Amelioration Nation

Heart of Glass

2011-09-27T00:11:00.005-04:00

Rehearsal was at my house tonight. A glass was broken. Second one this week.

The first one was my Big Mac glass, which I will be forced to replace on eBay. I accidentally knocked it into the sink when I was washing dishes. It's a shame; I got it for a quarter at a yard sale.

I used to have a set of eighteen matching pint, water, and juice glasses, and only those glasses. I didn't want a cluttered cabinet. Although my apartment was a mess, I made a point of storing them in a very particular way, up down up down. Most of them never got used because it was just me and my boyfriend using them, and he didn't live here. I didn't have friends over. I didn't have many friends. I went from work to home and back to work the next day, and sometimes I went shopping. I let all of my friends drift out of touch.

I was so angry when the first glass in that set broke. Now everything was unmatched. It wasn't even. It wasn't right. And indeed my life wasn't right. I was bored. I was unhappy. Eventually I changed. I made friends. I left my relationship. I found a new relationship. I changed everything.

I lost two of the water glasses when a spontaneous rager was declared at my house after a night at The Burren. A pint glass the night the I'm the Rhoda Advisory Council had a meeting at my house while my basement was cleared of past relationship detritus. Susie Cat has knocked a few off tables. I picked up a few novelty pop culture glasses while cruising yard sales with my boyfriend. He moved in and brought his specialty beer glasses. We didn't register for new glasses when we got married. I've embraced having a life where the drinking glasses don't match. If enough people are over that we can't find a matched set, it's a party, and party guests care more about what's in the glass than what it looks like.

I can't own too much in this small apartment, and I like to use the things that I have. I try not to save things for nice occasions, or own pretty things I don't use. I like to own things that have a story.

I have a set of heavy glass mixing bowls that I love. Glass is impractical, but they're the perfect mise-en-place set for my kitchen. My friend Carly gave them to me. She's the friend I met by placing a personal ad in a local paper, back before social media existed. I helped her pack when she moved from Boston to Phoenix, and saved the bowls from a trip to Goodwill. I think of her every time I use them. I dread the first time one breaks, but I know that when it happens I will e-mail her and she will say something that makes me laugh.

It's only a bowl. Or a cup. Or a glass. Things are used. Things break. Ancient pottery shards tell us how people lived, what and how much they ate, what they bought and sold, what was valuable and what was common. I live a life where glasses are broken during games of Mansions of Madness, or because someone didn't see someone's bag on the dark patio. It is evidence of a life lived.

YA-Again: Steffie Can't Come Out to Play

2011-09-22T21:18:00.005-04:00

Sometimes when I leave the library, I leave with great literature. Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye: First checked it out the summer of 1992. The Count of Monte Cristo: Acquired a huge overdue fine when I borrowed it to use as a prop in an elementary school/Somerville Community Access Television production of Rod Serling's The Girl Who Could Predict Earthquakes. (I had the lead and, already displaying method actress tendencies, insisted that I use the actual book.) I finally read it when I checked it out again in the summer of 1998.

Sometimes I leave the library with this:

I like to re-read books. I even like to re-read horrible books. It comes from the same part of my brain that allows me to watch the VH-1 I Love The Marathons in repeats.

I first encountered Steffie Can't Come Out to Play in my elementary school library. It was a badly designed space, that library with a mezzanine entrance to the gym. At least once a year a basketball would bounce out of the gym and into the library, and the librarian's pent-up rage would erupt into wordless squeals. I spent more time there than most. I ate lunch there because I didn't enjoy the cafeteria's atmosphere. (This should not surprise you.)

It was in the YA section. I had special permission to read things in the YA section before seventh grade because I was a nerd and had already read everything in the age-appropriate fiction section. But this book was rumored to be so scandalous, so dirty, that I wasn't brave enough to take it out or be seen reading it. I read it in furtive bursts when the librarian wasn't looking. I read it so quickly that I forgot most of the details. Years later, when I had a nagging memory of a shocking book with a red cover, it took me a while to figure out the title and find the book.

Steffie Can't Come Out to Play is the story of a fourteen-year-old girl with a sad home situation, from a nothing town near Pittsburgh, who dreams of being a model. She runs away on a Sunday night with nine dollars in her pocket. She arrives in New York City on Monday morning, and immediately upon arrival (page 13) meets a suave and mysterious man at the bus station. His name is Favor, baby. Favor. He takes her to dinner and buys her wine, takes her home, buys her bubble bath. If you watch Lifetime you know where this is going. By the end of the week she's convinced she's in love with him and joins his prostitution ring to prove her commitment. That's the end of Chapter One.

The rest of the book is a cliche montage of Times Square in the 70s. You can almost hear the electric bass when you turn the page. Halter tops. Hot pants. Discos. Steffie gets a pair of knee-high high-heeled silver boots. Favor has other women in his employ and there's as much girl-drama as a Taffy Sinclair book. Steffie falls in and out of Favor's favor. She professes her love for him as he drifts in and out of Cadillacs with shirts unbuttoned to show his chest. Her roommate is attacked by a trick with a knife. Steffie herself is attacked by another girl over a teddy bear before finally meeting up with the jaded cop who keeps appearing in a distracting sub-plot with a third person narrative. He sends her to a shelter and she goes home.

When I was a kid, I was sure this book was for adults and got mixed into the YA section of our school by mistake. Reading it now - 33 years old and having read Portnoy's Complaint - it's not so vulgar. It's a book about a teen prostitute for the Ann M. Martin set. It dances around the subject. No dirty words are ever used. The most graphic it gets is a client who asks her to stand unclothed in front of a window, and she gets a cold. Which is actually a decent and age-appropriate metaphor for feelings of humiliation and helplessness that might be part of forced prostitution, but it's buried in pages and pages of Steffie's screamingly bad judgement, ellipses, and melodramatic pining.

Anyway, Go Ask Alice? Way dirtier.

Et tu, Werther's Originals?

2011-09-14T22:02:00.005-04:00

It's come to this: I ordered Life Savers online.
This is after weeks of searching. I finally found the rolls for sale at Hidden Sweets in Harvard Square, but they weren't the right flavor and my craving was not satisfied. I've been craving them for over a month. I had to give in.

And did you hear me? It took weeks of searching just to find the classic five-flavor roll. Did you notice that Life Savers have disappeared from every candy display in every drugstore, supermarket, and megamart within... well, I've really only surveyed within driving distance of my house, but it took weeks of searching. Weeks, I tell you. I didn't notice until I couldn't stop looking for them. Sure, you can find bags of them in the candy aisles, but they're individually wrapped candies, and Life Savers come in rolls. Any idiot knows that. And besides, those bags don't come in the assortment I want.

What I was craving, what I'm still craving, and will crave until Amazon delivers, is the Tropical Fruits pack. When I was a teenager, I always had a roll of them in my book bag. They were one of the few candies sold at the strange little school store that sold Snapple iced tea and gold chains. There was nothing better than a study period with no one who wanted to gossip, a paperback novel, and an entire roll of Tropical Fruits. I remember realizing I actually liked Silas Marner as I struggled to let a Papaya Punch dissolve all the way without ever shattering.

To transition from Andy Rooney mode to Holden Caulfield mode, I'm actually pretty angry that rolls of Life Savers have disappeared. They disappeared because we weren't buying them. They disappeared because we didn't care. They were an American institution, like Coca-Cola or Bounty, and we stopped paying attention. They were such a nice, concise candy, with a minimal wrapper and easy to eat surreptitiously. Nicely portioned. Easy to share. Brightly flavored, nothing to get in your teeth. Now how will teenagers find ways to turn out the lights if not to prove that Wint-O-Green Life Savers really do make a spark when you bite them in the dark? Life Savers have fallen out of favor to gum, and I think that's a perfect example of what's wrong with society.

(Almost Vegan) Vegan Cold Cut Sandwich

2011-07-17T11:54:00.004-04:00

To clarify, it's the sandwich that's almost vegan, not me. I'm nowhere close to vegan. I'm not even vegetarian. I tried being vegetarian years ago, and it's not for me. I have a lot of respect for people who are ethical vegetarians, but it's not part of my belief system.

I acknowledge that, like most meat-eaters in America, I eat too much animal product. It's not healthy, it's not sustainable, it's wasteful. Whether you think eating animal products is ethical or not, sometimes it's a good idea to eat a handful of soybeans instead of feeding the soybeans to a cow and then eating the cow.

This recipe was inspired by the Tofu Cheese one at Serious Eats, but I've played with it a bit. The end result is a loaf of tofu with a chewy, crumbly texture and a salty, savory flavor that tastes a bit like lunch meat. Not a specific lunch meat, but lunch meat in general. When sliced and added to a vegetable sandwich, it adds that essential something most vegetable sandwiches are missing.

Part I - Prepare Your Tofu

1 block of tofu

Step 1: Freeze your tofu - In the container, in the water, overnight. You can skip this step, but it really does improve the tofu's texture.
Step 2: Defrost your tofu
Step 3: Press your tofu - Wrap it in paper towels or a kitchen towel. Sandwich it between two cutting boards or unbreakable plates, and put weights (I use books or cans of beans) on the top layer. I like to press it a full 24 hours so the tofu gets really flat and compact and dry.

Ghostly backlight optional

Part II - Prepare Your Marinade

1/3 cup miso paste - This is the stuff miso soup is made from. You can find it at Asian grocery stores and many conventional supermarkets, near the tofu.
1 tbsp. rice vinegar
1 tbsp. mirin
1 tbsp. sake
1 tsp. soy sauce
1 tsp. to 2 tbsp. optional additional seasonings of your choice - Minced garlic? Sure. Red pepper? Go ahead. Grated onion? Great idea. I'd advise making the basic recipe once, then going whole hog with experimenting. It's a forgiving process.

Step 1: Mix all of your marinade ingredients in a small saucepan over low heat. Stir until combined, and keep stirring until the mixture begins to bubble. Remove from heat. It will look somewhere between peanut butter and caramel sauce.
Step 2: Transfer half of your miso mix into a container that will snugly contain your pressed tofu block. If you've saved your tofu container, all the better.
Step 3: Put your tofu on top of the miso mix, then cover with remaining miso mix. Make sure all of the tofu is covered, turning it around a few times if you have to.
Step 4: Cover and refrigerate.

Part III - Wait

Let the tofu sit in the miso mix for at least 12 hours, preferably overnight, and even longer if you can stand it. It only gets more flavorful as time goes by.

Part IV - Make Your Sandwich

You already know how to do this, I hope. Two pieces of bread, stuff between. Slice the tofu loaf into slices less than a half inch thick, and put the leftover brick right back into the miso mix. The sandwich in the picture above has mayo (that's why it's not vegan), sliced tomato, lettuce (picked from the garden before it died), and thin slices of onion.

You can also dice the marinated tofu loaf and add it to stir-fries or salads. Or just eat slices straight up while you're snacking out of the fridge.

Tomorrow's Lunch: Wheat Berry Salad with Cranberries and Almonds

2011-07-10T22:25:00.006-04:00

A family that was out of town last week gifted us their CSA pick-up. It was great, because we opted not to subscribe to a CSA this year, and I'd forgotten how much fun it is to be assigned food I'd never think to buy. It also reminded me of why we don't subscribe to a CSA anymore, because it fills up our fridge with unfamiliar vegetables that are most delicious cooked when it's too hot to cook, and leads to tense discussions that include statements like "We already have so much food here," and "Fine, we'll have salad."

The lot included a brown paper bag that rattled when I shook it. Organic popping corn? Locally grown coffee? Nope - wheat berries. They look like barley and the internet disagrees as to whether or not they need to be soaked before cooking. I avoided the issue entirely and used the slow cooker, one of the most useful items in my kitchen because it lets me cook things without heating the place up during the summer. (We don't have air conditioning.)

So, into the slow cooker:

3 cups chicken stock (Because we always have jars of chicken stock in the fridge. If you're not in the habit of boiling carcasses, use veggie stock or water with some salt and a big spoonful of whatever dried green stuff you have in your spice cabinet. You'll be fine. This isn't rocket science.)
1 cup uncooked wheat berries (Do heed the warning that they're a natural product that should be looked over carefully because they may contain stems. I found stems.)
4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

Stir to combine. Make sure the slow cooker is plugged in, then walk away and do other things. I used the time to buy dried cranberries, eat something else for dinner, write a sketch, and watch Sondheim teach on YouTube.

(Best watched at home alone, so you can wear your headphones and sing along without embarrassment.)

After three and a half hours, come back, and add:

1/2 cup unsweetened dried cranberries (Be sure to complain that the unsweetened kind are a full dollar more per pound than the sweetened kind.)
1/4 cup almond pieces (Because pistachios were too expensive.)

Let it sit plugged in another half hour while you watch more YouTube.

(I like the "dolphin, dolphin, dolphin, dolphin" part.)

Drain and let cool. While it's cooling, mix up the dressing*:

1/4 cup olive oil
2 tbsp. lemon juice (Fresh-squeezed if you're feeling like a martyr, but the stuff in the bottle won't kill you.)
2 tbsp red wine vinegar
2 tbsp mustard
7 mint leaves, cut into a chiffonade if you're practicing your knife skills and just torn up into little pieces if you're not.

Toss with the stuff you already cooked. Makes two lunch-sized portions.

*This makes a little more dressing than you need. Save the rest for one of the other salads you're going to have to eat later in the week.

My Friend, the Hippopotamus

2011-07-07T14:38:00.005-04:00

One of the families I'm working with has introduced me to a wonderful book, Sandra Boynton's But Not the Hippopotamus.
The plot is intricate, but I'll do my best to summarize. See, there are all these animals - a dog, a hog, a cat, some rats, a moose, a goose, a bear, a hare. And they're doing all these great things - cavorting in a bog, trying on hats, drinking juice, going to a fair. They're all having tons of fun, all out in the open, loving life and drinking Pepsi. But every page or two, you see this zaftig character hiding behind something, looking apprehensive, and we're told that whatever kind of frivolity everyone is partaking in, there's someone who's not playing - the hippopotamus.

Now - SPOILER ALERT! - on the next-to-last page everyone asks her to join in, and after some deliberation she does. Yes, the hippopotamus plays! (But not the armadillo, seen on the last page looking sad and confused. )

Why the pause, hippopotamus? Why choose to be lonely and not join in the fuss? Afraid if you spoke no one would laugh at your joke? Were you popular once but now feel like a dunce? Worn down by your day and too tired to play? Too busy with your job? Are you just a stuck-up snob?

I've been on many sides of this situation. I've been the cat, out partying with the rats, wondering what the hell is up with the hippopotamus. Why is she standing there glaring at us? If she wants a hat, she should try on a hat. My life is too busy for drama like that. I've been the moose, drinking hard with the goose, so caught up in listening to him rant that I don't notice the mammal hiding behind the houseplant. I've been the bear, out with the hare, expressing to him that I really do care about the hippopotamus. I wish that she felt like she could join in with the lot of us.

Today, thanks to things that are going on around me, I feel like the hippopotamus. There's fun and I'm not part of it. These dozens of words about it aside, it's not really a big deal. It's taken me a long time to learn the platitude "don't take it personally" applies in these situations, though it's going to take me even longer to learn not to take it personally. People don't have fun for the express purpose of making others feel left out, at least not most of the time, not after high school.

Pages will turn and there will be another picture, one where I'm wearing the party hat (not the pity party hat) and drinking a milkshake. The dog and the hog and the cats and the rats and the moose and the bear and the goose and the hare and the hippopotamus and I will be tagged in Facebook photos and everything will be fine. But it won't, not for everyone. Because even when your problem is resolved, hippopotamus, there's still the question of the armadillo.

I Only Miss the Turtle Food

2011-07-06T17:31:00.007-04:00

We got rid of the cable in December. I never thought I'd do it. I loved cable from the moment we got it, back when Nickelodeon only aired until 7 pm and then A&E took over that place on the box; back when the cable box didn't have a remote and operated through buttons and switches:

The few times that I lived in dorm rooms or apartments that couldn't get cable service, I cursed the lack of entertainment and vowed that I'd never be without the Food Network again. I love TV. It has been my friend, my mentor, my pacifier.

My husband grew up in the woods didn't feel the same way. Although he's come to enjoy some nightly staring at the screen, I grew to agree with him that most of what was on was unwatchable crap. Even my beloved Food Network had gone to hell, just show after show about edible sculpture and binge eating.

We got rid of the cable service and switched to AppleTV. For the first week or two I missed the variety, but I have grown accustomed to it and I have seen the light. It is better. Life is better. I watch less, but I enjoy it more. Except for the shows I watch on my laptop (see below), I haven't seen a commercial in seven months. The only one I miss is one for a local business called Pet Cabaret. They carry Turtle Food. (TURTLE FOOD!)

The new system costs less than cable. The device itself was $99. Our monthly subscription to Netflix is about $10, and because it streams on AppleTV I can watch all the reruns of The Cosby Show or Cheers that my heart desires. (My heart desires about a half hour of each every two weeks.) We subscribe to The Daily Show and The Soup for very reasonable prices. I've purchased entire seasons of America's Next Top Model because I find I can watch them over again, marathon-style. I've started following several shows on ABC Family at $.99 per rented episode.

(Yes, I'm 33 years old and still watching shows about teenagers. What can I say? The writing is better than you'd expect. Huge had smart discussions about body image, gender identity and religion; Switched at Birth intelligently explores Deaf culture and features a sex-positive teenage girl who hasn't -yet- decided to become a born again virgin; Make It or Break It is about gymnastics!!!)

I've become more discriminating. When you're flipping channels, it's easy to rest on a show and give it time. It's even easier to waste a full hour with flipping. With this system, I have to commit up-front to 23 or 44 minutes with a set of characters. There are some shows I just won't pay to watch. (Hello, Teen Mom. I find your exploitative/entertaining qualities in questionable balance, so I'll be watching you on my laptop.) A new episode of The Family Guy isn't worth $.99, since the jokes won't be any fresher than the old ones already on Netflix.

It wasn't all AppleTV. LOST changed my viewing habits forever, making me more demanding of the product and less tolerant of crap. I want more quality TV, and I'm willing to pay for it. I want to vote with my entertainment budget, paying only for the shows I watch. I don't want to pay for the Golf Channel, or Fox News, or Home Shopping, or real or fake housewives from any city.

The system isn't perfect. I suspect there are shows I'm missing out on, because there are no commercials to tell me about them. I don't know what I'd do if a good show were airing on CBS or some other no-mans land. I've had to add some shows I enjoy to my Facebook feed just to keep up with the news, thus telling the entire world that I'm a regular viewer of Make It or Break It (it's about gymnastics!!!).

My TV is dark a lot more than it used to be. It is still a friend and mentor, but rarely a pacifier. I don't keep it on for company. Which isn't to say I've grown lonely. I have NPR.

Snap, Crackle, and/or Pop

2011-04-11T16:27:00.005-04:00

Some days I make the tried-and-true "simple rustic fare", like roast chicken stuffed with lemon. Some days I bake bread, trying to understand the science of gluten through my fingers. Some days I break out my exotic side and braise lamb shanks studded with cloves of garlic and crusted with garam masala, with mint yogurt on the side. And some days, like today, I make Rice Krispie Treats.
After not eating them for years, I had a sudden craving months ago, and have re-discovered a strong emotional attachment to them. They're not the first thing I ever cooked - I honestly can't remember what that was - but they were the source of one early and important cooking lesson.

I grew up in a family that required I receive confirmation before I could be in charge of my own religious direction, and their church required ten hours of volunteer service as part of the process. This brought me to a weekly dinner for women in need.

The kitchen was off a church recreation hall. (Not my family's church, but a nearby one, of a different denomination.) There was a restaurant-caliber stove and enough counter space for eight people to work at once, though most of the time there were just two of us.

The woman who ran the dinner was named Beth. She was in her early twenties and a recent culinary school dropout. She ran the dinner herself, using food from the church's food pantry and supplementing it with donations and her own money. One night we served thirty women on twenty dollars and a whole lot of food pantry butter. When I questioned the copious amounts of butter we used and if it wasn't unhealthy, Beth reflected and said "This is the only time this week some of these women will eat fresh vegetables, or any vegetables at all. We're serving lean chicken, lentils - it's what we have, and there's enough good to balance the bad. You'll drive yourself crazy if you try to make everything perfect."

When I arrived for my first day at the kitchen, Beth nodded towards a counter. There were three boxes of Rice Krispies, two sticks of butter, and three bags of marshmallows. "Start with dessert."

Smart move on her part. I assume she wanted to assess my kitchen skills, and Rice Krispie Treats are a great choice for the beginner cook. They require exactly three ingredients and don't need cooking to a set internal temperature to kill bacteria. No worrying about leavening. They're almost foolproof except for one thing - the heat.

I'd never made such a large batch before, and stirring the cereal into the melted marshmallow took longer than I expected. As I stirred, I saw patches of browner-than-expected Rice Krispies running through the mass. I know now that my burner was turned up too high, but at the time, I just panicked and yelped "Uh-oh, I think I burned it!"

Beth looked over my shoulder. "Nope. Just take it off the heat right away and press it into the pan. If anyone notices, call them Caramel Krispie Treats." We served them following a dinner of vegetable-heavy chicken pot pie and they were a hit.

That kitchen was where I learned to take culinary risks. Most of the time your cooking mistakes can be salvaged. Over-salted soup can be watered down, or you can add another serving of vegetables. Dry meat can be saved for another day, chopped, and added to a sauce. Broken omelets are just scrambled eggs with stuff in them. If your cake cracks in half, stick it back together with frosting.

I volunteered for several months, long after I'd fulfilled the confirmation requirement, gone through the motions of the ceremony, and after the argument I had with my family about no longer attending their church. After that first Thursday I was given other tasks. Beth was a patient teacher, and she taught me the best way to chop an onion, a half-dozen ways to cook summer squash (it was a bumper crop that year, and cheap), and her secret for non-greasy meatloaf. I eventually quit so I could be part of a school play, but I still think of that kitchen every time I'm teaching someone how to hold a knife correctly, every time I begin to panic about a dish looking wrong, every time I reach for the butter.

Back up. Back up.

2011-04-06T16:25:00.003-04:00

My external hard drive took a fall last week and an IT Genius Friend diagnosed a broken arm. I can get the information back, but it's gonna cost me far more than I want to part with right now. I lost almost all of my photos, including my wedding photos, and everything I've written over the past fifteen years - college term papers (shut up, I wanted them), transcripts of the online chats my husband and I had while courting, the pieces I've written for MOSAIC, the short stories I never thought were ready to be sent to publishers, the half-finished novel that dogged me when I told myself I was bored.

I've come to terms with the loss. Maybe someday I'll have a spare wad of cash and I'll be able to get that work out of jail. For now, the loss is almost liberating. I cannot waste time on editing and refining when I have writers block. I'm forced to start over from scratch, trusting that what I remember is what is worth keeping.

The whole reason I had the external hard drive in the first place was my switch to AppleTv last year. Purchasing shows made my iTunes library grow larger than my computer could handle. I thought I'd lost all of my media with the drive fall, but I followed up on internet rumors that Apple will let customers re-download purchased items. If you ask nicely, they will do it, but just once, so learn to back up your files the right way. And they can't re-issue anything once you've changed the item info, so I'll just have to live without my download of Candyman's "Knockin' Boots".

Bookworm

2011-03-27T23:02:00.009-04:00

When I was at the checkout desk on Friday, the librarian looked at the stack of books I was holding and asked "You're not baking this weekend?" He doesn't know my name, but he knows what I read. I guess I'm a regular. I go to the library several times a week. Sometimes I go twice in one day, dropping off books before I run errands and picking up replacements on the way home.

There was a time, earlier in this century, that I would have countered boredom with shopping. A lot of us did. A trip to Target and a bottle of nail polish, a trip to Old Navy and a handful of tank tops, wandering around the mall and chasing the blues away. Although my credit cards got plenty of exercise, I'm lucky that I didn't get too deep over my head before I learned my lesson, stopped shopping, and started saving. I'm debt-free now, and I plan to stay that way until the inevitable mortgage.

My mind still confuses "stuff" with "progress". I'm trying to re-program myself, but the itch starts mid-afternoon. Soon after lunch I start looking around and thinking that I have nothing to do, and nothing to show for my time. I've sent out resumes that will be reviewed and may or may not get a reply, the laundry's done and put away, it's too early to make dinner. I satisfy the urge for something new by going to the library and wandering around, getting lost in the musty smell, and coming home with armfuls of books.

Books have always been my friends. I started reading very early, before my third birthday. I was reading chapter books by the end of kindergarten. Around age seven I started picking up housekeeping magazines and the daily newspaper simply because they were around the house. Reading kept me company when I felt completely alone, through grade-school recesses when I stayed in because I was afraid of being a target, terrifying pre-adolescent insomnia, teenage sulking, the boredeom of summers home from college, the commute once I was part of the workforce. They're here for me still - old friends, new friends, always patiently waiting to distract me.

My eyes tear up with gratitude when I think about how many books there are in the world - thousands? millions? The exact number doesn't matter. I'll never be able to read them all.

Oh, that poor girl on Jeopardy.

2011-02-27T22:30:00.006-05:00

Did you see that poor girl on Jeopardy?

(You poor thing. I'm not going to use your name, the sooner for people to forget it. It could have happened to anyone. Before you go to college, change your glasses and your hair - color and style. Anyone who bothers to figure it out after that is a creepy stalker.)

In fourth grade, I volunteered to tell a joke at an assembly and told one I'd read in MAD magazine, not realizing just how dirty it was. In high school, I inadvertently had a crass lesbian innuendo printed in the paragraph next to my photo in my yearbook because I didn't realize it was a crass lesbian innuendo. It really did come about from a New Years Eve sleepover held in a house that was being renovated, and a living room full of pulled-up carpets awaiting trash day. I am so glad neither of these events were televised, though the unfortunate slipped-strap incident of 1995 was played in the cafeteria during several lunch periods.

Daily, I cringe to shake my spine about something embarrassing that I've said or done. Sometimes it's right after it happened, but just as often I'm remember that time I was sitting in Law & Government and coughed while resting my hand on my chin, inadvertently emitting a wet farty sound.

I know I'm the only one keeping track. If I could, I'd have one of those Eternal Sunshine memory erase procedures for all of the embarrassing bits. Of course, it would only lead to two weeks chock-full of new social missteps as I re-learned everything.

Bread.

2011-02-23T13:07:00.004-05:00

I have been baking bread. In one of my last days of employment I was woe-is-me-ing via status update that I didn't know what to do with my time, and my aunt suggested it. She reminded me that it was on the Hundred Things list, and I did make one solitary loaf of bread back then, but it wasn't great. It was mealy, and dried out almost immediately. I'd used that one-pot method that was making the rounds of the food blogs. This time I've gone more traditional, with the french bread recipe from The Vegetarian Epicure.

I've made three batches in the past two weeks, and now I have the recipe memorized. Yeast and water in one measuring cup. Boiling water, butter, sugar, and salt in another. Flour in a third bowl, with the flour canister left open on the counter. Mix, throw in more flour if it refuses to come together. Knead briefly. Put the dough in a buttered bowl, cover, and wait.

Wait. Bread takes time. The first rising takes ninety minutes. I can't stop tiptoeing up to the bowl atop its heating pad and lifting the tea towel to see if it's any bigger yet. If you disturb it, you shake out all of the good gasses that the yeasts are producing and the network of gluten strands that make bread what it is.

Once I've put away the clean dishes and washed the dirty measuring cups and mixing bowls, I've still got eighty minutes to go. Patience has never been my strength. I like to feel busy. I like to know what I'm supposed to do now, and next, and why. I kill time by puttering, rounding up the library books, brushing the cat, washing my hands, putting on hand lotion, checking the employment sites to see if anything interesting has been listed today. I figure I'm still early enough in the game that I can take "interesting vs. not interesting" into consideration. (I declare this knowing history may prove me wrong.)

Thirty-five minutes to go. The clean dishes are dry, so I put them away. The mail comes; I shred most of it. I make a mess of cleaning out my sock drawer. I tiptoe to the bowl again, lift the tea towel, and stare.

Finally it's time for the punching and kneading and shaping. Though the recipe calls for three loaves, I prefer to cut the dough into eight pieces, and use them as sandwich rolls. I'm still developing the skills to measure dough by sight, so they're uneven.

Working at the counter, I listen to the news. There are protests in the Middle East, young people who want a voice in their government, an over-educated population demanding a chance to do meaningful work. In the Midwest there's a governor trying to end collective bargaining rights for unions. There aren't enough jobs.

It's time for the second rising. There may still be live yeast in the dough, so you should let the formed rolls sit for a while and see if they can inject any air into the dough. Wash a few more dishes, watch something else on You Tube. Eventually I decide I've waited long enough, and slide the pans in the oven. I flip the oven light on so I can peek inside. The dough balls lose their shine as they dry out. You can see them harden and become firm versions of themselves. I go to the cupboard and take out the jar of Nutella. Soon there will be bread.

This is not a New Year's Resolution

2011-01-19T10:57:00.004-05:00

Well, obviously. It's almost February. But this was almost a New Year's Resolution, then when I was running short on time I convinced myself that New Year's Resolutions are cliche, and I never stick to them, so I should just start posting a day or two into the month and title that first-in-forever post "This is Not a New Year's Resolution". Then I got laid off, and the next month was a giant sigh. I'd have plenty of time to write later. Now it's later. It's now.

I can't pick up blogging again without justifying why I stopped, even though I know no one was thinking about it more than I was. You may remember me as the girl who nursed a broken heart by making a list of one hundred things I had to do before I'd fall in love again. I met my now-husband a month into the project, and although we took a healthy few months to get to saying "love", I knew I'd found the person I wanted to spend my life with before I got around to shooting a gun or making twenty matchbox collages.

I stopped writing because I was in love and I'd fallen out of steam. No matter how many times I've quoted that John Lennon line about life happening while you're busy making other plans, I was disappointed that I hadn't lived up to the madcap chick-lit heroine of my imagination. I got a nasty anonymous comment that kicked me when I was feeling down one night, and I shut down the blog.

I tried a few more projects. I got a job that I really wanted but turned out to be not at all what I wanted, and it sucked away most of my energy. When I came home at night I didn't want to have to produce anything. I kept productive with MOSAIC, and that's a blast. I stayed in. I wrote on my own time and I kept it to myself. I made cookies. I put up several dozen jars of very good pickles one year, and almost as many jars of terrible pickles the year after. I got married, which was a good idea, and had a wedding, which was a questionable decision, but it was a very nice wedding. I watched LOST, over and over again. I binged on quiet, on books, on thinking about things and not talking about them.

Now I find myself unemployed and as scary as that is, it feels like a blessing to have to start over fresh. In the time since I was notified I imagined my days of waiting and the things I can do while I'm looking for my next job. I am, as ever, a compulsive list-maker and my notebook is full of goals like going to the gym every morning, which I've done, even if I haven't worked out as long as I had planned, and writing every day, although I missed yesterday and had to really force myself today. It's time to do something new.

Meet My Clothes: Leather Saddlebag

2009-08-09T23:05:00.006-04:00

I found her on the floor of Dollar A Pound, the only thing I’ve ever found in that sea of stained sweatpants that was worth a damn. She was misshapen, dry, discolored. She’d been neglected. I saw potential – the even stitching, quality hardware, perfect cognac color, an inner pocket of fawn-colored leather. She was everything a vintage hunter dreams of.

It reminded me of a bag described in a short story from a 1979 issue of Young Miss, the kind of bag that inspires bullies to pour sulfuric acid on it when the science teacher isn’t looking.

I found her the summer before my sophomore year of college. I was just beginning to get a grip on my sense of style, just coming out of the self-esteem destroying earthquake that was freshman year. That summer I had my hair cut into a bob, hated it, and loved the pixie cut that I got two weeks later. All outward signs showed confidence, but it was an act. I was in shock.

I brought her home and used a cloth barely dampened with diluted baby shampoo to wipe off the dirt, then applied a layer of Mink Oil. I used books as weights to press out folds in the leather. When the leather was dry, I added a coat of shoe polish. A day after that, another coat of Mink Oil. You can’t rush leather rehab. It needs time to reflect, to absorb.

A few nights before I went back to school, I was up late and saw the initial reports of Princess Diana’s death. I was glued to the TV, painting my nails and steeling myself for the coming year. My moving boxes were stacked in the living room. I’d made plans for your standard back-to-school comeback, promising myself I’d do whatever I had to do to find my place. I could not, would not, waste another year of my life staring at walls. I had flared jeans and a vintage leather saddlebag purse. I had some idea of who I wanted to be and plans for impersonating her.

It is another August, eleven years later. The leather saddlebag hasn’t been used in a few years. She suffered an internal rip a few years ago, and migrated to the floor of the closet. I found her there and decided it’s time to clean her up again. That inner panel will have to come out, but the leather is still good. She just needs a few layers of Mink Oil.

Misty Watercolored Memories

2009-08-06T22:38:00.002-04:00

I develop strong friendships with books. As a child there were books I'd flip through on a daily basis. I'd long since memorized the text and pictures, but revisiting them was a familiar ritual. I can recite entire passages from The Little House Cookbook and Beauty is No Big Deal (published in 1971, and truly a product of its time).

I've considered e-mailing my local library to see if they'd be willing to sell me a book right off their shelves. The book that most often makes me consider the offer is Looking Pretty and Feeling Fine, a style guide from 1981. I suspect the library keeps it on the shelf because it's been checked out seven times in the past ten years. I've been the one to check it out each of those times. I fear that some day I will visit my local branch, and it will be gone, and I'll never be able to find it on eBay. I fear this because...

It's already happened!! (tragic music)

Last week I went downstairs to the children's room to see if I could find a book I remembered from childhood. It was about sewing, and it was blue, and it was about two inches thick, and it showed you how to make a bikini out of old sheets. I've done everything I can to try to remember the title, and I've found other old familiar friends on the online catalog, but I can't find this book. It is gone. And I loved it.

Things I Am Getting Rid Of: Eat, Pray, Love

2009-06-30T20:22:00.002-04:00

#69 on The List was to read something suggested by a bookstore employee. The perky woman at River Run Books recommended Eat Pray Love, which had just been published. She didn't know that I was asking her for a suggestion because it was one of the One Hundred Things I Had To Do Before I Fell In Love For Good (whew), so she wasn't specifically suggesting this book about a woman who travels the world after her divorce to a woman following an ambitiously random list of goals following a breakup. To her, I was just another customer asking a polite question because I was sick of being asked if I needed any help. Which I was.

It was around the same time I was nagging Penguin Guy to get his stuff out of my basement. The night he finally did it, I invited a bunch of friends over for an I'm the Rhoda rehearsal, which of course involves sangria. It was a very Eat, Pray, Love moment - we were a gay best friend away from a chick flick.

This was before the book was a best seller, before it was in paperback and everyone was reading it. I rarely buy hardbacks, and suddenly I realized why people do. It's fun to read something before everyone tells you what it's about.

I've held on to it for sentimental reasons, but I'm planning a yard sale and decided I can part with it for a dollar. It served it's purpose and it's everywhere now. If I need it, I can get it at the library.

Dear MTV: Please Steal My Idea

2009-06-26T15:27:00.000-04:00

I'm sure I'm not the first one to notice that MTV has been playing videos since Michael Jackson's death was announced. Not only that, they're playing them in their long-format glory, so we get the backstory about Bad-era Michael being a gang member/straight-A student and the extended ending with the a capella chorus.

I wonder what the ratings will be, and if the generation hooked on High School Musical are ready for a music video renaissance.

And then there's YouTube, where there are thousands of fan-created music videos and montages. Most of them are drivel, but between 10% and 17% of them are good.

So here's the set-up: A band releases a single. There's a nationawide contest for fan-made videos (following legal rules and blah blah blah), which are aired as a series of specials, then the public calls in and votes, and the winner gets (whatever) and the band plays live. Said song was only available as a special download, so money is made off of that. Product placement could be encouraged.

Please, take my idea, make money. If you make lots of money, please give me free cable. ALL the channels.

Chicago Postcards, Days 5 & 6

2009-06-02T01:28:00.000-04:00

The last days of vacation are the hardest to enjoy. You're so conscious of everything you want to do and how little time you have to do it. The more you try to do, the more you wear yourself out and don't enjoy it.

On Saturday I woke up as early as I could and made my way to the Art Institute of Chicago. It was my third visit, once for each time I've visited the city. It's hard to admit, but I'm not able to connect with the Art Institute. I know their collection is amazing and I do find things to look at, but I've never been able to get lost in any of the art there. I want to love it, I really do, but it ends up on the list of things I can't get into, right between the Harry Potter series and yoga.

There's a okay collection of religious paintings from the 16th century, which is what I'm most interested in seeing. There are a number of Monets which I'm sure look lovely reproduced on tote bags. The miniatures room supports my argument that dollhouses are wasted on the young. The new modern wing is very nice, but didn't really have anything that grabbed me.

I decided to leave when I overheard a guy looking at solid-color canvas say "I could've done that in an hour with a roller." Later I told Jill the story and she sneered "Yeah, well, you didn't." This led to a good old-fashioned session of reminding ourselves of why we went to art school. We were both in the SIM program and were in a class where someone submitted a project that consisted of getting on his bike and riding home. It's an education that left us uniquely qualified to explain that the emperor has no clothes and that's the point.

After two hours at the Art Institute, I walked over to the Field Museum. I didn't know what to expect and was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed it. There are several galleries of Native American art and artifacts, and a great exhibit on evolution.

I met Jill and Sara at their hotel, enjoying the irony of my visiting their city and staying in their building while they stay in a hotel (their apartment was still damaged from the plumbing incident earlier in the week) and we made a pilgrimage to Hot Doug's, the world-famous gourmet hot dog stand. We stood in line for 90 freakin' minutes and I ordered:
Duck fat fries: Good, but not worth the wait.
Classic Chicago style dog: Amazing, and worth the wait. Celery salt is made of pixie dust and laughter.
Smoked Mole Chicken Sausage with Jalapeno Mayonaise and Habanero-Jack Cheese: Quite good, but not as good as the classic dog, and I resented it for being my last sausage. I'd saved it for last because I knew it was spicy and I was afraid I'd ruin my palate.

I went back to the apartment for a disco nap before heading out to Irving Park to visit the ray of sunshine that is Craig. Craig and I are improv friends, and I've missed him since he moved out west. His new glasses are really cool, he has an awesome job as a scientist in a toothbrush factory, and his condo is a real grown-up house. He says hello to all of the Boston friends.

I had fun at the party and overslept on Sunday. I quickly got my things together and Jill and I took a trip to Kokorokoko, a vingtage clothing shop that our friend Sasha owns. (Sasha is also a SIM alum and was Live Girls.) This place is totally awesome, gnarly, like way cool, and other 80s cliches for "great". I bought a Pop Swatch and Jill bought a convertable duffel bag and in the car we both admitted that we each had an eye on the other's purchase before the decision was made.

I wasn't allowed to leave Chicago without trying deep dish pizza. We went to Edwardo's, which is not as famous as other restaurants but I was told had the best pizza. It was like a cheese and tomato sauce sandwich. I quite liked it and brought half of it home on the plane. Which leads me to home, which is where I am now. The pizza is gone.

Chicago Pictures

2009-06-02T00:58:00.000-04:00

I found Nemo. Now he's it.

Nothing is better than a good diorama. I miss having reasons to build them.

Saint Apollonia holds her dental instruments and Saint Margaret has her dragon on a leash. As it should be.

Rock out with your Bach out.

This guy had a squirrel companion on the other side of the door. Why does he look so worried?

The detailing on this shoe is thrilling, isn't it?

This guy looks friendly. "I made a Fluffernutter. You want half?"

Creepy burned-out doll heads from the Chicago fire exhibit at the history museum. Haunted dolls keep turning up in my life and I love it.

Chicago Postcard - Day 4

2009-06-02T00:33:00.000-04:00

I came to Chicago to stalk the Bubble Gum Princess.

When I came here in 1995, I spotted her in the lobby of my hotel. She was about 12 years old, with a haircut that better suited a woman of 40, and she was wearing a pink hat/blouse/skirt ensemble better suited to an eight-year-old in 1983. I was sketching people as they walked by, and I labeled the drawing of her "sad little bubble gum princess".

The name has been stuck in my head for 14 years. Every time I tried to write about her, I stalled. It's gotten to the point that I don't care if her story is worth telling, I just want to know what it is.

She wasn't on my mind when I set out today. Still looking for that bookstore I can't remember much about, I wound up in Lincoln Square. I had no idea what I'd find and was delighted to discover a quaint German-American neighborhood. It was early afternoon, and the streets were quiet except for a street fair being set up for later that evening. My first stop was Merz Apothecary, an old-fashioned drugstore with high wooden counters stacked with exotic grooming products from all over the world. Concentrated mouthwash from Germany? Check. Carmel flavored toothpaste from Japan? Got it. They also carry homeopathic remedies.I envied the woman with a sore throat because the man behind the counter so confidently recommended a remedy. Needless to say, I was in product-junkie heaven and had to force myself to stick to purchases I could carry on to the plane.

The Chicago Brauhaus was across the street, and I knew when I saw it that I had to eat there. I questioned the decision when I walked in and found just a handful of people in the giant restaurant. The hostess assured me that they did serve lunch, so I settled in and looked at the folk instruments on the wall. The decor is mid-70s Tyrolean, kitschy but earnest. Imagine the Hilltop Steak House as decorated by the Von Trapp children. (Yes, I know that's Austria. It's hard to think of a famously quaint German.) There's a stage in the corner where a traditional oom-pah band plays at night, but this afternoon I was listening to a muzak version of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

I couldn't decide what to get, so the waiter suggested the boiled spareribs. They came with a liver dumpling soup that stopped the vacation in its tracks. It was a giant liver meatball in a cup of the most comforting, fortifying broth. It tasted familiar. It tasted experienced. This soup knew what it was doing. As I ate, I looked around the room and was drawn to a wooden carving of a man with a moustache. The waiter didn't know who it was, but told me a little bit about the restaurant. I'm glad they haven't really changed since the 70s. These are the places I want to survive, the independent stores and restaurants that have character. What's the point of traveling if you find the same chain food and the same mall stores everywhere. The world needs more places where you can be served things you've never heard of. I started writing about why I'd never find the Bubble Gum Princess in the Brauhaus, why she wouldn't have even been in the Lincoln Square neighborhood. And that's when I found her, or at least a part of her story that I hadn't expected.

Apophenia is the mental process of linking unrelated elements. I've become very aware of the phonemenon watching LOST, a show where clues are so numerous that nearly every scene can be twisted around to suit the story as you want it to play out. That's what I'm doing with Bubble Gum Princess on this trip. Something catches my eye, and I imagine how she would have seen it. Chicago is her town. She's leaving clues for me everywhere.

My plans for the night were dinner and Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind with Jill and Sara. The show has been running for over twenty years and changes every weekend. They do 30 short experimental plays in 60 minutes. It's a wild mess of thrown confetti, topless men, confessional monologues, a woman holding her head underwater, and whipped cream. It was amazing, as expected.

I got back to the hotel a little too awake and fell asleep watching Carrie on the Sci-Fi channel. Not the good one, a recent remake where Emilie De Ravin from LOST played the mean girl. I fell asleep wondering what that had to do with the island.

Chicago Postcard, Days 2 & 3

2009-06-02T00:32:00.000-04:00

My brother Paul lives in Minneapolis. We're 13 years apart and he's lived in the midwest most of my life. He went to college in Indianapolis and started his career there, moved back to Boston when I was in high school, and relocated to Minneapolis two years ago. Despite the age difference and distance, we've always been close friends. He managed the start of my pop culture education, recommending movies and red-faced explaining my questions about the subtext on Three's Company. Since Minneapolis is only an hour's flight away from Chicago, we made plans for him to visit while I'm here.

He flew in on Thursday morning, planning to buy tickets for a Cubs game. We took the El to the Wrigley area and found an unremarkable place to eat lunch. Over a reuben (him) and eggs benedict (me) we discussed our shame at following the Jon & Kate Plus 8 situation and the progress we've made in turning into our parents. Afterwards, he went to find tickets and I headed to Lakeville to find a bookstore I can't remember the name or location of. I never found it, but I did find Ragstock and some thrift stores, and bought a crochet beret that I will wear all summer and see in pictures next year and wonder what the hell I was thinking.

On Friday morning we were off to the Chicago History Museum. It's field trip season and we were there at the same time as Ms. Hayward's class. A short summary: Chicago is named after a stinky wild onion, it's perfectly situated to be a trading post, race/class riots, Mrs. O'Leary's cow didn't really kick over the lantern that started the fire, trains are awesome, and the 1968 Democratic Convention was held at the Conrad Hilton. Each time I read the hotel name my brain immediately asked "The Conrad Bain Hilton"? and I pictured a crowd of Yippies chanting "The whole world is wat'choo talking 'bout Willis?"

Paul had to head to the airport to catch his flight, and I headed towards Old Town without any plans. My stomach brought me to Minnies, a restaurant that takes the whole sliders fad to a new level. Their menu is full of mini sandwiches, and you order several of them. Their frite sauce doesn't live up to the hype, though. I resorted to catsup.

On my way back to the El, I found Aroma Work Shop, a fantastic little place where you can mix your own fragrances and add the scents to beauty products. I was the only one in the store, had the perfumer's full attention, and went full olafactory geek as I sniffed everything. They have a "baby" scent, which I mixed with honesuckle in an exfoliating scrub, which pairs with a grapefuit & pink sugar bubble bath. As I was leaving, I found the perfect keep-it-forever souvenir of this trip: a little pomander to wear around my neck, filled with lilac scent. The lilacs have been in bloom the entire time I've been in Chicago, and every few blocks I'd be hit by the scent and I'd have to stop to find the source so I could literally stop and smell the - well, lilacs.

I started to feel a headache coming on, no doubt brought on by the schedule distruption and not having had any caffine. I went back to the apartment to get rid of it and ended up getting some work done even though Jon & Kate Plus 8 was on. Again.

Chicago Postcard, Day 1

2009-05-27T11:37:00.000-04:00

I’ve come to Chicago to write. That’s the simple answer. I’m going to museums and I’m going to shop and visit friends, but I’m also planning a lot of time working on unfinished projects. This is my third trip to the city. My first was a weekend stay when I was in high school, because I thought I wanted to attend the School at the Art Institute of Chicago. More on that later. My second trip was in 2007, when one of Noah’s plays was produced here. During that trip I got to see the cool Chicago, which was not the one I saw when I was considering colleges, and I began to think that maybe I was a bit too hasty about the decision to go to school in Massachusetts.

I’m staying in the guest studio in my friend Jill’s building. Jill and I went to MassArt together and shared an apartment for one tumultuous year after I graduated. When I arrived at the building to check in, it was raining. Not outside. A pipe had burst in the building and water was dripping from the lobby ceiling. The building manager was nice enough to let me leave my things in her (dry) office, and I went out to explore.

I didn’t have a destination in mind, so I got off the subway at a stop that looked interesting and started walking. I thought I recognized the Art Institute, but when I got closer I found out it was the Aquarium. Oh well, fish are pretty too, so I bought a ticket.
Geez, Al, my head is killing me!
You too? I can't get rid of my headache. Moray Eels look like they're from a horrible nightmare. They live in caves and stare at you, and when you see the whole body they look like unfinished sock puppets with sharp teeth.I spent a long time sitting in front of the newly renovated dolphin and whale tanks. These are underground, with piped-in whale sounds, and the glow from the glass is ethereal. Every now and then a dolphin would speed by, then disappear. When I'm a criminal mastermind, my hideout will be in an abandoned aquarium. (I still reserve the right to make fun of dolphin tattoos.)Anemones, also the stuff of nightmares. If a doctor showed me this picture and said this was growing inside of me and needed to be removed, I'd believe him.

The gift shop does not sell the home version of this game. I checked.

Back at the apartment, I learned that the burst pipe had been right next to Jill's apartment, and her place was a wreck because they had to rip down walls to get to the problem. She'd planned on us going out and spending the night on the town, but once she'd called the insurance company and the building manager found her a new apartment to stay in for the night, take-out was a better option. We stayed up too late catching up and playing with her cats. When I got back to the studio I fired up the computer... and promptly fell asleep.

Chicago Prep: The LOST Soundtrack

2009-04-29T01:56:00.000-04:00

My vacations always have soundtracks.1985, Disney World, "Manic Monday". 2003, London, "I Believe In a Thing Called Love". 2006, San Francisco, "Da Dip", "Defying Gravity" and "Lovely Day".

Sometimes they find me just by being in constant rotation on the radio, but lately I've found myself stacking the iPod with songs that suit the situation. Since the upcoming Chicago trip is largely inspired by LOST and because I expect to be spending lots of time under the headphones, I've made a mix of songs from and inspired by the show.

Laugh all you want. I'm part of a cultural phenomenon.

Everyday - Buddy Holly
"Cabin Fever". But for me, this song will always be from Rags to Riches:

With the way Broadway is going, in thirty years there will be "LOST: The Musical." God help us all.

Make Your Own Kind of Music - Mama Cass
"Man of Science, Man of Faith" and, I think, "Flashes Before Your Eyes."

Beyond the Sea - Bobby Darin
I have the French version later, but this just seems fitting. The English lyrics don't fit the melody, making the song rather mournful.

Over the Rainbow - Judy Garland
Never featured in the show, but in honor of Henry Gale. (Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.)

It's Getting Better - Mama Cass
"Meet Kevin Johnson". Oh how ironic.

Walkin' After Midnight - Patsy Cline
"What Kate Did". They'll run through the entire Patsy Cline catalog on Kate. It all sounds the same to me.

The End of the World - Skeeter Davis
"What Kate Did" again.

Shambala - Three Dog Night
"Tricia Tanaka is Dead" and "The Man Behind the Curtain". In the former, it's featured in one of my favorite scenes of the series so far. When I watched it, I felt like I was there with the characters and gosh isn't it great to feel hopeful again!?! I'm putting off listening to this one until I'm actually in Chicago, because I have a weird feeling about it. Also, this song gets stuck in your head like a steel spike.

Strawberry Field Forever - The Beatles
For Charlie, who has "living is easy with eyes closed" tattooed on his arm. Or rather, the actor Dominic Monaghan has this tattooed on his arm, but it suits the character perfectly.

Downtown - Petula Clark
"A Tale of Two Cities" and "One of Us". Oh, Juliet. You've got troubles, but you can't go anywhere.

Catch a Falling Star
"Raised By Another" and "Par Avion". I feel like there's a hidden message in this song, because it came up so early in the series. That's what this show does - gives you obsessive apophenia.

Wonderwall - Oasis
"Flashes Before Your Eyes". When Oasis was popular, I wanted to like them but I thought I wasn't cool enough to listen to them. (I have a fucked up relationship with music.)

Dharma Lady - Geronimo Jackson
"316" and "Namaste". This is a new one, written just for the show, and another one I'm saving for the trip.

La Mer - Charles Trenet
The original lyrics have nothing to do with a lost love; they're about the sea being beautiful and a source of healing. Does this change your interpretation of Danielle?

For Lack of a Better Subject

2009-04-23T23:14:00.000-04:00

A partial list of things keeping me from diving head-on into the projects I have almost started and those I have half-finished:
Competitiveness. Jealousy. Insecurity. Other people's success. My inner critic. Fear of failure. The fear of success and then having to find a second act. General inertia. The cat wants attention. The laundry needs folding. I'd write better if I were thinner. Fear of being ripped off. Lack of discipline. Lack of focus. Lack of fire under my feet.

A partial list of reasons why I sat down in front of the computer anyway:
I promised myself I would. I have read stupid inspirational posters. I need practice. I am trying to learn discipline. Fear. Itchiness. Jealousy. Competitiveness. Inspiration. Several unrelated people have told me they like my writing. They say it is "honest", and while I'm not really sure what that means, I can tell by their voices it is something that is powerful, so if honest is what they want, honest is what they get.

Eff You, Bell.

2009-04-15T23:22:00.000-04:00

I own a cell phone, but I don't turn it on unless I expect to need it. The outgoing message tells callers to try me at home instead. When people call me at home, I run equations in my head before I answer: There’s X chance this person is calling with an emergency; (tv show) is on in Y minutes; is it more trouble to talk now or check the voice mail later? At work I answer the phone, but only because it’s my job. I dream of the day I only have to answer my own line, and, later, when I can let everything go to voice mail and have an outgoing message that says it’s better to e-mail me. When I come back to my desk and see the red light lit up, I sigh dramatically and audibly as long as no one is around.

This is just the latest stage in phone behavior. When I was in high school, I was constantly attached to the phone. My record, not that I’m proud to admit it, was a 10-hour conversation. Some of my friends lived in other area codes and I racked up ridiculous bills. When I was a flaky jerk, he told me that he never checked his voice mail and it was better to just keep calling. One night I called him over twenty times, which I now realize is pretty damn batshit. I claim temporary insanity, as evidenced by my dating him in the first place.

I’m not convinced that having a phone that could ring at any moment will improve my quality of life. Humans survived for thousands of years without any phones at all, and the Amish look pretty happy if you ask me. At some point I’m going to convert to having an iPhone. I like the idea of having an all-inclusive handheld organizer, and the phone capabilities… I can tolerate. If I have to.

My Flight is Not 815. I Checked.

2009-03-31T02:48:00.000-04:00

I'm going to Chicago in May. It's time for another solo vacation, and I'm hoping to get work done on Bubble Gum Princess and the One Hundred Things... book? I still have no idea what to do with that story.

I went to Chicago in 1995, and again when Noah's play was produced there a few years ago. When I went in 1995 it was to interview at the School at the Art Institute of Chicago. I was pretty sure I wanted to go there, but I came home ranting about how the admissions rep was rude to my parents and the pigeons in Chicago are ugly. I didn't go to school there.

I'm happy with my MassArt education and after all this distance I can say that SIM was one of the best experiences of my life. I think I made a very good decision, but lately I haven't been comfortable with my reasons for that decision. It wasn't the pigeons, or at least not just the pigeons. If I stayed in Boston I'd be closer to my family and my then-baby nephew. I had friends who were also going to school in Boston. MassArt was cheaper. They were very good reasons and they made sense, but I could have disregarded them and pursued the unknown.

I think a lot about LOST, and the ideas of destiny and fate. Sometimes I think my life would be very different if I'd gone to school in Chicago. I might have come out of my shell earlier, almost certainly would have learned a different set of skills. I can't help but think that there was something I was supposed to learn in Chicago, so I'm going there to learn it. I'm going to see what the smoke monster brings me.

All things go. All things go.

Don't Mess With My Candy!

2008-09-15T23:55:00.000-04:00

Did you hear that Good & Fruity is back? I found them on a weekend trip to Target, and was so excited I started salivating in the candy aisle. I put them in my basket anticipating the crispy sugar shell and the thin rope of red licorice inside. Oh man, I've missed Good & Fruity. I love Good & Plenty, especially ones that are just past peak freshness, so the candy shell cracks and then crumbles and the licorice is just chewy enough to keep texture until all of the coating is gone.

Got to my car and ripped open my box of Good & Fruity. They're *@%(@!( jellybeans! They're just fruity jellybeans sold under the Good & Fruity packaging, but they don't have licorice centers and the shell is waxy.

If I wanted a jellybean, I'd buy a bag of Jelly Bellys. I'm mad at you, Hershey Foods. You should buy me flowers.

Scrub-A-Dub

2008-06-16T21:35:00.000-04:00

Well this is just depressing. I’m torn on what to do with my various “exfoliating bead” products now that I know those little plastic beads are making it into the ecosystem. Is waste worse than pollution? Probably, since they exist whether I use them or not.

I’ve been facing this realization with more and more products. Some of my beloved LUSH bath bombs wash glitter down the drain, lip gloss is made from petroleum. Environmentalism is such a thing now, and every magazine is doing articles full of things you can buy to reduce your consumption.

I remember the last time the environment was a big thing. Way back in the early 90s, Bette Midler starred as Mother Earth in an Earth Day special.

It was a big deal, at least to me. At twelve or thirteen years old I considered myself an eco-warrior. I once overheard my sister tell her friend that I was probably going to join Greeenpeace once I got to college. By the time I got to college, the environment wasn't so much on my mind. I'd been through the humiliation of asking the lunch ladies if they'd consider using paper trays instead of styrofoam. Lunch ladies don't have any purchasing power, and you shouldn't hold up the line on nacho day. Part of me really, truly still wanted to save the world, but I burnt out the second or third time I volunteered to sort the classroom paper for recycling. We had to take out the staples, and you couldn't mix white paper with newsprint.

Now it's much better. Recycling is like magic - everything goes in one bin. There's fuel-efficient cars, even if I can't afford them. I work in a building with fancy water-saving toilets. But there's still the question of stuff - how much of it I need, how much of it I use, and how much of it I create by being a consumer.

I'm making small steps, conserving in easy ways so I don't burn out. I've washed my face with honey (non-toxic and paraben free!) for a few years. I don't bring plastic bags home from the store if I can help it. Tonight I asked the guy at the Deli to wrap my sandwich in foil instead of putting it in styrofoam. And once I use up what I have, no more exfoliating beads unless I know for sure they're not made of plastic.

Now about that petroleum-free lipstick...