Faces from the past

When I'm jogging, it's a very rare occasion that I see somebody I know. I used to see my neighbors every now and then, and once I ran into a coworker of H's. Every so often I'll recognize a face from the gym and nod in their direction, but no one to pause and chat with. Normally, it's stranger after stranger.

Philadelphia is big, and neither H nor I grew up here. We, in fact, settled here less than three years ago. The people in our lives are scattered over cities, and even over continents across the world. I suppose that it's the true, modern American way. Yet when I'm jogging in the park, I'll often see someone walking ahead of me and, as I come up to them, there's just one suspended moment where I'm convinced it's someone from my past. Is that Lizzie Johnson from high school? Sarah Morgan who played violin with me? Mike Rust from graduate school? I never see people from Philadelphia in those perky gaits, those swinging pony tails, those informal clothes - even people I know from Philadelphia. It's always someone from other times and other places. And as I gain on them, come up on them from the side, I always turn my head just slightly to see for sure.

It's, of course, never who I think it is. Sometimes I can tell while I'm still behind them, from the jaw line or the temple, and I adjust my gaze before they notice. Other times, I give them a full-fledged side glance as I pass, usually greeted with a surprised, annoyed look as the long-shot of a friendly reunion melts away to a stranger's face. I wonder now if I'll still do this once we've moved even farther, once we're settled across the ocean. Perhaps the farther you get, the stronger the urge to look. And I'm sure I will look. But the glance won't be long, and I promise, after that moment when reality sets in again, I'll quickly avert my eyes and focus once more on the road ahead of me.

Palm Springs

When you really get down to it, all major hotel chains are alike. Stay at the Holiday Inn or the Hilton, you'll get a room with tightly-tucked sheets, a desk with a leather-bound folder, complete with laminated restaurant suggestions, a humming air conditioner and windows that are bolted shut. If you're going really classy, the room will probably be done all in white. If not, the bedspread will match the tropical flower pattern of the curtains.

Two weeks ago, we whiled away the days in sunny southern California with a quick trip to Palm Springs. H had a conference. I didn't - I had a date with a lounge chair by the heated pool at Korakia Pensione. It felt so luxurious. It was ninety every day. I wore flip-flops and spent my days ordering smoothies, taking short hikes and then recovering with a swim. But what made it really special was the fact that we weren't in a hotel - we had a sweet little bungalow all to ourselves, with doors that opened to let fresh air in, and stone floors that kept the place cool during the day. There was no white tile in the bathroom, and there was a large, friendly, spine-cracked coffee table book of American photographs sprawled open next to the couch. Open up all the french doors, and indoor and outdoor became seamless and indistinguishable.





After a gorgeous week, weather this weekend was Philadelphia classic - much too windy to be spring, with the sun making cameo appearances too often for it to be considered really cloudy. I traded my running gear in for a trip to the dark, musty gym. The windows stayed shut, and the whir of the fans kept the air circulating. I missed that California sunshine, that poolside, and even the desert heat.

A sloppy lunch

I work with the public, and my office is off the main lobby of our building. It's an area that's normally swarming with people by 11 a.m. or so, and I can see it all happening - shortly after I began here, my boss insisted a window be put in my door. So people could see if I was in. Brilliant idea for someone who works with the public, so long as they always look presentable. Normally, I don't mind. It keeps me connected.

Then there are the indelicate moments. I usually eat lunch in my office - browse the web or read a magazine or just work through the hour on something with a deadline. The leftover lunch after spaghetti night is always a social gamble that I make because it's just too delicious to give up. Let me clarify, I never learned how to eat spaghetti properly. Whenever I try, I always end up with a forkful that's way too big to fit in my mouth, or tiny nubs of spaghetti that are impossible to catch with utensils. I go for the all-out stuffing method. Grab a forkful and fit as much in your mouth as possible. Then bite. The slop, the mess, the potential for serious stainage is all something I take into consideration, but my partiality to the meal always wins out. So, when I'm hunched over, stuffing like mad, and I hear a faint knock at my door only to look up and see a colleague eying me awkwardly and shifting anxiously through my little window, all I can do is finish the bite, wipe my mouth, and pleasantly wave them in.

A rare condition

I had a biology teacher in high school who decided that we needed to know about rare genetic disorders and diseases. He gave us a packet with short descriptions, an encyclopedia of toe-curling, spine-tingling, nerve-twitching knowledge. Perhaps it was just a lesson to trick us apathetic teenagers into engagement, but if he was particularly morbid, we were particularly fascinated. Tissue turning into bone? Bad muscle control? We're listening. I remember distinctly learning about Parkinson's and Lou Gehrig's disease through this unusually grim set of papers.

The Mutter Museum (part of the College of Physicians) here in Philadelphia is like a Pandora's box of "medical oddities" as they like to call it. I've been there three times myself with tourists in Philly. It's interesting that half of the visitors we have here shake their heads with large, terrified eyes when we mention it as a destination, and the other half already have it on the top of their list. Colons the size of a car tire. Bodies of conjoined twins. Skulls with holes in them. It's always a curious visit. When you go there and as you wander, it eventually occurs to you, between the hernia replicas and the giant ovarian cyst, that no matter how respectably 'medical' they try to make it, the collection will always come across as really more of a Ripley's Believe it or Not, a type of dark Carnival, than a scientifically relevant showcase. At least that's the way it feels to me.

I had reason yesterday to do a bit of research on rare diseases myself (not that I have one, or anyone I know has one), a topic that seems strangely lacking in the annals of Google (isn't there some guy walled up in his basement whose hobbies include web development and unusual chronic illnesses?). The best I could come up with on the fly was the Diseases and Conditions Encyclopedia from Discovery Health. I can tell you that the rare genetic disorder, Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva (the one where tissue turns to bone) is not included. But I always knew that airline travel with children should be a true medical condition. I've suffered from that several times in my life. Clearly, and as the Mutter Museum must learn, one's definition of 'diseases and conditions' has to remain flexible.

Right now, the Internet seems vast and scary, and I'm missing my handy-dandy paper encyclopedia of rare genetic disorders. I remember it still - I kept it in a little red notebook that I'm pretty sure I tossed (with a little whimper) a few years ago. In a junkyard somewhere, the only biology lesson that has kept my interest to this day.

Who are you again?

When I was in college, I had a professor with 80 plus students in his class every semester, and by the third week of class, everyone sat back with their mouths open while he took role by mumbling each name to himself, glancing up, and nodding towards the corresponding face. He had memorized all of us. I was later a teaching assistant for him and learned his tricks. He watched the students in his class like a hawk. He wrote down details in the first two weeks -about their features, but most importantly, the people in his past that a particular student conjured up in his memory. I, in fact, reminded him so much of someone named Susan that, more than once, he shouted the name once when I stood in his office doorway, before quickly apologizing and correcting himself. He assured me that, once you got to his age -- You've already met every type of person, and it's just a matter of categorizing them accordingly. How strange. But, it seemed to work. He could tell you, within every class, who was friends with who, who was just hoping for a decent passing grade because they were getting married at the end of term, who was struggling with the content and who would pass with an A without studying. He was a sociology professor, and so he was innately interested in people and in categories. Teaching, for him, was the perfect fusion of the two. I wondered at how neat it all was.

I recently saw a woman from a different department at work, a woman I don't interact with much, and I proceeded to have a full conversation with her before walking away and realizing she wasn't the person I thought she was. I suppose, in reflecting about it, the conversation was just vague enough to allow her to respond, perhaps with suspicion, without saying flat out that she had no idea what I was talking about. I asked if she had found a document she was looking for, and then I asked about her trip (a simple "How was your trip?" Everyone goes away every now and then, right?) Perhaps she didn't notice. Perhaps she did and was just being polite. I was lucky I didn't ask her something more direct.

But now I have to think back to Professor Category. I don't seem to be very good at remembering people. I can think of a few occasions in the last year when I've been introduced to someone and they've replied immediately "Oh, we've met before," with me trying to seamlessly change the gesture of holding out my hand for a first-time handshake to some other cool, natural movement. I try and nod like I know. But sometimes I just have no idea. And don't get me started on remembering names.

It seemed a bit too impersonal and sinister, his way of categorizing people. His quip that eventually everyone in your life is just a repeat of someone you've already met. But I guarantee, he remembers everyone who visits him. And, he remains one of the most popular professors at the university. So, here's to a little memory trick. Perhaps next time I begin a job, I'll work a little harder at the categories.

New York luxury

We spent yet another rain-drenched weekend in New York, watching the cat paw at Chinese Checkers and ogling over the Real Housewives of Orange County on my sister's HD tv. We battled our way to a cozy restaurant and a delicious dinner in the Village, huddling under our flimsy umbrellas, hoping that those thin little wires would hold just long enough, and pointing to all those other abandoned umbrellas - we must have seen at least 40 or 50 the whole weekend - that littered the street. Why do we always choose the worst times to go? It just seems to work out that way. The rain was spottier on Sunday. We got out in the morning, to a museum in the Park, through the afternoon, before catching the bus back to Philadelphia. It's the third time H has been to the New York since living in Philadelphia, and the third time the sky has cracked open over the Big Apple and pummeled us with heavy city rain. Eventually we'll catch a nice weekend. Until then, I suppose we'll satisfy ourselves with the decadence of sprawling out on a New York couch and not going out. Because there is something so sumptuously luxurious about it, isn't there?

Adjusting for Spring

My mother wakes up every morning to a tiny, timed bedside light ticking on -- a silent indication that the day is coming before the sun gets too high, and I picture her waking gradually, stretching her arms and blinking her eyes slowly open to a warm glow. This isn't our style. The alarm next to our bed, our own air horn to my mother's peaceful morning light, must be set to NBA-arena volume to get us stirring. This radio has been stuck for some time between stations - a loud, obnoxious morning show with dirty jokes and Lady Gaga music blares at 7 a.m. in between waves of static. We snooze for at least a half-hour, so the sound of it jolting back on every ten minutes might drive our neighbors crazy, if we had any. It's been like this for weeks, and neither of us have bothered to change it. After all, we're not morning people to begin with, not by any means, and anything we wake up to will be on our hit list of worst enemies - might as well be something we already don't care much for.

The weather here is finally changing, and I put on my walking shoes and took small bites out of the city this weekend, one step at a time. Kelly drive was delightfully crowded, and I walked out to the edges of it with a friend, sat on the banks of the Schuylkill and basked in the sun. On Sunday, I walked deep into the city, had a smoothie and went bathing suit shopping. These first few hints of spring's mildness, even if we do have a few more bursts of coat weather, are just so, so sweet. Whenever this time of year rolls around, I find that I'm much more ready and willing to jump out of bed in the morning and face the warm day, the sun, the possibility of a thin cotton dress instead of layers and layers of clothing. Even my trip to work seems a little bit more colorful. And in the next few weeks, after changing the bed-clothes to something lighter and cracking the windows for the first time in months, I just might readjust that radio dial to something pleasant and airy.

Tea time

At a new tea bar in my hometown.

I'm a tea drinker. I start the day with a dark black and a splash of milk, I treat myself to a light green in the early afternoon, and every now and then I return to a sweet cup of Rooibos at night. I'm not a tea researcher, certainly not a tea writer, and by no means a tea expert - I just like the stuff.

This summer I met a Brit at a conference, born and bred, and spent a bit of time with her. When I shook my mug and told her that I was a tea drinker, she cringed. American tea is just awful, she told me. Those little tiny bags...the only way I can stand it is to make a pot using twenty of those damn tea bags. Or loose leaf.

I had never bought loose-leaf until my husband came home with a bag of it for me last week. What a charming idea, I thought. How cozy. How posh. I'll go and buy a nice diffuser, perhaps even a tea pot, and become a real tea drinker who can discern the quality stuff from the corporate grind, who has a little cupboard with glass tea jars lined up and labeled, that will chink with friendly little reminders of their quality when I reach in for the one I want. Yes. This little scene struck me as just the right progression in my tea-drinking education. So, it was only logical to visit the little tea boutique in the city this weekend. I walked there with a friend who has abnormally refined taste buds (I have told her time and again to please become a food writer...she can rattle off comments about tannins, citrus infusions and cedar aromas like no one I've ever met). But, I must admit, after my experience, I'm not sure I'm ready to become a total tea buff. I walked around the store, gingerly cradling glasses and trying my hardest not to knock things over while my friend had a ten-minute conversation with the cashier about the differences between first-flush and second-flush Darjeeling (oh, she explained it to me, but hell if I can remember). I wondered anxiously if I was allowed to take the large tins of loose-leaf down and smell them by myself or if I had to wait for help. I fingered the more bizarre instruments with a furrowed brow before replacing them carefully on the shelf. I walked away with a nice little tea pot, perfect for two cups, and a small steal diffuser, both of which were probably a bit overpriced, but worth it overall for the true tea experience. I felt very smug until I flipped over the tea pot and saw those three little mood-killers that were printed in precise letters on the bottom...Made in China. Ah well. The Chinese do know something about tea at least, don't they?

My new tea pot, trying its hardest to create that cozy tea atmosphere.

A valuable cab ride

I never, but never, wear rings. When H and I decided to get married, there was no engagement ring, no jewelry exchanged at all (and let me just say now, with my aversion to everyday bling, I wouldn't have had it any other way.) So when he shoved that platinum band onto my left ring finger over a year and a half ago, that band that's supposed to represent our lifelong commitment to making sure all those versions of us remain supple and durable enough to thrive through years of real living, I remember being incredibly aware of the ring for weeks after. It was always there. It was uncomfortable. It felt itchy. I would sometimes take it off at work, set it carefully to the side for awhile, and sigh with relief. I'm used to it now, but old habits die hard - H and I both have apparently taken to fidgeting with our rings in moments when our hands are unoccupied but our fingers are anxious for play. I myself have been known to twirl mine around my ring finger, even to take it off, slide it on my other fingers, and every once in awhile (yes, I realize I have the habits of a ten year old), give it a good spin on a hard surface.

We went out for a date night for the history books this weekend - there was fancy dining with wine (at Bistro St. Tropez yet again), and there was a cozy, white-table clothed jazz club after, with a few rounds of cocktails. When we left, I was a little bit more than a little bit tipsy. In the cab on the way home, I remember distinctly playing with my ring and losing grip on it. I found it with a sigh of relief in my lap. I shook my head and scolded myself. Put your ring on, dummy, and stop playing with it! Not even a minute later, though, it was back off my finger and somewhere - somewhere, somewhere lost in the car. We looked. We stuck our hands down into the seat cushions. We felt under the front seats, under the floor padding. My hands have been in cab crevices that you probably wouldn't even want to imagine. The cab driver, most fortunately, was really very nice - he pulled over, got out a flashlight and helped us look. We managed to lift up the ENTIRE seat at one point (who knew that you could do that in any car?), and low and behold, there it was, gleaming in the glare of his flashlight. We laughed, thanked him profusely, gave him double what we owed him, and walked the rest of the way home. And today, I'm back to playing. I sometimes wonder if I'm just a storm drain, or a gutter, or a picturesque mountain overlook away from having to buy a new wedding ring. At least, for now, I know where it might be next time it flies out of my hand in a cab.

The hot of it

When I was in the fourth grade, someone from some non-profit organization came to talk to us about environmental conservation, and give us the very fervent hope that all children seem to be given at some point or another that all was not lost, that by encouraging our parents to recycle more and with efforts to conserve water, we, too, could save the environment safely from our own suburban homes, one little step at a time. I went home that night and put little clinging plastic reminders on our bathroom mirror that declared "Take shorter showers!" and "Conserve water!" with tiny cartoon icons of faucets and steam. I didn't think too hard about the message, but I thought their slick material was totally cool (they stuck to the mirror without being sticky!). For the next few years, my sister and my parents never let me live it down. If anybody needed to take shorter showers, they said, it was me. I turned on the faucet and was lost to the world for the next twenty minutes. I sang. I talked to myself. I examined my fingernails and scrubbed in between my toes.

When we moved to Philadelphia and got settled into our apartment, we noted to ourselves, then to each other, then to our neighbors, how the water wasn't quite hot enough. It got worse over the two and a half years we've lived here until a lukewarm shower was just about all that we could hope for. In the middle of winter, let me tell you, I could be in and out of that bathtub in less than five minutes. I even considered making a special trip to the gym for the sole purpose of a hot shower. But, somewhere along the way, several weeks ago, H put his foot down and decided to call the landlord. He should know about it, he said. If we need a new water heater, then we need a new water heater, he said. But, it turned out, the problem was much simpler than that. Embarrassingly simpler. Two and a half years of less than desirable showers were remedied with a wrench and a quick one-two on some knob or other. The plumber said to call him back if the problem wasn't fixed. There has been no need. Oh, the heat! The steam! The soothing flow of piping hot water on your body at the end of a long day! It's back in my life, and I have to admit, I missed it. Now my showers are creeping back again to real events. Twenty minute events, off-pitch show-tune medleys included. I'm sorry I've let you down, fourth-grade guest speaker, but I'll just have to find some other way to save the environment. My showers are just too precious.

A meaner snow

Well, we're getting pummeled again, but this time is different. The first two snows were light and frothy - snowflakes that didn't stick to your coat and landed ever so tenderly in heaps that dusted up and swirled cheerfully at the slightest breeze. But now it's back, and it's not as friendly. It's heavier, wetter, and all around meaner. The breeze turned into a biting wind, and the snow is really showing us who's boss. We thought you would be fun for awhile, we thought we'd just have a winter fling. We welcomed you, spent time with you and bonded with you just enough, but apparently you've gotten emotionally attached - you came back again, grumpier and needier, showing us your teeth.

As stir crazy as I get spending all day indoors, our quick trip outside today soaked through even to the sweater under my giant spaceman coat (I believe that's its proper name), and I was ready to curl back up on the couch with a hot cup of tea. We're relieved that no new neighbors have moved in across from us (yes, that apartment is still vacant), as we strip down, shed our winter gear, dripping all over the place, to the driest of our layers. Everyone is home today, everything is canceled, and even the chain drugstores are shut up with handwritten notes on the door - You can't really expect us to staff this place in this mess, can you now? We've spent a good bit of time standing side-by-side at the windows in our apartment, watching people sludge through the streets and neighbors scraping the sidewalks, seeing other heads at the windows across the way, watching the power lines anxiously as they get weighted down with icy snow. We're all a bit smug about having the day off, but really, staying indoors is the only possible way. There's just no moving in this stuff.

Snow in Philadelphia

Perhaps it was the panic-stricken, frantic hours that held us in a tense freeze last time a major snow rolled in, but this snow fall felt calmer, more relaxed but also quieter - the neighbors didn't seem nearly so breathless and eager for contact this time (or did we just not leave our house long enough to notice?).

We stayed in for most of the day yesterday, avoiding the dreary grey sky and the drift - billowing thick and blurry, piling up outside our window as we watched in wide-eyed excitement.

But we had our moments in it, too - Friday night, after celebrating a friend's birthday with a warm, softly-lit dinner, we headed home in the few inches that had accumulated since our meal began, through a high-rise parking lot. While the lights overhead flickered on every now and then, sensing our movements, and amidst peeks outside by a furrowed-browed security guard, we balled up chunks of snow, stealthily running around poles and behind cars, trying our best to catch each other in moments of distraction. It was a snowball fight for the records: full of joyful screaching, sopping coats and gloves, and unabashed, irreverent clawing and stomping on the pristine stuff. We even lost a cell phone during the mischief (recovered only because the ringer was set on loud -- we called it over and over and over again, and finally found it, buried in white and nestled in a bush). And today, we walked in the sun, marched through snow up to our knees, built a proper snowman (snow lady, more precisely, complete with a hat), and made a few angels before coming home to cups of dark tea and hot winter chili.

This is, really, the only proper way to do a snowy weekend.

Inappropriate eye contact

I attended a small, interactive session at a conference this summer, and giggled a little bit when someone nudged me and pointed to their computer screen - another poor soul in the room was twittering about how the speaker, who was, ironically, speaking on the art of good public speaking skills, needed to be told a thing or two about inappropriate eye contact. It's true - he lumbered around the room slowly, trolling for victims, and stopping directly in front of some poor onlooker who happened to shift their eyes upward at the exact wrong moment, when he would catch them and hold them in a death stare as he spoke directly to them for at least 20 seconds. I was one such victim, to my recollection, a couple of times during the talk. Engaging your audience just gets creepy when you seem to be trying your hardest to pretend, however briefly, that you and a single attendee are the only people left in the universe, and that communicating directly to them the next five bullet points of your powerpoint just might save you from certain destruction. It was that intense.

Looking someone directly in the eye is an act of intimacy that just feels mortifyingly inappropriate at certain times. Every once in awhile in a gym class, we'll be doing something terribly embarrassing, like laying on our backs with our legs spread apart, or plowing over so that our feet come over our head and touch the floor behind us. In these moments, the last thing you want to do is look someone in the eye. It's just not the time. Yet, it happens. There you are, facing me, with your legs flailed up and spread-eagled, raising your chin in a crunch, whincing and grunting, and we're just not paying attention to where our eyes are falling. We look away as quickly as we can. Let's pretend it didn't happen, okay? We'll be casually friendly after class and forget the whole incident. We were both vulnerable, and it was a mistake. Don't read into it. Just keep crunching, and make a mental note to always, always keep your eyes on the ceiling in compromising positions.

Two fancy meals

My husband and I both occasionally pick up classes at the French Alliance here in Philly, mainly to sit in a room the size of a closet and try our little hearts out to butcher the language with slightly cleaner cuts than we had managed the week before. This has led to a few friendships, and more than a few acquaintances, some of whom appear to be prominent (and wealthy) city socialites - people who jet off to their apartment in Paris "for the weekend" and attend galas and fundraisers in ballgowns. I'll never quite understand the connection people automatically make between France and haut culture (a connection that, I'll admit, I sometimes make too), but learning French, no matter how late in life, is apparently a must in high society. One thing that we've both noted about this sophisticated lot is that they compare chef stories and restaurant experiences like teenagers compare song collections on their i-pods - whoever can call up the little gem that nobody else knows definitely triumphs as the true connoisseur, a position envied by all.

H and I never find ourselves in the running. He has at least managed to pick up a few important chef's names here and there, but I'm hopeless. It's not that we haven't been to nice places in town, for birthdays and anniversaries and such - it's just that they've amounted to a handful of cache when you really need a mountain to play the game.

We've been trying lately, though. Last weekend, we were invited out by a woman, nice enough to put faith in our manners, however simple they might be, to an Italian restaurant everybody's apparently been raving about - "It has a real following..." her friend told us over wine and handmade bread. H and I had the pheasant. It was bony. I was hungry again an hour after we ate, and wished I had gotten dessert. It just didn't meet my expectations of fancy dining.

Our attempts to culture ourselves with good cuisine didn't stop there, though - this week happened to be Restaurant Week, a little celebration of all food Center City that some corporation or other sponsors twice a year, when you can sample a real, live, fancy-schmancy 3-course meal for a mere $35 dollars, a steal of a deal in some restaurants. Choosing the restaurant is an art in itself - some places are a bit dismissive of restaurant week eaters and end up giving you the cheapest bits of the menu while turning up their noses at you for going the bargain route. On the other hand, you don't want to choose a restaurant that's too cheap - the point of Restaurant Week is to experience something a little beyond your normal price range. Very delicate. I have to say, though, we made the perfect choice, and it's all thanks to our Alliance friends. Apparently, Bistro St. Tropez has been the talk of the French Alliance for awhile now, and we had a delightful meal of FOUR courses (they threw in an extra, just to be nice). They were overly polite, doting and generous, and we stuffed ourselves silly with mushroom curry soup, scallops in a cream sauce, bleu cheese encrusted salmon with pistachios and duck on a bed of lentils and raspberry chutney. The glow of the neon, blinking palm tree somehow managed to enhance the ambiance, and the 4th floor view of the Schuylkill River, was perfect. It might not be a mountain of cache, but it's another chip, I suppose, on our little pile. Even if it was during Restaurant Week.

Girl Scout Cookie Season

Those girls. They work so hard. According to a colleague with two girl scout kids, there's so much competition to push these little boxes of happy that some troop leaders actually try gorilla tactics of sabotage, making deals under the table before the official start of selling season, and stabbing other parents in the back for prime real estate. And who could deny the vital importance of the parent's workplace in the fundraising formula?

I was never a girl scout myself, but having the cookies in the house reminds me of my childhood in a different way -- I would be offered, as a treat, a box from my parents, or I would scrape together enough allowance to indulge myself a little with a box of samoas (always my favorite), and squirrel them away under my bed. The sad image of me hunching over to dig one out every so often, eating it on the floor alone while picking at the carpet isn't really my favorite childhood memory, but, looking back, I'm amazed at myself for how long I stretched those babies. I sometimes still had unfinished boxes the next time girl scout cookie season rolled around. (Where did that resolve go? Sweets are so much more precious when you're a child.)

This year, my coworker, a confident, assertive woman with a healthy streak (she steers clear of the 25-plus birthday cakes we help ourselves to every year) sent out an e-mail announcing the start of cookie season, and I went the same day to put in my order. She handed me the brochure with a sigh - she has only so much patience for things like fund-raisers, apparently even for her kids. I stood in her office, drooling over the pictures and agonizing over the fat content of a single thin mint before telling her exactly what I wanted. I hadn't even gotten to samoas yet when she replied in a chipper but slightly cautious tone: 'that's enough.' That's enough. Three boxes is enough. "Oh," I said. A girl scout cookie mom telling me to stop the madness that is my gluttonous free-fall into cookie overload. Yes. Now there's an admonishment you should really listen to. She brought me my cookies the following week, and I must say, I'm slightly disappointed. Have the cookies changed, or have my tastes? All I know is that next year, three boxes will, indeed, be more than enough.