si quid novisti...

Coming to terms with another birthday

2012-01-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

My presence is leaning awkwardly through the doorway,
One hand reaching back, clinging to the doorframe
that is yesterday and childhood.
The other hand holds the doorknob- flung open:
This is coming of age.

My presence leans awkwardly through the doorway.
One had reaches back, clinging to the doorframe.
The other hand holds the door--
knob unlocked- flung open wide:
This is coming of age.

I am present, leaning awkwardly through the doorway.
One hand reached back to catch the light.
The other hand has flung open the door,
Wide.

This is coming of age.

Sharing

2011-11-11T11:11:00.000-07:00

Did you see my hands shaking?

I wasn't ready to see you yet. You only told me goodbye a couple of weeks ago-- and I hadn't yet stopped chasing the tail of your words around my mind.

But there you were. In that grey jacket you sometimes wear.

"We're matching," I didn't say.

The autumn sun looked good on you.

"Hi!" Too cheerful, I know.

But you were kind-- are kind. Thank you for smiling and for reminding me how we tried to get our picture in the paper.

"And you? How are things with you?"

I tried (a valiant effort, I think) to smile-- effortlessly.

Be real.

Be natural.

... I babbled.

"So, you mean it's a little stressful?"

You know too well what my smile means.

But it's okay, I know what your smiles mean too.

"Good luck with everything," I said.

"Have a nice life," you didn't say.

The sunshine looked thin on that dark spot that had been your shadow a moment ago. And my hands were shaking. I don't know why. I hadn't even really thought of you for a whole day.

Golden

2011-02-03T17:49:00.004-07:00

The blinking cursor chimed in my empty text box: You are out of practice.

After a year and a half of writing notes in Spanish (Por favor! venga a la iglesia! Lea sus escrituras! No se olvide sus oraciones!) I'm back. Sort of. It's like starting first grade over again, with not enough words to say all the big feelings inside, and not enough patience to wait for the right ones, and--now, finally--not enough pride to care.

Because it's fall outside and I can't help but write about the walk through that lovely overhang of sunshine seeping from the branches of the golden trees. They lean over, heavy with the weight of leaves, painted in autumn glow, beaming beneath the clouds in golden, fall glory.

I just had to stop for a moment and enjoy: face upturned, arms thrown wide!

Fall is here!

was.

Yesterday morning I woke up to frost.

Biography

2010-02-22T22:56:00.004-07:00

Mama

and daddy

taught me reading,

and also my writing

when I was still little--

too little to be much good.

They didn't mind, but it took me

a couple of years to really like writing.

But reading I loved and adored and poured over

every book with beautiful pictures or (more particularly) beautiful poetry

which filled me up with such sing-song joy, it spilled over

and out my own pencil, between the blue lines of three-hole-punched paper.

And I discovered a new love for the scratch of my own thoughts

on the rough of cheap paper, the taste of my pencil between my teeth

as I carefully sampled the sounds to discover a one that could Mean more perfectly.

Luscious-- that is what language became. I pruned and weeded and watered and fertilized with metaphors.

Sometimes I mourned to waste such care on describing the transfer of valence electrons in ionic bonds,

but afterward, in the evenings, I filled up notebooks with my thoughts on love and happiness, sunshine and

warm rain. And sometimes, sometimes, I set down my clicky-pen, closed my moleskine and just loved my own life.

But what, I always ask then, is the good of basking in real life, if you never capture it with

pen and paper? And then I pick up my old, worn composition book and find some place cozy from which to

paint the view in the window of my words.

Car talk

2010-02-01T19:50:00.003-07:00

...And though dogs rush to bury their owner's radios in the backyard when they hear it: this [could have been] National Public Radio.

Click: Hello, you're on Car Talk!
Me: Ahh- yeah, hey, I just want to say I love your show, guys-- I've been listening since I was three,
Clack: Ah, I see they're startin' to brain wash 'em early these days!
Click: What can we do for ya?
Me: Well, my family has this van--
Click: Ah! the family van!
Clack: Do you remember driving around our old woody?
Click: Remember?! I still have nightmares about that old jallopy-- hunkachah, hunkachah, hunkachah!
Me: Yeah, that's the problem.
Click: You have nightmares about the family van?
Me: No the Hunkachahs-- our van makes this horrible racket like we've got the whole scrap yard INSIDE our van.
Clack: As opposed to the whole scrap yard that IS your van?
Me: Exactly.
Click: Now, what sort of van are we talking about-- have you got one a' those suped-up Asto Vans on hydraulics?
Clack: Are you kidding me? She's been listening to NPR since the cradle! I bet she drives a Volvo.
Me: A Dodge Ram, actually, and I'm not sure what year, '95, '96? but it's older then half the kids. And it's a 12-passenger.
Click: You COULD have the whole scrap yard inside! [chuckles]
Clack: You MIGHT! Ever thought about poking around back there to see? [cracks up]
Click: No but seriously [calming himself a little], what sort of trouble is it having?
Me: Well, besides the creaking and clanking of all the loose nuts and bolts, and the hideous paint that is slowly giving way to rust, it sounds like a time bomb to drive it. When you accelerate it sort of sounds like, well first it sounds like an airplane taking off--
Click: Ah, the typical 747 Syndrome,
Me: --and then, you know when you tape a business card to the fork of your bike so it makes that flip, flip, flip, flip against the spokes? That's what it sounds like when you really give it gas.
Click: Let me get this strait- you drive your kids around in an enormous scrap heap that sounds like a 747 with business cards in its spokes?
Clack: That's a lot of business cards. [chuckles]
Me: Yeah, except they're not my kids-- I'm the kid
Clack: And your parents are making you do the car repairs?
Me: Repairs? This van is beyond repair! I need your help convincing my parents to get rid of the thing!
Click: Mutiny! [chuckling again]
Clack: Well for starters, call the local scrap heap and found out how much they'll take for a ton and a half of scrap metal!
Click: You're going to assist this uprising?
Clack: Of course! It's the family van! Kid, you should sell it on e-bay! [chuckling harder]
Click: Hah Hah! Yeah, call it a vintage collectible!
Clack: Or tape cardboard wings to it and see if the Smithsonian wants it! [snorts]
Click: Or tape cardboard wings to it and sell it on e-bay! [cracks up]
Me: I don't know if my mom will go for the fake airplane on e-bay plan.
Click: I know! Shuttle the whole soccer team back and forth until you track enough mud in to make a giant planter! Get some flowers growing in there or somethin' and park it on your front lawn! You could get those crawling vines to grow out the windows! [cracks up again]
Clack: And all the rusted through parts will be great for aeration!
Click: Kid, what you've got to do is sit your parents down and just tell it like it is.
Clack: [chuckling] Yeah! 'Mom, Dad, our car sounds like a 747-business-card machine.'
Click: Honesty is always the best policy.
Clack: Let us know how it goes!
Click: Yeah, and I'll be keeping my eyes open for that airplane on e-bay! [chuckling]
Me: Uh, yeah. Thanks guys.
Click: Ah, Poor kid!
Clack: Yeah, honesty is the best policy, except for that one time when you...

Ride UTA

2010-01-27T21:23:00.003-07:00

Tuesday was lovely. A deep fog curbed the icy crisp of gray snow that had been melting and freezing and melting and freezing for a week now. Daddy dropped me off on his way to the office, 5 blocks west of my regular bus stop. An older woman stood by the wet, grimy bench in gloves and a few scarves, her cargo pants tucked into short snow boots. I 'goodmorning'ed and she smiled quietly back.

'Pretty amazing this fog, huh?' I prodded her silence.

'Yes,' she nodded.

She looked the part of a quiet grandmother: gray hair and thick glasses that ought, in such a case, to be respectfully called 'spectacles.'

We waited and even our silence was muffled by the still, white fog that swallowed the world all around us.

Two canvas bags hung from her arm, and 'Teaching English to Spanish Speakers' was tucked haphazardly into the bag decorated with puff-paint daisies and a singing sun.

'Oh, do you teach Spanish?'

Stupid question, I know, but I have found the obvious questions to be poor conversation starters.

'No,' she smiled again, 'I teach English to Spanish-speaking parents of local students.'

I smiled, encouragingly.

'It's actually an amazing program, started by the Ford company...'

Now it was my turn to be quiet.

To a boy

2010-01-16T10:55:00.003-07:00

You sat across from me in the LRC once. The headphones pressed against your ears barely muffled the heavy beat of music pumping from your i-pod. The tapping of your pencil against that desk's edge was nearly lost in the clicking typing of so many concentrating students.

But then, for perhaps one can only contain so much music, suddenly your lips parted and out came loud and clear a few bars- unaccompanied and unrehearsed, a concert for the 4th floor. Did you know just how much you wanted to sing along?

I laughed then, at first quietly in my head, and later louder to my friends, but now I'm waiting at my bus stop, singing along with the Rob Thomas that no one can hear but me.

I understand now. Sometimes you just can't keep it all inside.

Flurries

2009-12-09T09:42:00.005-07:00

The first snow of the year teased us from the mountains all morning. I checked the weather in my usual way-- hand against my window, testing the glass's temperature. It felt like a glove and scarf day, and a purple sweater day, a toast for breakfast and hot chocolate day.

It didn't stick, that first snow, and it would be several weeks before a real blanket of white would clothe the grey trees and muddy the roads. But this first dusting was just enough for a snow angel in the front yard.

And that's what snow is really for anyway, right?

Inspiration: stream of conciousness

2009-12-02T09:47:00.005-07:00

Sometimes, when my listlessness has oozed into the very tips of my fingers and begins to itch just beside my nose, I like to click through my favorite blog: Design*Sponge. She is everything I want to be someday, a thrifty, clever and no doubt beautiful San Franciscan who fills her charming apartment with decoupage, home decor, and crafts for my kids.

She lives in Pottery Barn Land, where all the rooms are bright and cheery, the table cloths are always pressed, the kitchen is continuously spotless and all the children are above average. Sometimes I pretend I live there: I have such plans for that exciting day when I am making my own life in my own home with my own things, I usually think about this as I wash and dry and sort the dishes in my dim little apartment kitchen.

Sometimes I forget that now will always be Now and my Someday will never start if I always expect it to start Tomorrow.

Martin Luther said, "This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness; not health, but healing; not being, but becoming; not rest, but exercise; We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it. The process is not yet finished, but it is going on. This is not the end, but it is the road. All does not yet gleam in glory, but all is being purified."

Which is why I made a Star Chart to hang in my room: to count the ways that I can grown and to measure the things I am learning.

I think I will decoupage a frame for it.

The girl in 261

2009-11-13T13:41:00.002-07:00

I sat next to an artist today. Late for class, I slipped in the back and into an empty seat. Dr. I. was explaining the implications of Apple’s new (imaginary) invisible i-phone on the current markets as I pulled out my notebook. The girl next to me was already scribbling away in hers—in long broad strokes of pen on heavy paper. I watched, enthralled, as the lines bent and converged into a girl in a trendy polka-dot dress, coat thrown over her arm, hair flouncing as she walked.

Inside, I longed to make my pencil strokes come alive like these. In fascination I watched her fill the page spread with doodles of dancing models in chiffon dresses, silk pants suits, taffeta party dresses.

I was sad when she closed her sketch book and tucked it into her pink backpack. She was unassuming, even plain, and no one would particularly notice her walking across campus. But I knew there were dancing pictures hidden in her grubby bag, and in her stubby fingers, nails cut down to the quick, there was real magic.

1st grade

2009-11-12T19:38:00.003-07:00

Ms. Ord walked around the room checking her student's work,

"You guys are such good sentence writers. When you get to high school, your teachers will be so proud of all your good sentences!"

"I don't want to go to high school." someone piped up.

Apparently, there were very strong feelings on this subject as everyone had something to say,

"I don't want to go to high school either!"

"I don't want to leave Ms. Ord's class!"

"I want to get baptized!"

"My cousin never left kindergarten!"

Ah, to be in 1st grade again. Those kids are in for a treat-- it only gets better from there!

Wild west: part ii

2009-10-29T17:08:00.007-06:00

On Friday, Laura called me,

"Hey, do you want to hike Havasupai next weekend?"

I've been working on being spontaneous, so I said, "Yeah, for sure!"

I didn't say what I was thinking which was, "Where's Havasupai?"

It is, in fact, at the bottom of the Grand Canyon: a 10 hour drive and a 10 mile hike. I borrowed from my adventurous friends a backpacking frame, sleeping bag, headlamp, chacos, fleece jacket, water bottles. The next Thursday afternoon, I packed Grammy's (practically vintage) orange pack with top ramen, cliff bars, pringles and my gear, strapped on my sleeping bag and met the other seven who were already packing their bags into the back of an SUV, like a giant game of tetris.

We took 4 days: two of driving, two halves of hiking and one glorious day playing and exploring in the beautiful waterfalls of the canyon.

Road trips are a creature unto themselves. We were quite cozy in that little white car, but we knew from the start we'd be best friends by the end, so we dispensed with formalities and sprawled across each others laps, feet up on the seats, and passed around the pretzels.

The hike itself was beautiful. The canyon, like God's enormous lego set, was stacked rocks to the sky. We stopped, frequently, to snap picture and climb the rocks and walls- more than once I wished I had brought a climbing harness.

And then, we heard the water. It was getting late in the afternoon when we saw the first streamlet, but we knew that just around the river bend... and someone started singing Pocahontas. We hiked up over a bluff and saw the new falls where Navajo falls had been washed out in the last flood.

I have never seen water so beautiful or so blue-green. It looked like an advertisement for Cancun, not some obscure river in the middle of the desert.

We camped that night after a quick swim in the twilight shadows of Havasu Falls. We boiled the fresh water that ran so perfectly blue and clear, and made spaghetti for dinner. We sat up late talking and enjoying our newly made friendships, then unrolled our sleeping bags and slept under the stars.

The next morning, after pancakes, oatmeal, hot chocolate and trail mix, we hiked on to the next falls. The day was warm-- nearly 80°, with just enough wind to keep us cool as we hiked in the sun.

Moony falls drop a spectacular 200 feet, so we inflated the plastic dolphin James brought and sent it down the river and over the edge. It shot down the falls and then bobbed up in the artificial pool beneath Moony to the applause of all the onlookers. We climbed up the rock face and jumped into the cool water- swimming around we shivered and laughed and no one remembered that it was cold and rainy back home.

But it was beginning to get late. We knew the hike out would take several hours, so we began our trek back out of the Grand Canyon.

About half way out, the canyon opens wide to a rocky meadow, and there we stopped to pass around the fruit snacks and gatorade. It was dark by now, and we all sat back on our packs, turned off our lights and watched the wide sky fill with stars as our eyes adjusted to the black. We lay there for some time, chatting and wishing on shooting stars. Sitting there, resting my tired feet, I wanted to soak in this land, this beautiful red rock and sage brush. And then I realized that this western beauty had finally become my home. And I loved it.

Wild west: part i

2009-10-27T23:52:00.001-06:00

I remember crying when the moving van pulled away from our Midwest house and turned onto the westbound freeway. In the rear view window, the dark green forest framed the yard that had been my playground for so long. We were leaving this verdant paradise for the desert, for a tiny old rental home perched on the edge of a hill of dead grass and snow. I hated Utah. The brown and gray of desert landscape: rocks and dead trees, tall, dark buildings that reach to the perpetual smog of the Salt Lake winter.
I cried because there was no green, and I was sure nothing would be beautiful again.

Lunch date

2009-10-22T16:10:00.004-06:00

I invited myself over for lunch because I had to return Grams' camping things, and because I had missed cousin dinner, and because I love lunch dates.

In college I eat out of tupperware, generally, and sometimes strait out of the can. Grams severs milk out of a glass pitcher, and she had set the little deal table with beautiful green place settings and silverware that matched.

I offered to bring a bell pepper- the only fresh food I could find. Grams chopped it up and served it with her homemade bean and ham soup, homemade bread, homecanned bread-and-butter pickles from the neighbors, grapes from her back yard and cookies one of the grandkids had brought by.

And she wouldn't even let me do my dishes afterward, but insisted rather than I come outside to enjoy the beautiful sunshine and her freshly planted daisies.

I can't wait to be grownup like Grams.

I love

2009-10-14T12:16:00.003-06:00

Courtney was sitting on that ugly, worn couch in the living room, and I stood in the kitchen doorway. I'm not sure why, but she called out this first line, and I, like some beatnik lounging in a smokey club, picked up the cadence and added my own stanza. Call and return, we yelled to the ceiling, to the clouds, to the world.

It was therapy, and poetry, and lovely.

I love
by Courtney Bullard
and Me

Rain on me every day
and I will still love you.

Open your gloomy clouds
and let down your sorry sodden paint
and I will still love you.

Downpour on me and I will stand beneath
with arms open wide,
and I will call out:

Pour down on me!

Rain, rain, rain!
and I will still love you.

Simple joys

2009-10-01T17:00:00.002-06:00

1. I get sick with the flu every year around Christmas time so I am now classically conditioned to get the same excitement and anticipation from a fever and chills and that slimy youreabouttothrowup feeling as I get from the smell of gingerbread and Christmas candy (think Pavlov's dogs crossed with the King Singer's Christmas Album). I am always a happy feverish kid.

2. On a different note: I love the radio scan function because I never like what's playing on the radio, but I don't like driving in silence, so instead of listening to every lame song for 5 seconds and then changing the station, the radio does it automatically for me.

3. On the same note: At 5:00 pm, every 3rd station in Utah valley is playing Taylor Swift.

100

2009-10-01T12:00:00.001-06:00

Read me, a treasure map. See me, my language which draws in the style of Monet: impressions of my mind in brush strokes of type. Count me, my words which add to multiply: the some-thing of all is the greater part. From your crow's nest look over, in and under--standing, look out through your telescope of reading glasses. Measure and triangulate the latitude of my thoughts; take a sounding of my paragraphs for the sandy bottom. Find me, what's buried at the center: X marks the spot. Read me, lost thoughts sketched on velum, floating in an old bottle.

Rise all loyal cougars

2009-09-28T20:52:00.001-06:00

Melanie and I bonded over pizza and cougar football. Whitehouse were all at the stadium, but they had a TV that worked, and a big living room where Melanie could pace back and forth and jump up and down while yelling advice at the football players on screen. There was free picnic food across the street, but we wanted pizza-- enough to pull out the yellow pages and find the closest 5 buck pizza. Turns out they don't deliver for orders under $7, so we ordered two pizzas, for the two of us, and paid the extra 2 bucks to sit in front of the TV and have our food brought to us.

I wish I had a picture of the two of us: Indian-style on the couch, each with our own pizza boxes in our laps, stuffing our faces and trying not to spit as we yelled at the TV, "Defense! Defense! Defense!"

We won, by the way. 42-23

The morning cometh

2009-09-12T14:47:00.001-06:00

Today rose early, as I slept-- before my deep night's slumber had even thinned to a twilight torpor.

His entourage marched solemnly ahead in long royal robes of velvet shadows.
The canyon winds, who had held their breath so reverently in the midnight anticipation,
began, quietly at first, to whisper amongst themselves--
and then applauding through the aspens, they welcomed the first glow.
For trumpeters, the birdsong cried his coming!

Fresh faced, he glowed with the pale pink, sun-kissed promise of a summer day.
Over the cusp of the road to the east, he peered, then stepped, and then danced
into the receding night.

There were those waiting that saw him,
that leaned out of windows thrown wide,
that felt his new glow on their expectant faces,
That saw Today come.

But I slept, my shades drawn, dreaming about a fishing boat that doubled as a circus clown--
a meaningless phantom that sailed always away into my dim unconscious.

An unexpected complement

2009-09-10T02:02:00.003-06:00

"You know what you are?" he said, "You're a Wendy-bird, and we are your lost boys."

I smiled. He is not generally one for giving complements especially in front of his posse of friends, so I struggled to understand the smack in his words. But it was lost on me-- I liked the way that sounded: me, their Wendy-bird.

I feared my smile, or my loss for words would give away my delight as such a complement. I flippantly changed the subject, but kept the smile, savoring that moment sitting amongst my lost boys.

An unexpected incident

2009-09-04T12:11:00.005-06:00

An explosion in a fascinating thing to consider. Of course, the first law of thermodynamics creates an interesting puzzle of potential and kinetic and unstable energy. How could such an apparent imbalance be a reality?

But there it is, all the same: A nearly minute quantity of potential-packed matter instantaneously becomes an extraordinarily large and beautifully violent living bouquet of saffron and magma,

And then ash.

Can you imagine what it is to be that pregnant bomb sitting still, containing quietly a supernova in miniature?

Concerning vampires

2009-09-02T15:18:00.003-06:00

We started chatting, Sam and I, about the usual: Howwassummer? How'sschool? Whatareyoustudyingagain?

We dabbled in ward gossip, and swapped post-graduation plans (distant dreams in my case). And then somehow, the conversation wound around, like some circuitous and serpentine creek (that suddenly thunders over the edge of a waterfall) to Stephanie Meyer's Twilight.

I have not read Meyer's romances, except for the last page of the last book which I read solely, I think, to spite the general masses of vampire-worshiping Meyerites.

But. Sam (who, may I point out, is not of the aforementioned Cult of Meyer) spoke with such eloquence on the symbolism and archetypal overtones of this substantial modern work of mythology, that I was thoroughly convinced of Twilight's literary merit.

Whether or not I will every read this saga, is still unsure, but I will certainly from now consider it in a different light-- perhaps even an academic light.

As we finally wound down our chat, I thanked him from the enlightening conversation and apologized for having so little to add to the conversation-- just my opinion, nothing of real import.

"Oh no," Sam replied, "Your opinion is of infinite value to me, because I could never have your thoughts."

Perhaps that attitude is the secret to his appreciation of Meyer's great body of work.

Campsite 22: part ii

2009-08-21T12:34:00.004-06:00

Daddy brought the the older kids up after dinner. Something about a photo shoot and work in the physics lab had kept Christian and Lolly at home in the morning, and Isaac and Dad were delayed, in Texas I think. The boys needed little encouragement to stoke the low fire, and as the little ones pulled on pajamas and sleeping bags, we huddled closer to the crackling sticks and branches and sang along with my guitar:

Well, I'm in love with a big blue frog
And a big blue frog loves me.
It's not as bad as it may seem
He's got glasses and he's six-foot-three.

Ghost stories are for girl's camp, so we related our real-life adventures; Isaac tried to whisper as he dramatized snorkeling with sharks, and the rest of us tried, only half-heartedly, not to interrupt with our own summer exploits.

Well I'm not worried about our kids
I think they'll turn out neat,
They'll be good lookers 'cause they've got my face
And good swimmers 'cause they've got his feet.

Chorus
Well, I'm in love with a big blue frog
And a big blue frog loves me.
It's not as bad as it may seem
He's got rhythm and a PhD.

Mom and Dad went to bed before the fire had crumbled to ashes, but we kept right on laughing, singing, joking and alternately coughing on the thin smoke that still streamed from our fire pit.

Well I know we can make things work
He's got a good family since
His mother was a frog from Philadelphia
His daddy an enchanted prince.

Chorus again!

Too many s'mores raised our collective blood sugar to a dangerously giggly level, and we could hear Tommy complaining from his tent compartment, "Stop laughing!! You keep waking me up!"

This unfortunately was made only the more hilarious my parent's stifled snickers; apparently we were keeping everyone awake.

The neighbors are against it and it's clear to me,
And I'm sure it's clear to you:
The value on their property will go right down
If the neighbors next door are blue.

Another Rousing Chorus!

When it got too dark to even see eachother's laughing faces we finally pulled off our tennis shoes on the welcome tarp and climbed into our 10-man tent. Lolly and I tried to crawl over half-sleeping Mariah while the boys made shadow plays on the walls.

Camping is not particularly comfortable, but what could be more comfortable than piling with your sibling in a heap of sleeping bags, in the middle of your family tent, in the middle of the lovely mountains?

Well I'm in love with a big blue frog
A big blue frog loves me
I've got it tattooed on my arm--
It says P-H-R-O-G,
that's frog to me
P H R O G!

Campsite 22: part i

2009-08-20T12:37:00.001-06:00

You go camping with little kids because they get excited about anything furry that moves (always identified as a "prairie dog"),and they remind you just how exciting very large rocks are, "Look there's a big rock!"

Also, little children are actually excited to learn such obscure facts as: Wildflowers at 9,500 ft must generate enough heat to melt the snow around them in the early spring to compensate for the short growing season.

Also, little children take naps in the afternoon, so you don't actually have to entertain them in the wild all day long.

Also, you go camping with little kids because, no matter the company, camping in the Rockies is stunningly beautiful.

Cecret Lake, just a mile north of our campsite in Albion Basin.

Travel log iv: check point

2009-08-12T08:40:00.001-06:00

My faith in our Nation's security is secure.

Today I won the airport security lottery, and they invited me to step into the great x-ray cylinder. When the officer dully asked if I had anything in my pockets, I foolishly assumed he was referring to anything dangerous so I said "Nothing."

The plexiglas doors turned closed with a sucking sound and the words "Beam me up Soctty!" had barely crossed my mind before the x-ray arm had spun around, the doors had opened, and the guard was inviting me out to explain how my x-ray was being reviewed in the other room.

A woman's voice crackled on his radio, "What's in her right pocket?"

I fished out an empty sandwich bag and a paperclip.

Oops.

I pulled my most remorseful hand-in-the-cookie-jar face and the officer sneered-- or was that a chuckle?

"She saw that in your pocket."

Obviously a triumph for the BWI Airport Security.

Which makes me wonder how the woman now waiting across from me made it through with her quilting and sewing bag- pins and needles and all.

New Favorite

2009-08-10T09:00:00.003-06:00

Ignore my music video- it was filmed on a Sony Cyber-shot, but I love this song!

Retail Therapy

2009-08-09T10:15:00.000-06:00

I bought my very first ever purse today. And let me tell you why:

This morning I woke up and pulled on my new cream sweater, a cable knit American Eagle knock off I found on a Marshalls' junior rack, which means it was a ridiculously good deal. I wore it over a scoop-neck-tee with a funky print reminiscent of Middle Eastern art in off-white and taupe. Of course, I wore my favorite dark jeans, and rounded the whole thing off with chocolate ballet flats from the Gap.

But unfortunately my carryall bag/feminine briefcase is black.

And you cannot hold your head high and cary a black bag in brown shoes.

Had I still been living with my 10, 7, and 3 year old Kusinen, I could have perhaps found an appropriate clutch in their dress-ups, maybe something purple or sequined in gold. But they had left for Utah, and I had moved into a house full of boys. So no luck there.

I took the black bag-- I had no other choice, but on my way home, I visited my favorite thrift store and bought a real, genuine red purse. Of course while I was there, I had to find a couple more things that go with Red; some new sweaters, and a couple pair of grey and black shoes.

And to think I used to hate shopping!

Pursuit of Happiness II

2009-07-26T20:28:00.007-06:00

1.
On a whim, I bought fake nails from CVS. They were "Real Life! Petits"-- not too ostentatious, but simple and feminine and the kind you glue on with a little tube of superglue. Cheap but not too tacky. I think someday in the distant future I will be horrified that I superglued little plastic nails onto my own fingertips, but today I love them! I love looking down to see the tan of my hands highlighted by my glossy nails, and I love handing things to people, palm down, fingers obvious, my french tips glowing with femininity.

2.
We stopped at Five Guys for dinner on Friday. I was hungry and the group was obliging. Of course I ordered a Bacon Cheeseburger. And also a large fries to keep my friends from just sitting and watching me eat. 'Eat' is really too tame a word to describe the thrilling experience of smelling and tasting and chewing the best Bacon Cheeseburger I have ever had. The fries were sub par, but the burger-- c'était incroyable!

Personal hygiene

2009-07-12T21:23:00.003-06:00

Shopping for deodorant is a metaphor for my life.

First off, I'm out, and though I believe I could live quite happily and independently without deodorant, I feel the social pressure to get some of my very own. Also, it's comforting to know you smell good.

So I went to the store yesterday to look around, scope out my options, weigh the opportunity costs.

Eight rows of sticks and sticks of antiperspirant: roll-on, gel-on, 24/7, night time, black-safe, unscented, tropical spice-- there seem to be an inordinate number of choices, but they all break down into three types:

There's the friendly kind, the kind you always get, the one that smells neutral and doesn't make a mess, and because you always get it, you know you can confidently expect it to work 50% of the time. Not a high percentage, but it's the confidence here that's key.

Then there's the expensive new brand, that exotic, mysterious smelling New Formula with a sparkly package and marketing promises that may in fact change the course of your whole thus-far-lack-luster life.

And then there's the very safe and very reliable, unscented brand that is plain and boring and one of a kind (because only one brand was crazy enough to try to market a deodorant that doesn't smell Powder Fresh and doesn't have a catchy slogan, and doesn't wear a packaged like an ice cream bar)

And of course I had to smell them all. I nixed the fruit scented ones right off (I'd rather not develop a Pavlovian connection with the smell of my sweat and watermelon), and the baby-powder ones we're too old-ladyish for me. Turns out the "Rosepetal" smelled more like toilet bowl cleaner, and I just couldn't imagine putting "Sexy Intrigue" in my arm pits.

I finally just grabbed one of my 4 or 5 tried-and-half-true regulars-- they smelled and looked just the same as always, safe- and half- reliable, but as I turned to go, I couldn't pull myself away from the All NEW! sparkle of something different and more exciting.

The safe unscented sat bland and undisturbed on the edge of the shelf.

And I stood, weighing my options, confused, and a little frustrated. Did I want to pay that much for the new, alluring, untried brand? Did I really want to stick with the same-old-same-old that I knew wasn't really what I wanted? Maybe I really was better off al natural.

I pulled the unscented, reliable stick off the shelf, grabbed a chocolate bar, and check out.

I tired it this morning, with low expectations. Turns out this one actually scented, a sweet and refreshing smell like the clean outdoors or early morning dew. That was a pleasant surprise. I think I may have found a new favorite.

Bikes on Shoulder

2009-07-03T18:40:00.003-06:00

This title conjures up images of conquering bikers, hoisting their rides in many triumph-- an REI poster. I say manly because actually having that two wheeled hunk of pipes over your head would be a manly feat regardless of the gender of the hoister.

This title however, refers to the traffic signs posted along Maryland 4 warning drivers to share the road with bikers... like me.

I think the trip was Jason's idea, and from the start I wanted in. Of course with a couple of college kids running the show, things were a bit haphazardly thrown together, and we had a bit of a rocky start but at 7:30 we corralled our bikes behind the Barlow Center, said a prayer and headed out. Jason, Andrew, Maria and I-- a nice little chain of wheels pedaling through Downtown traffic. In the rain. Did I mention it was pouring? A veritable deluge right down on our parade. But this is normal riding for me, and I couldn't keep myself from laughing out loud as we ducked and tried to avoided the cars, trucks buses and over-sized puddles: the perfect start to our adventure.

And what an adventure it was: I learned to patch a flat and sleep on wet grass, I loitered in a gas station and then a casino, where I was carded for only the 2nd time in my life. We planed to sleep on the Chesapeake beach, but when we rolled into Chesapeake Beach City at 11 p.m., we just parked our bikes on the first bit of grass we found-- the Chesapeake Beach Veterans Memorial Park. Behind some privet bushes we found a nice place to sleep-- until the sprinklers came on at 4 a.m. That's when the loitering began.

We finally settled on the rocky shoreline of our Memorial Park to watch the sun rise over the bay. I remember seeing the brightness eating away at the horizon's darkness before I nodded off, hunched on a rock, hugging my knees under my fleece jacket.

Biking home on five hours of sleep was not as difficult as I thought it would be, and I was less sore than I expected, thank goodness. Along the way, we stopped for pictures beside a pastoral field and in front of the White House. Eighty miles after the start, we pulled into the Barlow center parking lot. I for one was sweaty, grimy and ready for a nap.

And so in love with biking.

Disappointed love

2009-07-01T22:08:00.005-06:00

My very first love had a deep voice. Deep and mellow, a rich croon that was sophisticated and gentle, and no doubt a shock of wavy dark hair, slacks and a loose tie for that confidently casual look.

Tall, dark and handsome he paced the stage of my minds eye, his stories, his bluegrass band, his live audiences' laughter became the soundtrack to you young life. And as I grew, he claimed the gift of perpetual agelessness, joining me every Saturday night, just as he had always been, broadcasting live from the shores of Lake Wobegon--he was NPR's Garrison Keillor, the same steady, warm voice I had always swooned over.

Today I turned on the TV while fixing some re-heated dinner and suddenly I heard his voice. It was like smelling the cologne of your high school sweetheart, and I looked up to see my Garrison Keillor,

"I grew up in a quiet town..."

But I was confused by the man talking on screen-- he was portly with wild gray hair and a plain face with piggy eyes behind unflattering round glasses. There was nothing exceptional about his appearance other than, perhaps, a drab coat which fit him exceptionally ill, and red sneakers exceptionally obvious beneath too-short pants. He could be described as nothing short of dull, but his thin lips moved and out came that voice, that music, that memorizing murmur-- could this really be that man? Could this really be my Garrison Keillor in the flesh?

I closed my eyes and listened for a while, imagining again the handsome stranger that ought to belong to that voice. Then I shut off the TV and finished my dinner in silence.

Eine kleine nachtmusik

2009-07-01T21:16:00.001-06:00

I woke up late this morning, or more correctly, I slept in.

And then I remembered I was having lunch with the president, so I had to get up and iron something presentable. I just grabbed an apple for breakfast, but I was already too late to get a good parking spot, and walking to the metro, I missed the light at every intersection (there were 5 between my parking spot and the East Falls Church Metro). My metro card wouldn't got through (as usual), and as I finally ran up the escalator, I saw my train pull away. The next one (7 minutes later) was overcrowded and had some trouble between Rosslyn and Foggy Bottom. We all waited, squashed together, I hung on to the overhead hand-rail awkwardly, my armpit in some woman's face, someone's briefcase in my back. At each stop we'd all shuffle about to let a few people off, and squeeze together as a twice as many people tried to squeeze on. My stop came, and I had 3 minutes to walk the 3 blocks from Farragut North to the 5th floor of the AEI building, and running up the metro's escalator (in my semi-ironed blouse, pencil skirt and sneakers) I almost missed the music.

An old man, grey curly hair and a great toothy grin, was sitting on a stool, case open, playing Mozart on the violin. His tone was professional, intonation impeccable-- he had no music, but filled the metro and the surrounding block with improvisation on the theme. Cheery, delightful, beautiful.

I caught his eye and grinned. He grinned back and continued to play with gusto.
As I crossed the street at the end of the block, I could still hear: Mozart's Night Music in the DC metro.

Post Script: I ran into the building with another late employee, he looked young enough to be an intern as well. He jabbed the elevator "Up" but just then the doors opened and someone stepped out. We jumped in, and as the doors closed I realized this elevator was going down. I pushed the "5". Nothing happened. He tried the 12th floor. The numbered lights clicked on then went out. The elevator didn't move. We looked at each other and grinned.

"Well, this makes for an interesting start to the day, doesn't it?"

Dictation practice

2009-06-23T09:45:00.002-06:00

Chief Operations Officer pokes head in room-next-door/Temp's office
Temp: What a lovely blue shirt!
COO: It’s green
Temp: No, that’s blue.
COO: No. It’s mint. This shirt is NOT blue.
Temp: I’m pretty sure if we put it to a vote, you would lose.
COO: No! There is yellow in this shirt, for sure, otherwise it wouldn’t be this color.
Temp: Well, in the world of the 8-color crayon box, that is blue.
COO: No, it’s green.
Temp: No, you’re wrong.
COO: Fine, we can vote about it, but it's green
Temp: Well, if we voted at staff meeting it would have to be a secret ballot, but I think everyone would agree that it’s blue.
COO walks out. The temp gives a little chuckle.

For the record-- it could be called nothing but robin-egg blue-- perhaps pushing a pastel teal, but I cast my ballot for blue.

True Story.

Sorry Boss.

The neighborhood crab fest

2009-06-14T20:09:00.006-06:00

To this 1,000 word essay, may I suggest a theme?

Eating meat is barbaric. In the context of last night's dinner, discuss.

Delusions of grandeur

2009-06-10T19:09:00.006-06:00

My favorite character flaw is the unyielding faith I have in my ability to do the impossible. For example, there is never doubt n my mind, as I see a frisbee fly overhead, that I can, in fact, jump half my height. I am still always surprised when the frisbee sails far above me into the trees.

So when Josh suggested that I bike to Mount Vernon, I did not hesitate to start planning. How hard could a little serious biking be? It's only 25 miles each way.

Friday I had work off, so I borrowed Ian's mountain bike, pumped up the tires, and headed out, pedaling in a southeasterly direction-- maps are for amateurs. I have complete faith in my ability to navigate by intuition (and well groomed bike trials).

I biked enthusiastically down the W&OD (we locals call it "the wad"), which follows the Four Mile Run River down to the Potomac. Virginia is beautiful and the paved trail was shaded by great overhanging oaks, maples, sycamores and something that looked like beach. I have to write a paper about the whole experience (that's what happens when you take summer college classes) so I pedaled and made up poetic descriptions of the chunky, rugged bike trail and the Pollock-spattering of sunshine that sifted through the trees.

It wasn't until I had stopped for lunch and started home that my legs began to really complain. About mile 30, I started to slow down. I had no idea your legs could cramp from the hips down. Fortunately, there was little time to worry about tired legs- that is when the rain came.

The rain was of that sudden southern-deluge sort that is unexpected and torrential. I wondered for a moment if it were in the bikes best interested to stop and wait it out under a bridge, but I was dripping already and I couldn't see how waiting in the wet was better than wading in the wet, so I just biked and laughed, and looked up towards the sky and opened my mouth wide.

Post Script:
I made it home fine, dirty and muddy and soaking wet, but I couldn't think of a way to better enjoy a free Friday. Next time I'm biking to the Maryland beach. It shouldn't be too much harder-- it's only about 50 miles more.

Bookstore iv: in which i begin again

2009-06-10T14:52:00.003-06:00

Reiters Scientific, Professional and Technical Books, on the corner of 20th and K, is quiet and clean and plays string quartet music placidly in the background. Signs on the tables and by the numerous arm chairs encourage patrons to "Please leave the books on the table, we're happy to reshelve them for you."

In one corner, a young guy played with the brain puzzles on display next to the rack of math T-shirts (a cute atomic couple labeled "Carbon dating-- double bonded for half life," and a large and complex math equation labeled "Weapon of math instruction").

I wandered through the biology and physics shelves, through biomedical engineering and classics in mathematics. At one small tea table an elderly and very distinguished gentleman was bent over a tome of a book: Textbook of Cardiovascular Medicine, 3rd Revised ed..

I noticed a book on the display table: light brown, a nice weight and comfortably proportioned, with a large, glossy but colorless pirate's hook printed across the front, The Invisible Hook. For Christian's sake I picked it up.

I have now decided the economic section is my new favorite wing of the bookstore. Do you know the difference between a buccaneer, a privateer and a corporate businessman?

I tell you when I finish the book.

Bookstore iii: review

2009-06-06T13:49:00.003-06:00

I cannot say I found Fahrenheit 451entirely disappointing, but it left something wanting. Bradbury is known for his short stories, which is a credit to him. It takes a true craftsman to gracefully condense the whole plot diagram into under 200 pages. But I felt that this form did not serve Bradbury well in this case.

True, he presented a stirring and shocking train of what-if events and his character Montag was an effective every man and he was shockingly spot on with some predictions, like the ubiquitous sea shell ear pieces that isolate each person in their own world of music. But I was disappointed that Bradbury barely touched on such themes as the implications of a nearing-illiterate society, or of a society that is devoted entirely to preparations for war.

In 100 pages he barely touches the surface of Montag's character and I felt little connection to the other main actors in the story.

On the other hand, the depth of social commentary I so wished for was obviously not the authors intent. And, in true Bradbury fashion, this book did leave me thoughtful and a little afraid about what we are doing today to our future.

Eau de la ville

2009-06-03T20:47:00.006-06:00

The city smells like three brands of cigarettes: two cheap and three foul. The metro stops at Farragut West has a hot rubber and machinery smell that seeps up the escalators and mixes with the street vendor's smells of mustard and frying oil.

Early in the day 17th street, the 1100's block, is breakfast sausage and diesel fuel that powers the fleets of delivery vans. I walk by as a guard holds open a double glass door: cold air and cologne-- the sweet smell of corporate lobby. My office is strong coffee and overly-conditioned air, a stiff combination that has come to mean answering phones and computer screens and over-worked human.

The people in the streets are a patchwork of perfume, deodorant and humid sweat. Some wear their cigarette smoke like a great billowing cape. Others swagger by and I pause to breath and remember who else wears that aftershave.

And 'midst it all, folded in, the city is saturated with that beautiful sweet smell of Southern Summer. The humid wet that clings to the trees and grass of Farragut Park and clings to me as I walk by, reminding me of summers at the beach.

On the corner of 18th and F, I pause, here the air is not quite my sister's favorite perfume and not quite my childhood's honeysuckle bushes but somehow such a fervent sweet and delicate smell, rich and sophisticated; I pretend to scrutinize the newspaper stands as if the sight of so many headlines has made me short of breath-- I breathe deeply and fill my lungs with my favorite D.C. air. Perhaps it's the row of ornamental magnolias or some rich and famous eau de parfum connoisseur who leaves her windows thrown open just there. But now I have read all the headlines twice through, so I continue my walk down 18th street, breathing in the lovely sunshine.

Bookstore ii: classic

2009-06-02T23:03:00.003-06:00

They blast the most awful music at this bookstore. Today the basement music wasn't too bad, just too loud, and really I can only take a chance on ABBA for so long. So I wandered about in search of a more quiet department.

I found the perfect spot- on a bench between rows of pink and purple paperbacks- and enjoyed my book-burning-SciFi-horror-classic to Vivaldi's "Winter." That piece, I believe, is the perfect soundtrack for the "heaving bosoms and ripped bodices" of the schlocky romance section.

Extreme makeover

2009-05-22T19:07:00.005-06:00

As you may imagine, for a girl who doesn't even shave her legs, getting my hair cut was a dramatic experience. Just ask David, my co-intern, who had to sit through a week of my shall-I-shan't-I before I got up the courage to do the deed. But it was really time I did something with that mop of split ends wigging out on top of my head.* On Wednesday, I arranged to take a long lunch, and the last words I said to David as I headed out to The Hair Shoppe were, "If I come back with long hair, DON'T SAY ANYTHING."

I haven't actually had my hair professionally cut since I was 12, and I had forgotten what a horrifying place the salon is. In case you too have forgotten, let me remind you: They plunk you down in that giant chair and tie your arms down under an enormous black cape. The Hairdresser comes in with an apron full of instruments of torture: combs with blades between the teeth, buzzers, razors, and all manner of sharp, pointy scissors. She grabbed my pony tail and I hear that shzzzzcK! of scissors on hair. Wagging the lopped off thing in front of my face she joked, "Too bad! Someone could have used that!"

I just closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, Too late to do anything now.

I think the best part of a dramatic haircut is the shocking response it draws from everyone who has to double-take as you walk in the room.

Monica and Rachel were the first to notice, and they exclaimed over my pluck and daring. My boss met me as I walked back to my computer and nearly began to introduce herself to "the new intern."

Of course, there's the chance no one will notice because they won't even recognize you. Four people recognized me at class the next day, my professor was not among them, and he gave me the strangest look as I sat down confidently at the front of his class.

Cait says I look like a model; that's what friends are for!

I believe I'm still recovering from the shock of really cutting it all off, but I think I like it.

And now, the new me:

*Puns are always intended.

Bookstore

2009-05-21T19:47:00.004-06:00

My new favorite section in the book store is the reference/trivia shelves. I discovered the Borders on 18th and L one morning as I walked to my office building, and it has become my favorite place to spend my free time in the city before work at 9:30.

I was actually looking for a book on the history of the OED, but this Borders is small or maybe the book is unpopular, anyway, it was out of stock, so I just perused the shelves- Change the World for Ten Bucks, Luck: The Essential Guide, and The Mental Floss History of the World: An Irreverent Romp Through Civilization’s Best Bits.

In the end, I actually wandered down stairs to the border of SciFi and Horror- right where Ray Bradbury belongs. I have always wanted to read Fahrenheit 451. And they're kind enough to provide coushy chairs.

At the water cooler

2009-05-21T18:48:00.006-06:00

I work in a real office. In fact, as I pledged the furniture in the directors office (oh, the high and mighty work of the revered intern), I noticed that if I sat in the chair next to the interior window, it would look like one of those close up interview shots from The Office. Exactly like The Office. We don't quite have the caricatures that JB Novak dreamed up, but, from where I sit, there does seem to be an endless supply of the ridiculousness here.

The director of IT walked past my desk the other day, "Did you know I have gills. I do. That's why I wear collared shirts."
I wonder what he felt about the Lox wraps they served in the board room for lunch.

Suzie and David swapped music pirating sites over lunch, and when I rolled my eyes David offered, "We'd be more than happy to share the joys of piracy with you if you are ready to welcome them into your heart."
Seriously. Those were his exact words.

Also, David has recently coined the term "The Mallory Effect" in which I rub off on other people and they start spewing non-sequiturs at passing coworkers.

Apparently my propensity for office ADD is manifest in a running commentary, but at least my comments make sense most of the time.

Today Brian walked in carrying a slightly frosty desktop hard drive.
"Found it! Forgot I stuck this thing in the freezer last month."

Out to lunch

2009-05-05T20:43:00.009-06:00

I sat next to Roy R. Romer today at lunch. He looks much older now than in his Wikipedia picture, but that didn't stop all the important people in the Capital Hilton Congress Room from coming up to say hello. He didn't actually introduce himself to me, he only asked what I did and, no doubt trying to be genuinely conversational, asked this and that about TPR. But I knew who he was because Checker (who's real name is Chester E. Finn Jr.) gave a shout-out from the podium to his old friend Roy, and someone stopped by to congratulated him on his son's becoming another Senator Romer.

Roy R. Romer, by the way, was a congressman, a senator, the 39th governor of Colorado, the superintendent of Los Angeles' Schools, he has a school named after him in the San Fernando valley, and now he serves as the chairman and lead spokesman for Strong American Schools, currently funded by the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and the Eli and Edythe Broad foundation, which is an initiative aimed at encouraging politicians to include education reform in their platforms.

But really, sitting next to Roy was nothing, I was in fact sitting in front of Checker the whole time, who was formerly the United States Assistant Secretary of Education and currently the president of the Thomas B. Fordham Foundation, who provided the luncheon.

I was there just to take notes on the speakers, but since the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation had been so kind as to provide the delicious and expensive box lunches, I helped my self to a grilled vegetable on tomato focaccia sandwich.

NOTE: Roy R. Romer eats his chocolate brownie with a fork, which is a much more sophisticated way of doing it, especially at a luncheon full of DC's leading lights in the field of education reform. I felt foolish for trying to eat it with my bare hands.

The intern

2009-05-04T19:03:00.008-06:00

(in all her glory)

I stopped on my way out of the office to switch from business pumps to my favorite tennis shoes. Leaning against the water fountain I noticed a sign on the door opposite: "Stairwell." Stairs! Why have I been riding the elevator every day! I slipped through the heavy door and heard it clunck shut as I skipped down the five flights to the ground floor, which is where I found a very nasty-looking metal grate of a door with "Fire Exit Only" painted in large and unfriendly letters. An addendum was stamped beneath: "Alarm will Sound."

Hm.

I ran back up a level to floor 2 and rattled the door knob. Locked.

So was the next door and the next and the next.

Back on the fifth floor, I considered sitting down to think or maybe cry. Then, as I so often do when I'm in need of a bit of cheer, I thought What would Vernon do? and I saw him in my mind's eye doubled over, piddling-- yes, in fact piddling-- at the hilarity of my situation: It was my first week of work and I was locked in the stairwell of 1150 17th Street in Washington, DC.

I swallowed what little pride I had still intact (after a week of interning) and called the office. (Thank heavens I had cell phone reception in that concrete pit.)

"Philanthropy Roundtable, this is Lindsay."

"Hi. This is the intern. I'm locked in the stairwell, could you come let me out."

Bless Lindsay for not laughing while I was still on the line, "Sure, where's the stairwell?"

"Just outside our office, next to the drinking fountain."

"I'll be right there."

She didn't even crack a smile as she pulled the heavy door open, "I think this happens in a lot of DC office buildings-- the doors only open if the fire alarm goes off. I think Lacey locked herself in here too her first week. She's the sort of girl who would try to take the stairs."

I mumbled something about avoiding a fire drill, tried to chuckle and ran for the elevator.

Well, as my boss Stephanie has been reminding me all week-- I am an intern; I can only go up from here.

From my shrinking world

2009-04-29T16:57:00.001-06:00

I walked into my first staff meeting Tuesday, and sat across from a pretty blond, "Hi, I'm Lacey!"
Lacey?
"From Missouri?"
"Ahm. yes."
"Lacey. Hm. We were 8th grade locker partners."
"Woah. Wow. Yeah, we were! How are you?"
We're having lunch tomorrow to catch up on the six years since we shared a tiny upper locker in Jeff. Jr. High.

What to do with the baby?

2009-04-26T20:03:00.013-06:00

I don't know how I feel about those cutesy books full of babies sitting in giant flower pots, or dressed like fuzzy snails, or just sitting, naked , sleeping with giant hyacinths on their heads. But I do know these pictures seem but a minor offense when compared with the names found in Anne Geddes' book Baby Names. These are just a few of my favorites:

Girls
Albina (white)
Bryony (twining vine)
Clover (from name of plant) you're kidding me
Drusilla (dewy-eyed)
Eugenia (well-born) hope she's blonde and blue-eyed...
Flavia (yellow)
Germaine (brother)
Hippolyta (Queen of the Amazon)
Iolanthe (violet)
Jael (wild goat) "It's like Jail, only with an E"
Kezia (Cassa tree)
Lettice (mid-evil)
Mignon (darling) bet she'll grow up vegetarian. Friends with Lettice.
Nerys (lord)
Oonagh (one) seriously, who will ever spell that one correctly?
Prue (provident)
Quinella (5th)
Rasheeda (wise)
Sigrid (victory)
Tryphena (delicate) sounds like a dietary supplement
Uta (diminutive form of Ottalie) better Uta than Ottalie
Valmai (mayflower)
Wilhelmina (protect)
Xaviera (new house)
Yseult (midevil)
Zephyrine (west wind) I think that's the name of my allergy medicine...

... and a few good ones from the
Boys
Auberon (elf power)
Easter (from the Christian Holiday)
Granville (high place)
Kain (var. of Cain) seriously? Cain?
Marmaduke (servant of Maedoc)
Urien (privileged birth)and no one will make fun of that one at scout camp
Zilcomo (thank you) another allergy medication?

Fido the pachyderm

2009-04-24T02:10:00.002-06:00

The elephant sat between us on the front porch like some lazy family dog. I leaned against your deck chair to block him from view, but he just watched us dolefully, and you and I sat, as usual, in silence. I was too busy taking my own pulse to ask if you minded the intrusion- after all, I had first named him and invited him to follow us about.

When our usual contemplative and lonely silence became too uncomfortable, you commented, in passing, on his pachydermine proportions, and I could think of no reply but, "Why? Don't you see--things could have been so different."

Instead, I said "How true."

And we each returned to our busy solitude-- I, blankly staring at the empty browser window, you, intently watching the screen of your i-pod.

"I could go for a burger or two."

"Bacon cheese burger?"

"Done"

There wasn't room for him in your little car, but that's the way I prefer it. All our best conversations happen in the Wendy's drive-thru.

A eulogy

2009-04-17T18:12:00.000-06:00

I learned this week that Thomas O. Lambdin is dead. My classmates chuckled when the Harvard grad, who was lecturing on the Blessed BDB, told us that this man, the source of all suffering and tribulation in our lives over the past two semesters, had in fact moved on to the other side.

I was shocked. For a moment, I was afraid I might start crying because somehow, somewhere between stewing over his lists of vocabulary and grumbling over his complex translation homework, I became very attached to the author of my text book: Introduction to Biblical Hebrew.

Thomas O Lambdin is a man of mystery. His Wikipedia article is two lines long-- brevity that perhaps nods to the famous brevity of his Hebrew Grammar. He taught at Harvard University, but besides a few papers and my shabby green textbook, paperback cover peeling away from wrinkled and well thumbed pages, there is little left behind to remind the world of this brilliant Hebrew Scholar.

So this is my tribute to the man who was my Virgil through Hebrew Grammar (is it a sin to cross dead language metaphors thus?): my guide through the forms and tenses of Biblical Writ.

Dr. Lambdin, you will be dearly missed.

English 315

2009-03-30T09:59:00.011-06:00

There is a plague
called jargon,
or academeese,
which, in the event
of a formal request
for information
regarding and/or
pertaining to the
expertise of the
speaker, may, with
a vicious infection,
permeate every
syllable of the
communiqué which
was intended to
educate the mind
of the lay-man
and, while causing
the speaker to
adopt an attitude
of total disregard
for the foolish
and otherwise
ridiculous sound
of the string
of misplaced
verbiage,
may elicit
a significant
increase
in confusion--
an increase
incidentally
proportionate
to the length
of the speaker's
sentences.

Words recently swallowed

2009-03-13T21:49:00.006-06:00

The saddest word in any language is the unvowelled and unenunciated mumble which might have pulled thought into reality: the shadow of a conversation which crosses the welcome mat into the house of "Might Have Been" and leaves reality outside a little lonelier.

A truth I could not tell you:
I'd love to have dinner with you. I'll pay if you'll drive.

A Seurat scene

2009-03-10T23:34:00.005-06:00

I love jigsaw puzzles because they are a metaphor for my life; 500,000 nearly indistinguishable pieces of pressed cardboard scattered on a coffee table for the casual puzzler's perusal: doesn't look like much.

I like it when sometimes you dump out the pieces and a couple are stuck together already-- a double length of picket fence, the front legs, mane and left eye of a palomino.

I always start by spreading them evenly, face up--push the edges to one side, the sky pieces to one corner, grass gathers in another, red brick pieces, grey wood pieces. And slowly this confetti world begins to grow into townhouses, a lamp post, an electric street car.

And sometimes the pieces suddenly all fit neatly into place, each fragment of flower petal matching into a hydrangea bush which lines the lawn along the lane which disappears beneath some sets of feet.

And sometimes the pieces--some grey shards and a few scraps of unearthly yellow--just sit and stare up at you, refusing to suggest usefulness. At which point the whole delightful exercise sputters to a halt, and I step back to view an unmapped archipelago of puzzle.

I know it will become that charming summer scene, complete with a hopscotch game and picnicking lovers, but today I'm more in the mood for scrabble.

Vegetarian: in retrospect

2009-03-04T18:52:00.008-07:00

Bacon was my downfall.

Of all the foods I have loved and ever will love, there is something irresistible in the crisp and juicy sweet of hot bacon that makes my stomach whisper, "Junior Bacon Cheeseburger! Junior Bacon Cheeseburger!"

Of course, I managed just fine for an entire 10½ months without killing half the barnyard. In reality, I was a genuine vegetarian for nearly a year, with the exception of a few unavoidable and delicious forays into the world of Omnivorous Man. Whatever my reasons may have been for living mainly on rice and tofu (and it is debatable whether I even had any reasons at all), I must say preaching peace, love and respect for the animal kingdom did me good.

For one, I honed my cooking skills, focusing on the more animal-friendly cuisines of the the Mediterranean, Middle East and India. Also Thailand. Coconut milk and green chili paste were my two main staples for a few good months. Rice and curry were my next staples. Curry and my garam masala are still the two spices I reach for first if ever I find a limp and blanched vegetable in need of assistance. (Or rosemary, but that is neither here nor there.) Then I went on a falafel kick and ate flat bread and fried chickpeas every day. Of course, I appreciate the importance of iron in my diet, and the need to replenish my amino acids etc., so I ate a lot of spinach, at least in the beginning. And seaweed, which is also green and makes me feel healthy. I became, in my own right, a bit of a sushi conoseiur-- blanched carrots and avocado with a nice sweet rice vinegar! mmmh!

For another thing, I never wanted for lively conversation. Those who enjoyed arguing found no end of scriptural (or otherwise authoritative) support for a more meaty diet. Those who did not enjoy arguing still found it necessary to express there own thoughts on the subject of nutritional therapy. "Vegetarian? Like what, you eat grass all the time?" My rhetorical skills soon grew as sharp as their wit.

Mostly, being a vegetarian reminded me how much I love meat.

Last night, as I did crunches in front of the tube, a commercial for Arby's New Roastburger came on. I looked at my roommate. She looked at me.
"I'll grab the car keys"
"I'll grab a coat."

mmmmh. Bacon, roast beef and blue cheese on a toasted bun.

It even has vegetables.

Over goldfish

2009-02-14T13:05:00.002-07:00

I can't have you?
   good heavens,
I never thought of you like that;
       a possession to gather,
       a piece of luggage with my tags.

As just some friend, I had thought to draw something deeper from your closedness,

but I don't want to have you.

Who asks to own sunshine, or fresh water, or happiness? I don't claim you
       like some item at will-call.

100.2°

2009-02-10T14:58:00.003-07:00

I tried counting sheep
1, 2, 3... 4.. 5,6... 7...
But traffic patterns were erratic, and a few confused sheep caused a wooly pile-up.
Somewhere, I started singing Happy Birthday.
I wonder, when this fever has completely usurped my conscious, if it will put up roadsigns: reduced sheep-limit, no ewe-turns, soft shoulders ahead.
...Happy birthday, dear Cathy... who is Cathy?

I scraped my brain for some remnants of coherent thought and made from it a trebuchet to help with the sheep launch.
34... . . 35... . .. 36.. . . 37... .
At which point I ran out of sheep, and the large Over-the-Moon Black and White was called on to substitute, then a killer whale swam underneath.
Yin and Yang.
like that ad in Modern Bride for a 40 ft cake platter, 41 ft cake platter, 42 ft cake platter...

I woke up several hours later, cold and sweating and still counting.

In season (to be read aloud)

2009-02-02T08:11:00.002-07:00

The first new months are off
to a slow
cautions
start.

They needed crampons to hike
from last year to here, but
today
all the world
wants snow shoes,
and thick knit things,
and hot spiced cider
and someone to sit with
to see the sky
frosting old Earth
with
snow.

Jelly doughnut

2009-01-21T05:12:00.005-07:00

I am simply bursting with things to say.

And you, my dear reader, like an early customer at the local bakery, are likely to be overcome with the yeasty smell of rows and stacks of fresh and tasty good things to read.

Petits fours of my wisdom, still glistening with icing florets.

Of course, I can't quite remember what I had to say, but just the thought of it looks so lovely sitting in the display window of my ever-receding memory.

And when you dream,

2009-01-10T01:32:00.005-07:00

...dream big,
As big as the ocean, blue.
'Cause when you dream it might come true.
But when you dream, dream big.
Ryan Shupe, Dream Big

Excuse me

2009-01-08T23:27:00.004-07:00

You stubbed my toe.
Though I suppose the fault is mine for leaving it hanging out there for any careless fellow to trip over.
But you hardly noticed my foot
or my wince.
In fact,
now I'm not sure you ever noticed me at all.
But no harm done--
I've put on band-aids before.
Besides, it's not like you broke any major vital organs.

Car games

2008-12-29T22:11:00.004-07:00

I am, honestly, amazed by the ingenuity my family has exhibited over the past few days. For example: driving home from Sandy with Laurel and Kate, Kate-ey introduced me to a new game called "Days of the Week". It goes something like this:

To the tune of The Adam's Family

Days of the week! (*snap* *snap*)
Days of the week! (*snap* *snap*)
Days of the week, days of the week,
Days of the week! (*snap* *snap*)

There's Monday and there's Tuesday
Wednesday and there's Thursday
Friday and there's Saturday
And then come Su-unday.

Days of the week! (*snap* *snap*)
Days of the week! (*snap* *snap*)
Days of the week, days of the week,
Days of the week! (*snap* *snap*)

At this point it is someone else's turn to pick a topic:

Months of the year (*snap* *snap*)
or
Types of weather (*snap* *snap)
or
Co-on-tinents (*snap* *snap*)

Bones of the arm provides an interesting challenge, being rather short, States of the Union is difficult, but possible, capitals of Europe is more of a challenge, mainly because I only know half of them. My favorite, by far, is Olympic Events (*snap* *snap*), Olympic Events (*snap* *snap*), Olympic Events, Olympic Events, Olympic Events (*snap* *snap*): There's Skating and there's Down Hill, and the skeleton, etc...

Car rides are never dull with these kids.

Of holly berries and celebrations

2008-12-26T15:18:00.009-07:00

December 25th is Christmas because of the traditions that have made it so for hundreds of years: St. Nicholas with his red robe and gifts, the manger scene with kneeling shepherds and adoring angels, Christmas carolers out in the snow, and a Yule log in the fireplace.

My family celebrates with variations on the theme beginning with yards of popcorn-cranberry strings and four days of caroling to everyone we know in the valley. On Christmas Eve, after clam chowder dinner, we produce a spectacular Christmas pageant (complete with all the regulars plus King Herod, four or five sheep, a chorus of angels and usually a couple of Marys). We kids give the parents a talent show (the price we pay for our years of music lessons) and then everyone takes turns opening their new Christmas pajamas.

The kids pile into one (often small) bedroom to watch movies and wait for Santa to visit. At the appointed hour (always hours and hours before I'd like to be awake) Mom and Dad come in for Jesus' birthday party. We sing Happy Birthday and eat cake while we discuss our new-year's-resolutionesque presents to Jesus and decide on new gifts to give him in the coming year.

Then we open presents. The aforementioned traditions were established, for the most part, by our dear loving parents and are based on decades of their own family traditions. So we the children have decided to create a few traditions of our own.

The electronic whoopie cushion was first given to me by my brother Isaac, and has since been regifted to various members of the family. It is a delicate matter as to who will next receive the revered EWC because they must be old enough to know better than to open the box and use it but young enough to recognize the importance of passing on the tradition. Thus far, my parents have never been gifted the EWC; we are not sure if they qualify in either respect.

Isaac introduced the tradition of giving alternatives to current technologies: A few years ago, he gave me a real-genuine-imitation cell phone which doubled, for a week or two, as an edible banana. It came with instructions on convincing your friends that it was, in fact, a real cell phone. This year he gave me an i-pod (see fig. 1).

I'm not really sure how the tradition of movie-marathons developed but this year we carried it on with the Mission:Impossible trilogy beginning at 11:30 pm Christmas Night and culminating in six children sleeping through hours of explosions and intrigue.

I've decided we should make a tradition of sleeping all day on the 26th.

Where's my shovel?

2008-12-22T20:56:00.009-07:00

Usually dinner is a relatively calm affair at home. Excepting only that time Mom started a food fight with her cantaloupe. Or when Isaac and I were laughing so hard during the blessing on the food that we shook the whole table. Or every time someone leaves the table for a minute and we hide their food in the dishwasher.

Ok, it's hardly pastoral, but I think this evening was an all-time high with a resurgence of our favorite Dinner Table Telephone.

Originally, this game began with my Dad, years and years ago, "Houston we have a problem".... which got to me and became (somewhere along the way) "You stink. We have a problem."

Tonight Kate began with: A Scissor-Brained Haircut... which became: A Disappearing Haircut ("Oh, is that what your father has?" Yes, Mom.)

Mom: An inconvenient proposal... Dad: Something got scrambled .... Me: I want a larger tankard?

Laurel: I want a purple teddy bear... It's a big purple moo-pee. [come now. what?]

Jared: Aliens eat pickles by the toaster... [actually, that one stayed pretty consistent.]

Mom: Isaac's fingers give me the willies.... Dad's fingers are little Willys.

Tommy: Why did the polar bear cross the road?... To get to the other side.

Dad: All things excellent are as rare as they are difficult to obtain... LDS democrats are rare and amazing...

Kate: You are all nincompoops... Kshuh Kshuh Kshuh pixy poop. To which my dad replied, "Well, I'd rather have the pixies; I don't know what a Nincom is-- at least I know what size of shovel I need."

By this time I was laughing so hard I could not, in fact, see through the tears that streamed down my face, but I wiped them away long enough to see my mother attempting to hide her own laughter.

Ah, dinner time at the Hales' home.

A small thought

2008-12-18T16:54:00.003-07:00

My pal asked me yesterday what I needed in my life to be really happy-- he corrected himself, "--to be really content?"

I laughed it off, not sure how to respond: friends make me happy, avocados make me happy, good grades make me happy, Christmas will make me happy.

"I think I need to study my scriptures better." he answered his own question.

I love friends that quietly, intentionally or no, point out that I need to reevaluate my priorities.

Picture print by currier & ives

2008-11-28T20:02:00.008-07:00

I love Karen Carpenter. She is the voice of Christmas. In fact, it's not Christmas until the day after Thanksgiving when Mom turns on the Carpenters. I hear, like herald angels announcing the season, those first notes: "It cayme upon a midnight cleeer!" And thus the season is ushered in, safely after we have Given Thanks.

This year though, I had a change of heart and Christmas began a little early.

Last weekend Bryan and I stopped by SmartCookie for some dessert. It was still days before Thanksgiving, but ice cream shops all over Provo were already breaking out the eggnog and peppermint flavors. Of course, I would never pick a Christmas flavor before the official inauguration of the season, but something suddenly over came me and I heard myself asking for "two gingersnaps with peppermint, please."

What? Blasphemy!

The girl handed me the ice cream sandwich, and for a moment I stood stunned by my sudden rebellion against all that is holly and ivy.

But gingersnaps are my favorite, and the peppermint smelled so much like childhood...

One taste was all it took and I became a forever-changed woman!

"This tastes just like Christmas!"

By the time we climbed into the car and cranked up the Christmas carols (I love Karen Carpenter!), I couldn't quite remember why I had whined for all these years about pre-Turkeyday Yuletide Joy!

Moral of the story: I love Karen Carpenter. Did I mention that?

I am thankful for the scientific discoveries of pavlov

2008-11-24T18:19:00.008-07:00

I didn't really consider the implications of a vegetarian Thanksgiving until Jacob mentioned cooking up his 20lb turkey. And then I started salivating.

What is thanksgiving without that crispy skin which clings to the sweet, flaky flesh of a basted and stuffed bird? Without gravy or liver? This is moral dilemma to a new extreme.

And, oh! the Friday Sandwiches, with all the leftovers spread and piled between two thick bread slices.

Thanksgiving is flag-football with the Copes and Grandma's orange rolls; it's fold-out tables borrowed from the church and that yam dish my mommy makes. But never has November's 4th Thursday been a real celebration without a dead, plucked and roasted bird.

hmm. Tofurkey?

Appeal

2008-11-17T10:27:00.012-07:00

The Meringue House
Provo, UT 84604

November 2008

Oxford English Dictionary
Oxford University Press
Great Clarendon St.
Oxford OX2 6DP

To Whom it May Concern:

I am generally a prescriptivist grammarian, though I recognize the merits of the descriptivist school; I believe it is the tradition of our language that gives authority to English teachers and editors. So it is you, the prescribers of our language, to whom I apply.

You recognize the manifold responsibilities of the English language to communicate not simply in strings of well-defined but ill-fitting words, but rather through the art of connotation and well-crafted syntax. For example, admonitions such as “have a heart” or “look sharp” are nonsense if understood literally, but said thus, these idioms mean more than their component parts. Even more so, compound words play on the unity of their form: sunshine- a single unit of verb and its subject, or together, or themselves. The form of each highlights the intrinsic unity of the two-words-made-one and so speaks more than each word might alone.

And so I have reached the substance of my appeal: it seems most logical that eachother, as a compound word, be added to the dictionary. Standing separate each and other cannot convey the unity necessary as two friends hug eachother, or two lovers clasp eachother’s hands. I ask you to take this suggestion under serious consideration, recognizing your solemn responsibility to protect and nurture the purity and correctness of our English Language.

Communication is the stuff of our souls given a common voice, and our written language ought to reflect the depth of these souls.

Sincerely,

a girl

The ovid-mcfarlane test

2008-11-08T14:15:00.009-07:00

Part I

Please take out your copybooks. On my mark, you will be given ten (10) minutes to unscramble the following words. There may be more than one correct answer for some words. Please try to find at least one correct answer for each scrambled word.

After the ten (10) minutes, please answer the questions in Part II.

Go.

1.rapiuoh

2.iieergfl

3.hiacd

4.naalct

5.iinnarcad

6.ynnfet

7.ttyoban

8.taeynsrc

Stop.

Part II

What is your age?
What is your gender?
What level of education have you attained?

How many questions in Part I did you answer?

How many questions in Part I do you think you answered correctly?

On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being hardly and 10 being very, how would you rate the difficulty of the above exercise?

On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being poorest and 10 being excellentest, how would you rate your performance on the above exercise?

Do you consider yourself a narcissist?… Ok, they don’t ask this question. But they ask a whole stream of questions to see if you are, i.e. On a scale of 1-10, how cool are you?

Stop writing now.

Please hand in your copybooks to your teacher, or head of class.

Your answer sheets will be tabulated and then destroyed.
There are minimal risks associated with this study.

...wanna know the answers?

stay tuned.

I'm just messing with you.
I am a psych major.

Answers

2008-11-08T00:02:00.003-07:00

(The following is intended for human test subjects who have completed The Ovid-Mcfarlane test and who have sent their results to The Committee for the Study and Repression of Narcissistic Tendencies to be tabulated)

The Ovid-Mcfarlane test is a measure of the reaction of narcissists to an impossible task.

If you scored negative for narcissism (see final question of Part II), you're results are unimportant to us and will be ignored.

If you scored positively for narcissism, then you were probably frustrated with the questions in Part I, and most likely thought you did really well, considering.

You didn't do well, because you can't.

For anyone who is interested, only three of the scrambled sets of letters unscramble to actual words: 2, 5, 8.

This is a test. This is only a test. In case of an actual study this would be followed and proceeded by a tome of legal release and disclosure forms.

Thank you for your participation,

The Committee for the Study and Repression of Narcissistic Tendencies.

October remains

2008-10-23T22:55:00.004-06:00

The sunshine that was savored by the summer-lush leaves has seeped through every vein and now is shining and falling from crisp branches. Like sunbeams on the wrong side of autumn-grey quilted clouds.

The grass crunched this morning with the gasp of first frost. These mornings, the air is heady with fresh celebration of cold; sparking and sharp. I wore a red sweater because joy like new winter is too glorious for my usual drab.

The vestiges of summer are being buried slowly beneath the walnut trees, and the close mountains are frosted in orange. Once the shadows have swallowed dim twilight, winter tickles the darkness with chill breeze.

I think hot chocolate is in order.

Teacher evaluation

2008-10-17T00:23:00.003-06:00

Explain this course in fifteen words or less:

Reading load is heavy,
like your accent: monotone.
But heaviest of all are
my eyelids.

I do

2008-10-10T19:07:00.014-06:00

I've got this thing for history. It landed me in a dead-end major which I loved intensely, but which provided me with minimal marketable skills. As my ANES 101 class reminded me weekly, you have two options as an Ancient Near Eastern Historian: museum curator ("And here we have the bronze beard of the late Amenhotep II, 7th Pharaoh of the 18th dynasty of Egypt") or translator of obscure languages ("ראיתי אש ירדת מהשמים ונפלת אירושלם"*). By-the-bye, The Next Indiana Jones is no longer a viable/marketable option.

So this year, I picked a new major with a few more post-grad options, but history still pulls at my heartstrings.

I was just reading about Roman marriages- here in Happy Valley I get my fill of the Mormon variety, but the Roman wedding ceremonies were different in a beautiful and exotic way.

The bride wore saffron- I'd like to do my wedding in saffron maybe with burgundy?- and around her waist she knotted a braided rope to represent fidelity. The ceremony began at the bride's home, where her parents gave her away and the bride and groom exchanged their vows:

"Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia."
Where you are Gaius, there I am Gaia.
Where you are Father, I am Mother.

"Ubi to Gaia, ego Gaius"
Where you are Gaia, there I am Gaius.
Where you are Mother, I am Father.

Gaia, the Mother Goddess, the Earth, is the first goddess of fertility; as these young couples took eachother's hands in covenant, they promised to be parents together, to raise a family together. For the Romans, the purpose of marriage was family.

I'm not exactly jumping at the bit to get hitched, but I wonder sometimes how marriage would be different today if our vows were made not only to eachother but also to our children. Ought we not also promise to have and to hold our children till death do us part? Marriage becomes even more selfless when you see it that way.

I feel like now would be a good time for the music to start... "Family-- isn't it about time?" But see, here's the thing: It is really all about family. Marriage I mean. I think the Roman's had that bit pretty strait.

Vote yes on Prop 8.

*"I saw fire descend from the sky and fall upon Jerusalem." Or something to that effect.

Multivariate increase of m.c.escher’s popularity

2008-10-07T13:40:00.003-06:00

All I can say is I wish I'd thought of this first.

Growing apple trees

2008-09-30T16:38:00.004-06:00

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree...
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
"Trees" by Joyce Kilmer

There are apple trees growing in my front yard. That delicate reach of leafy arms someone once called lifted in prayer, the smooth stretch of young bark, tugs at my soul and my own arms ache to reach upward.

But actually my apple trees don't. The last gardener was training them to bend out along the fence-line, all around the roses. So they sit flat and squat like a child's drawing: six even arms protruding from a fence-high trunk. The sweet green apples sit on the hard ground where the branches have bowed to lay them. I ate one after school last week and it tasted of grass and sunshine and a bit like summer rain.

But the gardener's left or moved on or retired. The roses need clipping and the geraniums need weeding. The apple trees are sending out odd limbs vertically; they look skewampus for their reaching and remind me to prune this week.

Some days I am an apple-tree fence. But today I am a renegade twig that can't help but stretch out of bounds to pray.

Litmus test

2008-09-20T23:21:00.004-06:00

School House Rock would have its young and impressionable viewers believe that the Pursuit of Happiness chiefly involves chasing after young colonial women and is therefore reserved for young athletic colonial men.

My dear Reader, may I impress upon you the ridiculousness of this claim by suggesting a few simple pleasures in my own Pursuit of Happiness:

1. Cheap white nail polish—the kind so thin it runs down your nails clear and pools into French tips. A very sophisticated and classy look for only $1.07 at your local Dollar Tree.

2. Ceramic Scrabble tiles—smooth edges and a soft, hefty, cool feel. Rattling around they make a satisfying clinkety sound.

3.(Vegetarian) EggMcMuffins for breakfast—toasted English muffin with sharp cheddar and egg over-easy. Definitely to be eaten over the sink; drippy yoke and all comes off as quite barbaric even sans the Canadian bacon. For culinary perfection, serve with a tall glass of tomato juice.

Red pine lake

2008-09-13T17:07:00.001-06:00

I fell in love this weekend again with my mountains. On California’s tree-lined streets and wrapped in her bay-fog I forgot the sweet breath and wide embrace of the mountains I have loved.

Friday afternoon we threw together some gear and strapped on our packs. The head of the trail was deceptively flat, paved and civilized, but as soon as the cars were swallowed from view the path crumbed into gravel and then into a damp creek bed.

My lungs were sore form the valley’s pollution and my legs tired from its concrete stairs. But I was in my mountains and my soul laughed at the red of the wild berries, the whisper of yellow in the leaves, the soft cool of wet air that kissed my thirsty skin.

True love is waking up to the cold of pre-dawn, the air burning against your face. It’s the smell of dew on the living earth that fills your nostrils and fills your head— alluring, enticing. It’s the bright of first sun that washes slowly down the mountainface to fill the dark lake and warm the shadows. It’s waking up aching all over from loving the climb too much.

But Saturday is laundry day and homework and housework so now I’m back in my house in the valley, sitting by the window wondering what my mountain is doing.

From the library of m. f. hales

2008-09-06T17:30:00.008-06:00

I have of late been looking for a few new good books. I was about to label “good” as the operative word here, but I believe the significant terms in this passage are “good”, “new” and “books”. I have recently had my fill of bad old movies, shocking fresh news, and ridiculous fugitive pranks, so I think a nice new good book would be just the ticket.

A while ago Cait passed on a warning “Always read stuff that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.”

As in “I wouldn’t get caught dead reading…”

So, with all this in mind, imagine my joy when right in my very own inbox I found a message from Amazon.com, "Amazon.com has new recommendations for you based on items you purchased" and of course based on the predictions of the Amazon.com Crystal Ball. I read on with mounting anticipation:

Veronica, by Roger Duvoisin— Veronica, a hippopotamus who wants to stand out from the herd and be famous, travels to the big city where she indeed does stand out…

Saving Juliet, by Suzanne Selfors— Selfors injects an angst-ridden 17-year-old Manhattan actress into Shakespeare's star-crossed romance, yielding hilarious and often very clever results…

Shark Girl, by Kelly Bingham— Jane, 15, is smart, good-looking, and the best artist in her school. After a shark attack at a local beach, nothing is the same…

Useful Fools, by C.A. Schmidt—What makes a terrorist?

All I’ve got to say is Amazon.com better have nothing to do with my obit.

On the campain track

2008-09-05T10:13:00.011-06:00

Now that I talk to adults again, politics figure more heavily in my conversation than they have in recent months. But I'm not sure if I oughtn't to have discussed elections with the kiddies anyway- this seems right up their alley:

"I guess I’ll go with the McCain cockroach. I think he’s got gentler eyes.”

The New Jersey Pest Management Association organised a cockroach race representing the presidential contest. John McCain’s roach won, but ominously appeared to fall asleep the moment it crossed the finishing line. MyCentralJersey.com, August 21st

Hmm.

Pieces of me

2008-09-01T22:19:00.004-06:00

I saw some old friends today: dinner with my best buds, dessert with my old neighborhood, and I realized these friends are a piece of my soul that I had forgotten I had lost. And now I am found, Back home.

Home is where you keep the most boxes.

Also. Home is where you are whole.

Pumpkin pie and the friendship-day present

2008-08-27T16:40:00.003-06:00

Once upon a time is a good beginning for a story, particularly a Pumpkin Pie story, which this is, because it’s a story about Pumpkin Pie.

Pumpkin Pie lived with her mother and father, her three sisters, Peach, Plum, and Pecan, and her brother named Chicken.

One day a new family moved into the house next door. They had a pet boa constrictor and a toucan, and books and books full of pictures from all the far away places they had lived. But most importantly they had a little girl just Pumpkin’s age.

Her name was Annabelle, and she and Pumpkin Pie became best friends right away. They had tea parties and played Monopoly. Annabelle taught Pumpkin how to sing songs in a funny language, and Pumpkin taught Annabelle how to jump rope double-dutch.

One day in school, Pumpkin’s teacher announced it was National Friendship Week. Pumpkin Pie ran home after school. She wanted to do something special for her best friend, Annabelle

“Mommy, It’s Friendship Week! Can we make a present for Annabelle?”

Together Pumpkin and her mother made a delicious batch of cinnamon rolls. They wrapped them in pink cellophane with a note: “Happy Friendship Week!” and tiptoed over to Annabelle’s house. They set the plate on the front porch, Pumpkin gave the doorbell a hard ring, and Pumpkin Pie and her mother ran back to their own house.

It wasn’t too much longer before there was a ring at Pumpkin’s door. She opened the door so fast, she caught sight of Annabelle running across the lawn. Pumpkin smiled, there on her front porch was a box that said “For Pumpkin, my best friend!”

Pumpkin carried the box to the table, and carefully lifted off the lid. Imagine her surprise when she found only a pile of mud in the bottom! Pumpkin Pie began to cry.

“Why Pumpkin, what ever is the matter?” her mother asked.

“I thought Annabelle was my friend, but all she gave me was a box of mud!”

“Oh, I’m sure she is your friend, maybe where Annabelle comes from it’s nice for friends to give eachother mud.”

“I don’t think so! I think she’s mean!”

“Maybe you should ask her, I’m sure Annabelle would explain.”

But Pumpkin Pie was so angry she didn’t even talk to Annabelle all day. Pumpkin dumped the box of mud out her window and she just sat in her room and sulked.

All week Pumpkin Pie wouldn’t talk to her best friend. She ran home from school fast before Annabelle could catch up. When Annabelle came by to play with her, Pumpkin Pie pretended to be busy. Pumpkin didn’t answer the phone, and she wouldn’t sit with her at lunch.

It wasn’t until the next Friday that Pumpkin Pie looked out her window and saw some little green seedlings growing out the pile of mud.

And it wasn’t until much, much later, when the small seedlings had sprouted into a bed of beautiful flowers, that Pumpkin Pie finally understood: there are many different ways for people to say “I love you.”

My mommy told me this story or something like it. I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently for a number of reasons; I hope I have changed much in the 15 years since Mom made it up the first time, but I’m still not sure how the story ends.

Good morning starshine

2008-08-16T10:49:00.004-06:00

This week I’ve noticed that I sing a lot. I’m sure it’s because in just over 36 hours the Wilson household went from Filled To Capacity to Me, and I have been singing to fill the silence.

I would here like to take a moment to expound upon the term “Filled To Capacity”: This lovely, four-bedroom Tudor was home to, besides me and Jane in the cottage, Auntie Lynne, Uncle Dow, Mariah, Abe, Pete, Hannah, Becky, plus Mom, Christian, Kate, Tommy, plus Johnny, Mikey, Levi, plus sometimes Adam, and whoever else came to dinner—the old piano teacher, the flute teacher, the Mia Maids, some friends from Europe, Adam’s classmates etc. etc. etc. “Me” refers to the mass exodus of everyone else to various corners of the country, while I remained to keep house. The silence, which is: actually hearing the soft purr of my laptop, has been a bit of a shock. So I sing.

Besides my best Jazz standards and the latest Broadway hits, I have been digging up a few old childhood favorites. While taking my girls for a picnic Wednesday, I suddenly remembered this timeless classic; I think it was Ava’s hysterical screams at a nearby bee that triggered the wave of nostalgia:

Shoo fly, don’t bother me,
Shoo fly, don’t bother me,
Shoo fly, don’t bother me,
For I belong to somebody.

I feel, I feel, I feel,
I feel like a morning star.
I feel, I feel, I feel,
I feel like a morning star.

Rising? Faint? Unnoticed? I’m not really sure how a morning star is supposed to feel.

Not even wensleydale?

2008-08-13T21:07:00.005-06:00

So, I’m reading this great book about changing your life completely just by being ridiculously honest about yourself. So I’d like to practice here:

Confession #1: I ate the whole box of Trader Joe crackers,

Confession #2: in just four days,

Confession #3: and I’m not sorry. Except I am sorry that Mom took the rest of the smoked Gouda.

Well, I feel so much better.

5:57

2008-08-12T22:08:00.003-06:00

The loneliest part of living
alone
is not the clock, which chimes
unheard
all day,
or the radio, left on,
forgotten,
entertaining the kitchen wall,
or the feeble light of the telephone
blinking
because no one answered,
or even the dripping faucet which,
unnoticed,
bothers no one’s conscience,

but the back door,
which is locked,
and shuffling for my keys,
I have time to consider
that the dishes are still undone,
that I’ll have to go shopping soon,
that dinner conversation will be the comics again,
that my footsteps will fill the whole void
because there is no one here to play the piano.

Carrot tops

2008-08-08T00:12:00.007-06:00

The door opens on Hannah and Becky lounging on my sofa, scooping out fingerfulls of nutella.

Hannah: Hi!
Becky: Write about Hanny and the nutella! uproarious giggling.
Hannah: Look Mally! Crams her whole hand in the jar of nutella.
Me: I'm gonna' call you Hannah-Banan-n'tella. Ella for short.
Becky: More giggling as Hannah licks off her whole hand.
Hannah: I think I have nutella up my nose.
Becky: I like that picture. But I think it's ugly.
Hannah: I have to go to the library.
Becky: Can I have some nutella?
Hannah: There's no more.
    Pulls out another fistful.
    What's everyone laughing at?
Becky: Snatches away the jar. Exit left into my bathroom.
    from off stage Wow! that's really messy nutella.
Hannah: I'm a messy nutella.
Me: You're face is a messy nutella.
Hannah: I know.
Enter Becky scraping empty jar.
Becky: Let's go buy some more.
Hannah: I have to go to the library.
Curtain.

Wake up call

2008-08-03T23:53:00.010-06:00

This morning I woke up at two minutes to six, as I do every morning—it’s possibly the only thing I learned in school that I have not yet forgotten, but instead of rolling over and back to sleep, I shook myself awake. Something was clinging to my ankle. In the half-lucid haze of waking I muddled my dream about street sweepers with the smell of unfamiliar sheets—then I remembered.

I’m playing mom again this weekend for Chubby, Ty-ty, Sadie and Matthew and Allie. The hand in my bed was Sadie’s. Halfway through last night’s Broadway production I called Bedtime! (“You’ll laugh! You’ll cry! You’ll refuse to wear pajamas! A 2½ hour smash-hit for the whole family!”) Sadie announced she would be sleeping in my bed. Sure. Just go to bed. I was busy wrestling a screaming Chubby onto the changing table.

When the final curtain closed on the five sleeping kids, Ty-ty’s bloody nose had been staunched, Allie had called her mother 5 times to say goodnight, Matthew had moved all his sleeping things into Ty-ty’s room, Chubby had been rocked to sleep, twice, and Sadie was sleeping, sprawled across the bed, on both pillows, snoring. As I curled up at the foot of the bed, trying to burry my head in the covers, Allie came in, dragging her sleeping bag and pillow. She’s 12, but even 12-year-olds can be scared to sleep alone.

But I was the only one awake at 5:58 am: lying upside down in bed listening to the quiet breathing of early-morning sleeping. I carefully pulled my ankle loose and opened wide the bedroom’s French doors: the early, fresh cool sifted into the room and I lay back down. I must have fallen asleep then because it was nearly an hour later when my dream (that lanky street sweeper again, and in a Hawaiian-print shirt from the bowling alley?) became entangled with the whining of a fire truck.

Grumble, grumble, EPA! I rolled over and pulled the covers to my ears…

“Fire! Fire!” It was Allie, wide-awake and panicked.

The sirens were still singing out alarum bells, and I realized they were on our street. I sat up, and scanned the room, surprisingly calm for the frantic note I could hear in Allie’s voice. No fire, no smoke, Sadie was still sound asleep, only Allie stood cowering in the middle of the room. She whimpered and looked out the big windows— then I saw it too. Across the backyard and above the neighbor’s roof, dark gray smoke churned into the sky.

Mesmerizing, really—thick air so dirty with fire’s choking vomit, like crumpled velvet draping on the great magnolias that ringed their yard.

“There’s a fire!” Allie was crying now, and I snapped the porch doors closed.

“It’s okay,” I tried to console her, "Do you want to help me check on everyone, make sure they're okay? The firefighters are already there, we're all safe, everything is going to be fine…”

She was, in fact, inconsolable, and preferred to pace the room, alternately crying and staring at the smoke in silence.

When the dark gray finally turned to white steam, I coaxed her away from the window,

“Allie, it’s going to be okay.”

“I’m just so scared!”

“Of what, honey?”

She shook her head,

“I’m just scared!”

I didn’t know what to say.

Welcome, welcome Sabbath morning.

Accio butterbeer!

2008-07-31T21:02:00.003-06:00

For no particular reason, while standing at the top of the stairs, I suddenly remembered it was Harry Potter's Birthday. I noted it to Mariah and we shared a spontaneous Harry Potter birthday handshake.

I don't know why shaking hands seemed like the best thing to do. But it did at the time.

Happy 28th Harry!

Travel log iii: sneakers at the ritz

2008-07-26T23:00:00.011-06:00

Yesterday we drove to The City because it was Saturday and beautiful and because Cam promised to show us around his city if ever we came for a visit. Getting out the door, there was some small todo about wardrobe; Auntie Lynne couldn't find her new hat, Becky wouldn't wear her pink dress, but we finally piled into the Merc: Mariah, Becky, Aunt Lynne and me- off for a little touristing, a quick bite to eat and Kate's concert that evening.

I should have payed more attention when Auntie Lynne handed me a black blouse to bring "in case Cam dresses up too. Though I guess you two can go cazh together." But I couldn't imagine Kate's concert was a formal sort of thing and I felt plenty dressed up for that in loose khakis, a cute knit top and my favorite slip on sneakers. I had intended to iron my pants, but I opted to wash my hair instead—what more can you ask for on a lazy July morning?

Cam lives in a neat mid-century modern house overlooking the Pacific. The hills in San Francisco are such that every three block offers some amazing view, but as Cam led us out to his back porch, I gasped at the picture-postcard he wakes up to every morning: The fog had cleared for an unusually clear day and the checkerboard of colorful rooftops spread across the mid-summer green of hills rippling down to the ocean. Church spires marked some cathedral in the distance and wooded hills to the south cradled the scene.

I think I could have snapped a couple pictures there and called it a day, but you can't visit SanFran without a drive through the Presidio, pictures in front of The Bridge, a walk down Pier 39, and a stopandgo drive around China Town. The Golden Gate bridge was breathtakingly beautiful with the flakes of sailboats scattered below and the hazy hills of the continent rising out of the dark bay on the other side. But even that picture seemed ordinary after Cam's backyard view. We did visit a stunning church in the Italian district; just in time to wish some newlyweds goodbye, admire the intricate architecture and slip out before the next bride and groom arrived. But by then it was 4 o'clock and time for tea.

And I finally understood the hat, pink dress and the black blouse. Four o'clock is teatime at the Ritz Carlton, which is, of course, the only place to go if you're out and about in SanFran on a hot Saturday afternoon.

Valet parking, brocade couches and me in my favorite sneakers, sipping peppermint tea—onesugarandcream. Of course I declined the salmon caviar sandwiches for the vegetarian tea of eggplant pesto on rye, and bell-pepper-cream on crackers. And scones with clotted cream, little biscuits and dainty pastries with jam from tiny jars. Naturally, a woman with long wavy hair played the harp in the background—a selection of Disney classics for the table of little girls wearing pretty dresses and swinging their legs. The five of us sat primly and gossiped (about ourselves, who else?) and tried to act posh. Just a few friends up for a day in The City.

And me in my favorite sneakers.

Mommy talk

2008-07-23T20:34:00.011-06:00

This one's for Jo.

I see now that I've oversimplified the thing. Mommying I mean. With all due humility, I confess I've been foolish and naïve. A few years of changing diapers is hardly qualification. Of course this too will be foolishness in years to come, when I have some. Kids of my own, of course.

But this summer's been good preschool for the degree no one is ever awarded— you never graduate from being Mom. You just have tests all the time, 24-7 homework and laundry to do besides. Textbooks are hard to come by, and the study group is just you and Dad. Course objectives? I think I'll start with keeping the little darlings alive: Mark crashed his bike and Cal cut open his food, I stopped Ava from eating paint today and four-year-old Tommy from jumping in the pool. I'm sure my own children will be at least that creative.

But then I have to wonder, am I protector first or teacher? Maybe a little paint would do Ava good. Do I make their beds because I love them or do I love them enough to teach them to? If I just fought the TV-battle and the homework-battle and the jumping-off-the-garage-roof-battle, should I really ask him to pick up his socks right this minute? Should I ask an hysterical child to say her bedtime prayers? Is time-out really for his good, or should I be the one sitting in my room?

There are no answers yet, really. Even kids know "maybe" means you weren't listening. Or it means you're lying and "no".

So I just have questions but what more can you bring with you to the beginning of a new school?

Trivialities

2008-07-16T22:42:00.015-06:00

I think mothering is the closest mankind will get to manipulating the timespace continuum. Not like I know, but Mr. & Mrs. InHawaiiForaWeek are loaning me their six children, and three dimensions just aren't enough to contain these little kids: Two-year-old Sandy runs on rocket fuel I’m convinced, and it takes all the running you can do just to keep up with her. Mark is seven and talks at the pace of a tree growing, but you must stand still and listen; he only talks slow and knows if you’re not paying him mind. Try listening to him closely, while catching Sandy as she streaks out the back door. And Mia has her own four-year-old speed, sort of sluggish between the hours of 7 and 1, but then like some supernova she explodes (about the time she should take a nap).

You can try to dole out your time as you like: 18 minutes to boil noodles, 13 minutes to load the car, 38 minutes to run the wash, but you have to measure out enough time to loose gallantly at cards to Kali, who’s ten. And listen to Mark, Gregory and Mia all relate the story of the April Fools Prank. And get milk for Kali, water for Sandy, no ice for Mark, sippy cup for Mia, and the phone is ringing for Bradly, turn off the movie, sweep the floors (again?), push their swings, wash the dishes, turn off the TV, change the diaper, preheat the oven, phone’s ringing, someone spilled! can I eat this? help me say please no thank you stop pool park dinner dishes, empty the trash, water the geraniums, and imagine—I still have time to read (after Goodnight Moon, Little Bear, Hop on Pop OnefishtwofishFancyNancySleepingbeautyblueberriesforsal) my book.

Out of the mouth of babes

2008-07-11T21:35:00.002-06:00

"Are you mawwied?"
"Nope, not yet."
"Oh yeah, 'cause you have wittle dots awl over your face... Fle- Fwwweckles."

Back at the old game

2008-07-09T21:54:00.005-06:00

My boys finally tired of Pirates after two months of walking the plank and avasting ye lubbards in the back yard. I suppose two months is a long time when you're three and four years old, and it had now lost it's scurvy charm, as had hide-and-go-seek, duckduckgoose, and bubble wands. When I wouldn't let them watch the Backyardigans ("But you never let us watch kids shows and i just wanna watch TV all day!") Tyrannosaurus Caden decided it was high time I was dismembered or at least severely disfigured. Luckily I learned my dinoskills from the Velociraptor Master Morgan Gibbons, so I gave a jurassic squawk and hoisted my assassin onto the couch. Needless to say, the T. Rex was no match for my tickling claws.

Cal, once his older brother was incapacitated with giggles, leaped from the coffee table like some sabertooth spider monkey. He landed on me, and more tickling ensued. Caden burrowed under the cushions in escape, and, burying the monkey under floral print pillows, I flapped my wings and stated after my escaping prey. It was halfway around the dining room table, mid raptor leap and squawk, that I became suddenly very aware of life. At which point I started laughing. My life is completely ridiculous sometimes.

"Hey! Chase me! Dinosaurs don't just laugh!"

Oh excuse me. "Squawk!"

Sabbath day observance

2008-07-06T20:10:00.007-06:00

I keep a notebook full of the ways I see God in my life each day. Some entries relate His nature's beauty, some His encouraging trials, all describe the tender mercy of my God who never forgets me.

Yesterday He gave me rain. Rain in torrents that veiled the windows and littered the forest's leaves to its floor. Lightening that lit up the sky more beautifully than any fireworks show. Thunder that rumbled like the deep breathing of the earth itself; I had forgotten the way thunder jostles the air and ripples through you- tangible.

Mrs. Lobauch let me sit on her porch to watch the heavens empty on her sodden Carolina forest. My parents sat inside to chat, but I sat in a stiff deck chair and let the heavy wet air embraced me. Here I breathed in thick breaths of my favorite air on earth.

This morning smelled like the sweet wet of a Carolina summer storm. This is the smell of home. They pray for rain here to water their summer-parched earth. I pray to thank God for His rain that watered my desert-parched soul.

Buried treasure

2008-07-05T09:57:00.003-06:00

34.479 N
77.445 W

Seriously.
If you can find it, we'll even let you keep it.

Uncle Greg buried it for the little kids on Tuesday, but their pirate-y treasure-finding skills were no match for his pirate-y burying skills. Actually, everyone looked for it. And it's still safely buried.

Looks like this round goes to Cap'n Greg.

Building sandcastles

2008-07-04T10:47:00.014-06:00

Fourth of July at the beach is the coconut smell of sunscreen, sand in your ears (and nose, eyes and hair), Grandma's giant bucket of licorice, and most of all my daddy's sandcastles. In our backyard we build tree forts, and on graph paper he sketches space stations, but on the Carolina coastline he turns sand into towers, walls and palaces: a fortress for an afternoon.

He started after breakfast. With the shovel and a few buckets-- "see, we'll carve out a channel here and the water'll sort of wash out to a delta over there... this hole we'll dig down to the water table and the moat can drain into here..."

A bridge, a tunnel, two fortresses with access roads, a giant hill in the dry moat-lake, and towers of drip castles on every level. Daddy took a lunch break, but just for a bit; low tide is the very best time for building.

He looked a bit like a kid out there, kneeling in the middle of his piles of sand, patting down the walls, and dribbling up the towers. I built up the battlements, the guard hills and towers. Jack got knighted Head Castle Protector and helped dig out the moat. Sussy and Brigham picked shells for decoration and the neighbors came by to stare.

"Will it be there tomorrow?" the little boy asked.

"We'll see." said his dad.

"Not a chance." I promised.

About dinner time the tide rolled in, just like it always will, and we finally stood back from our masterpiece and watched it slowly melt.

"You know, I was thinking we should've set up a camera and made stop-motion clips of it washing out."

"I was thinking the same thing! But we should show the whole thing build up first and then wash out."

"There goes the first bridge!"

"Yeah, didn't expect that one to last long"

Daddy chuckled, "Nothing's supposed to last long— it is a sandcastle."

Topsail Island, 6:45 am

2008-07-01T08:17:00.009-06:00

The Ocean entices too many off the creative brink called Poetry, like some siren song seducing every vacationer's pen. It is glorious to see the horizon curve around, full to the brim with greyblue. And the gangly seabirds that peck in the surf simply beg to be likened to something. Perhaps it's the early sunlight: blinding pink to the east, stretching my lanky shadow to the west. But I'm determined not to compose another beached whale of clichés. In fact, I'd rather just sit, still. Left well enough alone, the Ocean is its own poetry.

Perhaps

2008-06-29T17:16:00.003-06:00

silence is the most beautiful language:

which spoken with the ear comprehends
the tongues of discontent, of frustration
to which voice gives understanding
that turns to thought
to plan
to hope

which comprehends and counsels
in a dialect of love

Perhaps that language
sounds most sweetly
of Above.

Les mots justes

2008-06-26T00:22:00.005-06:00

Abe's back from Scout camp so we swapped riddles over dinner tonight: the answers are all English words from common vocabulary.

A five letter word that reads the same with four letters cut off.
           -6th grade EEE

Two definitions and two ways to pronounce
two words with the same spelling-
one capitalized, one lowercase.
           -Daddy

Two words nearly identical,
but opposite in gender and number.
The second is made by adding one letter to the first.
           -Unremembered

House of cards

2008-06-24T13:47:00.010-06:00

I learned a new game last week. Sadie taught me Ka-¢hing!, and since we lost the instruction booklet, let me explain just how to play:

Contents
• 29 cash cards in denominations of green-1, red-2, blue-5 and yellow-10
• 35 stock cards of different values and categories
• 2 wild cards "to buy things with"

Set Up
• Deal out cash cards to players—Sadie plays banker:
    “Everyone gets three green ones… and I get two red ones…”
    “I've only got one red.”
    “Well, I get more than you because I’m in charge.”
    “Can I have four yellows then?”
    “No.”
    “Please! Yellow is almost my favorite color.”
    “Well fine, but I get all the blues then…”
• Illegal exchanges are encouraged to facilitate the realistic distribution of wealth.
• Arrange stock cards artistically—Sadie plays stockbroker.

To Play
• Player to banker’s right begins
     “Except I actually get to go first because it’s my game… you just get to buy one card from the top or the bottom—like this…”
• Player selects a card and banker sets the price:
    “That’s three greens and two blues and a yellow… Now you go.”
    “I pick farmland for six”
    "OK, that costs four greens and two blues and tree yellows.”
    “That’s not fair, I’ll just pay a green and a blue.”
    Sadie made her sassiest face, “No. I’m in charge because it’s my game.”
• Play continues regardless.
    “Well, actually now I get to go as many times as I want, ‘cause it’s my house. And you don’t live here.”
    “That’s not the rules.”
    “Ha!… You lose! ‘cause I get all the money in the whole world!”
• Any player who attempts to follow “rules” loses.
• When all the cards have been bought, stolen, or discarded under the rug the game is over; whoever own the game wins.

But I'm not complaining; it kept the banker happy.

Wonder

2008-06-19T22:37:00.002-06:00

I hope
I am never too old
to kneel
on the sidewalk,
face pressed against
the warm ground,
to watch a snail breathe.

Travel log ii: anomalies

2008-06-16T20:58:00.005-06:00

1.
“Walk like a dog across Alma.”

I could have sworn that was the mechanical command from the pedestrian traffic light. In Salt Lake, the walk signs just chirp for crossing. But not so in California.

The voice repeated: “Walk like a dog across Alma.”

I didn’t. But pedaling down Lytton I considered: I sort of look like a dog; hunched over my handlebars, panting in the beating sun.

Incidentally, it doesn’t say that. But a month of crossing at Alma and Lytton, and it still sounds to me like a game of Simon Says:

“Walk like a dog across Alma.”

2.
I call the cyclist Algernon because he has long curly hair that looks like an Algernon’s hair, and because of his penny-farthing bike, which looks like the bicycle of an Algernon.

I first saw him a few weeks ago, riding at the far end of Bryant. He waved and smiled and I realized I had been staring at him balanced on that ridiculous thing. The penny-farthing is really a graceful looking bicycle: the seat is perched on the enormous front wheel with a thin frame bending to hold on the back wheel, which is tiny and looks like an afterthought; the whole contraption reminds me of a picture I once saw diagraming the butterfly's proboscis.

And I rather expect the thing to capsize at every moment, but today I saw him trundling away full speed down University Av. Apparently Algernon has everything under control.

The circus comes to town

2008-06-13T22:21:00.005-06:00

Me.
I am the circus.

Ty-ty, Chubby, Sadie and I, rolling into Eleanor Park, were spectacle enough to put Barman and Bailey to shame. As a general rule, these children are a spectacle—no, that's unfair: Sadie is always a spectacle; she likes to cut her own hair, wear her pajamas all day, and live every moment at full, four-year-old volume.

The boys, on the other hand, are as quiet as their sister is loud and are prone to morosity. Chubby can’t talk yet and Ty-ty, when he hasn’t locked himself in the computer room, only mumbles where he finds it absolutely necessary.

Like when we visited the bats at the children’s zoo:

“Dija know there’s a bat with six-foot wingspan?”

“What was that Ty-ty?”

“Dija know there’re bats with a six-foot wingspan?”

He's right; it’s called the flying fox bat. Except this zoo just has Egyptian fruit bats.

But they moved last week, the kids I mean, away from the zoo and the museum and the library. So their mom suggested we bike to the park.

Bike? I imagined myself like some mad dog-walker: griping leashes to 15 bicycles, being dragged along by these little energizer bunnies. Funny, in my imagination little carbon-copy Sadies were pedaling all 15 bicycles.

“You can take my bike, it has the baby seat on the back and the Burly’s all hooked up. Ty-ty just likes to wear skates and hang onto the back. I’ll only be gone an hour or so, so just bring them home when they get tired.”

The Burley, I found, is a brightly colored bike trailer—so the bike is transformed into a sort of circus caravan. Oh also, Mom is much taller than I, so I pedaled on tippy-toes. Where is a tutu when you really need one? We only wanted for clown paint. Or streamers or something—a dancing poodle. No matter, the other park goers stared at us all the same; me and my ragamuffins were loud and wild and so full of joy to be out in the sunshine with the grass and trees.

Pedaling tip-toe back down Channing after a rambunctious afternoon of monkey bars and pushing swings, I thought to myself I must remember this when I am Mom. What a good adventure for a lazy afternoon.

May I suggest something from the vegetarian menu?

2008-06-07T23:59:00.001-06:00

In a saucepan, heat a splash of olive oil over medium heat. Add a few teaspoons garam masala, an onion (sliced thinly) and a cup or two of vegetables (bulb fennel, celery, bok choy, etc.) cut in thin strips. Add salt if you like. Cook, stirring ,until onions caramelize. Mix in a handful of dried cranberries and extra firm tofu, crumbled—I like more, some like less. Remove from heat, add chopped cilantro and some pistachios. One time I added fried rice. Another time zucchini. Also eggplant is an excellent addition. And blueberries sub well for the craisins.

Or there’re family-style burgers at 5:00, with garden-fresh lettuce and three types of cheese. The Wilsons always serve their burgers with a variety of French cheeses.