Curlicue Chronicles

Curlicue Chronicles has moved.

2011-11-08T15:55:00.001-05:00

Curlicue Chronicles has moved to Wordpress.

I hope you'll consider moving too. And perhaps signing up for email alerts.

My latest essay, a short one, is about meeting the legendary Smokin' Joe Frazier. A girlhood dream. Perhaps a strange girlhood dream. But there you have it.

Cheers!
Curlicue

Single-Minded

2011-08-10T14:00:00.001-04:00

Performance by Arachne Aerial Arts

She and I stand on the sidewalk in front of my Washington, DC apartment talking briefly as she drops off her daughter. She is Sharon Witting, the co-director of Arachne Aerial Arts and she's going to work.

"Thanks for watching her. The warehouse where I'm rehearsing is filled with sharp metal shavings."

I hate when that happens.

No worries, I reassure her. Company for my son means I can get more done. Sometimes two are better than one.

Sharon's daughter is an only child like my son. And like some singletons (a word I learned from Parents magazine) he occasionally asks for a sibling. I get that. What I don't get is when other parents ask, not if, but when I'm having a second child. What if I can't? What if I won't?

I'm surprised to learn that people plan such things as siblings. The whole concept of sibling math is new to me. If so-and-so is two years old, we should have so-and-so in less than three years but no more than five.

But this is coming from a woman who is also shocked to learn that some little girls, and some not so little girls, dream of their future wedding. Complete with tear sheets and story boards. I've never been much of a planner.

Sharon's advice, though, is spot on. Get a cat. Hell, get two. This satisfied her daughter's craving for a playmate.

"What he doesn't realize," she adds, nodding in my son's general direction, "is that you're not going to pop out a 5-year old brother for him to play with."

Sharon Witting and Andrea Burkholder (Photo by Enoch Chan)

As she drives away, I'm still laughing at the the image of birthing a 5-year old boy for my son with a complementary demeanor he'll find agreeable and toys that he doesn't already have.

The laughter then turns to abdominal cramping. And I wonder where I could put a litter box.

Oh No He Didn't

2011-08-01T16:52:00.002-04:00

David Sedaris 2007

"You should read David Sedaris. You'll love him." That's what one of the Wenches said to me recently at our monthly W.E.N.C.H. meeting in Washington, DC where I live.

(W.E.N.C.H., a professional woman's group I founded, stands for Women Exploring New Career Hemispheres. I wanted to name it Careers Undergoing New Transformation, but the ladies voted that one down.)

So I did just that. I read three of his essay collections and loved them. Funny. Self-deprecating. Dark. All things I love. I began imagining that with practice, focus, and the proper amount of childcare, maybe one day I could be a humorist writer like Sedaris. Except with boobs. And hair.

I start researching his agent because that's what Betsy Lerner, in her book The Forest for the Trees, recommends as a smart first step. After I type "David Sedaris" in Yahoo, the first hit is not his representation information, but rather "Chicken Toenails, anyone?", an article he published on July 15 in the UK's Guardian newspaper.

The article floors me. It's not his usual hysterical account of Life as David. It's a mean, scathing diatribe of his recent visit to China with not a trace of the self-deprecation for which he's so famed. No disclaimers of any sort. He just drones on and on about the lack of sanitary conditions and the poor quality of food, sounding like a hoity toity bitch. And I don't call just anyone hoity toity.

Maybe I fell in love with Sedaris too quickly and now I'm seeing him in the morning with bad breath, scratching himself through dirty, worn boxer shorts.

I fell in love with China too. But that took much longer. It's where I lived for several years, the first half of my 20s to be exact. It's where I got one of my degrees, making me the first Westerner to graduate from Henan University. It's where I became Kaifeng's Beer Girl with television ads and everything.

View from my beloved tiny, humble, concrete room at Henan Univeristy, Kaifeng, China.

I won't go in for a tit-for-tat. Not here anyway. Jeff Yang, in his follow-up article "David Sedaris talks ugly about China" published in the San Francisco Chronicle, does a better job than I could. And he's Chinese.

I'm just wondering what happened. Was it the typical you-become-famous-and-turn-your-venom-outward syndrome? Sedaris, in his secluded fame bubble, should remember his own recipe for success. Direct the venom where it belongs, at himself.

Surviving a heat wave. Or a dirty bomb.

2011-07-24T07:22:00.000-04:00

Heat wave hits Washington, DC. Temperatures to reach 103 degrees.

But my apartment is cool. And shady. Mainly because my husband is a master of something he calls, Shade Management. He is so serious about this concept that as I type, he's on the roof blocking our skylight with a blue camping tarp. My son squeals with joy "It's blue in here! Can we leave it like this forever?"

I'm not exaggerating.

Until the heat breaks, I will be living in a bunker-like fortress with a hodgepodge of makeshift window treatments giving my home a certain crack house chic. Or perhaps meth lab circa 1990s. I'll have to ask my decorator friend.

Naked windows let in the view. And the scorching sun. So, he's taped cardboard to one, clipped a beach towel over another and, in the kitchen, stapled one of my favorite sheets to the wall, promising that he didn't put a hole in it. And here I've been living foolishly under the impression that making a hole is integral to the stapling process.

He also rigged the floor ducts with pencils and books to redirect cold air away from the windows where it immediately gets sucked out and burned to a crisp. They look like a snares for trapping small woodland creatures should the take-out grid go down. Which is exactly why I'm a loyal viewer of Dual Survivor. They cover things like that.

Some would complain. But actually, it inspires the survivalist in me.

Wind-up flashlight? Check. Canned tuna? Lots. Can opener? Got it. (You need only have that nightmare once.) Plenty of candles, bottled water and Zip Car on my speed dial should my attempts at hot wiring an escape vehicle fail.

I go into survival mode very quickly. And becoming a mother has only quickened my response time.

When a tornado warning threatened DC, I packed emergency food supplies before the first raindrop fell. Actually, I was still breast feeding at the time and therefore a Survival Goddess. Not only would I be able to feed my son without modern technologies, but I could also treat wounds because breast milk acts as a topical antiseptic. When choosing teams in a game of Judgement Day, always pick the nursing woman.

So, as much as my aesthetics are assailed by all the barricading, I kind of enjoy temporarily living in a shit-just-hit-the-fan film. As long as it's not the quiet, apocalyptic delight Right at Your Door because nothing goes as expected in that one. Although, I do recommend it.

And of all the decorating styles out there, Modern Armageddon isn't so bad. The only thing I'm missing is a bad-ass costume which seems to be a necessity when all systems break down.

Though, as great as this full-length leather trench would be for looting a grocery store of all non-perishables while evading armed foreign interlopers, it could be a little hot in a heat wave.

Variation on a Personal Debt Crisis

2011-07-18T09:52:00.027-04:00

"Hey, let's buy a lighthouse."

He says it just like that. As I'm picking up toys off the living room rug.

Excuse me? Who are you and how did you get into my apartment?

Okay, yes. He is my husband. And yes. We have saved and are ready to buy our own place. But a lighthouse? I think I've mentioned a ranch house. But never a lighthouse. Ever.

"They're cheap right now," he adds.

His attempt to appeal to my frugal side is transparent, yet appreciated. Regardless, is a lighthouse really something you want to buy in the discount bin? What if the roof leaks? Hell, what if the walls leak? It's just begging to be a great party story. "Did I ever tell you about this couple I know who bought a lighthouse ..."

I suspect my husband may be trying to recapture some of his childhood that did, in fact, involve shark fishing with old, crusty, drunk fisher people. Mine didn't. To me, Jaws is a cautionary tale and the ocean is mainly a backdrop for lobster dinners, tropical cocktails and a cute bikini. Not necessarily mine.

Admittedly living in a lighthouse is not without its allure, especially the possibility for themed dinners and costume parties. Though the pirate motif could get stale pretty fast. And I can't really pull off Ralph Lauren's nautical line.

There's also my son to consider. It could very well shape his future. Or scar it. Either way, he could write a book about it one day. "My parents decided it would be a good idea to raise their son in a lighthouse. Here's my story ..." It is our job as parents to give him options after all.

But a lighthouse?

What if it doesn't look like my idealized, romantic image of a lighthouse? Like this.

What if it looks like this?

Or this?!

But I'll consider it. I like an adventure. And besides my husband does go along with some of my less-than-stellar ideas like the time he agreed to juggle eggs while I tap danced around him to the song "Me and My Shadow," a piece I choreographed for a retirement home performance.

You could say I owe him. Big time.

Connect The Dots

2011-07-11T07:00:00.001-04:00

Let's play a game.

First, name three things that have seemingly nothing in common. Then find a common thread that connects them together in 500 words or less.

I'll go first.

1. Fisher-Price Little People
2. Yoga
3. Drunks

Mt. Pleasant Farmers Market, Washington DC

It's Saturday morning in Mt. Pleasant, my charming-yet-sometimes-crime-infested Washington, DC neighborhood. I'm going to the farmers market, a quaint scene that unfolds near my apartment each Saturday. Not bad for urban living less than two miles from the White House.

I also work there. (At the market. Not the White House.) But not today. Today I'm here to rendezvous with a stranger who wants to buy my son's Fisher-Price Little People collection. I'll be the tall, curly haired woman carrying a plastic roller coaster, I tell her. She responds that she'll be one of two Asian women with a tall white guy.

The racial profiling helps. I find her easily, something I expected. It's a small market. What I didn't expect was my emotional attachment to these little plastic people as I explain how much they meant to my son. "The school bus sings a safety song," I sniff.

I pull it together and buy some peaches. Then mingle. I see Holly, my son’s favorite yoga instructor. He’s taken as many yoga classes as I have and has been infinitely more successful. Once I fell asleep and drooled all over the rental mat. Another time I was kicked out. But that’s deserves its own 500 words.

Holly knows this about me but invites me to an open house at Past Tense yoga studio anyway. Sure, I’ll come. It’s near my apartment. There’ll be free food and drinks. And I won’t have to wear Lycra. I'm at peace with all this.

Heading back to my place, I run into the shoal of drunk, homeless Latino men who have taken up residence on my block and have been pissing on my trash cans. Some are asleep. Some are singing a song in Spanish that sounds really dirty. You can just tell.

Remembering what I heard in one yoga class, I tell the Universe what I want. "Please don't let these drunks see the flyer and understand the meaning of 'Open House.' Namaste." I realize this makes me a candidate for some sensitivity training course. I'm at peace with that too.

Passed out? Or meditating? Who's to say.

But the owner of the studio is so sweet, she just may let them in. You know how yogis are. She may see yogic potential, like the guy in the photo on the far right who seems to be doing The Savasana, or Corpse pose. It's important to know the difference because in DC, if you call 911 for a corpse-like drunk, the fire department will show up too and, unlike the Little People Lil' Movers School Bus that I just sold, there's no easy on/off switch for the sirens and sirens can really ruin the peace and harmony of a Saturday morning in Mt. Pleasant.

"The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved"

2011-05-11T18:29:00.001-04:00

"Fancy Fillies" by art deco artist Jeff Williams.

Hunter S. Thompson nailed it. Despite all the fancy hats and chilled Mint Juleps, horse races are decadent and depraved.

On Kentucky Derby day, the crowd I see picnicking in Georgetown, Washington's rich, historic neighborhood, with their elaborate hats and seersucker, covers the decadent part. Now for depraved.

In my favorite pizza joint where I get a slice and a pint for $5, I wouldn't exactly call the young woman wearing a millinery mess two feet in diameter, depraved. More like obnoxious as it clogs up the aisle. However, another Derby Girl, overly dressed and stumbling drunk at 4 in the afternoon, bangs up against the wall on the way back to her barstool. That's more like it.

I wonder if the woman who chose to swathe her head in yards of turquoise netting has a bet in the Derby. Does she know what OTB stands for? Has she ever been to a horse race? Or does she just like hats. Hard to tell. Now I'm being judgmental. I feel I have the right. A strange, inappropriate thing to feel. But when I hear "They're at post!" I'm a little girl again, back at the races, where instead of chiffon dresses and sprigs of herbs, there's old man wool and flat beer. Can't a girl wax nostalgic? Without all the young posers?

Even before my time, my maternal grandfather was the constable at Waterford Park, the local racetrack in West Virginia. My mother and her brothers would hang out just as I would with my brothers.

My Grandma Katie, Grandpa Steve and Uncle Caiden at The Track.

In the 1970s when it became our weekend family outing, Waterford was packed with career gamblers, people cashing in their pay checks, illegal doping. Cigar smoke. Character. In those days, if a horse was unlucky enough to break a leg during a race, they shot it in the head on the track. A white doctor's screen shielded spectators but didn't stifle the gun shot. "Mommy, why is that big, white sheet on the track?" BAM!

I loved the race track. I'd spend all day kicking asides cigarette butts to collect the worthless losing tickets that carpeted the floor. Everyone held them with such white-knuckled grips, whapping them against their thighs yelling for that "Goddamned horse to get the fucking lead out!" that they just had to be special.

And sometimes they were.

I was about three years old, when I handed my father a treasured scavenged ticket telling him it was special. The ticket showed a losing 3, 4 perfecta. Gamblers are a superstitious lot. So, of course he bet it. And hit for $500. The 3, 4 perfecta remained his bet, boxed usually, for decades to come. Not the luckiest of gamblers, he studied old racing forms as if trying to crack code. He knew things like which horses to bet on if the track was muddy. And to bet more if your horse just peed because it'd be lighter. Stuff you just can't learn from the horse betting books that lined his shelves.

My mother yelling for he horse coming down the stretch.

My mother's favorite bet was 1, 3, 7 after winning $10,000 on a long shot trifecta. We were escorted, as a family, to the parking lot by security guards that night. Where my father took a mathematical approach to betting, she relied on her Hungarian Gypsy heritage. I would wish and wish for his horse to win. But she was the lucky one. Other gamblers knew it too. Old men and women, gamblers she knew well, asked her as she stood in line at the betting window, "Hey, Kathy. Whodya' like in the 5th?" Word got around quickly when she was hot.

Dougie after winning some money for my mom.

She also bet the birthdays of her children. But with seven kids, the math could get a little dizzying. It became condensed into a system where she only bet the next upcoming birthday. Unless Dougie was riding. Doug Williams was her favorite jockey. Kelly, a pretty blond, was a close second. I grew up thinking all mothers had favorite jockeys. And a bookie named Jimmy the Greek. Of course.

Visiting my parents as an adult, we would still go. But it wasn't the same. Over time, even my parents stopped going. It's now called Mountaineer Park. Gambling machines draw the crowds, not the horses. Sad.

Hunter S. Thompson

I realize things clean up with age. Pole Dancing classes at the gym. Office types using "pimp" as a verb. Even Las Vegas, Sin City, is filled with family fun. Maybe that's why Mr. Thompson shot himself. Instead of Fear and Loathing he'd have to write about Cher and The Lion King.

Before you suck your teeth at that one, do know that in addition to the horse track, another common family outing was the shooting range at the Paris Sportsman Club. That's Paris, Pennsylvania. Not France. So, I'm betting that Gun Enthusiast Hunter wouldn't mind the suicide crack.

I understand why some may want to pretend that horse racing is gentile and highbrow. But I prefer Mr. Thompson's lurid version. It's closer to home.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

2011-04-16T17:30:00.631-04:00

Taking Eleanor Roosevelt's advice literally, I watch 28 Days Later again late one night, feeding my ongoing love/hate relationship with zombie films - or infected films, if you want to have that argument.

Although I don't think she was talking about zombies. And neither am I. I'm talking about film. (Should you click on her name and buy a t-shirt, I don't get a cut. Just so you know.)

"Do You Want To Be A Filmmaker?" the email asked. Well, gee, I haven't thought of that in years. I did have a hoot back in the 90s working on the film Whatever. And as I am exploring new career options and there aren't any "So, You Want To Be Death Midwife?" seminars in the Washington, DC area, (nothing's off the table) I decide to give it a go.

Admittedly, attending a forum on filmmaking does not have a high scare factor. Not like bungee jumping. Or going to an Scientology open house. But it is a departure from the work-life I've created around two decades of Chinese language studies. And departures can be scary.

The day of the forum torrential rains pound most of the Mid-Atlantic and a band of tornados threaten the DC area. Perfect weather to talk about film. And the cost is perfect too. Only $10 for the whole day which includes a panel of noted filmmakers and workshops on camera, lighting and sound. The writer/director of The Blair Witch Project, the movie that made my then-Bangladeshi boyfriend's petite Indian friend puke in a New York City trash can, is on the panel. I hope I get the chance to tell him that his movie made someone I know throw up. But I'm sure he gets that compliment all the time.

The venue is a theater where my son and I often get our musical theater fix, one of which involved a vampire bunny. Not the best $22 I've ever spent. The fact that I'm in a children's theater and that the $10 on-site registration fee requires a student identification (something the on-line process, I swear, didn't mention), should've tipped me off. And in hindsight, most of the adults I see are dropping off kids, throngs of teens and pre-teens who I'm assuming came to see George & Martha: Tons of Fun. George and Martha the elephants. Not the Washingtons.

It isn't until a woman with a clipboard instructing all film seminar attendees to file into the auditorium and we all stand up together do I realize what I've done. I've signed up for a forum intended for students. Not even college students. Junior high and high school students. Things just got a bit more scary.

I consider leaving but I've already paid. Ten dollars. I've also walked nearly a mile to catch the Metro and then walked another quarter mile to the theater. I am doing this, dammit. Student i.d. or no student i.d. At least in an old, torn Ramones t-shirt, black hoodie and sneakers I'm dressed appropriately. Maybe I'll blend.

Excuse me, ma'am, says one of the kids as he heads to his seat.

Name calling, are we? Is that how this going to go down? Well, during the lunch break I'm heading to the cafe down the street for a beer. Enjoy your juice box.

But they seem like nice kids. Nice kids with their own audio/video departments. They talk about their current projects and have coolers phones than mine. I chastise myself for comparing phones. This isn't high school. Well. Today it kind of is.

What the hell. I plunge full-steam into the seminar which is well produced and professional, beginning with screenwriting and ending in post-production. I learn industry secrets about scriptwriting. Follow format! And creative collaborations. Filmmaking is a team sport! Thankfully, the sports references end with that one, something that concerned me as the moderator, the entire discussion panel, all the workshop presenters and most of the attendees are men. And boys. They couldn't find one chick working in film?

Age and gender aside, I learn other secrets. How the right backlighting adds ethereal highlights to an otherwise flat hairdo and can heighten and sculpt your cheekbones, something more restauranteurs should keep in mind when lighting their dining rooms. How a humming beer cooler is actually really loud if you're filming and not just drinking in a bar. How some guys become sound recordists for the gear alone. And how their wives feel about that. So much to learn. We dabblers love hearing years of experience speak.

I look around and wonder why no one else is taking notes. Quietly I slide my favorite Pilot G-2 gel pen and Wonder Woman notebook back into my bag. Even among teenage, techie gear nerds, I'm a nerd. The Ramones t-shirt has helped not in the least.

But the day proceeds fine. Until the end of the lighting workshop. Then things get a bit shaky. I ask a general question on how Julian Schnabel accomplished that dreamy feel in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a movie about Jean-Dominique Bauby's efforts to write his memoirs when the only remaining corporeal movement left to him was blinking one eye. (Bauby is pictured at right). I loved this film until learning how much Schnabel altered the truth for the sake of adding petty drama.

I say something to that effect to Mr. German Lighting Guru but he's too busy digging in his camera bag for something he calls a Lens, baby. I blush thinking he's coming on to me when he pulls out a Lensbaby. Oh. Well, if we're not going to flirt, can we at least slam Schnabel for being a deceitful bitch without mucking about in the weeds too much?

When on an exploratory career expedition, stay out of the weeds.

(This is my advice. Not Eleanor's.)

As soon as he suggests a lens, my heart starts pounding. Please, don't ask. Please, don't ask. "So, what type of camera are you using?" I hate him. With his $200 denim jeans and bed-head hair, I hate him for asking me this. I can't remember what kind of camera it is. It's a Sony, I think. With some letters and numbers after it. I've never been good at remembering names with alpha-numeric combinations. I feel exposed. Over exposed. All washed out and two-dimensional. Something you want to avoid when filming, by the way.

Didn't I tell him that my "film" project is pulling my son in his Red Flyer wagon around our DC neighborhood to capture his fleeting childhood?

How do I tell him, now that he's mounting his precious Lensbaby onto his camera to show me the great effects I could achieve with this innovative lens, that my 5-year-old will be the one holding the camera? Do I use words like cinema verite and verisimilitude to change the topic? Luckily he has a plane to catch and cuts his demonstration short.

Auf wiedersehen.

I'm sure all of the child-attendees know what type of camera they own. So not only am I one of the only adults at the seminar (some parents stayed), now I feel stupid. Great. Little do I know that a chance to redeem myself waits in post-production, a place where so many mistakes are fixed. If this were a scene, the script would look something like this:

EXT. RAINY AFTERNOON. WASHINGTON, DC SUBURBS.

INT. DARKENED AUDITORIUM.

A woman in her late 30s or early 40s fidgets uncomfortably in her seat. After a day-long filmmaking seminar, she feels out of place, inexperienced. To demonstrate their post-production prowess, a renowned media production company shows off a political advertisement depicting China taking over the United States. It's in Chinese with English subtitles. The woman notices something. She raises her hand with a question.

WOMAN

(tentatively)

Um. I'm just curious. Have any Chinese people called you about this commercial?

ACCOMPLISHED MEDIA MAN

(confused)

Not that I know of. Why?

WOMAN

Well, it's just that it's set in Beijing and you've used an image of Mao Ze Dong and the Chinese Communist flag. But the actor is speaking in a strong Taiwanese accent. That ... wouldn't happen.

ACCOMPLISHED MEDIA MAN

(surprised)

Um. No. I didn't know that.

WOMAN

Just a small detail.

But the Woman knows it's not a small detail. She relaxes back into her chair and smiles.

FADE TO BLACK.

Life Laminated

2011-03-09T14:50:00.002-05:00

Virginia Woolf's A Room Of One's Own has become personal.

She was obviously referring to the importance of having a room of one's own to use one's own personal thermal laminator without ridicule by one's own family members.

Okay. She doesn't mention lamination specifically. But in chapter four she writes that "could she have freed her mind from hate and fear and not heaped it with bitterness and resentment, the fire was hot within her."

Fire. Thermal. To me, she might as well have been yelling from the grave "Go forth and thermally laminate!"

My brand-new Scotch TL901 personal thermal laminator is still in it's box when my husband starts.

"Why in the world do we own a laminator?"

First, this is quite the reversal. Usually he's the one making fun of my hesitance toward accepting new technologies. It was two years ... TWO YEARS ... before I learned he had something called a Facebook page. He was sure I wouldn't be interested. Then, last year, I got on Facebook.

"Hey! Look! I'm Friending you!" I yell across the room from my computer to his. "Look, we're Friends. Now ... I ... am ... wait for it ... Married! Hey, wait a minute. Why doesn't your status say Married? Why aren't you Married? ... Oh. Look. Now you're Married. Never mind. You were right. This is going to be fun!"

But now he questions my most recent foray into a high-tech life. My response to him is simple.

What can't I laminate? The possibilities are endless.

Well. That's not true. The possibilities end at a thickness of exactly 3 millimeters. Then things jam up almost immediately. They also end at 8.5 inches by 11 inches. Which is why I still plan to keep a lot of packing tape around. For bigger jobs.

Actually, I'm late coming to the personal lamination party. I've been preserving things in clear packing tape for years. Give me a sturdy shoe box and I can turn it into a personalized storage container with images of my last trip abroad. But inevitably, no matter how careful you are, creases and air bubbles mar the surface. Strands of hair poke out. The postcards and posters I've taped to my kitchen cabinets don't look very ... slick.

Now with my personal thermal laminator I can decorate like a true professional. Nothing can stop my idea of transforming a collage of family photos into a back splash. Except perhaps heat from the oven. That could stop me. Maybe I'll make my personalized coasters first. That's easy. Just wipe that ring of Pinot Noir off my son's face. Guests appreciate these little touches.

And luckily my personal thermal laminator is compact and travels easily. This is important because I plan to bring it on my next trip to see my family in West Virginia.

While my father, a retired steelworker-turned-poet-and-artist, ruined me forever on long division, he did instill a deep love of reading. And Woolf holds RockStar status.

But now he needs me. He needs a lamination intervention. His prolific sketches are taped, stapled, tacked and nailed to the walls throughout their house. All throughout the house. (My father is also a wee bit eccentric. This is a picture I took of him winning at the racetrack.)

On my next visit I will come armed with my portable personal thermal laminator, to not only protect but organize his vast collection of sketches into binders. My father will become a laminate convert. And together will we laminate. Because according to Woolf "we have borne and bred and washed and taught, perhaps to the age of six or seven years" millions and millions of people.

For this we need lamination.

Because that can get really messy.

Book Club? Just who do you think you are?

2010-11-01T18:50:00.000-04:00

I'm going to a book club, I say to my husband. He looks at me as if I've grown a third eye. I rub my forehead and explain that this happens when a group of people all read the same book for the purpose of talking about it. Together.

He knows this but didn't fancy me the book club type. Neither did I. But during a late-night public television binge, I learn that talking to strangers and trying new things keeps your brain elastic, a good thing evidently, and wards off memory loss and Alzheimer's. (So does getting a good night's sleep. I'm shooting for two out of three.) The way I see it, if I'm talking to new people about books, I double the benefits. But that's my own math.

Late-night television can change your life.

Of course, I don't share this with my husband. That's not what marriage is about. And I ignore him when he gives me The Look, which tonight means it's-the-national-league-playoffs-and-I-just-bought-a-six-pack-but-you're-going-out-to-talk-about-a book-with-a-group-of-strangers-you-silly-woman-you. He doesn't understand that I need to get my brain functioning ~~at full, make that half capacity~~ again after spending a handful of years home with my son. And as PBS's Dr. BrainMan didn't mention anything about beer and baseball, Book Club it is.

The selection is John Irving's A Prayer For Owen Meany. I like John Irving and have read several of his books. Just not this one. At least I don't think so. I owned a copy once. But the only thing I can recall is the actress Ashley Judd getting knocked upside the head with a baseball, and I believe that's from Simon Birch, the movie adaption which I also didn't finish.

By Book Club standards, I'm guessing this is the same as not having read it.

I wonder aloud if I have time to Wikipedia the book. My husband, on the couch with beer in hand, rolls his eyes, loudly. I remind myself to keep inner dialogues ... in. Don't your Phillies have a baseball game to lose? I want to say this but decide on something more marriage-friendly. Go Phillies!

I'll have to fake it. I've faked it before.

Like that time back in 1993 when I sang in front of an audience while playing the guitar even though I don't play the guitar, a small detail that escaped my overly elastic 20-something brain. Or maybe it wasn't because of my brain at all but rather the fact that I was one of only a handful of Westerners living in that remote city in the middle of China.

It's like my BFF Julia Child likes to say, "Who's going to know?"

So, meeting a group of strangers for the purpose of examining a book about which I know squat, sounds fun. A mental challenge. Also Book Club is meeting near my Washington, DC apartment on a street named, ironically, Irving. Maybe I'll use that as I introduce myself around the room. Open with a joke.

I prepare some snacks, choose a bottle of wine and tie a scarf around my neck, which is odd because just as I'm not a book club person, I'm also not a scarf person until hearing recently that knowing how to tie a scarf separates the girls from the women, a tidbit I did not pick up from public television.

I blow mom and wife kisses out the door and prepare myself for greater brain elasticity.

I walk. And walk. And walk down Irving Street, which encircles the entire back side of my neighborhood, curls up a wooded street bordered by a zoo and then winds uphill. I walk a long, looping semi-circle when Irving runs out. There's not enough street to make it to the address. I call the host.

Oh, it's not on Irving. It's on another street, the street I wrote on an index card and placed in the pocket of my blazer. I look at my own handwriting and wonder how I could have possibly written one thing and read something completely different. I feel my aging Mother Brain hardening by the minute. The situation is critical. Must. Reach. Book Club ...

But that's not all. Just as I feel my brain hardening, I also feel my feet swelling. My sexy-in-a-graduate-student-kind-of-way, high-heeled espresso boots were a perfect choice had I not taken the circuitous scenic route around the entire neighborhood. Now with each step I'm pushing my luck, not to mention the whole heel height/walking distance continuum, which is precisely why I've never been a math person.

(This picture, a visualization of a diffusion tensor imaging (DTI) measurement of a human brain that I found on Wikipedia, is how I imagine my new-and-improved elastic brain will look, a mohawk in cool Winter colors.)

I'm late and breathy as I walk into Book Club. With a little sleight of hand, I distract the two other Book Clubbers with snacks and wine as my friend gives me a quick tour of the funky first floor of her house that could've been torn from an issue of Dwell magazine with it's modern, mid-century stylings. We talk furniture, home decor and how to incorporate Ikea items even if you're not an Ikea person.

I'm hoping that if we keep this up, we won't have time to actually talk about the book, a technique that got me through years of piano lessons.

But I need to sit and get rid of the annoying scarf that has done nothing but irritate my chin, something the chic French woman in that YouTube video demonstrating how to tie it properly did not warn against. As I decide that I'm not a scarf person and that I'll need to distinguish myself from The Girls in some other way (arm wrestling, might work), I notice something adorning all the other women. A book. They all brought a copy of the book. Of course. Blast, my poor accessorizing!

In fact, the host has an original first edition copy. This seems significant because she was hesitant to open it, let alone read it. The others comment on its beautiful spine. These people are serious. I think of my own dog-eared, water-stained, taped up books as I scan the host's gorgeous built-in book shelves. For what? A prop? I'll feel better if I have a book in my hands. Any book. Did I bring my day planner?

I have to think quickly. But I can't. That's the problem. That's why I'm here. I was expecting to hide in the background where my occasional "hmm" and "that's a good point" wouldn't draw too much attention. Instead, I'm the fourth in a tightly knit square. No where to hide. I'll have to hold my corner. But this is good. My mind stirs, stiff from a five-year deep freeze as I psyche myself up. Speak in complete sentences. Be quick. Agile. Well, as agile as one can be while sitting, drinking wine and wearing high heel boots. T
hankfully, I remember to keep this inner dialogue where it belongs. See. Book Club is working already.

After we all share a bit about ourselves, the woman to my left, a lawyer, with book in lap and wine glass in hand, leans forward with an obvious air of Okay Let's Get Things Started and asks, "So, did anyone read the book this time?"

Well now. How very civil.

Even if it turns out that I'm not a Book Club person, these are my kind of Book Club people.

A Closet Psychotic

2010-10-12T13:00:00.001-04:00

Every time I open my closet, I hear voices.

They are from varied eras. Some have accents. Others speak in tongues. And they are all fighting.

A vintage suit circa 1960 is disgusted hanging next to the patchwork peasant skirt with a handkerchief hemline. Dirty hippie. Get a job.

The metallic disco shirt made without one stitch of natural fibers wonders rudely from what Mongolian rock the tribal wool coat has crawled. You're itchy and stink of yak.

The menswear bullies the delicate florals. And the ridiculous pair of skin-tight spandex pants that lace up the back is rocking back and forth in a corner begging to be taken seriously, muttering over and over, "I'm more than the bottom half of a pirate costume. I'm more ..."

I mean. Really. Look at them.

Look at them!

The waist ends at the top of the rib cage. And they are so long that you need to wear four-inch heels just to keep them off the ground. How could the same person who bought this elfin disaster have also bought the fully lined Italian linen hunting jacket hanging right next to it?

Who indeed. That's my point.

So, I've decided to let them fight it out. The strongest will remain. I'm not betting on the vintage suits or the hippies. A pencil skirt is simply too tight. And everyone knows hippies can't fight. And I worry about Disco. It's going to be hard to find a new gig. But the remaining rock-n-roll, equestrian, military-inspired, 1940s USO factory worker personalities will integrate and emerge anew. Regenerated. Reinvented.

The old me, with her divergent styles requiring too much attention, too much time and too much hanger space, none of which is in surplus, will become a streamlined individual who will breeze from school drop-off to client meeting to playground to drinks without the need of a costume change.

No more will I ask, "So, who will it be today?" The multiple personality sartorial disorder that is currently my wardrobe will no longer be a constant re-run of Sybil. The ill-fitting, the ill-conceived and the ill-behaving pieces who don't go with anything will be banished. I will soon be able to reach into my closet with only minutes to spare and achieve the "Oops, I look fabulous" effect.

This won't be easy. But I'm inspired by a woman I know. Diagnosed with multiple personality disorder, I once saw her change from a frightened child to a foul mouthed bar tramp to a middle-aged male trucker in the space of one hour. That was years ago. Now her personalities are fully integrated and, when last I saw her, wonderfully accessorized to boot. So, I know this is possible.

I will miss the personalities that don't survive, though. They have accompanied me all these years and have taught me much. Things like: Don't trust hanger appeal. And, showing a little clavicle is infinitely more sexy than showing a lot of cleavage. Color choice comes first. Beige is a death knell. Browns need to be tweedy and the reds need to be bluish. Grey is my new black. But, of course, black is golden. Florals must be Asian. And patterns must work with my crazy mop of curls and glasses. It can be a lot of look. And just about any mistake can be fixed with the right coat, especially a sweeping military one; so, have plenty on hand.

Create a mantra and repeat it aloud as you're tempted to buy the Same Mistake. Talking to the clothes helps. Undefined empire waists? No thanks. I've already done the maternity thing. Fitted-waist peplum? Get your pretty self over here. Bold geometric color blocking a la Mod? No. I'm no longer That Girl. English countryside tweeds and woolen riding pants? Well. Don't you look smashing. Let's put a kettle on.

You must be willing to spend quality time together and to talk it out. As with all healthy relationships, communication is key.

Post-election Day Clean-up. Who Let That Fly In?

2010-09-22T09:20:00.000-04:00

The primaries in Washington, DC are over and life is returning to normal. Well. Relatively speaking.

Elections make for tight living in an apartment when your work-from-home husband is a political consultant. My love of organization is often theoretical, but not after election day. Win or lose, all the glossy, paid-for-by-the-candidate campaign promises are promptly thrown out of my home. I figure I lost about 10 square feet of precious real estate to political literature and posters alone. And let’s not even talk about the two large political banners hanging from the roof blocking two of our son’s bedroom windows.

Okay. Let's talk about them.

The color scheme of one candidate is red and casts a bordello-like glow throughout my son's bedroom. This I like. But their eerie flapping haunts my son's sleep and gives him nightmares. Sometimes you have to take one for the team, I explain. I have. I love my upstairs views that are now blocked by the waving blues and reds of two carefully conceived political colors. Not unlike gangs, actually.

And I’m more than a bit concerned that my husband plans to leave the banners up until November. He reminds me that legally we don’t have to take them down until after the general election. Who said anything about violating municipal regulations? I'm talking about aesthetics. Feng shui. Did I accidently speak to him in Chinese? Is that the root of this misunderstanding?

I wish it were that simple.

But we're different animals. If possible, he would live in 77-degree, climate-controlled, muffled, shaded Man Cave. Not I. (Well, unless it's 98 degrees and humid. Then suddenly I'm banging at the Man Cave door.) Mostly though, I like living with the windows unobscured so that sites, sounds and smells of the city … er, let's just make that the sites and sounds ... fill the apartment. The iron fire escapes. The grinding gears of buses. The blue neon of Heller’s Bakery bouncing off the walls once evening comes. Over-modulated Latino music. Couples fighting in the alley. Drunks. Drunk couples. All of it. And on this beautiful late-summer, post-election day I open all the windows, which unfortunately, lets in a fly. Not good. My husband hates flies. When he sees one, his eyes go black. Like a shark. He says drastic things like, "I won't live like this," which only confuse me.

But I'm not without my own domestic idiosyncrasies. If my husband were allowed to comment here, he may speak of my my habit of taking the vacuum out of the living room closet only to abandon it in the middle of the room for a couple days before actually using it. Or not.

It's the type of vacuum that has a squat body from which grows a long, spiraling hose ending in a series of interchangeable attachments, an appendage used to ensnare anyone attempting to walk by. (I show my disdain of vacuuming by purposefully not knowing the specific model I own. Kind of like pretending to not know who Snooky is. Or is it Snookie?)

For a couple of days it sits by my dining room desk like a deprogrammed Japanese robot pet. The vacuum, I mean. Not Snooky/Snookie. If I were the psychoanalyzing type, I could possibly connect this behavior with procrastination and fear of completion. But I'm not. I'm the type that doesn't like to vacuum.

So, after a couple days of Vacuum silently tripping my family, I hear it whirr to life. The sound traveling into the kitchen is shocking. Whatthehellwasthat?? Then it dawns on me what has happened. My husband has plugged it in and has turned it on. “Wow,” I think. “With all his post-election work to do, he’s vacuuming? Probably needs to clear his head with a little physical work.” I’m smiling, nearly giddy, at this life development when suddenly it goes quiet and he yells from the living room, “Well, that’s one less fly in the world.”

Oh no he didn't.

After a few comic beats, I yell back, "You know ... in addition to hunting, that thing is also good for sucking up dirt! From that thing on the floor called a carpet!"

"Yes. I've heard that!" He parries with equal comic timing.

Then quiet.

Men.

Actually, I can't say, “men" here. After sharing this incident on Facebook, two women bragged about how many invertebrates they've spinelessly killed remotely at the end of a vacuum attachment. But as these women are both related to my husband, I blame genetics. Although, truth be told, their mechanical approach does seem much more effective than mine, which is to load my son’s Galactic Grabber with a wad of about twenty paper towels, close my eyes and punch aimlessly until the home invader disappears into a corner.

Still. I can’t imagine plugging in a vacuum for the purpose of sucking up a fly. It starts me wondering. Did he use an attachment? And if so, which one? The angled corner? Or perhaps the rounded brush? Did he wait as if perched in a deer stand? Or charge boldly with the hose flailing behind him? Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that one. Well. No. Not a fly on the wall. Let's make that a dust bunny in a corner because obviously they weren't in danger of death by vacuum. They all survived unscathed.

I mean, really. What stopped him from attacking the warren of dust bunnies living only a foot from where he bagged his fly? Why not simply bend at the waist and suck up those crumbs from the night before? What? What am I missing? Single-mindedness? That alpha-male quality of not deviating from the task at hand? (I guess I am the type to psychoanalyze. The couch pictured below is Freud's. Not mine.)

And am I a typical multi-tasking female because while playing Go Fish or doing yoga, I also pick at the carpet like some over-attentive mother ape grooming her young? It's not easy holding a balanced Triangle Pose while scraping dried bits of yogurt off the carpet, something the instructional dvd would likely advise against. But I seem to manage.

Perhaps I'm over-thinking this. Maybe it has nothing do with the male and female brain and everything to do with my mother. (Now we're really getting our psychoanalytic dollar's worth.) After all, she was the one who invented Pick-A-Lint, a game where she unleashed her brood of seven on the floors giving a prize to the one who picked up the most detritus. Brilliant, really.

So many questions. But for now, Vacuum will go back into the closet. Yet again unused.

Unless you ask my husband.

Goodbye. Have fun. Please come back soon.

2010-08-27T11:47:00.001-04:00

School started this week for Washington, DC's public schools. And as my only child takes his first taste of formal education, I’m split between sharing his cautious excitement and my desire to be alone. “Yes, Love, you’ll have fun at school and make lots of friends. Yes, of course, I'll miss you terribly ... er, but right now I have an office space to organize."

Very split indeed.

I was expecting this. With the exception of the occasional play group, a few concerts, one wedding and a four-day solo vacation in Miami, I’ve been with him continuously for nearly five years. (My lovely mother who had seven children and stayed home with all of us always laughs at this.) Even during my weekend gig at a neighborhood farmer's market, I'm often corralling him or sharing a homemade gourmet popsicles. He's been my museum-hopping buddy. My co-conspirator in all things silly. At times, perhaps my nemesis.

Excepting chocolate morsels, the start of school is what the term bittersweet was made for. Memories of nursing, first steps and first words wash over me as I return to my apartment without him by side. It's quiet. A little too quiet, as he likes to say. He's really funny, I realize. The tears come easily. And then they go. I have a list of projects as long as my arm. On his first day of school I redecorate the dining/office space, upending bookcases, moving furniture.

The second day, I exercise. A lot. On the third I write. I write uninterrupted. This is amazing. I can do whatever I want.

And I don't have to feign excitement over Candy Land or negotiate to play some other game. Any other game. Connect Four? Chutes and Ladders? Trouble? Anything but his beloved Candy Land. I hate Candy Land.

Don’t say the word “hate” mommy, he would remind me if he were here. My moral compass.

For those without children, just imagine the first morning after finishing an all-consuming five-year project. Or for my theater friends, imagine saying goodbye at the closing night party. How much time do you use to decompress? Or do you just jump right into something new? I guess everyone's different. I haven't written for my blog in months and selfishly blame my son even though I could've woken up at 5 am to write like J.K. Rowlings did while penning her way into Richer Than God status. I'll have time when he's at school, I reasoned. Well, now he's there. Here I go. No more excuses. Any minute. I wonder what he's doing right now. 8:45 am to 3:15 pm certainly is a long day. He's not even five.

I need some time to focus and get a new routine going. That's it. A routine. Brilliant. Armed with one of those I'll be able to regain my Chinese fluency which will decidedly be a part of my "real job" again someday. A real job. I'll use this newly-acquired time to reshape my career. Most people, parents or not, hit that point. For this I don't need a Life Coach. I need a time-out. A very long time-out. When my son was home, I would try to commit enough Bad Decisions, usually cursing, to get a lengthy time-out. But he always granted me clemency not because he's forgiving but because a time-out for me, albeit amusing, only meant playing by himself. So, now is my chance. For reflection, I mean. Not for cursing like a sailor although that would be fun too. I could also do yoga without someone crawling under my Downward Dog. I could curse while doing yoga to really confuse the Universe.

I could blare Queen and tap dance which will, luckily, not disturb my work-from-husband in the least as he is extremely tolerant and is also slightly hearing-impaired from 400 loud rock-n-roll concerts. Speaking of my husband, he keeps reminding me that now during the day we'll both be home. Alone.

He must miss playing Scrabble as much as I.

But there's no time for board games when I have a SteamPunk corset to design. It's to be versatile enough to wear with skirts or jeans, functional enough to hold money and a cell phone and forgiving enough to not require the removal of a rib or damage internal organs making it a hit with women from all walks of life worldwide.

Or maybe I’ll just clean my office. And as I'm doing that I'll think about what fun game I can play with my son when he gets home. Anything but Candy Land.

Gimme Shelter

2010-04-22T13:37:00.001-04:00

Oh, a storm is threat'ning, My very life today; If I don't get some shelter, Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away

As record-making snow from major blizzards melted away, a body was discovered in the woods near my apartment in Washington, DC.

Word on the street, which means Esther at the Korean convenient store, it's Bruce.

It was a tough winter for the homeless.

It was especially tough for people like Bruce who live in the woods. With a foot of snow, I struggled just walking down the sidewalk past those woods. Where he lived and where his body was found was under at least 3 feet of snow.

The remains were unidentifiable. So, I guess there's a very slim chance it's not him. But it's Spring, people are filling the streets of Mt. Pleasant and I have yet to see Bruce. I always see Bruce. And only a fool would doubt Esther about such things.

My apologies to Bruce for my drawing of him because I don't know how to draw.

More importantly, my apologies to Bruce if he's not dead.

Maybe he came into some money and moved to a kinder climate. Like California. Or Mexico. Maybe he's sitting on a beach enjoying the warm sun on his face and a clean pair of socks.

Or maybe he laid down in the snow and died in the woods alone. I wonder if he has family still living, a brother or sister. And do they know he's dead.

Bruce always nodded or smiled hello. He talked to himself very animatedly sometimes and walked with a crutch. I heard a woman once ask him about his feet. I think he had serious health issues. Not surprising.

He always said, "Thank you, Sister," when I gave him food or money. But he never really asked for anything. He just sort of stood in the right places at the right times.

He also sold things. I bought one of my son's favorite trucks from him. Looking out my kitchen window as I prepared dinner, I would see him sitting in Lamont Park with a stroller or toy or painting to sell. Once I saw him hobbling on his crutch with a huge, pink stuffed teddy bear slung over his back looking like he just escaped from the Island of Misfit Toys.

Once in awhile if I didn't have anything to give or simply didn't want to be reminded of homelessness, I'd busy myself with my son or my purse. We introverts do that sometimes to avoid engagement. But what did Bruce care about my Myers-Briggs personality profile? He just wanted to get something to eat. Not have an engagement.

You'd think I would've known better.

Dean, one of my half-brothers, was homeless in San Francisco for nearly 20 years. Anyone can hit hard times. "Dean, Dean, The Jellybean," I used to sing to him when I was a child. We thought he died in San Francisco's 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake because many highway bridges collapsed and we knew he was living under a bridge.

But he survived.

A few years ago when another of my brothers found Dean and tried to convince him to move back in with family, he said no. All his friends are in San Francisco, he said. And with the weather and social services, it's easier to be homeless in California than in West Virginia.

Hard to argue with that.

We used to be able to reach Dean by calling a pay phone near a diner. Anyone who picked up knew him or knew of him. Even the police. In a good way. But I think that phone is out of service. It is so hard to find a pay phone that works these days, isn't it?

When I ask my mother about Dean she always says the same thing with the same far-away voice, "He's doing his own thing and isn't hurting anyone. I have seven children and one just kind of drifted away." She also tells me that he has an apartment now and, never wanting to be a burden, has arranged his own funeral. Really, we should all be so considerate. He's to be cremated and family will be notified. Then her voice begins to crack and she changes the subject.

Sometimes it sucks being a mother.

I deliberated over whether to mention my brother and his homelessness. I intended to write only about Bruce. But then Dean came into the story and just wouldn't leave. If I imply that homeless people are just like you and me and that homelessness can happen to anyone, I shouldn't have hesitated. But I did. I thought, do I really want to write that one of my siblings was homeless? What if someone in HR reads this and doesn't give me a job someday? What if people think less of me? Or my family?

Then I came to my senses.

Nobody's life is perfect. And certainly nobody's family is perfect. Only children are perfect. Perfect little prepackaged bundles of hope and potential. Then we do the best we can. Even if every dream doesn't come true, there is no shame in that.

(Dean, Dean, the Jellybean 1957)

Marriage. A Game of Inches

2010-04-12T13:02:00.000-04:00

Our television is slowing losing its light.

I'm not talking about the dearth of quality programming. Although that would not be a waste of poetics.

(Who is actually watching a washed up actress like Kirstie Alley lose weight? Again? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know.)

Actually, what I'm referring to is the dark band slowly inching its way down the television screen. I thought it would just go away. But the Comcast guys who came to digitize my family assure me that it will continue until the screen is completely black.

They deliver this news quite solemnly. For an instant the technicians are doctors at Comcast General Hospital giving my teary-eyed, Kleenex-clutching husband the tragic bedside news that Television isn't going to make it and that he should just pull the plug.

Back in real-life, my husband is ecstatic. “See. And they’re experts,” he says. The guys all nod. Even my son nods.

I don't trust them. Including my son who's not too young for ulterior motives. And the Comcast technicians are men. Of course they’re going to agree with my husband. They’re in cahoots. I’ve seen the commercials.

For the past couple of weeks, he's been hinting that we need a new television and now he has professional testimony to counter my but-the-old-one-is-fine argument. I look over at three grown men and one boy huddled around the new remote, deep in remote-speak as they discuss its potential.

But I am not an unreasonable woman. I watch some television and love movies. So the other day at 7:30 am, in a half-asleep, non-caffeinated stupor, I cross paths with my husband in the kitchen and mumble, “I think you're right. We may need a new television. The top of Audrey Hepburn’s head was cut off during Breakfast at Tiffany’s last night. Not a good look for her.”

My husband makes a bee-line to the living room and grabs his wallet.

“Anyway, I didn’t watch the movie,” I say to the back of his disappearing head. “You really need to see the tops of people’s heads to enjoy a film. But that's okay. I love the short story. And I’ve heard that Hollywood took out all the depravity. I guess depravity isn't a good look for Audrey either."

While I’m making coffee in the kitchen blathering on about Truman Capote and the sanitizing effect of Hollywood, he’s typing on his computer and not listening to a word I'm saying.

“There,” he says quite pleased. “It’ll be here in a couple days.”

"What will be here? What did you just do? I said I think we may need to buy one. Don’t we need to talk about this, do some research, take some measurements?"

“We just talked about it. And I want to buy it now before you wake up and change your mind,” he says.

It’s 7:48 am and he just bought a 32-inch television. Who buys a television before 8 am? Then again, who talks about Truman Capote before 8 am?

This is all unnatural.

He pulls up the website to show me the model. "Best of this type on the market," he says beaming. Seems he’s already done his research. Lots of research. Secret research.

I feel played.

But the new television isn't here yet and there's a much-anticipated semi-final college basketball game he wants to watch. This will take planning. And temperature maintenance. See, the longer the old television is on, the hotter it gets and the bigger the black band grows. His tactic is to keep the television off long enough to ensure a full screen of visibility up until the last minutes of the game. Evidently it's just as difficult to watch basketball without the top of the picture as it is watching a lobotomized Audrey Hepburn.

I ask if some bags of frozen corn will help.

"You know," he says wanting to pop my smart-ass balloon, "Your covering up the television with that shroud thing actually precipitated its death by blocking the cooling vents."

Okay. Yes. I like to cover the television when it's off. Ever since I saw The Ring with its slime-covered dead girl crawling through the television, can you really blame me? But now I feel partly responsible for the all-too-soon arrival of a bigger television in our all-too-small living room. It's not as if our apartment has a ManCave to house the impending 32-inches.

But I'll come around. Especially when I get to watch one of my beloved Pedro Almodovar films without squinting at the subtitles. Never again will I wonder what Penelope Cruz is saying. But really. It's so hard to watch subtitles when she's on the screen. Unless I learn Spanish, I may never know what she's saying.

When the television arrives, I'm shocked at how thin she is. (The television. Not Penelope.) And sleek. I like her. I like her a lot. She's surprisingly attractive and her black frame is actually less noticeable than her predecessor's huge, grey box. (Um, I guess I should be careful with the nautical, feminine pronoun.)

Oh and look. She comes with her own remote making the digital remote, which has been in my life for only eight days but to which I've grown accustomed, completely obsolete.

Bitch.

Besides having to attend my husband's "How To Consolidate Your Remotes And Optimize Your Viewing Experience" seminar, I'm quite excited. I can't wait to reserve a bunch of foreign films on Netflix.

My husband once said that the only reason he doesn't enjoy my foreign film selections is because he can't read the small subtitles. Well, now I can order all the French murder-mystery musicals and epic-length Chinese historical films I want.

I've been dying to see The Promise, a two-hour Tang Dynasty romance where a slave girl is transformed into a beauty by a goddess then falls in love with a general but no one ends up together and, most likely, dies tragically all the while dressed in multiple layers of very elaborate, non-revealing costumes.

He's going to be so happy.

Some may measure the longevity of a relationship by using time. Very traditional. Others may use things like children or natural disasters. Some may even use their bathroom scale. But that's just mean. One of my favorites came from my sister-in-law’s octogenarian grandfather who when asked how long he had been dating his lady-friend answered, “Oh, let's see. About 1,200 miles."

Up until I moved in with my husband, I had never owned a television. He came equipped with a Casio TV-1400 LCD pocket color television. Batteries not included. We would watch Jeopardy! on the tiny, fuzzy 1-inch screen. Video clues were difficult.

But look at us now. We're still going strong.

Even at 32-inches.

The Making of Movie Memories. Or Juvenile Delinquency. Take your pick.

2010-03-30T16:32:00.004-04:00

During a conversation about movies recently, I mentioned that I love watching The Goonieswith my 4-year old son. "Isn't that movie kind of scary?" said the other mother.

Yes. Yes it is.

"And doesn't it have some dirty language?"

Yes. Yes it does.

When one of the Goonies says "damn it!" my son always shakes his head no and says, "We don't say 'damn it,' do we mommy?"

No. We don't. I answer proudly.

And yes, The Goonies also has a fake suicide, guns and a dead guy all of which I try to obscure by stretching myself in front of the television at the opportune moments.

Motherhood takes flexibility.

But truth be told, I don't really care. To my son it's all about the treasure hunt in a dark, spooky cave and booty traps. "That's what I said, 'booby traps!'" (For those who know the film.) Throw in a big, buttery bowl of popcorn, piles of blankets and ... ta-da! one fuzzy childhood movie memory. If there's any latent psychologically damage from low-level violence, I'm sure he'll be fine.

Goonies, after all, do teach resilience.

How could I deny him? Movies add so much color to childhood. And I want my son's to be colorful. Mine was. Not just because I am one of seven, but because my parents took us with them. Everywhere. To boxing matches, the horse races. And best of all, the movies.

I remember us kids in slippers and pajamas piling into the station wagon to watch triple features at the drive-in where "family-friendly"meant the kids sat on blankets spread on the ground leaving the parents alone in the car.

Then there were the rainy Saturday afternoons sitting on a scratchy carpet remnant in a cold library basement listening to the hypnotic clack of the film projector spinning out movies like Fantastic Voyage, a 1966 sci-fi film where scientists shrink themselves to attack a deadly blood clot in some guy’s body. Very creepy in a medically invasive kind of way.

To this day, I can't help wondering if a team of miniscule scientists has stowed away inside the syringe each time I get a shot.

And when Star Wars was released my dad took us to see it, not once, but 13 times. In a row. The last time, the local theater owner didn’t have the heart to charge him. I remember feeling like a starlet, pulled out of line, the red rope unlatched just for me. "Please. Just go in. Your money's no good here."

There's a reason the zombie film Shaun of the Dead is my idea of the perfect romantic comedy. Seeing Amityville Horror on the big screen as a child will do that to you. So will getting locked in the basement by your brothers afterward. It took months before I could go into our basement's dark, dank fruit cellar, a Portal to Hell if ever there was one.

You don't have to tell me twice to "Get out!"

And sometimes the right movie is a gateway to wondrous, transformative, albeit slightly deviant, things.

Enter Heavy Metal, an animated, R-rated, rock-and-roll extravaganza that my father took my brothers and me to see. We liked it so much that he let us hide under the seats between shows, dodging ushers sweeping up popcorn, so we could watch it again without paying. Very rock-and-roll.

Actually, I'm not sure which was more transforming - the movie with it's blond, buxom, sword-wielding heroine kicking ass in a leather bikini or committing a misdemeanor with my family. But as a tall, skinny, frizzy-haired girl with glasses, braces and poor posture, I took whatever help I could get.

Stop the Bus! I'm Having a DC Moment.

2010-03-01T17:59:00.051-05:00

If you aren't a very political person, living in Washington DC will change that.

Politics is all around you. It permeates the air. It's in the water. Along with lead and trace pharmaceuticals.

Take for example the DC moment I had yesterday. I'm sitting with my son on the H4 bus going to Whole Foods to buy some bulgar wheat. I had just read in this Magic Foods book that I really need to eat this grain if I want to live longer. And since I do, buying bulgar wheat moved to the top of my to-do list.

The bus passes by Sidwell Friends, the Quaker school where the Obama girls go. I look over and see Malia swinging a tennis racket with her classmates on the court just a few yards away from the road. Sigh. I hope my son gets into a good school where he can learn tennis. The DC school lottery, where parents learn the fate of their children's education, is tomorrow. And even with all my research and leg work, it feels so arbitrary. No chance of getting into Sidwell. It's private, for one. And even with one of their teachers, make that one of their former teachers, facing allegations of child sex abuse, it's still the elitist of the elite.

I know. I don't equate the Quakers with Elitism either. But there you have it.

The bus stops alongside a triad of young male professionals you might normally see in this neighborhood wearing black pea coats and khakis. Except these guys are all wearing dark sunglasses and have the distinctive white spiral wire curling behind their ears making them look like very casually-dressed androids. Oh. "These aren't the droids you're looking for." These are Malia and Sasha's Secret Service detail.

As the bus passes them, I wonder how they are trained to see us. Us Everyday People. Who arouses their suspicions? I bet that homeless guy hunkering down in front of a brick wall doesn't concern them at all. He could even leave one of his many bags unattended and they wouldn't blink. A luxury afforded the homeless.

I feel like waving. To the Secret Service detail. Not the homeless guy. Not that I have anything against homeless people. He would probably enjoy it. Then again, who am I to assume. But I don't wave. To anyone. Waving may be classified as stalker behavior, enough reason for them to throw me and my child in that Secret Service paddy wagon parked down the street.

DC is small. If you live here long enough you're bound to have many DC moments. And this one is warm and fuzzy. It involves children and Quakers. How could it not be?

Some DC moments aren't. Like the time my husband and I were having lunch after a Michael Moore matinee featuring Fahrenheit 9/11. Love him or hate him, it's really quite impossible to feel ambivalent after watching one of his films. I was sitting there feeling considerably non-ambivalent about the whole Let's Attack Iraq thing when then-National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice passed by on her way to her usual table. Her jacket sleeve brushed my back.

"Check, please."

Love her or hate her, Dr. Rice is not warm and fuzzy.

My husband's favorite DC moment, officially on record, involves Veep Dick Cheney, his motorcade and the Middle Finger.

It's the little things.

Please don't think us stark, raving mad partisans. Some of our closest friends are Republicans.

Well. That's exaggerating things a bit.

But I was nearly eviscerated at a party once for daring to question some of Obama's campaign promises. What can I say. I was raised on a healthy diet of Mark Twain and taught to distrust all politicians. Even the hot ones.

Anyway, if politicians didn't fudge the truth just a wee bit, we'd have to scrap all those good political jokes. "Politicians are like diapers. They should be changed frequently. And for the same reason." One of my favorites.

But it wasn't my intent to be political. Here or in general. It's just hard to avoid when you live in this town.

What Exactly Is "Free Time"?

2010-02-21T09:51:00.044-05:00

Free Time, in my world, is an elusive beast that needs to be attacked and wrangled with strategic foresight and, if possible, leather restraints.

With my husband and son out for a couple of hours, I have the entire apartment to myself. This is rare. My husband works from home and my four-year old isn't in a school program. He seemed too young to be in school all day. I thought this was a good idea. At the time.

But "Now" is what is important. There are many options and I must pick carefully. I will not clean a thing. I will not lift even one Lego. The strategy is to do something that I absolutely can not do while they’re home. My husband could've at least given me a little heads up so I could plan. Dali's Persistence of Memory actually means something to me now. Which is completely unintended. I just needed a clock picture. But now I'm drawn in. Free Time is slipping. And drooping.

I could read a magazine. It’s so hard these days to just zone out with a good decorating or fashion mag without my son interrupting. “Mommy, I’m hungry. Can I have a snack.”

It’s already 1:28 p.m. My husband said they’d be back around 3 p.m. What was that? A threat?

I decide to watch “Singin’ In The Rain." My husband hates musicals and doesn't buy my "but, it's so existential" argument. This is a good time to watch. I really just want to see the dance scenes, so I also mend a sweater and my favorite double-breasted opera coat, a real show-stopper that I bought in New York City from a costume shop. It’s winter white with white embossed swirls. And I'm feeling theatrical. But I’m wasting time. I can always sew on my next visit to the Building Museum while my son plays.

Tap dancing. I haven’t been able to tap dance in a very long time. But I don't feel well. And tap dancing may not be the best thing for the onset of flu. It feels good to cross something off the list. Though, I bet a few head and body aches never stopped Debbie Reynolds.

Anyway, Chinese is more important. I think. I’ll listen to the news in Chinese. Or write some characters. I need to keep up my fluency so I can get a job after my son fires me (which he threatens when we butt heads). Something to fall back on in case this mothering thing doesn’t work out.

I know. I can work on my Chinese classes for children or that bilingual children's theater piece that is slowly brewing in my head. A surreal dream-scene from a British mystery I watched very late the other night gave me a great idea. All ideas seem great at 2 a.m.

Was that a key in the front door? Perhaps I'll make a cup of tea.

With my camera-phone, I take a picture of my mended opera coat and send it to my husband so that he can email it back to me. I haven't really worked out all the technicalities of this blogging thing. Another project.

He's disappointed that it wasn't a naked picture of me. He's joking. Or is he? My thoughts turn carnal. Dirty. With the image of the one sure thing I definitely can not do by myself right now firmly implanted in my brain, I hope that Free Time ~~isn't the only thing that gets wrangled with leather restraints~~ ends soon.

The "I Love Blizzards" People

2010-02-10T14:05:00.097-05:00

There are two types of people in this world.

Those who love blizzards. And those who don't.

I'm married to the former.

Actually he loves all major weather events. Some husbands may peek at soft porn when the wife is out of town. Mine tracks animated meteorological radar.

To set the mood, I need only reference a weather map.

He also has strong opinions on the snow removal process. His critique on DC’s scraping and salting technique is long and scientific. “Most people just don’t know when to salt,” he laments. (This critique also extends to those who don’t understand the science behind their car’s defrost mechanisms.)

For the February 5^th blizzard, the only shovel available was our landlord’s squat, short-handled, square-edged garden shovel. At this recent memory he shakes his head in disgust. He'll be a happier person if he can just buy a proper snow shovel for the blizzard that is chasing us north to Washington, DC.

Only two days after the last blizzard that dumped two feet of snow on the DC metropolitan area, I’m on snowy roads with son and husband navigating home from a Virginia rock-n-roll roadtrip in a rented two-door sports coupe. (It's all they had.)

Along the way, we stop at five different stores looking for a snow shovel. Not some German-designed lug nut for some specialized snow blower. A snow shovel. At Target, Lowes, Ace Hardware, Costco, Home Depot, not only is the answer "No," but they all laugh at us.

The manager at Home Depot tells us that when a news crew showed up to document the arrival of 200 snow shovels, so did a mob of people fighting over them. When a riot broke out (his words, not mine), they had to call the police.

Over snow shovels.

Let's add a third type of blizzard person - those who panic.

I know my husband really, really wants a snow shovel because he loves shoveling as much as he hates shopping. And we stop at every possible store along Virginia's highways looking for a snow shovel. Shockingly, in this Land Of Plenty we can't buy one. Not even our quaint neighborhood hardware store has some expensive ergonomic, handmade Amish model. We can't even find the usual sketchy character wandering the streets with necessary items trying to price gouge. "Hey buddy. Wanna buy a shovel?" Nothing.

As the snow starts falling my husband returns the rental car. This entails walking a couple miles along a hilly road with treacherous sidewalks buried in snow and ice. This is where he scores. He returns home with a plastic scoop from a broken snow shovel.

"Someone actually threw this away. Can you believe it?"

Yes. Yes, I can.

Like a magician, he materializes an old broom handle. "Good thing I kept this."

"???, ??? ????," I respond.

Out come the tools.

While I'm comfy on the couch watching Foyle's War, the best mystery series ever made in the history of television, he roots through a Tupperware container of screws and bolts, spreading them onto the living room carpet. Next come the drill bits and the old, oily drill.

Into the plastic scoop he drills and drills. And then drills and drills. I take one for the team and do not complain. I've seen this episode already. Twice. Okay, more than that. But that's not the point.

After the drilling and duct taping, he has himself a proper snow shovel. It leans up against our apartment door waiting for the snow to pile up outside.

A blizzard is an event. To be part of it is important. According to the I Love Blizzards people. So, when it happens, I head outside to help with the shoveling. My son makes an ice cave in the front yard. And except for the howling 30 mph winds blowing razor-like snow across my face, it's beautiful and quiet. No cars or busses come down our normally noisy street.

My husband and I develop a routine - he gets down to the ice with the garden shovel then I come along with the snow shovel. Then we switch.

Trying to get a full-body work out, I devise a shoveling technique that targets my thighs as I greet others out braving the storm. They are kindred souls – they who throw themselves into the fray and wash themselves with the brutal force that is Nature.

Or they’re on a beer run. Which I also appreciate.

Later when we're all inside warming up, my husband settles in to watch the weather updates. He finds Doug Hill, the only local meteorologist he trusts with the weather.

"This blizzard has broken DC's record snowfall set in 1899 at 55 inches! That's awesome," he says rubbing his hands together with a devilish, boyish gleam in his eyes.

I know that devilish, boyish gleam well and quickly search the web for a great weather map to share with him attempting to broaden my cardio activity options beyond that of shoveling. Cha-cha.

Oh, how I love I Love Blizzards people.

Welcome To Fantasy Island

2010-01-30T21:31:00.102-05:00

It snowed yesterday in Washington, DC. Lots of snow. Outside my apartment windows, snow piled up on rooftops and windowsills. Cars crept cautiously down slick streets. But this snowstorm was nothing.

Last year's December 19th epic snowfall? Now that was something.

Unfortunately, I missed some of the hype because I was vacationing in a remote, dreamy place where reality is unaffected by physical and natural forces. A place called ... Fantasy Island.

Maybe you’ve been there.

Sick for my husband’s November birthday, I decide to surprise him with an outdoor December party. The location, Rock Creek Park, is near my apartment. Coveted Lot #1, with a fire pit, shelter and bathrooms, to be precise.

I'm quickly enamored with the idea. I'll make all my husband's favorite foods. There'll be a roaring fire. Snowball fights. Spiked apple cider. (In retrospect, I am recreating parties of my high school days. Not necessarily a bad thing.) I grow a bit nervous that another party may claim dibs on Lot #1. During winter it’s first come first served. (Retrospectively, again, this is quite silly.)

Fun! Why not throw a party outside?

One big Why Not is a winter storm brewing in the Gulf preparing to slam itself into the East Coast. But so what. It’s winter. It’s supposed to snow. Snow adds ambiance. We Islanders are all about ambience.

"All visitors to Fantasy Island may disembark now."

Wed, Dec 16

With both feet planted firmly on Isle de Fantastica, I send the email inviting people to Lot #1 on Saturday, December 19, at noon. I ask them to bring something to burn. It's a Belated Surprise Birthday Party for Chuck, I write, and he loves to burn things. I tie the Winter Solstice into the theme which makes me feel earthy. Cosmically aware.

All that jazz.

The send button is still warm when I hear in the background a weather update. Something about several conditions potentially colliding to create a major winter storm. I suck my teeth. Whatever. People are always over-reacting to the weather around here.

I skip to the kitchen to make a pumpkin pie, Chuck's favorite, for the party.

Thur, Dec 17

Today The Weather Channel confirms that DC is going to get many, many inches of snow.

Perfect. A party outdoors with a burning fire and softly falling snow? How fun is that. But as the day progresses the snowstorm morphs into a big news event involving special graphics and super doplar radar. My husband, a weather geek, is following the snowstorm closely on several websites. “This is going to be a big one,” he says happily.

“Hm?” I respond hunched over my computer reserving a Zip car. He still has no idea about the party and can't understand why I'm renting a car with a blizzard coming.

“You do know that we’re not covered if you hit someone, right?” he reminds me.

I review Zip Car's insurance policies.

Usually my husband is so easy to surprise. For his 40th surprise party, I hid all the food and cake in the refrigerator behind a single defensive line of condiments. He didn’t see a thing. But renting a car during what some are now calling a major blizzard, is proving difficult to hide. So I come clean. He seems happy about the party. Cautiously happy.

By late afternoon on Thursday, the Washington Post’s Capital Weather Gang is calling for 6 – 12 inches. They've named the storm Snowpocolypse and Snomegeddon. By now you'd think these reports would have made their way onto The Island. But our reception is really bad.

I make Rice Krispie squares.

I also gather firewood. Pulling my son’s Red Flyer wagon down the hill into the woods, the federal woods, I collect sticks and small logs for the fire. I dump the firewood at a neighbor's house and then use the wagon for a beer run. In a neighborhood convenience store, an older man gets nostalgic over the Red Flyer wagon. I tell him I just used it to collect some firewood from the park woods.

“Ooo. I wouldn’t do that, child,” he warns leaning close to me. “That’s government property.”

“And I’m going to burn it, Jack,” I say leaning closer, reading the name on his work uniform.

He smiles. I begin to wonder exactly how many federal crimes I’ve committed since moving to D.C.

Fri, Dec 18, 8:30 pm

Snow starts falling.

Snow keeps falling.

Sat, Dec 19

The day of the party, I awake to a white out. It is breathtaking. What a day for a party!

I retrieve the firewood which I've covered with an old shower curtain. A stroke of genius. It's buried in snow but bone dry. Carrying it across the street is tough. Not only is it 40 pounds of loose sticks and logs, but all this deep snow covering the street makes walking really difficult.

A dark, dank cold encroaches the shores of Fantasy Island.

I'd better send another email.

Sat, Dec 19, 10:04 am

Party Update: Slight Adjustment

Just in case, Chuck, Felix and I will be at Rock Creek party site (Lot #1) at around 12:30 pm. (not noon). Anticipating Zip car issues.

Zip car issues. If ever there was an understatement, this is it.

My rented Zip car, located right around the corner from my place, isn’t there. I call Zip car. “I have a party to throw! I have a fire to start! People will be arriving soon! Where is my car?!” The representative assures me that the other driver is a minute away. So I wait. On the sidewalk in very heavily falling snow. With a pumpkin pie, bags of food. Booze. Firewood.

The driver finally shows up visibly shaken. “I am so sorry. The roads are really bad.” What is he blathering about? A ledge of snow falls in my face from the rim of my cowboy hat. Just give me the car.

My husband and son join me. My son shovels out a Jeep with his toy shovel. I load the groceries while my husband takes care of the federally offensive firewood. Now my only focus is to drive a mile down a very steep, snow-covered hill, to get to the park. People will be arriving soon and I have a fire to start.

As I hit the gas and careen sideways, my trip on Fantasy Island ends abruptly in a 10 inch snowdrift. Tires spin. Husband yells instructions. Something about not turning the wheel. Bouncing in his car seat, my son is laughing, “Do it again, Mommy! Play that game again!”

It hits me. I am not driving down the hill. I am not starting a fire. I am, in fact, stuck sideways in the middle of the road.

I call people to break the news that the party is cancelled. “Yeah. That’s okay. Thanks anyway,” they politely respond. “Don't worry. I had no intention of driving through 10 inches of snow down a steep hill to burn things in the woods,” is the subtext.

My husband has a blast stunt driving the car back into its curbside parking space. I schlep everything back inside.

What in the hell was I thinking? Where was my head??

I feel like an ass for about five minutes. Then I plate up the food, clear toys from the floor and invite a few people over for a modified Snowpocolypse Party. We denizens of Fantasy Island are nothing if not flexible.

The heartiest of the bunch, two couples dressed like arctic explorers, trudge several miles to our apartment. The neighbors who aided and abetted the firewood join the party. The apple cider, properly mulled and spiked, takes the chill off and gives everyone a rosy glow. The children are red-cheeked from playing in the snow. Not from the spiked cider.

The best part is that my husband has a hoot at the party. And he thanks me for setting the scene for one of his favorite activities on this terrestrial world – shoveling snow in the company of Wild Turkey, beer and tunes – which he did for hours.

All for the low, low price of one roundtrip ticket to Fantasy Island.

I Heart Coffee. A Lot.

2010-01-14T11:53:00.024-05:00

It's morning and my child is up before me. This is foreboding.

Coffee. Must make coffee. Quickly. Before I'm asked to wear a costume or build a tower or read a book or act in a puppet show or have a dance party.

As I pour the water into the coffee maker, I remind myself to use the plastic coffee filter contraption. Boy that was a big mess, coffee and coffee grounds everywhere. At least this morning I'm on the ball, I say as I fill the paper filter and slip it into the plastic thing.

Five minutes later, I hear my husband yelling, "Honey! You need to use a coffee pot when you make coffee!" I peek in the kitchen to see coffee covering the counter and dripping into the dishwasher that thankfully contains dirty dishes.

Pot. Right. My first accomplishment of the day puddles on the floor that I just mopped the night before.

"I didn't do it!" my son yells.

See. Everyone makes a mess, I tell my son trying to make a positive lesson out of a big stinking mess, a mess that my husband cleans because maybe he just wants to help but more likely he probably fears that I'll find a way to electrocute myself without my first morning cup of coffee which is why I now understand my mother-in-law's cup of instant coffee as she brews her morning coffee.

"I'll help you, Mommy."

I accept my son's offer to help make the second pot knowing full well that most parenting magazines, except perhaps those progressive ones that advocate old-school parenting techniques like that mom in New York City who let her 9-year old ride the subway home alone, most likely warn against letting your four-year old operate electrical appliances but "what the hell," I think, he can't do worse than I just did and anyway I stopped reading parenting magazines years ago after one featured this beautiful, famous mom who lives in the Bahamas wearing ethereal floor-length sundresses as she sends her boys to a private boarding school in London because how does that really help me be a better mom ...

... breathe ...

Morning thoughts shouldn't be so complex. Not without a cup of coffee.

Profile of a White Woman

2010-01-13T09:00:00.082-05:00

Thanks to the Underwear Bomber, profiling is back in fashion. Which reminds me.

Seattle 1999. I’m living very cheaply with two fantastic roommates and have just finished up a work project. I have time. I have money. Which means one thing.

Travel.

I call a friend in Brighton to ask if she'd mind a visitor. She warns that if I come now, she won’t be at home for part of my visit - something about driving a bus from Paris to Baghdad to attend a women’s conference. Typical Alex. “But do come anyway,” she reassures me adding that I can always day-trip to London.

Except for the fact that it's winter, a trip to the British coast sounds lovely. And London! Parliament. Tower of London. Seeing "The Mousetrap," the long-running play by Agatha Christie, in London's West End. I'm a sucker for a British mystery.

I buy my ticket the same day.

Now, the recent cross-country trip that landed me in Seattle was a heavy one. Not only was my travel partner a drag, but I also carried with me nearly all my possessions. Photo albums and Chinese texts included.

This trip is going to be light. No luggage. I'll simply wear several mix-and-match layers. One small backpack will hold toiletries and underwear. (Contrary to what the Underwear Bomber says, you shouldn’t layer underwear.)

I approach the U.S. Customs agent at the airport all smiles and excitement. With passport and carry-on in hand, I expect to breeze through.

But a small problem arises. The several shirts I'm wearing are now bunching up in my armpits causing me to pick at them a bit.

The agent looks at me fidgeting and asks for my passport. He flips through and notices the collection of visa and exit stamps from different countries.

Agent: “You travel a lot.

Me: “Yes. I do love to travel.”

I pull at Layer #3 that's riding up my back.

Agent: “Where do you live currently?”

Me: “Seattle.”

I sing-song “Seattle” in Chinese "Xi-Ya-Tu." He's unimpressed.

Agent: “And where do you work?”

Me: “Well, I’m sort of in between jobs.”

I finger-quote the air when I say “in between.”

Agent: “So, you’re unemployed.”

Me: “Well, I wouldn't put it that way exactly.”

Agent: “And how did you purchase your ticket?"

Me: “With cash of course.”

I begin to explain my distrust of the credit card system, but he interrupts.

Agent: “When did you buy your ticket?”

Me: “A couple days ago.”

Agent: “A couple of days ago?”

Me: “Yes. I just called my friend and she said she’d love to see me. Well. Actually, she won’t be there for my entire visit. See, she’s going to be driving this bus through Iraq ... well, that's a different story ... but the point is ...”

I stop talking as he scribbles furiously in his notebook. The agent seems very interested in my story and wants to share it with his female colleague who joins us at the counter.

Agent: “So, you don’t have a job but at the last minute you bought a ticket to London with cash. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Me: “Yes, sir. Guilty as charged.”

He stares at me. I clear my throat.

Agent: “And what luggage are you bringing in with you?”

Me: “Just this small backpack.”

Marveling at my own resourcefulness that I had packed everything for a 7-day visit in a very small backpack, I smile from ear to ear.

He’s not.

Agent: “Would you please step inside the room behind me and place your backpack on the table.”

What is going on? Does he want packing tips? I really don’t have time for this. It isn’t until I’m asked to remove my bulky wool sweater revealing an embarrassing array of shirt collars that I began to feel guilty. Although for what, I haven't a clue. I'm just glad to shed some layers.

Through the glass walls I watch my fellow travelers moving unimpeded to their destinations, while I answer all the questions over again and watch in awe at just how detailed a search of a small backpack can be. (Hmph. I didn’t even know it had a secret pocket.)

After the female agent finds nothing in my bag or on my person, I ask what’s going on.

“You fit the classic profile of a drug mule,” she says matter-of-factly.

"A 'drugmule'?" I ask genuinely perplexed.

"Someone who carries drugs across borders for someone else," she explains now sounding a bit too condescending for my liking.

Me? Really? With my looks, all tall, thin, angular, pale with glasses and frizzy hair, I’m usually profiled as a liberal-vegetarian-PBS-watching kindergarten teacher. But a drug mule? Drug mules sound dangerous. Edgy. And look like Chrissy Hynde.

I divulge that I once declined an offer to carry perfume samples from Paris to Hong Kong and ask if that is considered "muling" as well. They seem incredulous that I would offer such information and tell me I'm free to go.

I sincerely thank the agents who, for the first time, seem caught off guard.

A Woman Under The Influence

2009-12-13T23:34:00.067-05:00

Tonight I feel antsy. My husband has The Game on. My four-year old son is asking for Spongebob. And I need something else. Something.

I do/am many things, but I'm first and foremost a Mom. Which is great. I love being creative, silly, in-the-moment. I love making up games, songs, puppet shows and wearing costumes while dancing to classical music. I love it. I’m good at it.

But tonight I need some adult culture.

So, at the last minute, I decide to see a movie at the National Gallery of Art. “A Woman Under the Influence” with Gena Rowlands and Peter Falk filmed in 1974.

The decision is so last minute that I don’t have time to finish my bottle of Gourd, homemade pumpkin beer that my neighbor made. So, I pour the rest into a travel mug, kiss my husband and son goodbye, grab my Metro card and run off to the film.

I picked The Wrong Film.

“A Woman Under The Influence” is one hour and 55 minutes of dark, tortuous madness with powerhouse Gena Rowlands playing a mother of three who is, as described in the Gallery’s brochure, a “wife and mother struggling to tame her anarchic nature.”

Well, that’s one way to put it.

Another way is that she's a severely manic-depressive alcoholic whose complete psychic breakdown pushes her confused, rough, blue-collar husband (played amazingly by Falk) to have her committed to a mental institution.

But don't take my word for it.

I break the first rule of seeing a movie at an art gallery: Always sit near the aisle because there’s a chance, in some instances quite high, that it could suck. I’m just being honest.

But this movie doesn’t suck. Quite the opposite. Watching this mother’s quirky fun, especially the scene where the kids wear costumes while dancing to classical music, turn quickly into inappropriate behavior and eventually pure madness is painful.

The kids are frightened. Family members are unable to help. The husband says all the wrong things and just wants her to “be herself.” People in the audience are so uncomfortable I watch them squirm, particularly during the scene where she downs an entire glass of Seagram's 7.

The pressure on-screen isn't the only thing building. The beer I sneaked in has created so much pressure inside the travel mug that it goes off like a loud pellet gun when I open it.

"Oops. Sorry. It's just beer," I stage-whisper to the many faces turned my way. Artsy types can be so sensitive.

Another thing I don’t anticipate is how intense the beer would smell. And booze is probably the last thing anyone in the crowded theater wants to smell. It’s as if I’ve added a smell-o-rama feature to really ramp up the realism, to make my fellow theater-goers, already on an emotional precipice, physically repulsed as well.

The combination of the smell, guilt and disgusted eyes pinning me to my seat make it impossible to drink my beer. That and the fact that I am technically on federal property and technically breaking the law.

“But it’s homemade pumpkin beer,” I can hear myself explain to the federal guard.

I close the cap and wonder how much pressure has to build before the lid blows off in my bag. Will the entire theater point to me when the guard comes in, "It's her! It's her! She's the beer bomber!"

Suddenly and strongly, the only place I want to be is home with my son. All these thoughts attach themselves to the incredibly uncomfortable coming-home-from-the-mental-hospital-party scene that you just know isn't going to go well. I look down and realize I'm white-knuckling the arm rest. What the hell is next?

She’s gonna blow!

Finally the credits roll. The people around me leave immediately. My beer bomb doesn't explode. And I'm thankful that, at least for this film, I am a woman not under the influence.

The Costco Effect, Hong Kong & The Kindness of Strangers

2009-11-09T16:51:00.204-05:00

My husband said it was crazy. So, of course, I had to try it.

It's all part of my Challenge Myself Campaign. And this time the Challenge is a trip to Costco, which may not seem like much of a challenge.

But instead of renting a car, as my husband and I usually do, I'd save that money and simply take a hand cart on the DC Metro to Pentagon City in Virginia, the nearest location, with my four-year old son.

The trip began smoothly enough. The Metro wasn't crowded. My son sat happily in the empty hand cart. And Costco wasn't teeming with Grandmas from thirty different countries engaged in some twisted version of an Olympic shopping event. Easy-peasy.

As usual when I'm feeling a bit too pleased with myself, things turn.

I soon fall under, what I call, The Costco Effect. The Costco Effect renders all cautionary voices useless. Logic and reason are no longer applicable. (Please consult my accompanying scientific graph for further study.)

Even my very level-headed husband came home once with an 8-foot high restaurant-grade shelving unit and a Little Giant ladder. Not so strange except for the fact that we are apartment dwellers who already own a ladder.

The Costco Effect.

For my part, I ignore a faint but stern voice warning me to perhaps not get everything on my list. "Umm, Girlfriend, maybe now is not the time to get a gallon of olive oil and a 6-month supply of laundry detergent."

Huh? Who said that? Ooo look. A quart of grade A maple syrup ...

The Costco Effect also skews one's concept of weights and measures. Every item I place in the vast expanse of the Costco shopping cart looks so tiny and light. And practical. We do use a lot of A-1 sauce, I reason.

The checkout sobers me up. I see my dilemma ride by on the conveyor belt. Two jars of kalamata olives. Two pounds of coffee. Four pounds of butter. A restaurant-size container of soy sauce. These all seemed like wise purchases a mere ten minutes ago. Now they taunt me.

My God. What have I done?

But there's no turning back. As I sign the receipt, the cashier looks at me with concern. Or maybe it's pity. It's so hard to tell those two apart.

I load everything into my hand cart, all 106 pounds. (I know the poundage because I added up every ounce, milliliter and quart and converted them to pounds -- a separate Challenge in my Challenge Myself Campaign.)

I watch as the back left wheel begins to bend outward under the weight.

"Don't you do it. Don't you dare break off."

I stare at that wheel, the wobbly, rickety wheel, and push the cart gingerly, inch by careful inch, past the receipt-checker person and out into the parking lot.

That's where it hits me. This is all so familiar. Haven't I learn this lesson already?

Exhaust fumes from a fleet of SUVs cloud my vision and suddenly the year is 1994. I am leaving Mainland China via a secured pathway into Hong Kong, still a British Colony, and everything I own is on a small, cheap wheeled cart.

I'm heading to my favorite Hong Kong hostel in the now demolished Chungking Mansions near the Tsim Sha Tsui Ferry, when a tiny pin holding the wheel on pops out. A thin, tiny, insignificant-looking pin puts the kibosh on all forward progress.

Luckily a stranger on that congested Hong Kong street gives me a safety pin. I MacGyver it into a makeshift pin that holds the wheel on long enough for me to buy a new cart. That whole "a chain is only as strong as it's weakest link" concept, as corny as it sounds, is so true. Back in the parking lot, my weakest link of a wheel is barely able to rotate, an important feature for a wheel to have if it's to be of any use.

It's decision time.

I could catch a cab and give up the Challenge. Or trudge onward pushing a 106-pound cart and a four-year-old who is growing tired and suspicious that we are not, in fact, on a secret scavenger hunt. Also we are now heading into rush hour on the Metro, a very different animal indeed.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” I say out loud in a deep slouch. My son looks up at me with his earnest, blue eyes, furrows his brow and says, "You can do it, Mommy!"

I shoot upright. Yes. Yes! I CAN!

I regret my decision immediately.

The weight of the cart makes turning nearly impossible. I execute ridiculous 5-point turns to simply steer the damn thing in and out of elevators and around corners. I swear to myself to never again take the advice of a four-year-old in matters of transportation.

To complicate matters to a stupid degree, the doors of the Metro cars are vicious. They close on anything that doesn't clear its path in time. Suddenly those annoying, half-audible recorded messages reminding me of this mechanical fact are decidedly pertinent. Personal.

The doors open. Passengers get off. I have seconds to get the behemoth of a cart and my son safely onto the train amid a crowd of commuters. Then it hits me. I can't get the cart over the gap between the platform and the train car.

"Doors Closing," warns Ms. Train Message.

Suddenly a man, weathered and bone-thin, jumps in front of me and lifts my cart high enough for me to board as I simultaneously push my son onto the train.

I touch his arm. Thank you, Mr. Stranger Sir.

I want to offer him the pound of peanuts from my cart. But he's already gone into the crowd. The cart creaks. The wheel bends further outward. But we are on the train.

Now we just have to find a way to get off.

Eight stops later at Columbia Heights I recruit a young man in headphones to help me and he graciously agrees. Everyone is being so nice. Several fellow travelers joke and commiserate with me about my Challenge. I wonder if residual remnants of The Costco Effect have infected those around me. Or maybe it's because I look so vulnerable, so out of place on a rush hour train.

I still have to walk about 3/4 of a mile from the Columbia Heights Metro station to get home. But there are taxis everywhere should that wheel decide it's had enough. And there's also my husband waiting for me in a pub with a tall pint of Guinness. (This is an actual picture at the pub. That's my husband, my child and my shoulder.)

But I did it. With the help of a very agreeable child and several strangers, that is. And I'm fine with that. I'm also fine with the fact that I spent more on Guinness to repair myself than I would've spent on a rental car. Money well spent, I say.

And anyway...

I did it.

Window Pain

2009-10-15T09:27:00.058-04:00

I'm a list-maker.

Make doctor's appointment
Read some Chinese
Stare at wall

I like to see the things I want or need to do. The therapy of writing.

As a renter, there's many things I could contribute to the landlord's To-Do List. But I'm a tolerant tenant and put up with a lot. An unspoken agreement for cheap rent. Well, actually, it's because my husband fixes most things. (I married well.)

Except for the windows. They are old and either broken or in varying stages of breaking. In fact, more than a few panes are held together by packing tape -- which actually works surprisingly well.

After my son was born my worst fear was his going through one of the windows and landing three stories down. As if by genetic adaptation, though, he showed no interest in climbing or the windows.

But once during a severe windstorm I was standing in the kitchen when I heard glass break and saw the pieces fall to the ground.

“Oh, that sucks,” I remember thinking. “Someone’s plant just got blown through a window.”

A few minutes later, as I walked past my son playing on the living room carpet, I felt a cold breeze coming down the stairs. But all the windows are closed, I thought.

Feeling suddenly nauseous, I ran upstairs into his bedroom to find a sharp jagged broken piece of glass where the pane used to be, the curtain whipping violently into third-story air.

New To-Do List:

Break out remaining jagged glass
Barricade door
COMPLETELY LOSE IT

I pulled it together enough to hug my son and call my husband. Then hug my son again. I went back to that special flipped out place long enough to leave my landlord a flaming message.

"The glass in my son's bedroom window was just sucked out of the rotten casing by the wind!"

Or something like that.

A solid two years after this incident, the landlord pushed replacing some of our worst-case windows to the top of his to-do list. This includes replacing his temporary repair job in my son's room that left a gaping hole in the window sill.

When the window repairman came by to measure the windows I told him the story of how my son's window ended up in the alley below. He nonchalantly said, “Don’t worry. I understand. When I was his age, I fell 6 stories out of a window while my mom was in the shower."

What? Whatdidhejustsay??

He told me that when he was 4-years-old, he popped out a window screen in their 6th floor apartment and played a game of throwing out his toys one by one. Upset that all his toys were now on the ground, he leaned out the window to get them.

He remembers vividly hanging on, yelling, when a fire truck, sirens blaring, drove up. Out jumped a team of firemen carrying a trampoline. They yelled to him, “Go ahead. Jump! It’s safe! You’ll be okay! Just jump!”

So he jumped.

But that’s not what happened.

As the story was retold to him, a cab driver, lost in the neighborhood, looked up and saw what he thought was a doll falling out of a 6-story apartment window.

When he realized that it wasn’t a doll but a child, he rushed over to find the child on the soft, wet ground choking on his own tongue. He removed the child’s tongue and saved his life.

"Not a scratch or bruise on me," said the carpenter smiling in my doorway with his notebook of measurements in hand. "And I've been fixing windows for the past 35 years."

I am SO glad to be on this man's To-Do List.

Notes on a Food Purist

2009-10-12T09:50:00.014-04:00

And so it began with a simple question. “Would you like some strawberry crisps?”

He says, “No thanks. I don’t like dried fruit."

She says, "They’re not dried fruit. They’re granola crisps."

He says, “I generally don’t like things called ‘crisps.’”

She says, “Just try one. They’re made with ancient grains, spelt, quinoa and uh, a-ma-ranth. Says right here on the bag it 'contains vitamin E and is good for the circulatory system.' You don’t like cold feet. Come on. Try one.”

He takes the tiniest nibble. “Too sweet.”

She says, “But it doesn’t have any high fructose … it’s a whole grain … oh, forget it.”

You could say I was forewarned that food would be an issue with my husband. While we were email courting, he bragged that he ate everything from “Albacore to Zucchini.”

Who brags about the variety of foods they eat, I thought? People who have been accused of overly selective eating habits. That’s who.

When it comes to eating, my husband doesn’t just have likes and dislikes. Well all have those. He has (an ever-growing list of) rules.

Don’t mix things that shouldn’t be mixed. Like adding buttered corn on top of mashed potatoes. (Yum.) Succotash is a big problem.

Sweet is sweet. Savory is savory. He wants to keep it that way. Sweet potatoes? Not his thing. And the whole honey-mustard combination disturbs him. Luckily, I don't have to deal with the conundrum of serving duck topped with a fruit compote or a ham with pineapple glaze because he’s a lacto-ovo pescetarian.

No fake meat. When I made vegetarian stuffed peppers, I told him I used wheat gluten flavored with oregano which I knew would be oddly more appetizing to him than "vegetarian sausage." And he doesn't want to actually see the vegetables that make up his veggie burger.

Only black beans. You'd think a lacto-ovo pescetarian would love beans. But I can’t ply him with a great northern, garbanzo, kidney, cannelloni or lima bean to save my life. He says he eats pinto but I've never actually seen this occur.

Sushi is a nighttime food. End of discussion. Dim sum brunch? I do that with other people.

If you like something at a restaurant, it’s a waste of time, not to mention risky, ordering anything else. I could even order for him at a restaurant we’ve never been to before.

If a salad contains vegetables, they are to be eaten first. Nuts and fruit on a salad shakes his belief system to its very core. Which is fine because he's allergic to nuts. (And onions.) And easy on the romaine. When I make a caprese salad, I make two: one for him undressed and one for me with olive oil, salt and pepper, the way they do in Italy and on Wikipedia.

Finish one thing on the plate completely before moving on to something else.

The size of freshly ground pepper shouldn’t be too big. “Why do people on these cooking shows always season everything with salt and pepper?” he wonders aloud as we watch the Food Network.

No eggplant. My beloved eggplant makes his mouth itch.

Biscotti? Nope. He doesn’t like the name. On that note, he refuses to say anything in a semi-French accent. So, he’ll eat a crepe, but call it a thin pancake.

Nothing with any hydrogenated ingredients. Ever. Goodbye Little Debbie. And all things Hostess.

And I truly think if were practical to set up a non-profit organization whose sole mission was to save carrot cake from walnuts, raisins and pineapple, he would.

Funny thing is, he’s not a health nut. Loves candy. Booze. Chips and ice cream. He just likes to keep food simple. And that can really complicate things.

Ode To A Houseplant

2009-10-07T09:39:00.071-04:00

To remember people and events important to us we keep physical things around as reminders. They make our lives layered and colorful.

For me, one of those things is plants. My two-story apartment is crawling with spider plants, wandering Jews, cacti, even a small tree. Houseplants fill me with giddy, sublime joy. But not for reasons you might think.

First a little background.

In some genetic roulette game, I inherited all of my mother’s Hungarian gypsy blood from her brood of seven. At age 21 I moved to China where I lived for over three years and traveled all around Asia. In a two-year period, I lived in 14 different places including a squat in New York City, a youth hostel in Seattle and a truck going cross country.

So, I owned very little. Committing to even a houseplant was out of the question.

That’s why in my late-20s while finishing my second degree, working as a reporter and a waitress, performing in theater and traveling quite a bit, I was shocked when a friend, who knew me quite well, gifted me a plant.

An African violet, to be exact, with delicate purple flowers nestled amid its foliage -- a living thing that without proper care and attention would die.

How very thoughtless.

What about that 3-day music festival on my calendar? What if I wanted to disappear for a month? The camping trip? I feel the walls closing in.

“What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with this?” I ask Rachel, my best friend and roommate in our railroad-style Victorian two-story walk-up apartment.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “Water it?”

While no veteran of 4-H agricultural camp, Rachel's advice is spot on. I water The Plant. I even enlist others to water it when I go traveling.

My commitment to The Plant shows. It thrives under my care. Always fresh looking, always green. I must have a knack. My arms ache from all the back patting.

About a year later, Rachel and I decide to rent a house with another friend and to leave our beloved apartment. We chat in my room about the move and what we plan to bring. Standing between us stands a small table and on that small table is The Plant, its pretty purple petals staring up at us.

“So, are you bringing all your furniture?” Rachel asks.

"There’s not much," I say. "My futon mattress. (looking down) This table. The Plant, of course.”

Our eyes both fall on The Plant.

“You know, I’ve been wanting to ask this for a long time," begins Rachel. "But, um, that plant … is it (pause) real?”

What? Did she really just ask that??

With my best defensive posture and emphatic enunciation, I say, “Rachel. Look. I think I can tell the difference between a fake plant and a real plant.”

I flip my hair back. I don't want to. But she deserves it.

“I’m sorry. Really,” counters Rachel. “It’s just that, … well, it’s never changed. At all.”

We stare at each other.

Pause.

We look down at the plant.

Longer Pause.

I reach down and bend a leaf. It springs back with elastic vigor. I tug at a flower and the whole plant pops out of the little terra cotta flowerpot revealing not a spec of dirt, only Styrofoam. For one second, the entire year spent watering and caring for The Plant flashes through my mind like a movie montage.

Rachel and I stand there staring at each other, The Plant's silky polyester leaves dangling between my fingers. A purple flower pops off. I snap it back on.

"We need never speak of this again," I manage to say in complete seriousness before we both fall to the floor in a fit of giggles that lasts for days.

When I first wrote this story, I thought that she hadn't told anyone. But after reading my blog, she confessed to me that she has, in fact, told this story often over the years. To many people, actually. Sometimes to complete strangers. Standing in a grocery line, the topic of plants will come up and she'll hear herself saying, "You know, I have this friend who watered a fake ..."

I can't blame her. The comedic value is pretty high. And it's part of an unspoken agreement we have with each other - to sacrifice self-respect for a good laugh.

And that's why I love having houseplants around.

And Rachel.

A Girl and Her Dishwasher: A Love Story

2009-10-02T01:57:00.004-04:00

Recently my husband suggested that we hire a monthly cleaning person.

I hesitated.

It wasn’t an I-can’t-believe-how-much-I-love-this-man hesitation.

It was more like a But-at-what-other-time-can-I-drink-beer-at-noon-on-a-Monday-in-my-underwear-blaring-Electric-Light-Orchestra-and-Queen-wearing-tap-shoes-while-I push-a-vacuum-around-a-bit? type of hesitation.

I should've jumped at his offer. But actually, (surreptitiously looking over left shoulder then right) I don’t mind cleaning.

It relaxes me.

Mainly because as I'm doing the actual cleaning the last thing on my mind is the actual process of doing the cleaning. "Don't forget to print the lyrics to Yellow Submarine. Why don't I know the words to Yellow Submarine? Yellow. I look terrible in yellow. I really need to edit my wardrobe. Ooo, this is a good deep leg stretch. I'll have to incorporate this into my routine. Hmm, what is the Chinese word for 'routine' anyway?"

And that's how things can go very wrong.

Take for example my relationship with the dishwasher. I met Dishwasher when I moved to Washington, DC in 2002.

“Hello, Dishwasher. Nice to meet you. Oh look. You open.”

Our first time together was pretty typical. Dishwasher got loaded and then turned on. But not before I filled the receptacle-tub-indentation-place with liquid dish soap and then, thinking that wouldn't be enough, randomly squirted the dishes and inside the machine as well.

There. Easy. Dishwasher whirred contentedly.

Ten minutes later, though, on my way to the kitchen, I ran into a three-feet high, three-feet thick glacier of suds inching its way into the hallway. My kitchen looked like Studio 54. And Dishwasher, spewing and frothing from every available crevice, was the life of the party.

Instinctually, I jumped into action. Meaning I quite literally jumped into the suds, clapping and stomping. (I didn't say which instincts kicked in.)

My husband’s untimely return home to see my par-tay in full swing initiated a brutal line of questioning.

Him: “Um, what did you use in the dishwasher.”

Me: “Dish soap.”

Him: “We don’t have any dishwasher soap.”

Me: “Whaddoyamean?”

Him: “How much did you use?”

Me: “Why? I don’t know. I didn’t measure. There aren't any instructions anywhere. And just what are you trying to say anyway??"

I mean, you couldn't really call it a mess. Messes are dirty. These were suds. Suds are clean. But they do take a surprisingly long time to clean up. Well, at least, I think they do. After my husband kicked me out of the kitchen so he could clean up the suds, it's all a bit fuzzy.

2009-09-28T21:22:00.002-04:00

I Love This Picture.

I rescued her from an old French book on Vaudeville

and tacked her to the wall in front of my desk.

I also gave her a plume of black feathers.

She tickles my fancies

A Tale of Two Twins: One Mom's Fantasy

2009-09-23T10:09:00.015-04:00

For our 8^th wedding anniversary, my husband surprised me with the ultimate fantasy.

He tells me to get ready for a big surprise. So, at 6:30 pm I'm sitting in our apartment, wine glass in hand, looking all primped, plucked and pretty in my pink Italian sateen rocker pants, baby doll cami and black patent leather T-straps wedges. (You’ll have to trust me. It was cute.)

Then in walks my surprise -- two very tall, very handsome twenty-something twin brothers.

“Hi. We’re here.”

My husband got me twins!

“Come to Momma …”

… I say to my son. The Twins are the sitters and I am going out with my husband for a lobster and oyster dinner! Pinch me! (Just a figure of speech. There are children present.)

My 4-year-old is also in heaven. The Twins are his Big Boy Friends. In fact, on his 3^rd birthday he didn’t want to invite any children – just his Big Boy Friends. So for him, this isn’t babysitting. This is a play date.

He shows The Twins his treasure boxes and his monster truck collection. He tells them the rules of the house.

“This is my mom’s printer. Don’t press print. These are the plants. Here’s my tree. I pruned it myself.”

He plays with their Blackberries and takes pictures with their laptop. In return The Twins get to watch SpongeBob SquarePants and Cars.

When my husband and I return home, our son is lying in a nest The Twins have made for him on the floor with all his Lighting McQueen blankets. He's smiling, trying hard to stay awake, asking about his doggie bag from the restaurant.

Now I understand why so many men fantasize about twins. Oh, what could happen with twins ... “Oh yeah, you do the laundry. Press there. Ooo, that’s good. And you'll do dinner? Good. A little lower … lower. There. That’s it. That’s where the pots are.”

I am so there.

Julia & Me

2009-09-21T08:38:00.018-04:00

Long before the movie Julia & Julie came out, I fell in love with Julia Child.

No. I didn’t get the title wrong.

Julie & Julia makes no sense. Julia Child takes second billing to no one.

I blame my husband for my crush on Julia. In 2004 he gave me Appetite for Life: The Biography of Julia Child. Before I turned the last page, I started reading it again. Then again.

You see. The similarities between us are striking. I will bullet them for you.

Julia is really tall with curly, reddish-brown hair. I’m really tall with curly, reddish-brown hair.

Julia performed in community theater. I performed in community theater and dinner theater. (I can’t over italicize the kismet-quality of that one.)

But it doesn’t stop with physical attributes and a willingness to embarrass oneself.

Julia lived in New York City after graduating from college, worked a job she didn’t like and partied a lot. I lived in New York City after graduating from college, worked a job I didn’t like and partied a lot.

Okay. Many people did that. But what about …

Julia lived in China as a young woman looking for adventure. I lived in China as a young woman looking for adventure.

And …

Julia met and fell in love with a guy in China who turned out to be her future husband. I met and fell in love with a guy in China who turned out to be someone else’s husband.

Now it's getting weird.

Wanting to spend more time with Julia, I became a regular at her Smithsonian kitchen, watched her old cooking shows and sat transfixed when PBS paid tribute to her in their American Masters series. I taped it and pop it in my VCR every couple of months. So we can hang. I even bought Mastering the Art of French Cooking without the slightest intention of ever using it. (Our uncanny similarities end in the kitchen.)

Oh sure. Now she’s on the tips of everyone’s beef tongues. But trust me. If you gushed about Julia Child at a cocktail party a scant couple of years ago, people didn’t clamor to be an arc in your conversational orb.

A Bored Person: “Really? Julia Child? No, I can't say I've really thought of her.”

A Gushing Me: “Oh, well, let me tell you when it all started. Back in …”

Julia worked for the Office of Strategic Services during wartime in a China-related capacity. I worked for the Department of Defense during wartime in a China-related capacity.

Julia and I are thick as thieves.

Julia didn’t have a career plan and stumbled upon her lot comparably late in life. I don’t have a career plan and stumble upon things a lot especially late at night.

We late bloomers love stories like Julia's.

And I did love the movie. Well, half of it. The Julia half.

Truth be told, I didn't like the Julie Powell character, the woman who took on the daunting task of cooking her way through Julia's tome. I don’t care how much you’re fighting with a non-congealing aspic, you do not call Julia Child a bitch.

But I would pay full ticket price again just to hear Meryl Streep’s Julia say ~~“stiff cock.”~~ “Bon Appetit!”

What I Know About Alice

2009-09-16T18:44:00.002-04:00

This wasn't going to be my first post. I had something else in mind. Pickling. Because I've heard that pickling is supposed to be the new knitting.

But when I pushed my son’s stroller through a busy intersection in Washington, D.C.’s trendy Dupont Circle where Connecticut Avenue meets Florida Avenue, I saw half a dozen bicycles painted stark white and strapped to poles on sidewalks and traffic islands.

It stopped me. So odd-looking.

Some bicycles have bouquets of flowers tied to them or single blooms stuck in the spokes. Others have notes attached to them. There are dozens of missives on the sidewalk written in colorful chalk.

“Happy Birthday, Alice.”

“I miss your smile.”

“She was always supposed to be older than me.”

The chalk messages also told me that this is where Alice died in a bike accident on July 8, 2008. Her birthday was on September 15. She would’ve been 25 years old.

That's what I know about Alice.

Curlicue Chronicles

Curlicue Chronicles has moved.

Single-Minded

Oh No He Didn't

Surviving a heat wave. Or a dirty bomb.

Variation on a Personal Debt Crisis

Connect The Dots

"The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved"

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Life Laminated

Book Club? Just who do you think you are?

A Closet Psychotic

Post-election Day Clean-up. Who Let That Fly In?

Goodbye. Have fun. Please come back soon.

Gimme Shelter

Marriage. A Game of Inches

The Making of Movie Memories. Or Juvenile Delinquency. Take your pick.

Stop the Bus! I'm Having a DC Moment.

What Exactly Is "Free Time"?

The "I Love Blizzards" People

Welcome To Fantasy Island

I *Heart* Coffee. A Lot.

Profile of a White Woman

A Woman Under The Influence

The Costco Effect, Hong Kong & The Kindness of Strangers

Window Pain

Notes on a Food Purist

Ode To A Houseplant

A Girl and Her Dishwasher: A Love Story

A Tale of Two Twins: One Mom's Fantasy

Julia & Me

What I Know About Alice

I Heart Coffee. A Lot.