Barack 'n Rolling

Obama has widened to a 7-point lead over Hillary Clinton in Iowa, according to the latest poll released tonight (yes, I was pounding the refresh button waiting for the results), three days away from the Caucuses.

If Barack wins Iowa, he'll likely win New Hampshire (where, last I knew, he was leading too), and if he wins N.H., he'll definitely win South Carolina, and if he wins S.C., he'll effectively be the Democratic nominee.

If he is nominated, the pundits will say it's because of his freshness, his judgment and character, his ability to unite the nation and give the U.S. a fresh face on the world stage, and his proven ability to attract not only Independents but Republicans to create the first landslide election in 25 years... All that is true, but I know the real reason: Iowa's own Brandon "Superman" Routh was campaigning for Barack today.

But in all seriousness, the fact that a Barack Hussein Obama has such a fair shot at the presidency makes me proud. The United States is supposed to be a country where we don't care about the color of your skin, or what your name is, or who your father was. But of course we always have cared about those things very much, to our detriment. If we are now beginning to look past those things, you could argue that Barack's candidacy has already begun to transform the country.

Santa's Elves

Throughout my life, Santa has sent three elves to our house to keep an eye on me and my brother. Spencer, Theodore and Gentleheart arrive overnight, a few weeks before Christmas. Each night they move around to another place in the house perching on shelves, windowsills, clocks, mirrors, the top of the fridge. Once each elf choses his new location, they turn back into inanimate figurines. They watch us and report back to Santa about whether or not we are being good.

One year, the elves left tiny candy cane crumbs on the top of the clock. They left an apology, typed on the typewriter I received as a present that year, and signed in pencil. They even left their teeny tiny pencil behind.

Another year, Gentleheart was hiding in the basket of garlic and onions on the top of the fridge, and when my mom opened it to get an onion out, he bit her.

My grandfather told us that when my dad was young, just one elf came to watch him and his siblings. My grandfather said he still sometimes got letters from that elf, who knew the three elves that traveled to our house each year.

So sucessful were my parents in keeping up this story, that we never touched the elves. Even when they were within reach, we didn't touch them. Once, a friend of mine dared me to touch Spencer. She did, poking him quickly and jumping back, but I was too afraid to touch him. If we touched them, they would stay in their clay figurine state forever, and surely Santa would hear that we'd been bad.

When I got home this year, the elves were already there. Of course, now I see them for what they are: hand-painted ceramics. Gentleheart had a chip on his nose.

They stayed in the same spot day after day. Maybe they got too old to move around each night. I can reach them no matter where they are now, since I am taller than my father. But my brother and I never touch them, even now. While the belief in Santa is long gone, the elves still hold their power. Maybe because they were our elves while Santa belonged to everyone. No one else we knew was special enough to have elves come watch them, except for our dad when he was young.

Picking them up seems impossible. You simply can't: humans can't touch elves. To touch them would break their magic.

Snow Photos

Trees at the train station.




Trees out my living room window.

My back porch.

Boink

Just what I need for my corduroy digestive tract.

For those with patriotic credit cards, Boston.com has suggested some toys made in the USA that the little tyke in your family might enjoy this Christmas. A Harry Potter costume, a plastic playhouse. But one suggestion stood out as belonging squarely in the what-the-@#&! category. I give you: Felt Raviolis.

Introduce your little chef to haute cuisine with felt ravioli from Nico & Zoe. All they need are an imaginary side of broccoli rabe and pretend light sage butter sauce. Why hasn't someone come up this sooner?

Is there really that much of a demand for cloth pasta? Apparently so. The felt raviolis are -- you guessed it -- sold out.

Dropping the Ball

Just after I got back from India, we learned that my brother's apartment in Asbury Park, NJ had burned down overnight.

My mom said, "I was so busy praying for you to get back safe from India that I dropped the ball on praying for your brother!"

(He's fine and luckily the semester is almost over anyway.)

I'm a Library Nerd

anI recently wrote another freelance article for CIO Magazine about how to research technology topics online. I enjoyed the assignment because I was able to use my library science education to talk about something I enjoy: research.

Not only was the article fun to write, but one of my sources, popular library blogger Jessamyn West, mention my article and name in a recent post on her library technology blog.

I've been reading her blog for years and now I'm a tiny piece of the content. How cool is that?

Update: My story was one of the top stories on CIO.com for the month of November. Even cooler!

Message Rock

I wrote about this rock in my town a long time ago with the intention of posting regular updates on new spray-painted messages. Turns out I don't drive that way as often as I thought.

I went by over the weekend and happened to have my camera.

As Metropolis Turns

Today after lunch when my coworker Jason and I were heading back to the office, I asked if he minded making a pit-stop at Newbury Comics.

"So you can get your stories," he said, putting an inflection on "stories" that was subtle but that nonetheless separated it from every other piece of fiction in the universe. Stories, as in what every grand-mammy in America calls her soap operas.

As I thought about it, I realized how much my grandmother's stories and my stories have in common. Besides the obvious fact that comic books and soap operas are both long-running, rather old-fashioned, serialized fiction invented to sell soap to housewives and BB guns to boys, they're also similarly outlandish. A bullet-proof man isn't any more ridiculous than the antics Reba and Victor got up to on a regular basis on Guiding Light.

"Yes," I said to Jason, "so I can get my stories."

Campaign Junkie

I love reading political blogs for up-to-the-minute news about the presidential campaigns. I read the New York Times' The Caucus, the Washington Post's The Trail, CNN's Political Ticker, MSNBC's First Read, USA Today's On Politics, Slate's Campaign Junkie...

Sometimes I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of my skull, but I can't get enough.

When I've read all the blogs, I check for campaign analysis in The New Yorker and The Atlantic. And I like to see what's on BBC News too, for a European perspective.

I like to see how different news organizations portray the same story, and how the candidates portray themselves. I like to get a feel for who's making what kind of news -- who's leading what poll, who's embroiled in what scandal, who's getting endorsed by what union.

And while I like reading about all the candidates (the scary Rudy Giuliani, the awesomely knowledgeable and unfortunately ignored Joe Biden, et al.), it's fun to have a horse in the race. When I stuck my Obama sticker on my car last February, I did so with an audacity of hope. But at this point I believe with my rational senses that he'll be the Democratic nominee. (For the record, watch to see John McCain pull out the Republican nomination after all.)

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

This year, screw Christmas -- I'm waiting for the Iowa caucuses.

Cowboys and Indians

I first encountered Larry McMurtry when the old man made his way across the stage, sporting a tux with a Bolo tie, to accept his Oscar for his work on the screenplay for Brokeback Mountain. In his short speech, he thanked not his family or his friends, or God -- but his typewriter. "I couldn't have done it without you," he said. I liked him immediately.

A few weeks ago, coming off a good but claustrophobic and navel-gazey John Updike novel, I wanted something sprawling and airy, and I remembered McMurtry. I'd never read anything about the Old West before, but that seemed just the medicine. I picked the most popular of his books, the one that earned him his Pulitzer.

My first impression of Lonesome Dove was that the writing was overly simple. The vocabulary is no more than a fourth-grade level, and it tended to point out the obvious. On top of that, it was too like Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman -- a little mushy and mainstream. But the Pulitzer Prize logo on the cover made me keep pushing through the 1,000 page novel.

Now, by page 900, one thing is clear: Larry McMurtry is a genius. The Doctor Quinn tone was a tease, and I'm sure he did it on purpose. When characters start getting their balls cut off and shoved down their throats, and burned, and drowned, it's all the more shocking.

There are few stand-out passages in the book, which actually makes the book itself feel more memorable and solid. Rather than catching certain things in your memory, the consistency lets the whole thing build and accumulate in your brain. It never hits you over the head with its greatness -- but at some point (for me it was around page 600), you out-of-the-blue realize that it's been amazing. Then you worry about it being over too soon.

I'm enchanted with the world of the Old West, it turns out. My sense of fantasy has always been rooted in sci-fi and super-heroes. Gun-slinging cowboys and saloons and Indians and the Great Plains seem like a new invention to me. And Lonesome Dove is one of those books you read for the world it presents as much as for the characters, similar to Lord of the Rings. Given the level of detail, I find it hard to believe that Larry McMurtry didn't actually live in the 1870s, the same way I can't imagine Tolkein not spending time in Middle Earth -- the places and customs both books describe are so real as to be alien.

I was happy to learn there are two sequels to Lonesome Dove (and both are its equal in length). Guess I should be thanking McMurtry's typewriter too.

Nice Digits

I just made an appointment to have my travel vaccines for India. When I gave my phone number, the receptionist complimented me on it: "Nice number!"

That's a first.

Snake Boat Races

I will soon be traveling to New Delhi, India for work. I have been warned about everything from not drinking the water (perhaps I'll learn how babied my body has been in America, as Ben mentioned a few weeks ago), to not going anywhere except with my company-assigned driver, to turning a blind eye to the bleak poverty that will surround me.

Upon reading about India, I learned of an upcoming holiday that includes music, elephant parades and a snake boat race. I'm terrified of snakes, but the image was intriguing. I mentioned it to my roommates. Jon in turn asked me and Trish what image came to mind when we pictured a snake boat. "I imagine a boat made of snakes that are woven together," he said.

Trish imagined a glass boat filled with snakes, so they can be seen slithering within the interior and exterior walls.

I imagined a simple wooden row boat that sat in the street on top of hundreds of snakes, who moved it across the ground by slithering.

Of course, it's none of the above, though I'm not sure what it is. I guess I'll find out soon enough! In other snake news, I hope I get to see a snake charmer. This photo is from a colleague who was in India for 3 months last year.

Traveling Show

Last night I went to the Barack Obama rally on Boston Common. 9,500 people. A couple good speeches. And, of course, the man himself.

I was too far away to get any good pictures, but Barack warped that distance between himself and me. (In my personal experience, he runs a second place only to Bono in his ability to hold a crowd in his hand.)

He Baracked my world, even if I don't agree with everything he has to say. Being in the crowd underscored my belief that he's the man for the job -- because of the crowd's diversity. Here was the black woman affirming each line of the speech with a church-like "That's right. Yes, yes." Here was the white-white college kid whistling for hydrogen cars. What I think America needs, more than any particular policy, is 1) a person who can bring us together, and 2) someone who can help restore our position in the world. "When I'm President," Barack said, "I'll tell the world, America is back!" It was my favorite line.

No, actually, my favorite line was when he mentioned his "cousin Dick Cheney." He continued for a bit, then gave in to the laughter: "We tried to keep that under wraps. Hey, what can I say? There's a black sheep in every family."

For as closely as I've been following the presidential campaigns, this was my first campaign event. What struck me most was how like a traveling show it is, how really old-fashioned it is. In spite of the media blitzes, in spite of the millions of dollars, it all boils down to a person giving a speech, trying to make a sale. One on one. Asking for your vote. It's kind of beautiful, really.

Learn It From the Side of the Box

Seriously, I can't cook. I love to cook, but it never turns out well: I don't read the directions and stuffing ends up like soup and rice ends up burnt. I'm starting to wonder if the recipes I'm making are what's bad.

See, most things that I cook are vegetarian or vegan, which admittedly doesn't always equal tummy-patting yummy-yummy. Last night I made this sweet potato and barley risotto which was okay when it was hot, but as soon as it started to cool, it tasted gross. The barley dried out and I couldn't choke the second half down. (Meanwhile, Mike is happily chowing away on beer beef stew I made him.)

The same thing happened with this chickpea casserole I made -- delicious at first, but I couldn't finish it. That seems to be the way with healthy food: I can eat half a banana, but the second half makes me want to vomit.

The vegan cookies are sugary enough, but somehow taste off; the whole-wheat baked ziti with fake-meat crumbles in it tastes too wholesome, too filling, too many hyphens.

Last night, after I choked down the sweet potato risotto and packed the leftovers up in the fridge, I ended up staring into the cabinet at Jon and Trish's boxes of Mac N Cheese: sweet hollow carbs with bad-for-you powdered cheese. I ended up eating the last of the tootsie rolls to console myself.

Last Drive in a '94 Sunbird

I got my first car, a Pontiac Sunbird, in the summer of 1998. I drove it my senior year of high school, and when I went to college, my brother drove it. Then my mom drove it. For the last few years, though, it'd been kicking around my parents' driveway, not driving much at all.

Last fall I decided Chris and I could use a back-up car, so we brought it down to Providence to be our spare. But we didn't use it much, and it developed a squeak, and there was some question about whether it would pass inspection when the sticker ran out. So I decided to give it back to my parents, and since no one needed it anymore, they'd donate it to charity.

I drove it back home on Sunday night to drop it off, to say goodbye. It was a lot sadder than I expected. Now, in my apartment lot, the empty space glares.

Every boy loves his first car. But I feel especially attached to my first car, I think, because of its unique smell, a smell I've never smelled in any other car. The closest I can come to describing it is to say that it smelled of warm, dusty cloth. I don't know how it got to be so pronounced. In all the years I owned the car, that smell never changed or faded. It even outlasted the air freshener Chris added last winter. I was afraid it would be overpowered by mango-orange, but no.

Because our sense of smell is so closely tied to memory, every time I got in that car was like every other time I got into it; a sniff of a memory bouquet. Driving to the train station last week made me think of driving to high school almost ten years ago. Did every time.

I feel sentimental about the loss because that car was my only link to high school. Not that those were good days (there are reasons why a car remains my only link), but they had their good moments, and most of the latter were spent in that car -- driving to movies, stopping at Wendy's late at night for square burgers with pals. Burgers that in my memory smell like warm, dusty cloth.

Sight can remind you; sound can jog your mind, but smell can make you remember and chuckle to yourself; it can make you cry. Smell can also make you ache.

That warm, dusty-cloth smell, in its bouquet, held an ache to the last: ah, the ache of first love. Driving the car home to my parents' the other day, I happened to glance in the rearview and spotted a gray Blazer behind me, and I wondered, without thinking, whether it was a boy I went to high school with -- the one I looked for and hoped to see back when I drove the Sunbird. Always him (hopefully!) in the rearview back then. Sometimes even him in the passenger seat. Like square burgers, like movies, like Pine Street and Gold Star Boulevard, he smells that same warm, dusty-cloth smell.

Hm.

I almost hoped the car would break down on the last drive to Leicester -- break down severely. I almost hoped the engine would seize, or the whole undercarriage would fall, kerplunk, onto the pavement when I rolled up outside my parents' house. Just so I could be the last one to drive it, and so I'd know beyond doubt that its days were over. But the car drove fine, and smooth, and its easy speed belied its years and wear-n-tear. It will probably drive for another 50,000 miles that are not my miles. And the warm, dusty-cloth smell, to the next owner, will mean nothing.

Working For the Man

There is a hilarious website (and equally hilarious book by the writer of 52 Projects) about working for The Man and all the small deaths you die each day as a corporate slave.

I thought this page was especially relevant... Man, I can't wait to retire.

Nobels and Presidencies

The headline on MSNBC.com this morning gave me chills:

Gore Wins

It was one of those time-travel moments; for a second I let myself believe I was reading that headline in the fall of 2000. If only! But Gore's win this time is the Nobel Peace Prize, for his work promoting awareness of global warming.

And good for him.

I've been anticipating this for months because it's inevitably tied to the lingering question, "Will Gore run?" Oh, sure, I'm an Obama man through and through, but in my more insecure moments, when a "President Obama" seems unlikely, there's a definite appeal to a Gore/Obama ticket. It would be a great balance -- Al's experience and vision, Barack's charisma. Who could challenge that?

But at this point, given Hillary's steam-train of a campaign (and the growing likelihood of a Clinton/Obama ticket), I no longer feel the same desperation for Gore to run and to save this day. Clearly he has other things to do.

A balanced diet of germs, please

Here's an interesting article arguing that Americans don't eat enough shit. And by shit I mean feces. OK, so not exactly feces, but bacteria.

I know of a lot of people who slather germ-killing Purell all over their bodies (it's popular in the office, as though we're cow farmers rather than cubicle dwellers), and people who insist on antibacterial soap. But it makes sense that they're actually doing themselves a disservice, weakening their immune systems even while they try to ward off germs.

To wit:

But here is the problem: We have become victims of our own success. Ever wonder why your dog can gobble, lick, and gnaw all he wants along the glorious buffet of a city street and (almost) never get sick? Your dog is used to eating shit. Americans, on the other hand, grow up eating almost no shit at all. Our food is hosed and boiled and rinsed and detoxified and frozen and salted and preserved. Recently, we have begun to irradiate it, too--just in case. As a result, when our bodies encounter the occasional inevitable bug, they're unhappy. Our centuries-long program of winnowing out all the muck has turned us into sissies and withered the substantial part of the immune system mediated by our intestinal tract.

Employment Daydreams

If I quit my job tomorrow, I think the first thing I would do is get a part-time job at someplace like Barnes and Noble and I'd spend the rest of my time trying to start my own business.

I first daydreamed about a dog-walking business. Then I thought that it should not be that specific and decided I would instead advertise myself as a personal assistant. I could do errands like post office runs, dog walking, dry cleaning pick-up, making dinner, picking up kids from school or daycare, maybe some simple cleaning stuff... I like doing those household things so it might be fun to do them for someone else and get paid for it. I often wish I had someone to go to the post office for me, and return my library books and think about what to eat for dinner.

The Afterlife.net

Chris: "Well your consciousness and memories have to go somewhere."

Ben: "Why?"

C: "Because brainwaves are energy and energy can't be destroyed."

B: "But consciousness isn't the energy -- consciousness is energy interacting with cells and chemicals. Cells and chemicals both can be destroyed. You're saying that you can move a grindstone with water but no water-wheel."

C: "But the energy takes on the traits of the memories. So it can go into something else. Or someone else. And they would experience the memories contained in the energy."

B: "No they wouldn't. The energy itself might go into someone else, but once it gets there it'll only fire the synapses of the other person and fuel the feeling of the other person's own memories."

C: "But the information is in the energy."

B: "No it's not. Hmm. Say you take a computer that can syphon energy through the air to power itself. If you place it beside another computer, it could take the other computer's electricity but it couldn't read the other computer's data because the data is in the hard drive, not in the electricity that powers the hard drive."

Chris: "It could if it had a wireless network."

Ben: "..................................... Touche."

A Break in Routine

I had a doctor's appointment this morning. When I arrived at my train station to take a later train into Boston, the parking lot was full. So I decided to drive a few miles east and take the train from the next closest station.

There were only a few people waiting. Unlike my station, the parking lot at this one is split in half by the tracks. There is a walkway you can climb to cross from one side of the tracks to the other (something I wish my station had... instead, we have to go around and under the tracks).

When my train is about to arrive, an alarm sounds, making a terrible "eh eh eh eh eh" noise. My favorite thing about the other station was that the alarm was different. When the train began approaching as a small dot from the west, the alarm went "bloo blee bloo blee" - far more pleasant.

The Temperature of a Boy

Mike has an alarm clock on his side of the bed that not only tells him the time and instructs him to wake up, but also reports the temperature and humidity of the room.

In the winter, I love trying to get the humidity number as high as possible. Our roommate Jon says that I set the humidifier to "rain forest." I'm not happy until the glass fogs up.

I am always cold. Mike is aware that I love him not only for his kindness, sense of humor and green eyes, but for his warming capabilities. When he is in bed, the temperature reads between 74.6 and 75.2. When he gets up, it begins dropping immediately, usually all the way down to 68.3, which means I might as well get up too because there's no longer anything cozy about being in bed.

The Case of the Mysterious Stripper Tickets

Last week someone at work placed into my mailbox a folded brochure for a strip-club in Brockton called "The Foxy Lady." And six complementary passes to a strip-show.

The brochure advertised a half-dozen busty women with names like Candy and Tiny (the latter being, I assume, an ironic twist on her boob-size).

There was no note with these items, no indication of who'd sent them. I would've thought it was junk-mail except that there was no envelope, either.

This was definitely the biggest work mystery since the Case of the Missing NutraGrain Bar!

I brought the tickets to my desk and promptly made an announcement and inquiry to my nearby coworkers in order to prevent any chance of getting caught apparently trying to keep them all for myself.

If the tickets were meant as a joke, only with these nearby people am I chummy enough for that kind of thing, although it didn't seem to fit any of their senses of humor. My new boss averted his eyes when I flashed the brochure. Jason denied being the sender. So did everyone else. That left the Upstairs People.

I emailed Pam, the customer service woman, who knows better than anyone what's up in this place. ("Mice," she had said about the missing NutraGrain Bar, long before I discovered the scraps of chewed foil.) To this case she responded with several possible theories, the most likely being that they were intended as a joke for the Other Ben, the one Upstairs -- not me. Finally Pam concluded with a PS: "Show me them."

I did, and left them with her, adding that she should probably pass them along to Porn Guy. Six passes to a strip-show. It would be his lucky day.

Pen Politics

I realized the other day that my default motion when starting the ink flowing on a ballpoint pen is to scribble a W. Not good. Now I make a concerted effort to start with an O instead.

Um... Look! Over there! It's Sally Field!

Dear reader (are you still there?), to distract you from the fact that I haven't blogged in so long that the blogger interface has actually changed since last I used it, here is some interesting news about everyone's favorite flying nun.

She has, apparently, been cast as none other than Mary Todd Lincoln in Steven Spielberg's mouthwateringly-anticipated Lincoln bio pic.

While she never would've sprung to my mind, in hindsight it seems like the best bit of casting since Christopher Reeve put on Superman's red undies. I can't think of anyone who could better portray Mary Todd's warmth and humor alongside the scary-crazy of her darker moments. Sally gives the impression that at one moment she could be serving you warm brownies and in the next moment bashing her own skull with the pan.

Pistachio Follow-up

Advertising works. Even if you're aware of its tricks, it still gets you.

I was in the grocery store yesterday, specifically for bread, swiss cheese, cat litter and cotton balls, but I found myself thinking, "Maybe I should get pistachios."

Maybe it was the ad I saw on the commuter train, or maybe it's because I took the time to write a post about the ad and so it was in my head more than it would have been.

I didn't buy any pistachios, even though I felt like I really wanted them.

Anniversary of a Wedding

Tomorrow is Ben's one-week wedding anniversary.

He got married in a brief ceremony that was followed by a lovely party at his parents' gorgeous house on the most beautiful day anyone could hope for.

As a guest, I really enjoyed the little touches like the Hoodie ice cream cups that accompanied the wedding cake and the little potted plants we were invited to take home as favors.

The wedding was inspirational for many guests, some who left with plans to emulate it and other who decided to say 'I love you' to their significant other for the first time.

Congratulations again to Ben and Chris!

Train Advertisements

This week, all of the boring healthcare ads on the train changed out in favor of ads for... pistachios?

It seems funny that something like pistachios, which have been around and enjoyed for longer than I've been alive, need advertising.

Is the kooky cartoon designed to get kids hooked on pistachios? Or do pistachio growers/distributors just want to say, "Hey, remember pistachios? It's probably been a while since you had them. Maybe you should buy some."

I'd love to see a study of whether or not ads for pistachios increase pistachio consumption.

Steep Hill Beach

It's nearly the end of summer, but Saturday was the first day I made it to the beach.

Not only the first beach day of this summer, but the first time I've ever been to a beach in Massachusetts despite the fact that I love beaches and have lived here for seven years.

Mike watched me swim and let the water rush over his feet. Then I flopped on the sand beside him and dug a hole.




What started as a hole became a castle that Mike's chair proceeded to sink into.

Roadtrip Daydreams

Today I told myself that I should have taken time off before starting my new job. Work is hectic and I have too much to do, but this morning I found myself making a mental list of places to stop on a hypothetical roadtrip.

I picture going west and north from Boston, up through Wyoming to Yellowstone National Park. Maybe go through St. Louis and see those arches or instead go north and stop in Chicago.

From there, I'd go to Mount St. Helens and then spend a few days in Portland, Oregon to see the places I've only heard about.

Next on the list would be driving straight south along the coast and stopping to see the redwood trees. Of course, then comes a few days in San Francisco, a few days in L.A. and at least a few days in San Diego visiting Trevor.

Then it's west, through Phoenix to Albequerque. After that, my main objective would be getting back home so I wouldn't stop in any particular place for more than a night's rest. I'd swing north through Tennessee because why not see what Graceland's all about? I'd stop and see Kelly in Charlotte, NC. And it would only make sense to pause in New Jersey and see my parents for a few days before driving the final four hours back to Massachusetts.

I'd allot six weeks for the loop. Ahhh... if only.

Shoulder

For the last year, I've had near-constant shoulder pain. I've seen doctors, chiropractors, physical therapists and acupuncturists. I've had x-rays and MRIs. No solutions and no relief.

Over the weekend, I got a massage at a different salon than I usually go to. The massuese told me that he doesn't think anything is wrong with my muscles. "The right shoulder is associated with being too hard on yourself," he said. "Are you down on yourself a lot?"

"You mean that my shoulder pain is emotional?"

"Well, I'm just saying you could pay attention to how you are feeling when the pain is the worst and maybe there's some connection."

I thought about it. Maybe I should be in therapy and not getting stuck with needles, cracked back into place and rubbed with hot rocks.

But as much as I subscribe to most of the new-age holistic school of thought, I couldn't buy this. Especially when Google showed no relevant results for a search of "shoulder and 'hard on yourself'."

Bathroom Discourse, Part 5

I was combining a trip to the bathroom with a trip to the water cooler when one of the designers joined me en route. We said hello and walked side by side.

"Are you going to the ladies room?" she asked.

I didn't want to walk into the ladies room together, though I was planning to go there before the water cooler. "No," I said and indicated to my water bottle, "Water."

"Oh good," she said smiling. "I don't like to go to the bathroom when there are people I know in there with me."

I feel the same way, but I didn't tell her. I gave a little laugh, then she went straight and I turned left towards the kitchen.

Best Cross-Marketing Ever

While I would only give the Simpsons movie an "it was good" review, the promotions for it would get an A+ (if I was in the position to give grades). I enjoyed seeing Homer on Burger King commercials and Marge when I visited JetBlue's website. There's nothing like The Simpsons to make something boring into something half-worth paying attention to.

You could also go on the movie's website and create a Simpsons character that looks like you. Here's my best rendition of me.

Best of all, of course, was the idea to turn a dozen 7-11 convenience stories into Quik E Marts: complete with life-size cut-outs, Buzz Cola, Squishies, pink sprinkled donuts and employees in Apu costumes. Free-standing buildings also had spray paint courtsey of Bart on their exterior walls.

The closest Quik E Mart to me was in New York City. It wasn't the best in the country, but it was worth the trip.

Decorating My Purple Room

When nothing seems to fit on an otherwise empty wall, try paper butterflies.

Waving Goodbye

When you hit a certain age, you don't want your mom to walk you to the bus stop and wave goodbye once you board. It's embarassing.

Do parents ever tire of their kids waving goodbye, or rushing to greet themwhen they return?

This morning at the train station, there was a woman sitting in the driver seat of a minivan that was idling on the close edge of the parking lot. She had two kids in her lap. They were waving wildly out of the open window, calling, "Bye, Daddy! Bye Daddy! Bye bye!"

At first, I couldn't tell who they were waving to, but then I noticed a man a few feet away from me, waving inconscipuously at the minivan. The kids persisted: "Bye Daddy!" He seemed embarassed. His kids were breaking the otherwise quiet wait.

Finally, he must have decided there was no stopping them, and he turned toward the parking lot and raised his hand high to wave and shout back, "Bye! Have a good day!" Then he turned away again and pretended to look for something in his bag.

As the train approached, he again turned back toward his family and shouted, "Look -- here comes the train!"

The kids stopped shouting their farewells and watched the train approach with open mouths. Then the little girl waved at the train as it pulled to a stop, while the mom whispered something to the little boy and he pointed toward the platform.

The whole scene was endearing and made me want kids I could wave goodbye to, kids who were fascinated by the train that only angers and exhausts me.

City Walk

I just got back to my desk after a quick walk around the block.

There was a man washing the sidewalk in front of the Freemont Hotel. He was scraping up the gum, which made me look twice at the sidewalk as I continued on. Every square of cement looked like a leopard it was so littered with gum. Scraping it up has got to be the worst job ever.

Also, I sometimes feel like an old woman because of how I dress. Girls my age and older wear short skirts or low-cut tops or heels. I don't wear heels because my toes are deformed. I don't wear low-cut tops or short skirts because I feel like I'm not attractive enough for those clothes.

But there are people out there on the sidewalk wearing things they really shouldn't: very heavy women in very short skirts, girls wearing heels they can hardly walk in, not to mention the cornucopia of bad hair and bad outfits. I didn't pass a single person who I thought was well-dressed enough that I'd emulate them. I passed at least a dozen people that made me think, "Does this one have a mirror at home?" (my mother's favorite line when judging the fashion choices of strangers.)

So as I looped around the corner back towards my building, I thought, maybe I should be a little more adventurous with what I wear and not be so uptight that I have to cover everything all the time.

I passed the guy scraping gum. He hadn't made any visible progress.

Author Deceased

I'm editing the bio of a recently-deceased author, changing is to was, has been to had been, specializes to specialized, and for the past thirty years to for the last thirty years of his life.

Here is now a whole life in a paragraph, being tweaked by an office peon.

Big Brother FAQ

Tom,

I'm very excited to answer your Big Brother questions. This must be how the Jehovah's Witnesses feel when finally someone wants the pamphlet. Anyway, where do I begin?

Thursday episodes are live. That's when someone gets voted out, and also when they crown a new "Head of Household" (or "HOH"). Tuesday and Sunday episodes are edited from the previous couple days of footage.

The HOH nominates two people for eviction. Then comes the Veto -- there's a competition and someone gets the power to save one of the nominees. The power is rarely used, unfortunately, because people don't want to go against the HOH's wishes. (If the Veto is used, the HOH must nominate another person to take the saved person's place on the chopping block.) Finally, by secret ballot, the houseguests vote out one of the two nominees.

The competitions you asked about are for HOH, Veto power, food, and sometimes for perks (like a phone call from home).

What sets BB apart from other reality shows for me is the fact that it's live, so unlike in Survivor or The Real World, which are long done filming by the time we see anything, the producers can't craft any storylines or anything. That can lead to unpredictability...

In earlier seasons, there were all kinds of spontaneous or accidental happenings, such as trespassers throwing things over the wall of the otherwise-isolated BB house, or planes flying overhead with banners revealing game secrets (who's stabbing who in the back, who threw whose toothbrush in which toilet, etc.). The cast in Season 1 was so boring and agreeable, that the producers offered $25,000 for someone to voluntarily leave the house so they could replace that houseguest with a floozy Las Vegas bartenderess. But no one would take the money -- time with their friends was worth more than $25,000, they said, refusing briefcase after briefcase of CBS's desperate cash. The producers, I imagine, were tearing their hair out as ratings continued to plummet. It may have been the greatest moment of television I've ever seen (the houseguests' rebellion was, yes indeedy, broadcast live). Because the rebellion denied any opening for the floozy, the producers instead sent in a three-legged dog. I kid you not.

After 8 seasons, the producers have gotten much better at imposing their totalitarian regime. They've also made sure to cast interesting people. And by interesting I mean nasty and horny. In the early seasons, there were a lot of old people, married people, etc. Now they're almost all beautiful and single. I want to feel bad about this beautisizing of society, but how can I argue with it when fratboy Nick's rippling pecs are blown up to 30 inches on my widescreen television? The answer is, I can't.

Any other questions?

Ben

Ad Vandalism

A defaced Boston Globe ad that made me both laugh (the cow) and feel bad about the state of the world (the car on which someone wrote "fueled by dead Iraquis").

8:03

I took the 8:03 train this morning instead of the 7:33 because there isn't much happening this week at work.

The 8:03 train is a completely different experience. It's only single level: one of the old beat-up trains. The conductor on the 7:33 is a handsome fit guy. The conductor on the 8:03 is an out-of-shape woman with bad red hair.

The 8:03 crowd isn't well-dressed. There are more backpacks than briefcases. Fewer laptops. And you don't get the sense that any of the ladies in sneakers will be changing into nicer shoes once they reach their destination.

Creature Comforts

There's an adorable show on CBS called Creature Comforts. It uses stop-motion claymation and the voices are provided from interviews with real people. It's a UK import from the makers of Wallace and Gromit.


I watched an episode about beauty and appearance. People answered questions about how satisfied they were with their appearance, what their best feature was, what they would change about themselves, etc, but their answers caem through the mouths of bees, goats, ducks, giraffes, cats, owls and dogs.

I laughed out loud within the first few minutes.

The episode featured:

An anteater talking about how she loves her nose.


A street dog saying he wishes hair didn't grow under his armpits.


A weasel musing about how he wants to understand quantum physics.


A donkey saying, "I could use one of those Jay Leno jaws. I mean, I feel like I need a jaw" and then making a crazy jaw-sticking out face.

The funniest parts ocur when one animal is talking and the other is reacting to what they hear their friend saying: An owl is asked what she likes best about her partner and she says, "His eyes." As she continues to talk about his appearance and hers, he crosses his eyes and makes faces.

Simple but charming.

I LoVermont

I needed a vacation!

Vermont's slow pace felt good. No TV, Internet or phone; just friends, food and whiffleball.

VICTORY!!

"In Massachusetts today, the freedom to marry is secure," said Gov. Deval Patrick.

Amy Hempel

I found her the way I wish I could find more writers:
I read the recent Chuck Palahnuik book Rant: An Oral Biography. (I enjoyed it more than his last few works of fiction.) Rant made me remember how much I enjoyed Chuck's early books: Survivor, Fight Club, and Choke.

I looked Chuck up online. I found a website that listed his favorite books and favorite writers. Every author should have these lists available to their fans. His list of favorite writers included Bret Easton Ellis, who I've read. I tried one of the titles on his list of favorite books, but the novel didn't take with me.

Then I got an Amy Hempel short story collection from the library. It wasn't even the one he recommended most, but it was inspiring. And I usually don't go for short stories.

I can see where Chuck got his flare for unusual events and bizarre descriptions. He took her style and made it more grotesque, and her stories are already disturbing.

Here is an example of Amy's weird detail style: "It was the year I started saying vahz instead of vase..."

Ear Freckles

I was almost to my stop last week. The train had emptied out enough that I wasn't hip to hip with the person beside me. A man older than my dad walked past me down the aisle and then suddenly his head was back, and it was right next to my face.

"Do you know you have several freckles on the back of your ear?"

In my head, I was all, "Ummm... huh.... whaaa..." but I said, "Yes."

"They appear to be pre-cancerous sun-exposure freckles," he said. "People always forget to put sunscreen on their earlobes. You should have them looked at."

"I have," I said, lying.

How did he even see the back of my ear lobe when he'd been walking towards me? Creepy. I guess the freckles, which I was in fact aware of, are that noticeable.

I like my ear freckles because they are weird. I am not a freckled person. I have a few teeny ones on my arms, one on my knee. Three itsy bitsy faint ones like Orion's belt on my chest. That's about it. But my left ear lobe is almost covered by four large freckles.

"Good," he said, relieved that I was on top of my potential for melanoma. He said, "Keep an eye on them."

"Okay," I said, feeling very invaded.

What is with people? I would never interrogate a stranger about their ear freckles. Although I want to warn this one woman about the damage she's doing to her ears by listening to her iPod so loud that I can hear it from three seats up. But the sound of her music is invasive to me, which sort of opens an invitation to make a comment whereas ear freckles are minding their own business and hidden.

Was he someone who has lost a loved one to skin cancer and is now trying to save others, or was he just a dermatologist trying to drum up business?

Crossword Puzzle Guys

Seven of the last nine commuter mornings, I've boarded the train and sat on the bench seat along the wall, just inside the door. Each morning, I take a seat between two 30-something men in suits. They bookend me, usually doing crossword puzzles from The Metro or clacking keys on their laptops, and I imagine I'm a queen flanked by 9-5 guardians.

The one on my left is balding and has a goatee. The one of my right is good-looking in a generic way. Good-looking enough to be entertainment when I'm bored of reading.

These two men are either friends, or they work together. This morning, the one on my left wordlessly handed The Metro across me so the one on my right could look at it. Right-side guy reviewed left-side guy's work for a minute, then handed it back. All without words.

One day last week, right-side guy was working on his laptop and leaned across me (sigh) to show left-side guy an email he'd drafted. "Does this sound okay?" right-side guy asked. Left-side reviewed, nodded and went back to his crossword.

I can't tell exactly what they are to each other because they never have conversation. And, you'd think that since they are obviously somehow linked, they might scoot over to sit next to each other rather than letting me take the empty space between them.

I paid attention this morning: when they leave the train, they do not wait for each other, they do not speak and they seem to go their separate ways. Are they just train-friends? Have they occupied these seats long enough that they are comfortable asking each other for work and crossword advice?

The Neverending Con Con - Updated

Woo hoo, Guvnah!

Gov. Deval Patrick today became the first sitting governor to march in Boston's gay pride parade.

Strolling alongside Mayor Thomas Menino, Patrick waved to the crowd amid cheers as the parade made its way through Boston's South End.

------------

Latest news:

Gov. Deval Patrick said he'll ask lawmakers to postpone next week's scheduled vote on a proposed constitutional amendment barring gay marriage if he doesn't think there are enough votes to kill the measure.

"We want a vote that goes the right way, that keeps us off the ballot," Patrick said Thursday after attending an evening fundraiser for MassEquality, an advocacy group that opposes the amendment. "If we need more time, we'll ask for more time."

It still boggles my mind that a politician, and one as far up as governor, is actually fighting for my rights. And did he really say "us" or am I just imagining that? Pardon me while I get a little misty.

Commuting Haikus

Sit up straight, wear pearls,
wear headband and nice shoes:
corporate costume



Riding ghetto train
Only one level, blue seats.
Move over, you jerk.



Hate people on train.
Hear about their boring lives...
Get off your damn phone.

Commuter Diary #5

This morning, someone had a heart attack on my commuter train, in a car a few back from where I was sitting.



If I was less stable, this would have freaked me out. Imagine your life ending on your commute to your 9-5. Could there be anything worse that feeling your last minutes were wasted in this way? Or reflecting on how many minutes you've wasted riding the train back and forth?



It made me want to take the train back my stop, go straight to the airport and head to Botswana and spend the rest of my life sleeping in a yurt.

Charlotte's Web

Last night, we watched the new Charlotte's Web, starring Dakota Fanning as Fern and Julia Roberts as the voice of Charlotte.

Animated movies create a simplicity that allows the essence of a story to come through clearly. I worried that beauty of the story would be lost in the remake, but I was wrong. I felt the same peace and bizarre combination of sadness and joy that I have felt from watching the animated version ever since I was six.

Julia Roberts' voice was perfect as Charlotte, who I realized is a very interesting character with her combination of wisdom, determination, loyalty and tough love. The remake added a layer to her story by making all the barn animals either afraid or disgusted by her at first. They eventually learned to look past her off-putting spider exterior. A lesson for the kids.

I wasn't wild about Dakota Fanning as Fern. The character was as stubborn as the original Fern, but the actress made Fern feel more modern than she is in the book and original movie. I guess better Dakota Fanning than someone with less talent. To Fern's story, they added a boy. I vaguely remember there being a boy who Fern rode the ferris wheel with, but the boy played a bigger part in the remake.

The one big thing missing was the songs. Maybe that's for the best, leave the songs to the original. But their absence made me realize that they constituted the best parts of the animated movie. Some were very fun and others were nothing short of poetry:

How very special are we
For just a moment to be
Part of life's eternal rhyme
How very special are we
To have on our family tree
Mother Earth and Father Time

He turns the seasons around
And so she changes her gown
But they always look in their prime
They go on dancing their dance
Of everlasting romance
Mother Earth and Father Time

The summer larks return to sing
Oh, what a gift they give
Then autumn days grow short and cold
Oh, what a joy to live

How very special are we
For just a moment to be
Part of life's eternal rhyme
How very special are we
To have on our family tree
Mother Earth and Father Time

Smell Memory

The cafeteria of my office has a smell today that immediately flashed me back to my elementary school cafeteria: a smell I haven't encountered in over a decade. Yet I immediately recognized it and remembered what it felt like to sit at the table with my friends eating from our beloved lunchboxes and drink milk out of cardboard containers.

The U.S. vs. John Lennon

I recommend this documentary, which I watched last night. It's about John Lennon's involvement in the Vietnam War protests, and Richard Nixon's repeated attempts to have Lennon deported.

Until I saw this my only experience with John Lennon was that he was a member of the Beatles. And still I can't say, from watching a 90 minutes of clips with an agenda, that I know much about him. But one thing that struck me was how he looked at Yoko Ono with the kind of love you almost never see come out of anyone. (Personally I don't get the attraction, since Yoko didn't seem to do much other than stare into the middle distance from behind a bushel of hair, but that's beside the point.) And, in general, John Lennon seemed almost bursting with love and compassion.

Then, of course, he gets murdered.

I wonder why it's always the good, peaceful people who get assassinated. It's always Lincoln and Jesus and Gandhi and Martin Luther King and John Lennon who get assassinated, while Hitler and Stalin and Pol Pot are allowed to go on.

Hypermilers

My car is by far the most expensive thing I've ever owned, and I drive it with that in the front of my mind. On the rare occasion when I'm unable to avoid a pot-hole, I groan and think, "The most expensive thing I've ever bought just gained unnecessary wear and tear." When I see red lights, I start slowing down waaay in advance so, if I time it right, I never have to come to a full stop at all -- this saves my break pads. I go gently over speedbumps. I don't accelerate when I don't need to.

When I'm driving I think of my car as an instrument, and I'm making music with the road passing underneath. I like the music to be smooth and soft and in tune. I play the car gently, like you would a Stradivarius violin.

I'm also obsessed with gas mileage. I always reset the meter after filling the tank, and that's the only math I've ever enjoyed. But I never thought to put the two obsessions together -- the symphonic driving with the gas saving -- until I read about people who call themselves "hypermilers" -- people who, through strategic driving, get 60 or 75 miles per gallon. Hypermilers'

goal is simple: squeeze every mile they can out of each drop of gas. Some of their tips are a matter of common sense and could help any driver, especially now, with gas climbing past $3 a gallon: avoiding jackrabbit starts, using alternate routes to avoid stop-and-go traffic, anticipating lights and driving a bit more slowly.

Those are all things I do already... but now I feel part of a club. And a little less crazy.

Based in Boston Area

How satisfactory:

I've been freelancing for my old job ever since I left. There's something really sweet about having a bio that reads "Margaret Locher is a freelance writer based in the Boston area."

I'm a 'freelance writer' -- one of the things I always wanted to be!

Still working on that?

Restaurants really need to come up with a decent way of asking if you're ready to have your plate cleared away, because the lack of standardization has left every server flailing for the right question.

Anyone who's ever taken a minute mid-meal to settle has heard the question, "Are you still working on that?" (Or the shortened "Still working?" that you'll likely encounter at Friday's and Uno's.) That makes it sound like eating this food is a job I've been assigned. No, I'm not working -- I'm eating. There are no blueprints involved; no disassembly is required; and I have not clocked in. If the food is cooked right, eating it should be the opposite of work, shouldn't it?

I've also heard the unappetizing "Are you still picking on that?", which makes me think of a barnyard full of chickens.

And then there's the more creative but equally inappropriate, "You look like you're running out of gas" -- a question that practically begs a retort about the nachos providing more than enough.

Instead, how about a simple, direct "Still eating?" Or, if you want to be a little fancy about it, "Are you still enjoying your _____?" But I'm willing to bet that no question is really necessary at all. "Should I take the plate, or...", is likely all the server will have to say, because the diner will by that point either hug the plate defensively or nod and push it to the end of the table.

Unless the diner is a food reviewer from the Phantom Gourmet, at which point he'll say, "No, actually I'm still working."

Color Coordination

My new job has made me a little too concerned about my outfits. Everyone here dresses very well most of the time. I often feel inferior. My clothes are nice enough, but I don't have stylish shoes because my feet are size 12 and most shoes aren't that big. At least, the stylish ones aren't.

Anyway, I was delighted that today my sweater vest matches my pointy, low-heeled green shoes. I adore these shoes because they are a size 12 and I found them in Marshall's for a mere $18. They aren't just green, either. They have pink embroidered flowers and sequins in pinks, gold, white and blue. A little wacky, but enough to make me feel less like a cube drone as I wear my pearls and headband.

But I just caught myself checking my watch and realizing that the hands were the same green as my shoes and sweater. For a second, I was thrilled. Then I caught myself. "Do not get happy about matching watch hands, Maggie," I thought. "That is a sign that you are either losing your intelligence or your priorities."

Romance or Exercise Bike?

My 9-year anniversary with Mike is in two weeks. After 9 years, I now understand how my parents can let anniversaries like 23 years just go by without more than a card and an extra kiss.



By 9 years, it's not that romance is dead, it just doesn't seem necessary. It's frivolous. And we didn't really like it to begin with anyway.


Last year we got each other nothing. This year we've agreed to split the purchase of an exercise bike to put in front of the TV in the loft. Because nothing says "I love you" more than saying, "You've gotten a little fat. Let's avoid getting fatter, shall we?"


But one of the great things about 9 years is that we can say things like that to each other and laugh about it.

First pic of Heath as Joker

First glimpse:



First thought:
Yikes! He actually looks terrifying. I guess this isn't going to be your grandpappy's Joker -- no Cesar Romero or Jack Nicholson here. Can't wait to see him in action!

The USPS's crafty trick

That dimwit who "invested" in $8,000 worth of Forever stamps should've read this article from Slate.com first.

The postal rate climbed 2 cents on Monday, about a month after the United States Postal Service introduced its new "forever" stamp..., which lock in the 41-cent rate for eternity. One man in Pennsylvania walked into a post office and made an $8,000 investment on his own. Should we all be stocking up?

Absolutely not. Since 1971, postal rates have increased more slowly than the actual inflation rate, as measured by the U.S. Consumer Price Index. So, despite the numerous rate hikes over the last 36 years, stamps have actually been getting cheaper. The 20-cent stamp from 1981, for instance, would be equivalent to 45 cents in today's dollars -- which makes today's rate 10 percent cheaper than it was 26 years ago. Should this historical pattern hold, you'd be paying more for today's forever stamps than you would for any stamp in the future, no matter how high the rate goes.

Is it bad that this news made me happy?

I know it's probably automatic points-off to dislike a religious figure, but Jerry Falwell spent too much of his time promoting hate, bigotry, stereotyping and close-mindedness that it brightened my day just a little to learn that he won't be doing it anymore.

Commuting Diaries #4

I spend a lot of my train commute writing in my diary. Until this morning, I had never seen anyone else doing the same.

Sitting across the aisle from me was a man who was in his early 30's. Blue shirt with tie, khakis, gray socks and black dress shoes that were very worn and scuffed. He was writing when I got on the train and he was writing when I got off the train: he wrote straight through for an hour. He filled nine pages, back and front, of an 8x8 hardcover red book.

What is he writing? The curiosity was frustrating. At first I figured he was writing things like I usually do: yesterday I did this, in the future I hope to do these things, today I thought about this and it made me feel that, I remember when I went here and it was great because blahblahblah.

But nine pages? Then I thought, maybe he's going through a divorce or someone just died and he's writing it out. I tried to see if he had a wedding band on but couldn't.

The curiosity became so overwhelming that I started hoping he'd put the diary down beside him and forget it so I could take it and read it. I've never read someone else's personal diary. Someone's completely unfiltered thoughts.

Then I started thinking about just snatching it from his hands as I existed the train. I immediately felt guilty. If someone did that to me, I wouldn't so much mind them reading my personal thoughts because they are just like everyone else's anyway, but I'd mind losing my records. My diary pages are stuffed with news print-outs, cards, notes, pictures and receipts because I'm keeping a thorough history of myself for future reference.

Trained Animals

When Chris and I saw the circus last year, certain things occurred to me that never did when I was a kid. Things like an appreciation for the mindboggling precision required for three people to ride three motorcycles inside a small iron sphere. And other things like, how can such a big production be on the road indefinitely?

It's one thing when bands tour. U2 has their own plane to cart all the tons of lights and stage apparatus around the world. But what if you have six elephants? How do you tour them? And what if you have six elephants and twenty horses and lions and tigers and two hundred people?

The answer, it would seem, is as nicely old-school as the circus itself: They do it by train.

All last week, a train, each car bearing the Ringling Bros logo, has been parked on the tracks just outside of Providence, where they're performing at the Civic Center.

I don't know how many train-cars long it is -- I haven't been able to count -- but it's long. And there are different kinds of cars. Some are clearly cargo, and others are passenger cars -- the windows have things hanging in them, doo-dads and stuff. I wonder what it looks like inside? How would a circus performer decorate his or her little rolling apartment? What would cover the walls? Posters of clowns? Letters from home?

It makes me wonder, too, what all the circus people do when they're in Providence. The show was here almost a week -- that must allow at least a little spare time. Do the acrobats have lunch at Uno's? Does the lion tamer stop at Macy's to pick something up?

Have you ever seen the Ringmaster buy socks?

Good.

The Secret Service said Thursday that Sen. Barack Obama was being placed under their protection, the earliest ever for a presidential candidate.

But I'm still nervous.

Medieval Times

What a bizarre way to spend a 25th birthday.

Our knight lost, but my vegetarian meals was tops.

We were reprimanded by employees who said to Bill and Alex, "M'lord, if you are having a cigarette, please leave your beverage inside" and before that, to me, "M'lady, I need to see an ID." It cracked me up.

Here's me with the birthday boy.

A Purse or a Prize?

There's a Neiman Marcus across the street from my new office. The only time I've ever been in one was with my mom, who was returning a $1,200 Chloe bag given to her by one of my dad's Japanese bosses.

She used the money to repair the bumper on her car.

The next year, she got a Prada purse which was converted into a college payment for my brother.

This past Christmas, she got a Louis Vuitton briefcase that was actually a style I would carry. She wouldn't turn it over to me though. "This could be a down payment on building a garage for the Vermont house!" she declared.

I love how upset my mom's yuppie friends and my Manhattanite cousins get when they hear she's returned this upscale gifts.

I also love that I was raised to view marked-up fashion items such as these with disdain, and to view the people who carry them as superficial and wasteful. Thanks, Mom.

I like this picture

Crock Pot Revolution

When I asked for a crock pot for Christmas, my mother said, "My, you're becoming quite domesticated." It annoyed me, of course, but maybe it's true. Because I love my crock pot. I love throwing a bunch of stuff in it and walking away for a whole day only to return to a lovely-smelling kitchen and a hot meal.

Before I started my new job, I'd cook on Saturdays, chopping and prepping in the morning and then lounging all day until our bellies grumbled at 6 pm.

Now I've begun preparing everything at night and putting it in the pot. I take it out of the refrigerator in the morning, set it on low and go to work. Sure, it's supposed to cook for only 8 or 9 hours and it's in the pot for nearly 12 hours by the time we get home, but nothing beats coming home to a meal that's ready to eat. No discussion of what to have or who's turn it is to cook.

Best invention ever.

I need to buy another one though, since it's tricky to either put chicken on one side and tofu on the other, or to find something we can both eat. If I had two, we'd be golden.