An old-fashioned Christmas tradition

We always decorated our tree a couple of weeks before Christmas when I was still in school and had those nice long breaks, but this year, the tree had to wait until all the kids were home from their working lives to help, until December 23. Decorating the tree in our house always has to be accompanied by appropriate cheery music of the season, and the only Christmas music we have in the house is a Time-Life collection of records. We bought it when I was young, and it seemed definitive to me - all the classics done by (and I know nothing about music here) the best singers (who could argue with Dolly Parton's, Elvis's, and The Jackson Five's legendary statuses?) But the record player has to be at least 20 years old, and the speakers gave out every once in awhile, so I had to run and tinker with them to preserve the proper tree decorating ambiance. Typical of us - we never invest in new technologies unless we absolutely have to. The records just barely got us through this year, but (finally) with a new cd player in the house, we should probably stock up on some cheap Christmas cd's for next year, and, with a few sniffles about the end of an era, we just might have to consider finally chucking that old record player.

The Christmas tree will only be up for the week, but the Christmas spirit that went into assembling it (nurtured by records) is worth the whole season! (Oh, that's so tacky to say, and not really my style, but it's Christmas time, and what else can I write?)

Hope everyone had a very merry Christmas!

Winter drama

In the northeast, people always have a winter weather story – abandoning a car by the side of the road, dealing with no heat for several days, slipping and ending up with a bloody nose. I suppose small gestures in the midst of minor weather disasters can, like a butterfly effect gone haywire, collide and leave you with a serious mess on your hands. Now, in my third winter in the northeast, I have my story (and let’s hope that story is complete).

A couple of weeks ago, I lost my keys. This is a fairly ordinary occurrence for me (second set that disappeared this year), and it left us with one precious car key that I, for some reason, decided to leave on a tiny key ring all by its lonesome rather than attaching it to a larger bunch of keys – I was sure, actually, in my idiotic way, that I would watch that key much more carefully, guard it much more securely if it was on its own. I meant to get another copy made, but just hadn’t gotten around to it (in addition to being forgetful about my keys, I’m also lazy about errands, even important ones).

This weekend, in the midst of a record-breaking snowstorm, I decided to move my car to a safer place. After backing out into our little one-way street, I was distracted by a neighbor, and in a split second of deciding to turn the ignition off and pocket the key before getting out of the car, my little winter adventure began. I returned to my car door, reached into my pocket to find – no key. Check all your pockets. No key. Check inside the car. No key. Check –all those feet of deep white snow around you. Holy sh-- No key. We searched for hours, our car boldly stretched across the entire road, blocking the way for any brave people who ventured down into our neighborhood. There was cursing (much, much cursing), frantic digging on our hands and knees (It has to be within this 10 foot radius!), careful shoveling (we thought we could sift through the snow), and a bit of crying (I just felt so stupid); concerned neighbors (concerned about the street, not about us – They’re going to skip us when they come to plow!), redirected cars (waving our arms – Back back!), telephone calls to AAA (We aren’t doing service in the city now. Only people who are stranded. You’ll have to wait until morning.), and the police (begging them to just tow us away -- Sacre bleu! What a story! And, yeah, absolutely nothing we can do about it now.). Perhaps the sheer elation I felt when the tow truck finally did show up at 4 in the morning (the brave tower got stuck in the mounds and mounds of snow three times, spinning his wheels to no avail, having to get out and dig), was worth at least some of the trouble. Worth even more was the feeling of vulnerable gratitude to my dear, patient, and amazingly sweet husband, who never raised his voice, and spent more time out in the cold than I did through the whole ordeal; it makes me weak in the knees and ready to swoon for him all over again (mushy, but true). And the happy sleep I got Sunday, the warm house, the Christmas wrapping paper spread out everywhere, and the bottle of wine I shared with friends Sunday night were all the more delicious and precious. High drama, at least, can sometimes lead to happier days. I just hope that’s the last of the crises for this winter.

And yes, a new set of keys has arrived (my mom saves the day again), and never, ever, ever again will we be without a spare.

Fundraising Fruit

I remember the days of fund raising only vaguely. I'm probably blocking out all sorts of humiliating moments, standing on neighbor's doorsteps with four-page catalogs of chocolate-covered pretzels and coconut flavored cookies, with nothing but the piddly little ounce of natural charm I could muster up to get me through the experience. And then there was always the easy way out - hand off the catalog to my mother to push on her colleagues. Now that I'm working, it's cosmos payback for all those orders that people placed with me, probably out of pity and with a realistic sense of just how much they actually needed another can of flavored popcorn for the holidays (I have to admit, though, I do love the flavored popcorn). For a mere $25 and a sense of smugness at having made a little girl's list of orders a little bit longer, I am now the proud owner of about 20 oranges and about 15 grapefruits. I'm not sure how we're going to consume so much citrus goodness in the next week before we leave for Christmas, but we will try our little hearts out, and probably end up giving some away (what doesn't make for a nice neighborly Christmas gift but a lovely bouquet of oranges and grapefruits?) I have to admit, fruit is an excellent healthy alternative to all those candies that I used to offer in my catalog. I don't even know what the fund raiser is for (does anybody ever bother to ask?), but I hope she enjoys her new softball uniform, or her new band instrument, or her field trip to Washington D.C. I know I'll enjoy my fruit.

More on late nights (and early mornings)

I remember the exact moment I discovered that I was "not a morning person." A friend of mine turned around in our first-period sophomore History class and asked me a question that demanded a nuanced answer. I must have looked very grumpy and not responded to her liking, because she immediately rolled her eyes and said "You're so grouchy in the morning!" That phrase shocked me out of innocent adolescence like none other. I don't understand! , my mind raced. It's morning...isn't everybody grouchy in the morning? It's before eight a.m., for the love of those evil high school scheduling gods! I was totally flabbergasted that she didn't feel the same way. Could it be that some people actually...like the morning? That some people are perky in the morning? It didn't help that we had a math teacher the year before who was adamantly for changing the high school day to a later time. She was a teeny, tiny woman with a big voice and a very practiced expression for laying down the law in her classes, and she told us with a high, assertive chin that she never got up before 11 on the weekends and that research had shown that high schoolers don't actually fully wake up until 10 a.m., and that we really couldn't expect to absorb much, as a result, those first two hours of lessons (and I thought - yup, that sounds about right). I suppose I just assumed she spoke for absolutely everybody.

I found that my fuzzy mental construction of night versus day people came into much more detailed focus when I befriended a tried and true night person in college. She would show up when the sun was setting, ready for the first meal of her day, sit at dinner with her eyes half closed and declare dryly, You know, the world is ruled by morning people. Morning people control everything. They seem more productive because they're the first to work. They get things done ahead of everyone else. It's really not fair. I'm pretty sure she was a part of some secret night-person society, bandana laden and drawing out plans for a mass conspiracy - some fateful day when no alarms would go off and all storefronts would stay locked and dark until noon. I was always in awe of her ability to go for days without spending time in the sun. She, by the way, remains a good friend, and now has a 9 to 5, confirming her worst fear: they suck you into their life, those morning people. It might take awhile, but they eventually get you.

Late nights

I am by no means a morning person. If there was one thing that deterred me from becoming a high school teacher, it was the early mornings. I come from a family of early risers, and it was always just a bit painful to come downstairs at 10 a.m., bleary eyed with hair going every which way, and find the cheery bunch of them, their fourth cup of coffee in hand, with a list of chores already completed for the day, errands already run. I would say it balanced everything out when they all went to bed early and left the house to my mischievous wiles, but that stopped being fun and started to feel a lot lonelier when I stopped being a teenager.

But I find as I settle into a real working life, things are changing. I am lucky enough in my job to be able to roll out of bed a little after eight, and I've actually gotten quite used to it. I'm finding that late nights just don't do it for me anymore. This weekend, we decided to pretend like we were artsy adventurers and headed off to a late showing of Taxi Driver. The movie began at midnight (or thereabouts), and when we left the house a little after 11, I knew my body was telling me that I was now much more suited to a midnight night cap in some comfy pajamas. Not that I would refuse a late-night party or a rousing night at the bars every once in awhile, but my days of just staying up for the heck of it are over. I doubt I'll ever be up with the early risers, but perhaps next time I'm home, they'll only be on their second cup of coffee, and still in the middle of their morning routines, when I join them, a little less bleary-eyed than before.

Free food

I'm a sucker for free food. You announce that there will be a spread somewhere, and you've got my attention. When I arrive at an event with refreshments, I immediately begin some serious investigating -- how soon is too soon to head to the free food? How interested do I have to act in what's going on before I stuff my face? Have other people helped themselves yet? And if you make me wait through a presentation while the food languishes in the back of the room, spread out and untouched, you can usually find me pretending to be interested in what the speaker is saying while checking my watch, licking my lips, and shooting longing glances at the cookies every so often. What I wouldn't do for free food.

A store close to work recently advertised a small holiday celebration (all day!), complete with refreshments. I internally cheered since I had brought a sad little soup lunch that day, and geared up for a midday visit to the little place. I told coworkers that I still had a bit of Christmas shopping to do, so why not pop in and see what they had? When I swung through the door, hungry for munchies and sweets, I found...nothing. No food. No other customers. Only the blank faces of the clerks. I circled around the place a couple of times, in and out of the aisles, trying to find the buffet table, and wondering if I had gotten the wrong day, or if this was some kind of mean trick. And then I saw it. Right there, up by the cash register. I see your plans, I thought. You aren't going to feed me unless I buy something. And this is where the story gets really sad. Because, I did. I bought something. It wasn't entirely for the food -- I came away with two mediocre Christmas presents for cousins that I rarely see (I got one a candle that supposedly smells like the beach (she misses California), another one of those chrome water bottles...not too bad of a gift, since he's a biker) -- but I would be lying if I said the food didn't play a little part in it. Chips and dip, breads with cheese, and cookies. But, even if my dignity is a little bit bruised, that's two more Christmas gifts I can cross off the list, not to mention a half a lunch. And, I suppose, it was better than walking up, stuffing my face, and leaving the store empty-handed. There's comfort in knowing that I haven't hit rock-bottom quite yet.

Thanksgiving in Philadelphia

Thanksgiving is fast becoming one of my favorite holidays in my adulthood for the very reason it wasn't a favorite when I was a young kid - it's probably the least commercial holiday (although all those poor turkeys might beg to differ). I spent this Thanksgiving in Philadelphia with my family, and I'm proud to say I orchestrated a pretty good meal out of it, with enough time to spare to walk down and see the Thanksgiving day parade -- the only pageantry of the day that might smack a bit of commercialism, what with the Campbell's and Starbucks sponsored booths and all, but we have to be willing to indulge ourselves a bit, right? It's in the spectacle of holidays and big events that Philadelphia blushes in slight embarrassment to our big, more successful sister two hours north. Macy's day parade, we learned from television, had a guest list so stuffed with stars it could have been a galaxy of its own. Philadelphia, on the other hand, does its best with floats of Elmo and Frosty, and tries to get at least some mileage out of the star power of Miss New Pennsylvania. Some soap opera star was at the bottom of the art museum steps (not being a soap opera watcher, I wouldn't know who), and sang a version of "I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus," complete with choreography by not-so-burley men. Not much competition for the endless concerts given by the likes of Shakira and Justin Timberlake in New York. We in Philly will smile sweetly, thank Santa for his appearance, and hope we can dazzle them with Mummer's on New Year's day.

We'll always be the quieter, slightly less successful sister that people forget about, but we've got a charm all our own, too. We'll be proud of being a bit less overwhelming, and a bit more accessible for real living. And, of course, we'll always have Rocky.

The beginning of a mini-marathon

Benjamin Franklin Boulevard, cutting from City Hall all the way up to the Art Museum, is normally a main feature in any Philadelphia bike or foot race, and usually represents either the first or the last stretch of concrete that the athletes must tread. You can often tell when the city is gearing up for a weekend of racing by one major sign: blue port-a-potties appear lined up neatly on either side of the street, boxy and patient, like colorfully dressed soldiers waiting for orders. There are sometimes a few, sometimes hundreds of them, secured by little plastic locks, shiny and clean, reporting proudly for duty. Every time I see them lined up, I always have the same reaction, and the same conversation with myself: Firstly, I can't imagine why there is a need for so many of them - surely all the athletes won't need a potty all at the same time - then I reason that maybe there's a certain capacity the potty can reach, so that once, say, 20 people have used it, it's gone from decently clean to disgusting to absolutely unusable, and whatever it is inside the potty that holds all that unpleasant stuff is at a dangerous capacity. At that point, there would be a need for the next potty, so that the next 20 people can use it. So the port-a-potty company might figure, if you saturate the area with potties and there are lots of potties to choose from, different folks will choose different ones, reducing the probability of one potty going bust to a safe recess. I then try not to think about the process of cleaning all of those potties, and the poor people who have the job of doing it. Who knows. I suppose, though, if I ever do run that marathon, having a new, clean potty to use at the end of the race will be all the more incentive to cross the finish line sooner.

The end of a mini-marathon

Today was the Philadelphia half marathon.  I did not run it.  I didn't even stand on the sidelines and cheer.  What I did do was go jogging myself at the tail end of the race, next to the river on Kelly, with the sun glaring and powerful, the river high and muddy.  I watched the stragglers as I headed past; dragging their feet, or walking, heads low, exhausted but still going.  There wasn't any sort of crowd left to watch the race, but those of us on the pedestrian path, even while we were moving, cheered them on and sometimes got a bit of a nod in return.  When I reached the art museum steps (the beginning and end of any proper Philadelphia race), the announcer declared that all runners - those who stayed on course - had crossed the finish line.  There was a lull, and then he said, as an afterthought If you're still waiting for people, they might have gone off course, they might just be walking on a sidewalk at this point.  I imagined a family waiting expectantly for Uncle Willie, a sign that said You made it!  or We believe in you!, drooping as they looked up helplessly at the announcer on stage, wondering what to do next.  

Though I have never acted on the impulse, I've always played with the idea of running in a real race - maybe starting with a 10K and working my way up to a half-marathon (I would stop there.  A full marathon gets into real athlete territory, and that I will never quite be).  It must be really exhilarating to have a whole crowd of people cheering you on as you pass, waving and smiling, encouraging you to go for it.

I jog regularly - on average 5 miles or so.  The farthest I've ever made it is seven miles (my best estimate), and my husband assures me that I could do a half marathon with one leg tied behind my back -- after all, at a certain point, you're trained up and ready for any distance, right?  He's not a runner, and I'm not so sure.  But, maybe next time I should take a page from Uncle Willie's book and go for it - after all, if you run, walk, or limp across the finish line, you've still made it.  And that's something those stragglers, even the ones who veered off course, can be really proud of.

My side of the bed

H and I, like most couples, chose a side of the bed and stuck to it when we first moved in together.  I was on the left, he was on the right.  People, it seems, claim their side of the bed and guard it cautiously, building up mountains of stuff by their night tables, their kleenex boxes, their pictures, their little glasses of water and leisurely reading -- all a sign to say 'Keep Off,' like a dog marks his territory with a raised leg and an attempt at aim.  I began this ritual, too - it only seemed natural - until one night I headed into the bedroom to crawl to sleep, shuffling through the door wearily, only to find that my husband had firmly but innocently stretched himself a bit too far into my territory.  I shoved him a little and whined, but then he raised the ante.  He gestured to the alarm.  Our only alarm.  On my side.  What if we switched just for the night?  He had to get up later than me.  He could be responsible for the alarm and let me sleep.  At first, I firmly shook my head.  I was shocked.  The nerve!  Proposing to sleep on my side!  And what if I need one of my many...things here on the night stand in the middle of the night?  But he was unbudgeable and I was tired.  So, I crawled over to his side huffily and fell asleep.  Somehow, though, I found that I liked being on the other side.  It was away from the door and closer to the window.  It felt cozy and protective, and, it was true, I didn't have to worry about the constant beeping in the morning.

We now switch off regularly - depending on who has to get up earlier, who goes to bed first, and just how we feel.  I've even started rotating the pillows we use.  We have a flat one and a fluffy one.  He takes whichever strikes my fancy slightly less on any given night, sometimes with a groan, but mostly with a shrug and a lazy blink.  I wonder if it'll stay like this, rotating, playing musical bed-side into the years.  The most logical solution might just be to get another alarm.  But what's the fun in that, hmmm?

The club scene

I'm sure the club scene in Philadelphia is a rip-roaring good time that could potentially knock the socks off of any bass-beat addict or cocktail junkie.  I wouldn't know.

I was walled in yesterday, trying to put a dent in a project that has long been hanging over my head, and in a fit of very serious cabin fever, I whined to my husband (who is by now very accustomed to my intolerance for long periods spent in our apartment), who immediately told me that, before any discussions about where to eat dinner or what we would do after, before my head collapsed in on itself, before he had to listen to me cry about being in my pajamas all day, and in a fit of healthy spontaneity, we just needed to leave the house.  We put on some decent clothes and went to a pub on South Street for some greasy food, and then decided that we should expand our horizons a bit and try out the music scene.  A couple of weeks ago, we went to a half-empty jazz club with friends and shared cocktails and a few laughs over a band named something super cheeky (whose name, I'm now realizing, just didn't stick with me).  It was a fun night, and we decided to give live music another shot.  

On the corner of Arch and 21st, hanging outside of the real city scene, and in a space with only a few meandering pedestrians at night, there is a piano bar that both of us had noticed a couple of times.  We shrugged and headed over.  Just after ten o'clock, we were greeted by four very big black men at the door, who gave us a quick up-and-down and said hastily You're looking for the piano bar.  It's moved. They explained politely where it was and shooed us away only after we innocently inquired what the old piano bar had become.  The Lotus Lounge, they told us.  One of them added a vague We open at ten.  You can come in if you want, but...  We walked away.

I went merrily down the street, oblivious to our send-off.  My husband explained.  They didn't want people like us in their club.  We had, apparently, been turned away, that last 'but' hanging in the air like a dividing line between the us (me, fuzzy-haired, turtle-necked and in practical black boots, my husband in a plaid button-up shirt and suit pants), and the them of the new, posh Lotus Lounge (men with jelled hair, in jeans a bit too tight for them and snake-skinned boots, no doubt, and women with sparkly tops, high heels, and bight-colored lipstick).   I smiled and laughed.  Well, so what if we looked like we wanted to go to the piano bar?  We were looking for the piano bar!   I can count the number of times I've been in a real 'club' on one hand (I can actually think of only three times, twice when I was underage).  I'll leave the thumping, the bright lights, the expensive drinks, and the serious grinding to other people.  Even in their haste, the bouncers had made the correct assessment.  We just weren't club-ready.

The piano bar, we found, had a line out the door, so we ended up in a dive bar below ground with a decent d.j., a television muted with the Wizard of Oz playing, graffiti-ed carpet on the door and signed dollar bills pasted to the ceiling.  I had a cosmopolitan, and my husband looked smashing in his suit, sipping a martini.  Our kinda place.

Whitewater

I have gone whitewater rafting three times in my life - all three with the same route, on the New River in West Virginia. I have a friend who is a huge rafting enthusiast (I don't use the word 'enthusiast' lightly, but that she is), and she accompanied me down the river the first time, and graduated to raft guide for the subsequent trips. I thought when I was first convinced to go that if there's any extreme sport, this one's surely for me. I took to water when I was young like a fish takes to...ahem...water (if the metaphor fits, I guess...). What's a short swim through some white water? I become one with any body of water the minute I'm immersed, and I was sure I could take it.

The first time, I managed to stay in the raft all the way down the river. It was a pretty light trip, and I was actually surprised at how easy it seemed. But whitewater and I made for a troubled marriage. I would learn that it was just not meant to be. The second trip, I took a plunge when we were surfing in a whitewater hole. An easy plunge, mind you, that plenty of people take. I went under the raft, pushed around like a ragdoll going through the permanent press cycle, bubbles flying and my head kicked around so much that I wasn't sure which end was up. I came to the water's surface, with the aid of my life vest, gasping and sputtering. That, dear friends, was the end of that. My love affair with whitewater had officially and suddenly come to a clumsy end. I braved the last trip solely so my husband could see the beautiful West Virginia mountains, and I clung for dear life to the side of the raft with knuckles so tight they competed for the whitest thing on the scene. I am not cut out for extreme sports in any way. Nothing even remotely intense. I'll take my jog through the park, thank you very much, and leave the other stuff to the professionals.

My friend visited this weekend, and told wild stories (she always has them) about her trips down the New and the Gauley, animatedly motioning with her hands to represent the flow of the water, the tip of a particularly mean rock. She talked about people making clumsy splashes, and others getting their foot wedged underwater, only to be pulled up minutes later. Some of her stories ended with a chuckle, some with a gasp and an open mouth. I sat back while I nodded and reacted, sipped my tea, listened to the steady tick of the clock, and relaxed.

Fall in the city

A friend of mine has a little house tucked away in the Poconos. She moved recently, and I haven't been to see her at her new (owned!) house yet, but I have no doubt that it's as charming a place as you could want for a quiet time by the fire with a hot cup of cocoa. I was hoping to get there this fall - with the pending move to Europe hovering somewhere in our near future, I realize that I could very well be spending my last fall here, and the foliage has struck me as particularly beautiful this year as I make my way through the city, trying to freeze the image of the soft, deepening colors in my head. I can only imagine how it would be at that look-out point to which my dear friend can hike, gazing down across rows of mountain tops that crackle with autumn in such intense ways that it makes your heart pound.

For now, because of busy schedules and weekends that seem to slide by under our noses without the courtesy of a pause, that visit will have to wait until the trees are bear and frozen. I only have the respite of city parks to carry me through the fall - a different but still sturdy alternative. In New York last weekend, I took a breath and some time to enjoy Central Park in all its foliage-laden glory, and was thankful that such a bustling city has havens for those craving a bit of quiet nature and seasonal celebration. The scapes were really beautiful, even if they weren't in the mountains.

If you look closely, you can see a little girl climbing the rock.

Maybe when I do make it to that look-out point, I'll have trees shimmering in snow cover waiting for me. In a last winter here in Pennsylvania, that would be at least some recompense for missing the fall. And that cup of hot cocoa will taste all the better in the cold!

How the Village does Halloween

I have been waiting to post for a couple of days because we suddenly can’t seem to figure out how to upload pictures from our camera to our new mac. Ah, mac. They say you do things so much better, but I’m not convinced. Why won’t you read my camera input? Why be so stubborn after we’ve treated you to our business? Been loyal to you for a full two months? Filled you with all sorts of meaningful bits of our networked lives?

But, I digress- this post was never meant to be about the mac/pc war.

This year was a New York Halloween for me, and I couldn’t stop my heart from fluttering at the messy finesse that New Yorkers apparently put on the spooky day . We stopped by Washington Square to see the children’s parade ending, all the little ones spilling into the empty fountain’s pit, squirrels chasing lizards, princesses in a row, swinging their dresses gently, witches trying to keep their hats from sliding into their eyes as they climbed on the fountain’s spout, and parents grinning and flashing their cameras furiously. (There was one toddler with hospital scrubs on who, when he turned around, revealed a sign pinned to his chest that read Death Panelist. Ah, New York parents. You can’t even blame them for using their children to make political statements- they just enjoy it so damn much, and honestly, they’re so damn good at it.) We also stood for a brief minute at the trick-or-treat bag line and sighed, eyeing the free bags of candy longingly and wondering if it would be wrong to borrow someone else’s kid to make us legit enough for one of our own.

This little boy was a helicopter for Halloween.
As you can sort of tell, his parents were very proud.

We didn’t go to the Halloween parade, but we took a stroll around the Village before leaving, which was parade enough for us – the zombies, scarecrows, giant cats, Supermans, Fred Flinstones, Marios and Luigis (a popular one this year, although I’m not sure why), slutty nurses, slutty red riding hoods, slutty lady bugs, slutty donut girls, slutty baseball players, and slutty nuns (YES, we did actually see a slutty nun) offered plenty of amusement and giggles. We, at some point, rounded a corner to see some poor woman eating outside, bent over her plate, straining her neck to reach her food…in a hot dog costume. Complete with yellow tights. She wins my prize for best costume, purely for the circumstance. A hot dog eating soup al fresco in the rain. Apparently, it doesn’t get more Halloween in NYC than that.

My address book

I was never very good at keeping an address book.  The best I seem to be able to do is a little notebook that began as a proper directory of the names and contact information of the people I loved, but which was gradually stuffed up with messy slips of  pastel-colored paper, post-it note scribbles of some dear friend's phone number or some family member's address.  For our honeymoon, I knew I would want to send postcards, and so I stood in my mother's living room and copied from her large and orderly address book all those names and numbers by hand, address after address on a single sheet of college-ruled paper that is still folded up, yellowing, crumb-infested, and buried somewhere in my purse (I find it every once in awhile and, for some inexplicable reason, feel like it would be best just to fold it right back up and put it right back into the tiny pocket from where it came).

I'm just not sure why I can't keep it together.  Perhaps it really is the dependence on technology.  Address books have gone the way of memorizing telephone numbers in the last few years...why bother when you can find just about anything you need in life's little tech gadgets? (Facebook has everybody!  Just, right there!  Their birthdays included!)  I think it's more that I'm just a scatter brain who's bad at the orderly details of life (and I am). Either way, it's a shame.  My little address book is quite pretty, and there's something romantic about having a complete one that you could just stick in your baggage when you leave for vacation or move, a connection to all the people you love at once that doesn't depend on phone calls or text messages.  Ah well.  I suppose it will continue to be a good little paper weight, colorful and sweet-looking.  And I do still need a few of those little slips of paper stuck in its pages...even if it's not the neatest way to keep things, I always know where they are!

Halloween

After three years in Philadelphia and much chatter about going, H and I finally ventured to the carnival-esque Terror Behind the Walls phenomenon at the Eastern State Penitentiary this Wednesday.  We live within an easy walk to the site, and we've never even been there in the light of day, let alone at night, so it was definitely due.  It was more of a raucous good time than the terrifying thrill that the site's FAQs promised, and H complained that they should have let only a few people in at a time, leaving us to wander the cell blocks alone. How scary, after all, can something be when you're filing through it shoulder to shoulder like school children filing to the bathroom?  We gave it an A for effort and theatrics though, and I was glad we went.

I never considered Halloween a favorite holiday of mine until recently.  When I was seven years old, my parents, innocently nurturing my love of classic American musicals, brought home Little Shop of Horrors from the video store, and popped it into our VCR without a second thought.  I remember very vividly hiding under a giant pink and yellow flowered blanket with my then best friend Amber as we watched, giggling and screeching.  At the time it seemed like innocent fun.  But, as I'm sure we can all testify, fun and games when we're with other people can turn into dark rooms and creepy basements when we're alone, warping in our little imaginations to fanged funhouse jaws that are ready to eat up our souls whole.  To a seven year old, this is especially true.  I spent the next two years of my life terrified that we had an actual man-eating plant in my basement.  Nightmares aplenty, I would run frantically up the steps whenever I had to be down there, absolutely sure that there was a green tentacle following behind me, ready to wrap its rubbery slime around my skin and yank me back into the abyss.  I think the trauma of such associations (and, weird movie as it is to be afraid of, there WAS trauma) led me to firmly believe that I was a terribly easy scare, and I steered myself away from horror movies, haunted houses, and Stephen King novels for years after.  It's a shame, because, as I've been gradually discovering as an adult, I actually really like these things.  Ah well.  Better a late bloomer than never - there will be plenty more Halloweens to profit from in the coming years, and plenty of quiet nights just waiting for a good horror movie.  Just maybe none featuring giant, flesh-eating plants.  

Neighbors

Our apartment, tucked away as it is, has thin walls and close neighbors.  We've gotten knocks on our door from time to time, asking us politely but firmly to quiet down , and we've probably heard a bit more of our neighbor's lives unfolding than they would care to imagine (erotic moans and sob-filled conversations among them). Our immediate neighbors (the apartment just across from us), though, a really nice young couple that we got to know fairly well, were pregnant this summer, and searching frantically for a house and a more settled life than the city could offer them.  They moved out in a hurry.  The door remains open, and we've ventured in a few times, comparing our kitchen appliances to theirs (they have a newer dishwasher!), and the shade of bathtub (both a 1970s thick yellow that would probably symbolize death in some very thin and very dark avant-guard novel).  It's strange to hear the echo of our own movements ricocheting around the vacant, hard spaces, as we climb the steps and unlock the door to our home.  We chatter sometimes about who might end up in that apartment.  Noisy college students (our apartment has its fair share)?  A nice young couple ?  An older widow, moving back into the city for the convenience?  My husband saw our landlord showing the place to a man with a baby a couple of weeks ago, and came home a bit kerfuffled.  What if they move in and the baby cries all the time?  We'll hear everything.  A family can't live in that place!  It's too small!  I smiled sheepishly, and responded  Better than beer-pong at 3 in the morning.  And with that I realized that my college days are really over - I now prefer the company of calm, family folks over crazy drinkers who are stirring up shenanigans at all hours.  I can see myself marching out to the hall in my bathrobe, swearing and scowling, and asking them with a curmudgeonly squint Do you know what time it is?  

For now, we have no news one way or the other about the vacant apartment, and having the hallway space to ourselves has been really nice, echos or no.  I'm sure our own place will feel just a little bit more cramped when new neighbors do arrive, whoever they are.  I just hope they're as nice as our last ones.

The little microwave that could

Our little microwave has been with me since my first year in college - my father presented it as the perfect going-away present for a dorm room-bound university newbie, and it got plenty of use as the agent for late-night popcorn munchies, hot cocoa on cold winter nights, and the infamous ramen noodles that remain a staple for college kids looking for a quick, cheap meal.  The little white microwave followed me obediently to graduate school, and then to Philadelphia - working maybe a little slower than some of the new-fangled machines out there, but still good enough for us.  

Lately, though, it's been a bit more of struggle to coax it to work than all the years before.  A couple of weeks ago, the start button stopped working.  We now have to press the little 'automatic' buttons instead to get it to go - baked potato, popcorn, and beverage all have their own buttons, the microwave's  best (normally underestimated) guess at the time it'll take to actually cook a baked potato, pop a bag of popcorn, or heat up a beverage.  This is now the only way we have of turning on our little machine.   And these timers, of course, are often not exactly the time we need, and so we have to stand, twiddling our thumbs, and wait to shut off the buzz of the box at just the right time.  As if that weren't enough, a few days ago, the stop button seems to have picked up a little bit of an eccentricity that would be charming if it weren't for the questionable health effects - it now only works when the microwave is off.  In other words, we can clear the old timer with it to start a new timer, but we can't seem to actually stop the microwave with it.  Which means that we just have to open the door to stop the microwave while it's running.  We can only hope that those little nuke waves aren't going to come back to haunt us later with bodily manifestations I'm much too sqeemish to even mention here.  

My sister once lived for two years without a microwave, and I'm starting to picture us in such a state...panicking as I cradle my tepid tea in an  apartment growing colder by the day.  If our plans pan out, we'll only be here for a few short months yet...a year, at most!  I'm fighting for my old, dirty, underdog microwave to hang on for dear life until the last days of Philly.  That's all we need.  It's lasted me this long, surely another few months isn't too much to ask!

The diner

For the past 5 or so days, I have been sick.  I enjoy a work day away from the office every now and then, but I have a threshold, and yesterday, I took one look at the daytime talkshow blaring on the television, the piles of tissues, the used tea bags and my bulgy bathrobe, covering up a sweat shirt and flannel pants (it's cold here), and shot straight through that threshold over into if I don't get out of the house I'm going to kill myself kind of territory.  After he got home and saw my state, my sweet husband bundled me up, ushered me out into the cold, and took me to a warm, inviting little diner.  Just what I needed.  As we got settled and ordered drinks, I chuckled, and leaned over to H -- we were just about the only people in the restaurant under the age of 65 (the building the diner was snugly pushed under, we realized, must be a haven for retired folk). With my voice breaking between a whisper and a low, weak rumble, we didn't say much to each other the whole meal, and when we did, H had to ask a few times what I had said; I ordered the split pea soup with an egg sandwich and carefully crumbled the cracker packets into my dinner. Yes indeed.  We fit right in.  It was actually a very pleasant time.  And, who knows, maybe, 60 years from now, it'll be our daily routine.

Speaking of overheard conversations

I rode the bus several months ago with a couple of school girls who sat across from me, and I found myself unable to concentrate on my book due to their slightly loud conversation.  (In other words- I also really enjoyed eavesdropping to their crazy stories, and put my book down all too willingly).  One was tall and thin with a bushel of blonde curly hair that she couldn't keep her fingers out of.  Her legs seemed very white to me.  She did most of the talking.  The other, with short hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, had retro black glasses on, a dark green army-style backpack, and sat most of the time with her hands in her lap.  Both were wearing Catholic school-girl skirts.   They apparently went to the same high school, but the awkward conversation that ensued clearly indicated that they were neither friends,= nor hung in similar crowds...this was my assumption after hearing the hands-in-lap girl preface everything she said with "I'm a big dork, but..." (which I read as - I'm incredibly self-conscious around you, and don't know quite how much I should reveal about myself to you...). She also said at one point "I guess everyone in school thinks we're pretty weird...", and with that, the blond, leggy one rebuttaled with avoidance, tinged slightly with meanness: "Everyone in school knows who you are.  You and Kelly.  You guys are always together.  Are you guys going to the same college?  Everybody knows who you are."  (which I read as -  Yes.  Everyone thinks you're incredibly weird.  Partly because you're always together.  What are you, like, a couple or something? And everyone, in turn, talks about your weirdness and your too-close relationship with Kelly with everyone else.)  Kind of sad.  

The piece of their conversation I found the most funny was when the hands-in-lap girl said that she wanted to be a photo-journalist for National Geographic.  Leggy blond replied right away "Me TOO!  Oh my gosh!  We have the same ambitions!"  They then promptly agreed that they would just DIE if they had to work a regular, 9-5 day job.  I had to smile a little bit - I probably said similar things in high school too.  Little do you know when you're younger...a 9-5 actually isn't the worst thing in the world.  Your own time is yours, and you get to come home to a warm house and a home-cooked meal, rather than a hotel in...well, if you work for NG, it could be in any wayward corner.  But, I suppose I won't knock them too hard. Those are the types of big dreams you're supposed to have when you're looking at your whole life spread out in front of you.

i-don't-pod

I have a very shameful confession to make: I have no i-pod.  No mp3 player.  I don't know how that happened, but the recent music headphone technology has passed me by.  H even bought an i-pod two (three?) years ago, and it's been collecting dust on his dresser when he's not using it, full of some of my very own music.  I listen to the radio, or to cd's in the car, and to nothing when I'm walking.  I have to put up with the horrible college rock they play at my gym (if I hear that Taylor Swift song "You belong with me" one more time...), and I read novels on the bus.  I sometimes wander online to the old last.fm radio at work when I'm doing something mindless, too, a little treat for myself.  (I have a little, secret piece of paper where I'll scribble down notes about which bands I like periodically, hidden just enough to hide its true purpose under my pencil holder.)  When I listen to podcasts I either sit at my computer and surf the net or play some old-fashioned game like tetris or solitaire, or I perch the speakers somewhere nearby while I do mundane housework, like prepare a meal or unload the dishwasher.  It's true, I get an overdose of what's actually around me much too much of the time, including strange half-conversations that people have into their cell phones (one of the best: "Pickles??  Pickles!! Pickles!  Yes!!"), real conversations that people have in person (one of the most intriguing: "So, apparently her dad is worried about her, like, not being taken care of after the wedding, so he pulls David aside and offers him $10,000, just like that...") , and, every now and then, very intense conversations people have with themselves ("The devil's gonna get us all!  Yes he will!"...err...maybe that one was actually directed at me...).  

The funny thing is, I'm totally unopposed to using that spare i-pod most of the time.  (I really do hate that Taylor Swift song.  And "Who got the hootch", which has been known to play every so often, too...oh god.  Don't get me started on that one).  It's mostly just that I'm not in the habit of grabbing it or thinking about it.  Maybe, after writing about it, it'll cross my mind more as a possible accessory.  In the meantime, bring it on, Philadelphia.  I suppose I can take it.  

Shredder

We bought a brand new shredder recently. (It's funny, the sounds in that word are so fitting for what it does...its low hum when you turn it on, like breath between the teeth, its crackling that punches the air like a consonant.) It was the cheapest one on the shelf (we aren't really people to spend a lot on electronics), but it's still sleek in its simplicity, black and silver with the product name written in a sans serif, all caps font, angular and sparse, to remind you that the future is here, man, and that future is sitting next to your Macbook and ready to erase your former, paper-bound identity about four sheets at a time, staples included. We started with old bank statements, old checkbooks, bank cards that were expiring, but I've since gone a bit shredder-happy. Old student papers from when I taught? Let's just see how she handles these. Printed-out e-mails? Not so confidential? They're e-mails, still: Give her a go at 'em. The bibliography of some research article from graduate school? So what if it's not personal. Let her rip. Scrap paper with tiny doodles in the corner? Better not risk it...turn her on and watch her go. Not sure what happened to my sensible head and my determination to save any paper that might be used again, that I could give new life to by writing or printing on the back of. The whirl of those teeth is just calling a bit too loudly.

A hip evening

H and I ventured out into serious hipster-artist territory this weekend (skinny jeans, colored cowboy boots, funky belts and carelessly-flung scarves all made appearances) for a gallery opening in center city at Vox Populi (an 'artist collective' which is, as explained to me, a non-profit to which artists can pay a small monthly fee in return for a membership and a chance to exhibit their work). There we wandered the old loft spaces with squinted gazes, sliding over hardwood floors slowly, trying not to jostle the transparent plastic cups filled to the brim with cheap wine. We stopped every now and then to take a closer look, or to duck behind a black curtain for a constantly-running video, or to try and figure out how something was rigged up. There was a black and white film depicting a herd of horses running around ordinary household objects...the rim of a sink, the top of a radiator -- it was in a dark little corner with giant foam blocks to sit on. My favorite exhibit was an amazing, 8-foot-high wall of clothes that acted like a damn for a huge, messy pile of more clothes (by artist Derick Melander). White ones, on the floor, to light colors, to darker, then to black at the top. There were just so many clothes, it was a bit astounding to look at for that purpose alone. (Makes you wonder how big a wall you could build out of your own clothes....I suppose I don't want to know.) And they were stacked so neatly, we questioned whether they weren't rigged around cardboard or something. They might have been pinned, but we came away pretty sure they were only anchored on top of clothes and more clothes.

I love art openings. My friends and I used to go to just about any we could in college, and I have to admit, I go just as much for the chance snatches of conversation, the cheap alcohol that makes your cheeks burn and your head buzz around angular objects and interesting colors, the little cheese bits and fruit plates that they put out to munch on, than I do for the real art. It's nice, though, to have such a festive, party atmosphere that's centered around something bigger than just the socializing. To be able to wander alone without feeling like you're being antisocial (and, hey, you always have an excuse to leave a boring conversation -- I actually haven't seen that gallery yet. Let me just sneak away, I'll catch up with you later.) To be able to challenge yourself just to the edge of your comfort level with something slightly grotesque, and then come back to the warmth of friends and conversation. We didn't know many people there, but the people we did know were friendly and open. It was a really lovely evening. It always is.

Gendered animals

I was thinking about my own writing on our visit to the zoo, and a fellow blogger's post that included some discussion of cities and gender, and I started to wonder about my choices to always refer, during the italic sections that represent comments, to the animals as 'he'.   Some objects  seem to just shout that they're female rather than male. (Who doesn't know someone who has given their mode of transportation some awful name like 'Bluebell' or 'Lucy', and who wouldn't say some places  -- lots of countries, I think - France, Canada, even the U.S., for me...'lady liberty' and all... -- are just female). But what about animals?  People tend to refer, it seems to me, to almost all animals (even prissy cats and flouncy poodles), as 'he'.  The fact that female-ness seems to fall into deviance aside, it's interesting that we are bound and determined to associate a sex with animals (I suppose they don't have a 'gender'), but often don't seem to make an effort to know which sex is the right one.     

Two stories come to mind: I used to cat sit for a nice family up the street from me when I was a teenager, and the mother of the family, who always used to give me the same orientation of the house (this is where the food is, this is where the litter box is, this is the scoop to clean the litter box, etc.), referred to the cat as a 'he'.  Naturally, when I arrived to do the necessary duties, I continued to think of the cat as a he.  But, as we got more used to each other, and as I gradually bent down to rub the cat's head, then back, then belly, the cat was very clearly NOT a he.  HE had teats.  Prominent ones.  And absolutely no...boy bits.  I thought maybe my lack of biological knowledge (see last post) had caught up with me, but a talk with the woman's daughter, who showed up unexpectedly one night, confirmed that the little thing was indeed a female.  Now, as a pet owner and an attentive, caring, and also intelligent woman, Mrs. Neighbor must have known, somewhere deep down, that he was a she.  I can't imagine the embarrassing situations that might have ensued, otherwise, at a new vet.  She must have been told at some point that the cat was a she (her own daughter knew it).  So, why the insistence?    

   

The other scene actually took place at the zoo: We were standing by the hippos at one point in the day, waiting for them to rise to the surface, when a fellow zoo-goer came up next to us, examined the still surface of the water, and then read the sign introducing the animals very carefully while waiting to catch a glimpse.  The sign very clearly said the zoo had two females.  I saw her read it.  She practically went over the whole thing with her finger.  Yet, when one of the animals finally broke the water's surface with her enormous back, she bellowed: Look how BIG he is!    Is it just inattention?  Or is it really something pressing in people, making them think that hippos are big and powerful, so they always must be a 'he'?  To me, an animal is imbued with something of real gender when we know their sex - I think a good deal of pet owners would agree.  This probably really is imagined.  My mother's dog is no more boy than those hippos are girls.  But I can't help but feeling like there is something (call it respectful in human terms), real or imagined, to knowing.  

Visiting the Zoo

Today, H and I ventured out in temperatures that fell bit by bit as clouds drifted unhurriedly across the sky, tucking in the sun like a patient parent waiting for their child to wind down before bed, and went to the Philadelphia Zoo. I love Zoos. I love watching the animals and cocking my head at their strange features. I love the surprised, obvious observations people make: Wow! Look how big he is!, or Oh he's sleeping! or, Look at him! He's climbing a tree! Do you see him climbing the tree?, like they're discovering something new and so intensely interesting, they just can't contain themselves. And even, for the most part, I enjoy the children who point and tug at their parents and poke their fingers in the cages, and ask, wide eyed Where is he? or What's he doing? Unlike most other family activities, it's a place parents and children seem to discover together, both unknowing, with furrowed brows and open mouths.

I used to go to Zoo Camp every year when I was a child, a day camp where we'd follow flirty, too-confident teenagers around, stopping at animal cages and learning quirky facts (Do YOU know what color a polar bear's skin is? I did, by my third year at zoo camp!), finally ending the day with a trip inside a starkly white building, in a starkly white room, where we were able to pet, with a gentle two-finger touch, one at a time, a snake, or a porcupine, or a chinchilla. I liked zoo camp, and rediscovering zoos as an adult always makes me wish I had ignored all of that hatred for my high school Biology class that I had built up over lists of vocabulary words and natural cycles I thought were dry and boring, and marched forth to study Zoology or Animal Behavior, to change the world with bold activism and field work that would save many a species from extinction. As it is now, I look excitedly at the animals, and diligently but lamely at their name plates and descriptions, knowing full well I won't remember any of it.

Over a gooey, warm waffle and a steaming cup of coffee after our adventures with the animals, H commented that it's the third zoo we had been to together, as a couple. That made me smile. I've enjoyed every minute of my recent visits. And I can safely say, wherever we live, my children will definitely get a big dose of zoos (if not Zoo Camp), and a little encouragement that studying animals, even making the obvious observations, is much too exciting and interesting to give up on, even over a tedious and drab Biology textbook page.

The empty tin

We usually have an overabundance of chocolate in our house - one of the advantages to being married to an expat is that his thoughtful mother, my wonderful mother-in-law, loves to send him (and me, by extension) enormous packages full of cleanly folded new pajamas (for both of us), lotions and nail files, and, of course, chocolate. Chocolate bars, chocolate Easter eggs, chocolate for making hot chocolate, chocolates to have with coffee, chocolates to spread on bread first thing in the morning, chocolates to savor before you go to bed. And these are good, quality, European chocolates wrapped in foil and smooth as good china. The last package was no exception. She included, in this batch, tiny coffee bean shaped chocolates, the perfect amount of luscious, smooth dark chocolate that melts into a the richness of coffee just at the right moment. They were delicious.

I have a terrible, terrible sweet tooth, and I had been grabbing two or three beans to eat before work every morning as I head out the door, a morning treat I've enjoyed since the package arrived a couple of weeks ago, and that has now became a dangerous if temporary habit. But I woke up today and went to our chocolate box to find it entirely empty. H had cleaned it out, packed it all off to work for his coworkers to enjoy, and left me with an empty tin and an unhealthy craving. He didn't realize I was eating them at all...but the joy of those tiny treats is to savor them a little at a time, I think. I hope his office mates savored them properly, and I suppose, in the end, I should thank him for the calories he saved me. Then again, I've just replaced them with the much less pure but still chocolatey enough Mr. Goodbars they've had in the back office at work. It's a sugar fix and does the trick, but I have to say, it does make me think about the differences in quality. One chocolate certainly isn't the same as another.

City walking

I had a friend in town this weekend (my pathetic excuse for not posting here), and whenever a guest arrives to ‘see Philadelphia’, the first question I ask after they’ve dropped their bags is: Are you ready to walk?

I remember how gargantuan and bustling the city seemed to me when we first arrived. After the decision was made, saying to people We’re moving to Philadelphia had all the muscle and electricity of a real adventure, charged with the promise that only an expansive maze of steel, concrete, busy sidewalks and endless honking can offer. Neighborhoods seemed to morph endlessly, one into the other, in an unreachable myriad of happy unfamiliarity, and the stretch between 2nd and 50th streets seemed entirely unbridgeable. As I got to know the city, learned the personalities of each neighborhood and discovered the gems in the city that have come to be home to me, I gradually redefined what it meant for me to go places. I cross blocks by the dozens every weekend, sliding from one neighborhood to the other without a second thought. Center City gradually seems small. Chinatown always seems accessible; the Eastern-most stretch of the city, there by the Deleware River, those cobble-stone streets that represent the mythic past, kept tidy for tourists who expect another world here, all seem, now, very solid and very reachable. Why is it that a place we’re unaccustomed to seems to be so much bigger? Is it just the potential of a new life that was harbored there, in those first weeks as I discovered the streets and found myself entirely taken with a disorientation that made my head buzz with impatience and want? But as I’ve learned my way through the city, I can say I’ve also grown to love the same paths I take, the fact that walking for miles seems normal, the steadiness of the expected as I pass it. So that sometimes, when someone suggests we bike or drive somewhere in the city, I have to reflect for just a minute and shake my head faintly, feeling a sense of calm at the thought: no, let’s walk.

Conferencing fun

Conferences can be a time to put your career into perspective, to reflect on long-term goals in the workplace, and to refocus on the things that matter most in your organization. To me, they’re also a blur of faces and nodding heads, comments that contain the wisdom of 10 minutes, career stories that probably won’t stick with me, and business cards and pages of notes that will eventually get stuck down in some drawer or other. (They also mean dry over-air-conditioned rooms and way too many snacks, but I suppose that’s for another post.) I met and rubbed elbows with a lot of interesting people at the last conference I went to – it was a long one, and fairly small, so names and faces stuck with me for a little bit longer than they generally do. But something else was different about this conference as well: they had Karaoke night. Outside the hotel, with tiki torches and a much too accessible bar stocked with the hardest of liquors, we were able to witness such incredible things. Full-fledged. No turning back. These are your colleagues, this is the cream of the working crop, and this is the way you sing I Will Survive in off-key shrillness while attempting to bob and bounce in some kind of regulated rhythm. There’s nothing like hearing the woman who stood up in Session 4, gently readjusted her glasses, and made that very thoughtful comment about the future of our profession telling me, in so many words, that she doesn’t think I’m quite ready for the jelly that is her bootylicious body. Now that puts everything into perspective.

Action movie economics

One night, while sitting around my parents' living room, wallowing in glasses of cheap wine and under a layer of shallow lamplight, we asked my Father casually how he liked the movie Collateral. He mumbled something to the effect of "There were a lot of high paced chases down tunnels, and cars flipping over." (This response, slightly curmudgeonly, out-of-touch, and cynical, made the edges of all our mouths crawl up into subtle smiles.) Then he suggested with a smirk that Hollywood could use the same damn clips of cars flipping over and blowing up, whirling into tunnels and through back alleys, for practically every action movie they made. Imagine the money and energy it would save. And, quite frankly, would anyone really notice?

H and I rented an action movie this weekend, and, before it was even in the dvd player, I dead-panned that there would be at least one shot of a helicopter. I could picture it, the camera below, on the rooftop of a building, the blades swooshing as the seemingly unwieldy beast hovered in mid-air. And low and behold, within the first five minutes, a helicopter made an appearance just like so. We've all seen this same scene a dozen times, and is one shot really so different from any other? And so, we'll add a chopper clip to the pile, Papa, wavering above a deep blue sky, and call your archive near complete.

Fall weather

The weather has been turning nippy...today, with rain and winds to make me long for hot cups of tea, my couch, my pajamas, and a good book. H and I dragged out a comforter from our big wooden chest last week (because the chest is cedar, the comforters always smell crisp and smokey for the first few nights, like a log cabin...it's so cozy). It's the lightest comforter we have in the house, but still -- having slept with only a sheet for a few months, it seems like a giant step towards Fall.

When the weather first started getting cool last week, I continued to leave the house in bare legs, open-toed high-heels and sleeveless tops, shivering through the cool morning air defiantly. It's only September! Who needs pants and long-sleeves?? But this morning I rolled out of bed reluctantly, and bundled myself up in the first comfy, warm things I saw - an old cardigan and thick, cushiony boots that will keep my feet dry. I usually dress much nicer for work, but casual Friday takes on a whole new meaning when the weather is this dreary. And now, I suppose, it’s time to grudgingly admit defeat, take a long breath of the cool, moist air, and shove those summer clothes to the back of the closet once again until next year.

Less than honest discounts

Last weekend, on that rainy Saturday in New York when we were looking for an escape from the weather, we ended up ducking down to the Subway and making our way to Central Park and the lobby of the very crowded, but still very intriguing, Natural History Museum. The line for tickets, kept neat by linked velvet ropes, snaked around and doubled over on itself five or six times, and we stood open-mouthed for just a moment, deciding what to do. Luckily, they have installed do-it-yourself ticket machines, following cues from any airport or grocery store, and we waited for mere minutes to finish our transaction, 21st century style. There, we checked out as 3 adults and one student...and that student would be me.

At museums, or any cultural experience put behind the barrier of ticket booths, I have, for two years now, pulled the I.D. from my old Alma Mater quickly from my wallet, bandied it about tauntingly under the noses of whoever I was with, and said discreetly "My I.D. is labeled as still valid! I can still pass as a student, I get a decent discount, and no one will know!" I kept my I.D. out as we headed into the museum, ready to present the evidence assuringly if any ticket-taker dare question my status, but no one did. I put it back in my wallet with a sigh, before checking one last time the tiny date printed in the corner: 08/09. It was my very last student discount. Now, with a heavy heart, I have to retire the I.D. for good. Finally, after two years of sneaking around pretending to be a student, I have to own up to my true status as a salary-earning, full-price-paying adult. It hurts. Then again, there's always senior discount to look forward to!

A Meat Eater's Book of Excuses

I'm a very un-picky eater, I'll eat just about anything you put in front of me as long as it doesn't involve brains or feet. But when someone wants to go out to eat, I've been known to immediately suggest Asian food -- yellow and red curries, pad thai, basil-spiced stir fry are all among my favorite dishes, and the thought of them can make my mouth water like a Pavlov-trained dog with a hyperactive bell. I always, too, order these dishes vegetarian style. I actually really enjoy tofu, when it's done right, and even in more traditionally American restaurants, I often order a salad without meat or a sandwich loaded with veggies. This, along with a dose of those shocking images of animal abuse that we all sometimes inadvertently stumble upon, all makes me think, frequently but fleetingly and entirely hypothetically, of trying to go vegetarian. Whenever I bring this idea up to my husband, I say I feel like I'm partly inhibited by what's easiest (he loves sausages, hamburgers, steak and meatloaf like there's no tomorrow, and having to cook two meals a night might just cause me to lose my head), and I'm partly inhibited by trying to be accommodating to others (I imagine arriving at a dinner party -- or worse, at my in-laws, good old-fashioned meat-loving folks -- and having to announce that I just can't eat half the meal). He nods patiently, and then says that he thinks I love meat more than I think I do.

This weekend, H and I ventured into the Poconos for a little romantic get-away. We arrived at our hotel amidst the hubbub that only a local festival could offer, a tiny town swarming with families and neighbors, dogs sometimes in tow, meandering through rows of booths, shaken lemonade and chicken wings in hand. We got settled into the hotel and ventured out to find something to eat, and I immediately made a b-line for the hot dog stand. As much as I like my tofu, nothing beats a good ball-park hot dog complete with ketchup and mustard on a hot summer day. This morning we popped into a diner for breakfast, and as I ordered my pancakes with a side of bacon (I LOVE bacon), I reflected on my choices. I've been eating more meat lately. And I've really been enjoying it. So, I suppose in the end, my husband is right. The choice to not go vegetarian may have something to do with convenience and a bit to do with accommodation, but a large part of it is probably just my own, regular old cravings. Regardless, I'm a meat eater by training and I supposed I won't be crossing the bridge to vegetarianism anytime soon. Of course, that doesn't mean I can't still enjoy a nice bowl of tofu curry every now and again.

Umbrella weather

I don't think anyone ever has real luck with umbrellas. H insisted, awhile ago, on buying a nice, real umbrella (rather than one that shrinks up for easy accessorizing) in order to avoid that embarrassing scene when a flimsy umbrella, unable to handle the Philadelphia winds that whip like mad, pops out of shape like a rubber toy. (You all know what I'm talking about - when you see it happen to other people, it's like a comedy show. But when it happens to you, it's just plain embarrassing.) What he ended up with, mere weeks later, was a mess of little, delicate rods that were supposed to connect the cloth of the umbrella to the base, broken up and made completely dysfunctional by that same forceful weather that had thrashed our other umbrellas in and out of shape (but at least, I told him, they don't break entirely!). That umbrella went directly into the trash.

For some reason, I have been stubbornly avoiding buying another umbrella ever since. But we were in NYC this weekend, and were out on Saturday, hoping the drizzle wouldn't be able to stop us from making it to the new High Line Park where we planned a walk and a nice lunch. The rain, though, was just too much. We sopped it up for about 10 minutes before I caved and turned to a street vendor for whatever item he might have in his bag of tricks remotely resembling an umbrella. I bought what he handed to me for five dollars, no questions asked. It's small, but it'll definitely do. And when the wind blows on it, maybe I'll look ridiculous for a few moments, but at least I won't feel like I lost an investment. Now if I could have only gotten my shoes and socks dry for the day...

Dixie cup Church

I'm from the almost-south, a city perched between the midwest and the southern states, with some of the charm of each. It's a place that's both tenaciously liberal (on my side of the tracks) and, in some cases, staunchly conservative. Religion comes in all shapes and sizes in my home city, but I will say that they haven't avoided the mega-church phenomenon by any means. There's a church out in the suburbs (out with the strip malls and the giant parking lots and the mega-Wal-marts), a massive octagon of black glass with a giant cross on top. Upon arriving in the U.S. for the first time to visit, my husband, a quiet adventurer with a curiosity for quirky nooks and crannies that are a bit off the beaten tourist path, demanded we go. He had to see it. It was a spectacle. I shook my head slowly -- after all, neither of us is particularly religious, and I have some bad memories of mega-church-going folk. But I was slowly convinced. Wouldn't it be interesting , after all, to see a church with two balconies and an escalator?

We sat as far up as we could, and watched the show. They had the giant, see-through pool, where they must baptize at least one person a week (they did two while we were there...a grown man who smiled goofily the whole time, and a child), they had the pop band on stage, singing about Jesus. But the thing I thought was the most incredible was the Eucharist. Grape juice passed out in little, plastic cups to everyone in the audience. Now that's the way to take in the body and blood of Jesus. In disposable cups that will be of use for 5 seconds before going to litter a landfill. Thank you, Dixie cup corporation, for your contribution to Eucharists in mega-churches everywhere. Your role is positively vital. How else, in God's name, would they get all that blood to all those people??

Kickboxing like a champ

I'm a pseudo-kickboxer twice a week, meaning I go to the gym dutifully every Monday and Wednesday night where I, among other things, knee and punch a giant, stationary bag, play with imaginary nunchucks, and go wild with jump-kicks that could cause some serious damage to a threatening but unsuspecting jaw. I'm pretty sure that would translate into real-world street fighting skill absolutely not at all, but let's leave that for now.

There are always two different instructors for the two nights, each with a slightly different style. Monday is a non-stop fire-cracker of a woman who makes the time fly by because I have to furrow my brow and bite my lower lip in concentration most of the time just to keep up with her. Wednesday's instructor is slower, steady, with combinations that aren't as complex - but she kicks our butts when we go to the floor for ab work. But tonight, there was a substitute. And maybe it was out of sheer exhaustion from kicking and punching, or maybe it was delirium, because I have been known to let my arms flail a bit too much, with the consequence of hitting myself in the face every now and then, but I could swear I hardly saw her lift a finger the whole class. She yelled, she barked, she counted out the number of hits we had dealt, but she walked...slowly...around the room, like a nun in a Catholic school ready to rap your fingers for going out of form. I don't trust these teachers. I think, if you're going to show me how to do it right, you've got to sweat at least as much as I do. After all, we would like to pretend, at least for an hour once a week, that we're bad-asses who deserve to be led by an instructor who is, herself, an ultimate fighting machine.

The best way to go

Having visitors is always fun, and is an opportunity for us to drag out into the open all the possibilities this city has to offer, making it a memorable trip for friends but also a good exercise for us. It rained Saturday, always an adventure since we (walking-folk) have to get creative, but we ended up in a mammoth warehouse of a store just outside of the city, with rows and rows of antiques, rickety old chests and marble-topped tables, brass plates and long, thin Turkish rugs, funky lime-green sofas and crazy sculpture-chairs made out of bottle caps (I'm not kidding). The strangest thing was just overhead, though: as we were milling our way through unique collections of material culture, you couldn't help but, at least once or twice, let your eyes roam upwards to the vaulted ceilings. There, on platforms high above our heads, were large, cushioned containers that looked vaguely like cello cases. One done in white silky material, another made to look like a boat, a third to look like a boxy car, we finally saw the sign: they were coffins. Fantasy coffins from Ghana, to be exact. My heart jumped a little, but how cool, hey?

Later, after taking it all in, we were relaxing on one of their couches, browsing some of their paper catalogs, when an employee came around with piping hot Moroccan-style tea for everyone to enjoy. Ikea, you've been one-upped. I'll definitely be returning when I'm looking for that perfect, Mercedes-Benz-shaped coffin to match my new living room decor.

Bland but Bubbly

Upon returning from Europe this summer (the first time I had visited my husband's family in four years there, thanks to schooling and visas (my husband's...not mine) and lack of money), I found myself having a hankering for something that I never expected to even like: sparkling water. The first time I tried the bubbly stuff, over five years ago, I thought I would spit it right back out again.  I'm not sure why - I suppose just because I never had had it before, and I somehow subconsciously associated it with carbonated anything (my midwestern mind was thinking 'oh sure, like coke!') - I was expecting something sweet and...well, something with flavor.  Any flavor. Even a little bit of flavor.  Heck, even a bad flavor.  What I got was a mouthful of fizzy wetness.  Fizzy, yes, but totally bland fizziness.  I drank as much as I could and made sure to practice my pronunciation of 'flat' in my less-than-perfect accent. But this time around, I decided to give it another go.  I had a fourth of a cup at one meal.  I upgraded to a half a cup at another.  I added a zest of lemon at a party.  I suddenly liked it.  I suddenly liked it a lot.  I suddenly felt the need to pout just a bit internally when someone was turning the bubbly water bottle upside-down at lunch, getting the last drops of it, and all that was left was my boring flat.  Flat water was suddenly like slightly grainy reception after I had been watching clear, crisp, digital genius on a screen.  

And suddenly here I am, back in the States, in the midst of August heat at its best, my cup of flat, iced water sweating out of its glass next to my computer, and remembering that time a European friend asked nonchalantly for sparkling water at a restaurant here in the city and got a very confused look from the waitress who said abruptly "oh, we don't serve that."  Yet, I also distinctly remember, mid-planning for a fancy party at work, someone suggesting that we serve 'bubbly water.'  My ears perked up.  I may just have to stick a little bit more closely by the buffet table for that shin-dig.  If it's got a snobby reputation in the U.S., then call me highfalutin' and leave me to my bubbles.

A point of clarification about said adventures with city pests

Yes, as I mentioned in my last post, we have had our fair share of mice. But I feel the need to elaborate so that I won't be written off as just plain gross. It was right after we moved in, H and I were settling down to a nice episode of Netflixed something-or-other, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Something scurrying? No...it couldn't be. Suddenly, my husband was saying the same thing. Is that...? No. We tried to settle back down to the story-telling bliss that is HBO drama, and then it was unmistakable. A blip in our image-flashing apartment, clear as the blood-curdling scream I let out the next moment, squeezing between a tiny little hole at the bottom of our front door. Oh, did we ever pay our city-dwelling dues then. We caught roughly 10 mice in the next week. We rigged our apartment up like a giant booby-trap, tiptoeing around metal jaws meant to break little mouse backs. When we discovered the peanut butter delicately but completely licked off one of our own safeguards, we started to buy other things: sticky traps and plastic ones that were supposed to snap shut when the mice wandered in. And here's where the oh so gruesome part of the story comes in. Those plastic traps don't work. Not well enough. In the middle of the night, just as sleep is setting in and our minds are melting into puddles of fuzziness, we here a distinct snap. Followed by a distinct squeal. Followed by a flapping noise and more squeals. We headed out to the living room to find not one but TWO little baby mice feet sticking out of the jaws, kicking and trying their hardest to get somewhere. It was, let me say, awful. To make a painful story brief, my husband dropped the trap in a bucket of water, while I sat on the couch and cried. I won't even go into what happened with the sticky traps.

So that's our mice story. And if you take away one thing let it be this: if you're catching mice, stick to the traditional traps. If they lick the peanut butter off, throw the trap away and set a new one. Words of wisdom from a reluctant but seasoned mouse torturer.

Adventures with city pests

My husband and I have known our share of pests in our teensy city apartment - not that we're filthy people, but this isn't a squeeky-clean luxury condo in Bel Air (a la Fresh Prince pool house). This is the city, and if you're going to embrace it, you have to pay your dues with a little teeth-grinding over four-legged, six-legged, eight-legged, 20-legged creepy-crawlies that invade your spaces. We've had a mouse or two (or ten...ahem), and several of those damn silver fish that seem to get bigger and grow more legs by the day. Now, we're lucky enough to live in a place with a fresh little garden right outside our door, a quiet space where neighbors could mingle - that is, if we weren't dead-set on ignoring each other to prove that we're tough-skinned city folk - that offers sprays of beautiful pinks, purples and yellows and swaths of green enough to tickle any park-starved-city-dweller's fancy. A few days ago, my husband and I discovered, in this little nook of green space right outside our door, a giant web, with a giant spider busy at its center, its legs frantic with earnest work. We examined it for awhile, commented with astonishment at the magnificence of its web (it was a good four feet across), and left it alone, off in its corner to do its nature-lovin' thing. For the past several days, we've noticed that his web disappears and reappears (Does he really rebuild it every night?, we ask each other. Wow! That's amazing!) But last night, as I made my way home in the dark, rounded the corner to our door, I felt the distinct, slight, uncomfortable brush of a single silk strand run across my face. I turned to see myself face to face with our little friend, who had apparently decided that it was time to expand his territory into ours. I shuddered at the thought of a humongous, spotted spider (does that mean it's poisonous?) running up my neck, disoriented and scared, fangs ready. I dragged my husband downstairs, toting a long, flat box as our weapon of choice, and with one smooth stroke, the large anchors of his web were broken, the silk sinking slowly into a one-dimensional line, and the spider going with it. With another swoop of his arms, my husband had catapulted the spider across the yard. I pouted a bit. It seemed like such a rough hit! Couldn't you be more gentle? What if you killed him? I understand his point - he really did have to be put properly in his place, but I hope that he's still out there, ready to get busy on the other side of the garden!

Two stories of the South (well...sort of)

Yesterday we biked into an oasis on the corner of town, an area so absolutely green and with such little traffic that you would think you were in the mountains of West Virginia. We went down the bike path, full of tiny hills and overlooking a picturesque river, until we came to a restaurant you could swear was right out of a movie about the Old South: a free-standing block with large windows, white, peeling columns and spacious porches on the first and second floor. Young men in white jackets were setting up for dinner, lazily putting knives and forks out on white clothed tables, and I had to think, if you walked inside the house, you're sure to see some woman in a flowing, light-pink cotton dress, nursing a jack daniels, pushing her hair out of her eyes, fanning herself and defending her father's honor with a proud, haughty chin and a milky drawl that would make you swoon with thoughts of dead worlds. It had a slowness, and a sweetness to it, that you don't find much while living in the city, and that was really pleasant.

I rarely meet people from the South, but I was recently in Florida - I swam in the Gulf on a pretty, warm evening, the only one out in the sea for a few minutes, before one man, beer-gutted and carrying a plastic pepsi bottle with some kind of neon yellow liquid in it, came out to my area. He was followed by a buddy, and they talked to me for awhile. They were from Mississippi, had taken up jobs as roadies to get out of their hometown. They liked Florida, and they laughed hysterically when I told them I was in town for a conference. As I was leaving the water, one called back that he would come around and find me in my part of the world when they visited.

I've traveled a lot of places in the U.S., but I've never really been to the deep south, besides Florida (which doesn't count as 'deep south', does it??). Its history is fascinating at times, grotesque at times, it seems to me. But for me, and maybe partly because I really have never been there, the real South, outside of the swarming cities, will always be heavy with the majesty and tragedy of families, fictitious or not, that once clung to haunted space. And I wonder now whether the Mississippi boys, Mountain Dew guzzling, tattooed and friendly as all get-out (to white women, at least), would agree. Who knows. Maybe they'll find me someday, out of the blue, and I can pose the question to them properly.

An Imperfect Space

The idea for a blog has been stirring in my head for a year now, and there it has gone through dozens of manifestations: a platform for commentary on gender, a place for play, a chronicle of tidbits that reflect the weirdest and wackiest from the pages of printed material (where the title of the blog came from - which stuck with me), an outlet for the complaints of a lowly nine-to-fiver - but finally, here I am carving out a tiny space for myself, on a whim, and trying to stay focused on letting it be *imperfect* and wind its way around all of my interests, my lives, and my stories, over time. I'm away from what was long home, and it never hurts to have a place for reaching out to old friends and new ones. So, welcome! Come and go. Read and comment. I hope I can offer you something worth your time and attention.