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.