book in the camp library (which doubled as the staff lounge and nurse's office, if that tells you anything about the size) that described all sorts of fun jokes and ruses you could do. Inspired by the book, we attempted our first prank. The girls cooked all their meals over the fire, and they'd come to the program center before meals to pick up their food. One night we pretended that someone had stolen their food. Laying the blame on a certain counselor, we led the girls on a hunt around camp, complete with clues. The clues finally led them back to the program center, where a lasagna dinner awaited them. We figured they'd love a break from cooking dinner, but they were pissed. Apparently we were too convincing.

Unfortunately our first effort didn't deter us from trying another, more complex ruse. We chose a session with an older group of girls, thinking they'd enjoy the joke more. The prank consisted of pretending that a counselor (me, in this case) had been kidnapped. We did this activity after dinner, when the girls assembled for evening activities. I'd written a cheesy lipsticked note on a bathroom mirror (something like "help! back trai.....") and the other counselors pretended to find it and got the girls involved and they took off down the back trail, finding shreds of this ugly lost-and-found sweater vest I'd donned earlier along the way. Finally they arrived as a wooden platform where I'd tied myself up with rope. As the girls approached I quickly grasped that this prank had gone even more awry than the first. The girls were petrified. I shot a quick look at the other counselors and tried to let them gently know that is was a joke so that they didn't feel too embarrassed and to get them to laugh about the whole thing. They got there, but not after us swearing off pranks forever. But the laughs we had planning and recapping it were certainly worth any of the trauma the girls experienced.

Their cuteness obscures the evil that lurks within

Wrestling on the couch...


Preparing to walk on the keyboard and delete e-mail

The kittens are so naughty that Husband and I have dog-eared the section on discipline in Kittens for Dummies. The two biggest problems we have are fighting on us while we're asleep (surprisingly not charming) and putting their noses (and tongues, if we'd let them) in our food. Cadbury is particularly incessant about anything dairy, and also enjoys iced tea. Although Husband has a really good alpha dog voice, yelling, clapping, etc. generally has not be very effective, particularly at night if the other is somehow managing to sleep through the nightly WWF match. So we've been testing two other techniques: the reliable water spray bottle (which is somewhat effective), and hissing. I admit, I'm not a very good hisser. It doesn't feel very natural. But Husband made me jump nearly off the bed last night when his deep convincing "HISSSSSSSSSSS!" jarred me from semi-doze.
If you have any ideas, send them my way. Please.

Pie corruptions

Why do I want to turn all fruit into an alcoholic beverage? What happened to pie? After the success of the rhubarb slush, my first thought after picking a bowl of raspberries at Husband’s family cabin was to puree them, strain them, and mix them with something lemon- or lime-y and vodka. I think it’s all about the texture – the smoothness of a drink is nicer than the many-seeded berries or stringy rhubarb. And the heat of summer seems to justify an icy beverage.

Another pie corruption: the Dream Pie Blizzard. I reluctancy agreed to ordering one after Husband extolled the expected virtues of the pie crust bits in ice cream... and damn, he was right. It was amazing.

As our two-week vacation is less than two weeks away... my thoughts are consumed with vacation prep. Newspaper to cancel. Haircuts to get. Books to reserve. Provisions to lay in. I haven’t had a two-week vacation since... I can't remember... so this feels rather sinful.

I haven’t read anything good lately except listening to Tomorrow When the War Began, which besides a few nagging faults was really engaging. I really like Aussie voices... I should have made it a priority to date an Aussie man. But thinking about it, the Aussie guys I’ve met were more pasty milquetoast than Crocodile Hunter.

MR not puppies

The kittens must learn that it is not charming to use me as a prop in their half-hour-long fighting games at 3:30 a.m. “At least they’re not puppies,” Husband said. “At least they don’t fight on you,” I thought.*

We visited some friends last night who have a pool in their backyard. I have never wanted a pool until I saw this pool and thought I WANT A POOL IN MY BACKYARD. Refreshing evening dips to cool off, days off spent on loungers with stacks of magazines... mmm. But really, better than having a pool in your backyard is having a friend with a pool in their backyard. So I’m safe. Nevermind the fact that our backyard would hardly accommodate a hot tub. As a kid I had a fantasy with the neighbor kids that our families would install a pool that would span the length of all three of our lawns. I must have seen it so clearly that part of me actually thought it could happen. Around this same time my parents asked us “What would you like best: a pool, a cabin, or something-else-that-I-can’t-remember-because-it-didn't-make-the-cut.” “A pool! A pool!" We shouted excitedly. As my parents are generally people of their word, we began telling our friends that we were getting a pool. We got a cabin instead – which, to their credit, was a much, much better idea.

*In the spirit of truth, he did save me by taking them downstairs and playing with them.

MR puppies
MR not puppies
OSAR
CMPN?

Mais oui

Husband speaks French exclusively to the kittens. “Les petit chatons, qu’est que ce, ca,” he patters. I wonder if he’ll do the same with our kids. I once asked Husband to say "You are so sexy" in every accent that I could think of. My favorites were the Norwegian, which sounded jolly, and the German, which sounded gay because in his impressions all Germans are gay.

I’ve been reading lots of young adult nostalgic novels lately, including the incredibly violent Wolves of Willoughby Chase that my fourth grade teacher read us, so I’ll mention two books I read previously that I really enjoyed and could not help but tell others all about: Deep Survival: Who lives, who dies, and why by Laurence Gonzalez, which is a fascinating exploration of the assumptions and social rules we work under when threatened (particularly in the wilderness, but he also uses examples from 9/11, etc.) and why they help or hinder us. I also really enjoyed What Einstein Told His Cook: Kitchen Science Explained by Robert L. Wolke. This book that has prompted me to share with others annoying facts such as that onions cannot technically caramelize and that adding salt to boiling water and a potato to salty soup doesn’t help.

Since my purse now contains nearly nothing (so far, the receipt from my license renewal, new insurance cards, and $20) I’ve taken to going around without it, and it is so freeing. I remember how loath I was to start carrying a purse in the first place – I resisted it until college ended. I do love with a passion not usually reserved for purses my black Kate Spade winter bag, so I’m sure I’ll be back in the swing of things by the time the temps drop to the 50s and the bag can come out of hiding.

Pet peeves du jour: The use of the word “frankly.” The phrase “and more” when detailing the attributes of something. Walking with someone who walks a step or two ahead of me (stupid, I know).

Not a good story

I was robbed last night. It was 8 p.m. and I was sitting outside the neighborhood coffee shop with friend T (who should be renamed the Ms. kick-ass-don’t-mess-with-me-fucker). It was a nice summer evening, the sidewalks were a slow parade of couples getting coffee and walking dogs... and three 17-19 year-old guys ran up and grabbed T’s purse. She took off after them while the other two tried to wrestle mine away... as I screamed one kid poked my hand with something black and plastic-y and the other punched me in the neck and they got it and ran away. A guy from the coffee shop chased after T and the guys, aided by a random guy driving down the street who helped chase them with his car. I called the police (along with about every third house down the streets they ran down) and within a minute police cars were entering the neighborhood and after what felt like forever (maybe fifteen minutes?) T came back and the police came and told us they arrested the guys (two adults, one juvenile). T and I filed a report with a very nice police officer and after another fifteen minutes/half hour, the police and searchers found all of T’s stuff (purse, wallet, cell phone, even cash, all separate and tossed into various bushes) and my purse (minus the wallet and cell phone). Husband, T, and I searched for my stuff by climbing over one of those freeway solid fences and combing in the vast overgrown bushy area that separates the highway from the fence/neighborhood. We recovered the cell phone, but not my wallet.

What I learned:
1. While running after the guys is not necessarily the safest option, I think it’s definitely what allowed us to recover as much of our stuff as we did, so I’m very grateful to T.
2. While being robbed in my own neighborhood isn’t very comforting, the dozens of people who witnessed what happened and came forward with descriptions and stories, the grocery store owner who took a picture of them earlier because they looked suspicious, the people who saw them running and called the police, and the bystanders who gave chase all speak to the goodness and communal concern of my neighborhood.

Trading in the kiddie cocktails for G&Ts

The best weather we’ve ever had at the cabin, good friends we hadn’t seen in awhile, and a cooler full of beer each came together for a wonderful holiday weekend. My family has vacationed with the family that always comes up for the Fourth since I was two and crying because I couldn’t walk out with the big kids in Lake Winnipeg. Between trips to Disney World, summers at a resort, and weekend trips around the state, we have quite a few memories together. And we did our best to make a few new ones... thanks in part to the sneaky dehydrating effects of the sun and the illusion of sobriety promoted by laying around on the dock.

On the drive up my brother got a ticket – on the rez! I comforted him with the fact that it at least it made a good story, with the rez police and all of the in-poor-taste Indian jokes about paying for the fine in trade, etc.

As of mid-morning today, the Brothers K had their manhood taken away from them. Poor dears.
I bought some dill to plant on a whim and have ignored it since, so now it looks like a mini-forest rather than herbs. I cut some down last night and wasn’t very enthused about cooking with it, but I quartered some baby Yukon gold potatoes and stirred in sea salt, ground pepper, a spoonful of sour cream, and all of the dill bits from one of my trees. My god, it was amazing. It was fresh and full, and redolently resplendent with pickle-ness.

For example, the time I went in the ditch driving home after Christmas...

I'm writing from the cabin, and feeling very smug about my connectivity. I just logged in and answered some e-mail that my slacker self had not gotten to when I slinked out of the office at 3:15 yesterday. I came up early with my bro and had some quality time; once my I-want-to-die nauseating headache ceased, we cooked up some burgers and I kicked his butt with my gin-and-tonic power gin rummy skills. We had a good chat - nothing heavy, just a lot of "Oh, here's another story I never told mom and dad...." and the like.
The itinerary for this patriotic holiday weekend is much like last year... so this early morning quiet before the storm is nice.
Well, I'm off to figure out the espresso maker (it's coffee Friday, for heaven's sake) and use my mad towel animal making skills that I learned in Mexico to adore the beds of the arriving guests.

Abate, abate, damn cheese!

WHY I DON’T WRITE ABOUT POLITICS
In high school I was on the debate team and spent precious weekend hours dickering back and forth at a million words a minute against pairs of pimply arrogant boys in navy suits. Nuke war and NAFTA and ERISA and FGM and economic growth and Middle East instability and juvenile crime and over and over and over until at my very last debate the very last word popped out and I was done –I had used up my lifetime allotment of rhetoric. This hasn’t prevented me from enjoying thoughtful political discussions on my friends’ blogs, it just explains my lack of participation.

UNPROFESSIONALISM
I am the person in the office who doesn’t yield to casual Fridays. Not to make others look bad, but because I want to be taken seriously and in casual clothes I look/feel too much like my co-workers’ kids/nieces. Anyway, I had a true Gen X/Y moment earlier this week: I showed up to an important one-on-one meeting with Doritos hands. The orange dust refused to abate despite frantic sucking and wiping. At least I didn’t crack open a diet Mountain Dew.

A FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOY DIED...
and my aunt got a new pancreas. My mom’s youngest sister, who has had diabetes since she was three, had a pancreas transplant a few weeks ago. This woman, who has tested her blood sugar several times a day as long as she can remember, is no longer diabetic. Her doctor told her she has no dietary restrictions. She had her first Orange Julius. Her diabetes had consumed all aspects of her life – getting sick and recovering and having transplants (she’s had two kidney transplants as well) had become what she does and who she is. Now, if the transplants continue to do well... who knows what her life will hold? I’m sure there are more than just Orange Juliuses that she’s been wanting to try.

Arts and crafts

For a work exercise we had to create plates with images and words that represent us. I am surprisingly self-conscious and psychoanalytical about my silly little plate (you can't tell from the photo but our "canvas" was one of those cheap paper plates). To readers of this I certainly don't need to explain any of these images... which are surprisingly basic but I suppose, in contrast to others, revealing. My plate looked nothing like anyone else's. The woman in the center is my unifying theme... to the left of her face are a list of reminders (doctor's appointment, 3 p.m., and the like). I really resonated with that image.

Stilton & Cadbury

Finally, a picture of the cats. Right now they are crawling all over my keyboard and mouse. A mischevious pair, they are.

Curiosity and cats

CURIOSITY
I've always been curious about people. I think that's why I like to read so much - I like to learn about other people's lives and what makes them who they are. Part of me always wants to dispense with the niceties and small talk and get to the real stuff... like when a friend and I took a new co-worker to lunch. After all the chitchat I finally asked her, "What are you passionate about?" We laughed because it was kind of strange, but it broke the tension. Wouldn't things be better if we all shared more? Talked about real stuff? I'm aghast at the topics that close friends and relatives feel they can't talk about with each other. For example, for my brother, who's drifting, "What are you doing with you life?" For others, "Are you happy in your relationship? Why are you with him/her?" This sounds confrontational, and it's not supposed to be. I don't want to tell people how they should be living their lives, but rather find out why they live their life that way.

CATPILE
I've become one of those annoying pet people. I actually passed around a picture of the kittens today while distributing handouts at a meeting. All I can think about is going home and playing with them. I am jealous of Husband because he gets to spend more time with them and I worry that they like him better. I am in love with the kittens. If this is what kittens are like... then we are never having children.

Reading: The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie, A Changed Man by Francine Prose, and from the young adult shelves, Looking for Alaska, to indulge my love of boarding schools. I always wanted to go as a kid.

Never again: baby barrettes

STAGES I HAVE GONE THROUGH
Compulsive kisser - preschool. I can't explain this one. Ended by: Kindergarten.

Goody-goody - Kindergarten-2nd grade. I used to write little love notes to my teachers. Ended by: enjoyment of mischief, disdain for other goody-goodies.

Popular kid - 4th-6th grade. I once suggested forming a club to exclude others (I think I read too many books). Ended by: Being tired of witnessing preteen cruelty, favoring nice friends.

Ardent (but not radical) feminist - tenth grade. I wrote an essay for English arguing that feminism simply meant the idea that women should be equal to men and wasn't anything to be scared of. Read Gloria Steinem. Ended by: getting over myself.

Grungy treehugger - ninth grade-junior year. Accessories: ET necklace, long hair, baby barrettes, mug of tea, hiking boots. Ended by: discovery of J.Crew, desire for lighter footwear.

Beat poet/Zen/Japanese obsession - senior year-sophomore year of college. Found great inspiration in The Dharma Bums. Doodled kanji in the margin of notebooks. Ended by: Realization that Kerouac was a misogynist, a real understanding of Japanese culture.


Last night I:
1. Had a manicure
2. Layed mulch
3. Baked cookies

Product placement: This entry is brought to you by Smartwool socks, which provided me my first blister-free hiking experience ever last weekend.

Shears of death

I nearly broke my record of always being able to start a fire, no matter what the conditions. Six weeks of fires with no ready kindling? Done. Five days of rain in Jasper National Park? No sweat. But I was almost brought down by car camping at a state park. Here’s what was available: a good stack of split hardwood, one state park map (coated), one generous handful of toilet paper, and six or so tiny rain-soaked twigs. The map wouldn’t burn, the toilet paper didn’t burn hot enough to light a match. Glaring resentfully at the roaring blazes at the RV campsites next to us, and praying that one of them wouldn’t offer to help, I gathered a few more twigs, brazenly set fire to the rest of the toilet paper, and proceeded to build the tiniest of fires, patiently getting one matchstick-thin twig alight, then laying a slightly thicker one on top, slowly... slowly... until finally, I had a dependable little blaze. “Now we’re cooking with gas!” I announced jubilantly to Husband, who had supported me through the challenge to my Femme du Nord-ness by fetching toilet paper and shredding bits of bark.

I purchased my first pair of hedge trimmers this week, and by god they’re fun. Taxing on ye old arm muscles (my arm shook every time I lifted my post-gardening drink, making me look like an arthritic boozer), yet unbearably fun to SNIP SNIP SNIP an unruly shrub into a neat sphere. After consulting with musician and surprise landscaper friend S (where do people get these multitude of talents?), I was delighted to learn than non-flowering bushes can be trimmed anytime, which means I have three unruly bastards out there to subjugate with my shears of death.

READING/READ
On the Rue Tatin by Susan Loomis, about an American cooking in France, A Brief Lunacy, about a couple held hostage by their crazy daughter’s crazy boyfriend in their Maine home, and Unformed Landscape by Peter Stamm, a bleak little novel about a lonely woman in Norway.

An asset to the communist party

I had my first migraine at age nine. I was in fourth grade, sitting outside Mr. Carberry’s class working on a project. It was classic migraine – a blinding headache that one can distract oneself from for short periods of time. Since it was near the end of the day, I didn’t go to the nurse. When I got home, I told my mother about it and went upstairs to grab a pillow so I could lie on the couch. While upstairs, I got sick. My mom told me that my grandma had headaches like this – “headaches so bad they make you sick,” but it wasn’t until after college that I first sought treatment and received something stronger than Advil.

Part of the diagnosis process was a careful monitoring of triggers, where I developed the sadly long list that now dictates my behavior. It contains things as demanding as alterations in sleep schedule and regular meals, as insidious as sitting in a position that requires me to turn my head (like sitting perpendicular to a speaker), and as stupid as having my hair pulled back in a ponytail for too long.

Despite my feeble head, I’m proud to say I’m a poster child for health.* I never get colds bad enough to skip work, I’ve never had the flu, I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve had the stomach flu/food poisoning since elementary school, I can eat the spiciest curries or half a pound of chocolate with no ill affects, I’ve never broken a bone, I have excellent eyesight, and I’ve never been in the hospital or to the emergency room or even urgent care.

[Rereading this list makes me feel as if I'm trying to convince you to that I am of good mating stock (maybe it's all that working with a cat breeder) or convince you that I'd be a good little worker for the Communist party.]

*In case you were wondering, I never was one of those obnoxious children with perfect attendance. Although I didn’t need to stay home, I certainly did when nursing an impressive-sounding cough.

Making it worth your while

BUT DAD ALWAYS LETS US
Husband already has the indulgent father thing going. He went to the grocery store to procure car snacks and rations for our camping trip, and he came home with all of the good vacation junk food: licorice, good chocolate, cheese Ritz bits sandwiches, Dare cookies, Triscuits, and roasted red pepper and lemon hummus.

O CANADA
Dare cookies are just one of the many blessed things that come from the maple leaf state. There is a reason I’ve been to seven of the thirteen provinces yet haven’t been to Europe. From my first trip as a three-year-old to Winnipeg to my months of exploring the wild rivers of Manitoba and Alberta, to my first real adult-type travel to Ontario and the Rockies, I am a committed Canadaphile.

KITTEN UPDATE
Cat dishes have been procured in various sizes to accommodate current diminutiveness and future growth. A week and a half left to kitty-proof the house and come to a resolution on names.

PRODUCT PLACEMENT
A few helpful recommendations to reward you for slogging through the tidbits:
1. Life-altering moisturizer: Aveeno Positively Radiant Daily Moisturizer.
2. It truly is magic, and gets out everything (including ink-transfer stain on wood table): Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.
3. If I could only have one appliance it'd be my: Williams Sonoma Fuzzy Logic Rice Maker
4. Like to read? Excellent recommendations by category: Book Lust and More Book Lust.
5. Simple, yummy, gorgeous, and elegant recipes: Moosewood Restaurant Celebrates.

RECOMMENDED SITE OF THE WEEK
To wile away last few hours of the workweek, try this. You might want to shut your office door lest the sharp bursts of laughter alarm your colleagues. Also enjoying: numerous food blogs (and harboring aspirations of having one myself, yet fearful of the time commitment). Try this one for starters (ha! punny!).

Another year older

THE BIG 2-6
I neglected to mention that I celebrated my birthday last week. It was lovely, from the coffee date with Husband to the lunch with my parents and brother at perfect-little-restaurant-in-the-park’s patio (curried cauliflower soup, tomato salad, and strawberry-amaretto sundae with locally-made vanilla bean ice cream...mmm), to the picnic dinner with Husband and gathering of friends afterward. I felt truly loved.

TWINNY
Whenever birthday-time rolls around I’ll always amazed by how many of my friends are Geminis. It makes remembering their birthdays easy, as one always remembers birthdays when one’s is on the horizon, but it also seems uncanny. Are we drawn to each other’s curiosity, intelligence, good humor, restlessness, and moodiness? I must disagree with the assessment that Geminis are always the life of the party. None of my Gemini friends can claim this honor.

TRAVEL
Up next: weekend trips to cabin and Duluth mini-break.
Pending in August: Canoeing trip in BWCA and Ely cabin time.

In January: Two-and-a-half weeks in York, England. (Requiring me to miss college-buddy JC’s wedding in California. Very sad about this).

SEEN AND HEARD
Watching: the BBC Pride and Prejudice. Colin Firth is charming with his smoldering eyes, yet not nearly as handsome as in recent films. I love Jane Austen. Watching: Just started Six Feet Under. Am interested, yet am not a committed fan yet. Listening: A Year in Provence for the third time. If you have a car trip in your future RENT IT. It fills me with mirth. Also Dress Your Children in Corduroy and Denim. Read: Dear Zoe, very sad but very well-written book, Mrs. Mike, Anne of Green Gables-like tail of frontier life that appeals to my affection for the north woods and even takes place on the Peace River, and Growing Perennials in Cold Climates.

Kittens-to-be

We picked out the kittens. We won't get to take them home for a few weeks - they're too young yet. Both yet unnamed, the one on the left is a blue Siamese with an apple head, and the other is a chocolate Siamese with a wedge head. They are adorable but very young. We can't decide on names... candidates are Truman and Roosevelt or Stilton and Cadbury. Any opinions?

Friends and the Married Girl

Being a smug married among singletons, while much easier than the reverse, is still odd. It doesn't really cause fights, but sometimes is a bit sad. I know we both wish at times that it were different - that I was single with them or they married with me. I was just going to type that maybe it'll be easier when they do get married... but then I realized that'll be a bit sad too. Selfishly, I enjoy their time now and don't want us all to drift off into houses with locked doors, babies, and home entertainment systems. And coffee spoons. Are Husband and I less fun post-nuptial? Probably. We certainly have fewer stories, the currency of social cred. Actually, to be fair, our stories are just different. Once our friends get married we'll have lots of stories to share with them. Suddenly our knowledge about when-your-relationship-gets-to-year-five and happily-ever-after:the-marriage-bed will be quite sought after.
Until then, my bar-hopping, free love friends.

No Mike Tyson

Things have been too stressful to write this week. Too stressful in the way you cannot write about on your blog. Stressful in the way that everything makes sense rationally but is scary emotionally and sickening physically. My mind handles stress like a champ, my emotions are a reliable tag team partner, but my body is TKO from the first punch. I'm used to certain things failing me - my muscles transforming into knots, my head pounding, my heart racing - but this week even got to two areas that are as dependable as the daily paper - my sleep and my appetite.
Today I leave it all behind for the north woods, family and friends, grilled food, and some good books.

A People's Full Catastrophe Travel Nanny

"Work is hard," I say in my mechanical Barbie voice. But weekends - weekends - are glorious, particularly if they include Bonus Monday, which last weekend did because of some overtime on Saturday. Yes, I joined the ranks of the anti-nine-to-fivers and grocery shopped at non-peak hours. Oh the joy. Everything seems indulgent on a weekday to one's self.

Reading: Four books at once! This is a record! Does this make me a bookwhore? Trudging through the interesting-yet-demanding A People's History of the United States, taking breaks for the doctor-recommended Full Catastrophe Living, plugging along at Travels with my Aunt by Graham Greene, and devouring the gossipy but not very well-written White House Nannies.

In order to destress from my day I'm picking up a theraputic iced latte on the way home and doing some pilates upon arrival. On May 21 my internal calendar turned to summer, and it's the summer purse, iced beverages, and salads from here on out.

No green thumb

There are many household skills that I never learned as a kid. Painting, for example. Laundry, for another. And also: gardening. The only weeds I'd pulled were for fun. So when we moved into our house, with its generous gardens for our small city lot, I felt overwhelmed. We managed to grow some veggies, but we also grew a lot of weeds. One year's experience has taught me many important things, such as:
1. Weeds need to be dug out, not "pulled" as implied.
2. You cannot trim bushes willy-nilly. They will die if you prune them at the wrong time.
3. Perennials, for all of their steady reliance, need maintenance after awhile.
4. What a hosta is. (I still don't know most of the things that grow, beyond tulips, hydrangea, irises, lilies, rhubarb, lilies of the valley, roses, and my newest acquaintance, phlox.)
So like all things I'm not very good at, I have a love/hate relationship with my garden. Love the work when it’s done, hate when I kill things (RIP burning bush). I took some "before" pictures so if it ever stops raining and we plant, I have something to compare our success with.

Rut broken

Friday: Mischief accomplished. There was so much mischief that it is sort of a blur with lots of parts that I don’t understand or even remember (not in that scary-drunken-memory-lapse way, but in that too much happening at once after consuming a few drinks kind of way). It was a wonderful break from the sequential and slow-placed A, B, C, D kind of interactions that characterize most social gatherings. On cold rainy Saturday we nested and made a stew that bubbled on the stove all afternoon while we took the longest nap ever, and then took a drive, yes, like parents do, and ended up at a Middle Eastern grocery and coming home to finish another disc of CSI.

Read: The Way the Crow Flies by Ann-Marie MacDonald, reading Blankets, a graphic novel by Craig Thompson, and Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro.

Banzai

Our college buddy Zigmaster Flash is in town (he's the one we visited in D.C. last August) this weekend, and I'm ready for some good ol' urusai gaijin* merriment. Zig and I studied in Japan together during college, and our little crew of three women and three men spent many a weekend having adventures, whether going in search of Osaka's best porn shop, perfecting our karaoke rendition of George Michael's Faith, or going to crazy festivals. I'll have to dig out my adventure hat and cook up some mischief tonight. Or at least cook up some okonomiyaki.

*We called ourselves the urusai gaijin, or annoying/loud foreigners, because that's how people viewed us on the train, even if we were talking quietly. But often, I admit, we were not talking quietly, because there is only so much quiet one can achieve while being 20 in Japan.

If you have to ask...

A friend, when I met her last fall, asked me if people always know that The One is The One before getting married, or whether it’s different for different people. She shared that she'd been with her guy for five years (with several breaks) and while she couldn't swear he was The One, they'd been together a long time and were happy.
I never know what to say; just because I made good in one marriage doesn't mean I'm somehow gifted in all things relationship. As loathe as I was to make any generalities, I couldn't help thinking that if you've been in a relationship five years and are worried that you don't know he/she is The One... that it’s probably a good indicator that he/she is not The One. At some point, you do just know - that whatever comes up you can work out, that you will be able to live with their charming/maddening idiosyncrasies, that he/she is not going to change beyond recognition. But you can never tell people that; that's not what she wanted to hear.
Anyway, after five years they broke up yesterday. As hard as it must be to leave someone you do enjoy and are happy with, it seems that there comes a time when you need more than that.

Judicious use of the furry middle finger

I don't really like cats that are too friendly. I know this is awful, an affront to cat-lovers world wide, but it's true. I like a bit of discernment in my cat, a bit of choosiness, not a mushball that sits on any human that happens to be immobile. It seems an indicator of intelligence - in survival of the fittest, the fittest could hardly be a lap-loving ball of fur.
Since as a choosy cat-owner I choose Siamese, I'm not really worried about our future cats, who will undoubtedly have judicious use of the furry middle finger.
Husband was showered with kitty stuff for his birthday, including Kittens for Dummies and the Kitten Mitten, so all we're waiting for is for them to grow up enough to adopt.
I've done really well since Rocky's departure... but on Saturday I was sitting in our local neighborhood coffee shop reading American Fuji and drinking the beloved crunchy chai latte, and Husband alerted my attention to a eight-or-so month old Siamese being held by a man in the window. My eyes immediately filled with tears. I am learning that I tend to think that I'm not sad about something then cry spontaneously at small things.

Birthday eve

Somebody's turning 26 tomorrow... and it isn't me. He has an evil eyebrow, laser-sharp wit, and no butt... yes, it's Husband, about to become the birthday boy. Husband is probably in the 5% of people in the world who do not care about their birthdays. It's a little odd, actually, trying to make a day special for someone who doesn't care in the first place. But tomorrow it's party in da house. Actually, it's a small gathering of friends with fancy pizza and drinks. I keep wanting to buy crepe paper and hats, but then remember... no. Just, no. Oh well...I'm off to buy the secret b-day gift that I'm not used to buy.

Caution: Contents Hot!

Says my latte container. Having just read an article on Paris Hilton, the phrase made me think twice about my beverage.

Snippet updates: Shopping success on Saturday! Underwear and purse purchased! Hurrah. Also blazers ordered. Watching: CSI and loving it. Reading: Milk, just waded through the overly descriptive language of The Hatbox Letters just to enjoy the nice New Brunswick setting. It really made me want to garden, and in particular, garden in the country, where I could compost or burn clippings instead of forcing them into Hefty bags.

Secret indulgences/things about self that clash with image:
1. I regularly watch The Gilmore Girls (hey, everyone has to have a show).
2. I very much like processed nacho cheese dips, although I am picky about which one.
3. I can become [temporarily] enthralled with mundane computer games*.
4. I occasionally enjoy very mindless fiction, such as not-so-good young adult novels or murder mystery novels a la Mary Higgins Clark.

* In the The final frontiersman: Heimo Korth and his family, alone in Alaska's arctic wilderness by James Campbell, even veteran Alaskan bush trapper Heimo became addicted to computer card games during the one month that his family lived in a village to lay in supplies for the coming winter. Free cell = crack.

5-year plan

I am a fan of 5-year plans. I have one for work - which I just completed 3 years ahead of schedule. I also have one for kids - in 5 years we'd like to start having children. And because I have never changed a diaper and really enjoy my independence, I've started preparing for that overwhelming life change now. Thus, stage 1: become acclimated to the world of pregnancy/babies. So far I've read Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year and Andrea J. Buchanan's Mother Shock: Loving Every (Other) Minute of it. I also read several mommy blogs. Someday I'm going to tackle the infamous What to Expect When Your Expecting because shouldn't you know what to expect before you're expecting? I also hope to learn from a distant friend who has the same cloth diaper/homemade baby food aspirations I do, who is pioneering the way for the rest of us with her newborn.
I'm made it clear to husband that in addition to setting aside money for baby, a condition of me blowing up like a balloon is setting aside funds for a post-partum membership at the renowned posh for-serious-fitness-people-only gym in our neighborhood.
I'm already worried about day care, breastfeeding, $$$, and the fact that I can't imagine myself having a kid. I can't believe people my age have kids. I still feel very much like a kid myself.

Near misses

Moments of infinite stupidity in my life:
1. Quitting all youth sports.
2. Trying out for the flag corps in high school (I shudder just typing it).
3. Thinking that it wasn't a big deal when I started dating Husband on the close heels of another relationship.
4. Thinking that I'd be happy teaching.

Moments of infinite wisdom:
1. Drifting from the popular crowd in 6th grade when they began being cruel to other girls.
2. Recognizing that I cannot wear coral, don't look good in bangs, and shouldn't wear square-necked shirts.
3. Choosing self-respect over winning and selling out in high school debate.
4. Recognizing almost immediately that Husband was the One.

Nerdy

BREAKING NEWS: I may be going to England next January! More later.

PROTEIN-DEFICIENT NEWS: I checked out the new USDA food pyramid to see what they are all about and to create my own personalized little pyramid. Because I am a lover of charts and graphs (see anal retentiveness a.k.a. nerd, previous entry), I entered in what I ate for the day. I achieved only 3 out of my 5.5 servings of meat/protein (through bean soup, almonds, and tofu), but my nutrition chart (which they also include) said that I got more than the daily recommended allowance of protein. Should I be eating less protein-rich protein? It's so confusing.

BOOKNERD NEWS: Read a series of delightful essay and snippet-like books this weekend: The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby, Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life by Amy Rosenthal, and The Partly Cloudy Patriot by Sarah Vowell.

NEWS FOR EVA FANS: Why nerds make good husbands

Five-star or five-person tent

I sometimes like to pretend I am the hip spontaneous type... the type B kind of person who cannot do math and who feels things instead of listening to their brain. But I am not. I am the nine-year-old who asked for a hanging file system for my desk drawer so I could organize things. And now, I am the person who created an H Family Vacation Preference Indicator survey to assess where we should go on vacation next year. Yes, I am my dad. But to my credit, the indicator was useful - we are very close to booking a place, and we've only been at this for a month! You'll recall we are months ahead of the debacle that was last year's decision process.

Left to my own devices, Husband and I are frugal, thrifty travelers... seeking out clean nice facilities, although of the B&B, tent, or cabin sort. But I can fit in as well in tent living and buying meals from the grocery store as I can in five star hotels and gourmet meals. Give me a giant ocean front room and I will nod coolly to the concierge and say, "This looks fine." I melt for good service, though, and cannot resist cooing over all of the little extras... such as people coming around with Evian spritzers, bowls of strawberries or sorbet, offering to clean my sunglasses or fetch a CD player. Uno mas!

But I really can't stand anything in between. It has to be all the way nice or just basic. There's nothing worse than a Best Western Potomac View.

Husband and I had a Small Fight this week. We don't often have fights of any size. This is an event! You should have had ringside seats! But we have reconciled and can now enjoy the equally infrequent act of making up.

Morning after pickle

Snapshots from my weekend:
Wrangling vines from our lilac bushes in the rain, getting all soaked and dirty akin to camping and then throwing the clothes in the washer, cleaning up, and going out for Thai food with the satisfaction of having put in a hard morning’s work.

Attempting to rehydrate Sunday morning and assessing whether I had a gossip hangover (where I’ve revealed/inquired too much). Proclaimed myself free and clear, and while munching on a pickle (gotta replace that sodium), shared an detail from the night before with Husband, who reminded me that I’d shared the same detail last night when I’d stumbled in and collapsed in a chair moaning “drunk....druuuuuunk,” and shaking my head repentantly (but not too fast).

Posts I wrote today but deleted: a random series of thoughts that ending up coming full circle in a clever yet banal way; an essay on love death sex money a la the San Diego list, but I lost steam after death.

Coming soon... more sex!

I recently learned that people like to read about love, death, sex, or money. I do not talk much about love (beyond my affection for Kozy Shack), death (beyond my kitty dying!), sex (I know it’d be a lot more interesting if I wrote about my sex life like other bloggers, but that stays in our house/yard/car/random public venue), and I’m pretty sure my talk about money is not the kind that the speaker intended. Maybe I can get around the sex thing by writing about other people’s sex – Theystolemybike, now with weekly sex updates from my friends!

Ok, Ok, here’s one vaguely sex-related story. I was playing racquetball as I do over lunch with my friend and she mentioned that she saw this guy she recognized as she was buying pansies, and she realized she knew him from the local porn shop. I raised my eyebrow and she clarified that it’s a porn/video store. As my eyebrow was still raised she further clarified that she’s never seen porn before and chatted on a bit about that. Then there was this silence where I didn’t say anything, because while I am no purveyor of porn I can’t really say that I’ve never seen one, and it would take a lot of work to explain all that. So I turned and served.

Magic swirling ship

Four writers that I love enough to have read everything they’ve published: Margaret Atwood, Haruki Murakami, Junichiro Tanizaki, Jane Austen.

I am taking a new approach to reading. Rather than my voracious read-anything-I-feel-like-binge method, which allows for some Junk to slip in with the Good Reads, I’m going to go for a more thoughtful, Zen-type approach where I am choosier about what I read and try to get more out of them, as if I had to discuss them in class.

Am reading Kafka on the Shore by Murakami and loving it! Only Murakami can pull off stuff like this. I feel lost on a wonderful scary magic swirling ship, and like a kid can’t wait to read this night’s segment.

Don't mention the war

My dad helps companies to become more profitable, and sometimes I type up surveys he does of the employees. While the surveys are generally tedious (We need better communication... I don't get paid enough... same same same) there are always a few standouts. They fall into two categories: 1. the swearing/offensive kind, i.e. "My boss is a jackass and can eat shit" and 2. the revealing of abhorrent business practices, i.e. "If we don't have enough money the boss will pretend that we never received certain invoices and put them off until they threaten to sue us." Through typing thousands of surveys I have discovered that the favorite cliché of the disgruntled worker is: "Too many chiefs, not enough Indians."
I told husband about this last night.
Husband: That's really really, amazingly offensive.
Me: Yeah. [pause]. Well not really, I mean Indians had chiefs... so...
Husband: Are you kidding?
Husband: Too many Jews, not enough Indians???
Me: [horrified] Are you kidding? I said too many chiefs, not enough Indians!

So remember my friend who is Jewish and my alarm in almost saying "verboten" in front of her? Now I'm so self-conscious about it that inadvertently my stream-of-conscious is firing up all sorts of Holocaust-type commentary when talking with her. Today she mentioned how it my jacket was spring-like, and I almost started humming Springtime for Hitler. Nein!

Kale or culottes, cats or concrete

Give the girl a hefty tax return and a salary increase and she turns into a glutton for consumerism.
Now that we don't have to watch every dollar, suddenly I feel free! Free to go out to lunch without factoring it into my weekly spending! Free to buy a random chai latte* from the local cafe on a Tuesday night without forgoing Friday's coffee morning! Free to develop my digital pictures for a user-friendly place and not use the Best Buy photo rebate card I got with my camera that is impossible to use because you must use it in the store yet can only order photo processing online.
But with this freedom comes many agonizing decisions. The money is not endless, so I am faced with dilemmas like: a summer's supply of organic veggies or much-needed new clothes? (I have a rapidly increasing number of pairs of underwear** with holes. Enough said). Two new cats and a summer trip or fixing our garage wall? Paying more down on the car payments or the mortgage?

*The secret to the cafe's chai latte, is, surprisingly, their use of a powdered chai mix. I know this flies into the face of common sense and the most holy Oregon Chai, but I have always had a fondness for crunchy bits in my beverages - i.e. partially dissolved cocoa, Kool-aid, etc.
**When checking the thesaurus for synonyms for underwear, I found this: smallclothes. Hee hee. I will adopt it as my own.