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I saw this on Helene's blog, assumed it would be a fun quiz, and went ahead with it. It actually applies an esoteric calculus to your blog and then pops out the answer, so it's a little unsatisfying.

Not getting anywhere, but having fun

Sherlock Holmes : Sensing :: Miss Marple : Intuition.

Need I add that Miss Marple has no need of a sidekick who says, "Brilliant deduction! How the devil was it done?" in order to impress the reader?

On the other hand, Sherlock Holmes is eminently more quotable. Which really shouldn't follow.

You don't want to know how many times I had to fiddle with the above proportion before I hit on the best order (I didn't want to rely too heavily on the reader automatically alternating and inverting it).

Discuss

Does personality type belong to the soul or the body? Why?

Funny Nunny!

I still don't feel quite up to writing, but I got to make some Halloween costumes and wanted to show them off. (These were originally bedsheets, and all the patterns came from my own pure brain, aided by two Google image searches and a saints book for children. The secret is that I don't let the fact that I don't know how to do it stop me. And yes, I am bragging, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.)

Two cheers for the person who can guess both saints correctly!

This took fully half of my total costume-making time, partially because metallic thread and felt go together like oil and water.

Yargh

I've been a little bit wiped out lately, so thinking of things to write while also typing and looking at a computer screen has been too much in the way of multitasking. Which is a stinker, because I have had some great things to write about, such as:
1. Hunt for "Pink Love Songs"
2. Something else which I've forgotten because I'm busy trying to type and look at the screen.
But I hope to arise, Phoenix-like, shortly.

Small Talk 2

A few weeks ago, a friend told me how she'd been working on the art of small talk—the little superficial questions which seemed so silly to her, but which were greeted with genuine relish, so much so that she had decided this was definitely an act of charity. I felt inspired, reflected sadly on how little I'd been sowing seeds of God's love among my acquaintances, and resolved to work harder in the future. (I ought to be an expert from the number of times I've made this resolution.)

I had lots of opportunities for mingling with strangers in the next few weeks, because the residents were in a play at a local theater. One night, a cast member sat down next to me as the chorus started rehearsing a scene. She pointed to my sandals in a friendly way and said, "I have the same shoes!"

"Yeah, isn't Payless great?" with a big, amiable smile. (I had actually noticed that she had the same shoes at a previous rehearsal, but sometimes people are freaked out if you've noticed too much, so I suppressed the information.)

"Why no," startled and a bit offended, "mine* are Anne Klein!"

"Huh." I said, reflecting that if the lady were correct about the shoes' origin (which she wasn't), they wouldn't be anywhere near as cool.

Silence descended, with me feeling pleased that I had kept from expressing myself, but with the lady apparently experiencing less enjoyable emotions.

"Or maybe," she said with a nervous titter, "maybe they weren't."

We had to continue sitting next to each other until she was called on stage, so I had time to reflect that this probably didn't count as having shown God's love to her.

* I try to avoid italics, but my interlocutor unmistakably italicized this word.

Comedy

It's amazing how developmental disabilities affect just a portion of a person's brain. J has an IQ of about 40, but her social IQ is much higher. She whips out astonishing jokes now and again.

The other day I offered J some brownies and she sang, "Don't it make my brownies blue!"

I was brushing J's hair today, and when I finished I wanted her to feel how soft it was when it was brushed properly so I said, "Put your hand up..." and she interrupted to say, "What, am I under arrest or something?"

Well, we didn't lose any

This evening we took the gang to the Italian American Festival. This is located in a huge park, but up until seven years ago took place on the streets of The Burg (Chambersburg) in Trenton, when it was known as the Feast of Lights. Now all the Italians (Neapolitans with a sprinkling of Sicilian) are taking their aesthetic of concrete to the suburbs (apparently there has always been a certain deviation in The Burg's economic activities, but recent demographic shifts have led to these aberrations having a more public character than the Italians approve of), and the festival has moved as well.

I hope that the residents had fun, and it's likely they did since we ate junk food, which is one of their all-time favorite activities (okay, I don't cry at the prospect, either). For me it was non-stop count and recount, as the place was packed and all of my little flock has a tendency to wander off. A marionette display snagged one, and I had to fight my way back up the human stream (with another resident attached at the hand, but inclined to plant her feet widely apart and then not budge) to gather him back in. I realize now that I should have been happy over the potency-hovering-on-act of so many lost sheep to find and rejoice more over than if they had never been lost, but I wasn't. The end result is that I saw little of the scenery. Of course, it was all vendor tents, so it's no huge loss.

I wonder a little bit at what the point of carnivals is. There is only so much food that one can take on board while still being able to walk comfortably back to one's car. I recently discovered that it is fun to go on the rides, but this one had very few rides, and they were primarily of the go up slowly come down quickly variety. Now the dropping-suddenly-through-space theme is a staple in my dreams, but never yet have I greeted it by clapping my hands and saying, "The only way this could be better is if I paid $4 first!" Maybe if you've lived in that area for a long time you could spend the time wandering from acquaintance to distant relative, which can be fun. Or maybe you could spend it gossiping about but not talking to these people, which is even better.

In Seattle I qualified as a house-plant, but I think that in New Jersey I am the equivalent of a natural woman. My favorite part of the evening was the night drive home, and I think I would have really enjoyed the park minus the carnival. As we were parking, we saw a small fawn lost among the cars, a bit of the way things should be plunged bewilderingly into the way things are.

You're My Type

The other day at the health food store I saw a homeschoolin', homemade-jumper-wearin', health-food-eatin' mother and her daughters. I walked by thinking they looked frumpy, innocent, and sweet.

As I searched for my multivitamin (it was in a white bottle, with some other colors on the label, and maybe said something about energy), I overheard the clerk tell the mother that they were the best-dressed family that had come in all day.

Dark Nights

A couple weeks ago I saw that Newsweek had an article on Mother Teresa, and within a few seconds was simultaneously outraged and delighted. Outraged by the author ("Christopher Hitchens, her most outspoken critic!") and delighted by the book he was reviewing: the collection of her letters outlining her dark night of the soul (Come Be My Light). Newsweek doesn't post entire articles (this one was in the August 29, 2007 issue), but here is the first paragraph:

The publication of Mother Teresa’s letters, concerning her personal crisis of faith, can be seen either as an act of considerable honesty or of extraordinary cynicism (or perhaps both of the above).

I'm honestly cynical of the rest of the article being worth $2.95 (the online price of a single article), but here's the link, just in case you're more sanguine (or just more foolishly affluent).

I had first heard of this dark night from a First Things article published on her beatification, and was flabbergasted. I had assumed that she was able to live so arduous and comfortless a life because she was given extraordinary spiritual consolations—now it appears that any consolations to be had were in the arduous life!

Last night a friend passed out copies of the Time review, which is much more balanced (I like to think this is Whittaker Chambers's enduring influence). The friend spoke with enthusiasm about how much hope it gave him for his own spiritual life. It is amazing that a whole world of people, most of whom are unlikely to read St. John of the Cross, are finding out about the beauty of faithfulness in extreme and prolonged suffering.

Exactly

M, one of the residents of the men's house, was listening to some CDs the other day and one of them was from my all time favorite, Mr. Johnny Cash. M brought the CD over to me, and pointed to one of the songs, "A Boy Named Sue," and asked, "Now, is this a boy's name, or a girl's name?"

"A girl's name," I replied, wondering if I should even try to explain.

"What?!" exclaimed K, overhearing, "That's crazy! A boy can't be named Sue!"

"Why would you name a boy that?" persisted M.

"Now that boy's gonna be made fun of, he is!" said K. "He's gonna get in fights."

So we just listened to the song.

Ah, Fall

A couple days ago we visited an old man who told us that he'd finally been able to have a fire the night before. I responded by saying that I'd finally turned off my air-conditioning.

A Good Time Is Had by Us

Personality type theories have provided Mrs. Bear and me with an unending source of amusement (the heyday of the humours), but somehow it reminds me of the time in college when I started laughing in class, was enough aware of my surroundings to know that a lot of hearty laughing was going on (and so felt comfortable continuing to what would otherwise have been an unfortunate extent), then after about five minutes realized that hearty though it was, all the laughter was being generated by me.

Facebook / Captain Mixed Metaphor

I've succumbed to the dark side, but will try to keep up with my first love.

Fingertips

Soldiers in Vietnam had "fire in the hole," and paramedics have "code blue," but when the siren goes off in my life, we have a crier. This has the same sort of urgency as the first two, because one crying person can make the entire group fall apart into their own individual vicissitudes in about five seconds. And it happens a few times a day. Now I can count the times I've cried all day in the last ten years on one hand (and could even if two fingers and a thumb were chopped off), and I think that I cry more now than I did as a little girl, so all of this is a strange and alien experience.

This afternoon we had a reprise of the crisis from this morning. K loves food, but (or perhaps I should say "because of this") her mother has put her on a diet (actually, the entire house is dieting). So now when the litany of foods starts, the response tends to be "that's fattening" (rather than "my favorite"). Unfortunately, whenever the syllable "fat" is said in J's presence (as it frequently is, since J and K live in the same house), J thinks that she has been called fat, and begins to cry and glower. If this is allowed to continue, K will lose patience with J and give her something to really cry about. As it happens, J takes an active interest in her own diet (J's figure would make Tweedledum proud, and she accentuates the effect by rubbing "mah bellay" and quiring her immortal soul after her stomach's health) but the response she likes is not "that's fattening" but rather "we're trying to take care of you."

I've been musing on the qualities which make a song a hit in The Party Bus. Tonight the gang was getting down to "I Will Survive" with a touching faith in my driving skills as we careened through mid-New Jersey. We had just shouted alleluia to the heavens along with The Weather Girls, and the niggling familiarity of the selection finally clicked: any song best delivered by a drag queen will be a hit here.

The house cat is pretty sick and possibly running through her ninth life, so we're asking people not to pick her up. One of the guys, S, came over to visit, and insisted on picking her up, swearing that all she needed was a hug. When I finally disengaged the poor cat, S's shirt bore the evidence of the cat's (or her bowels') feelings on the subject. He was so shocked and hurt at the cat's treatment that I managed to hold in all forms of "I told you so," but risked serious internal injury doing so.

When I first got here, I played Bingo with the gang. When M won a game, J (her roommate) told her roguishly, "I'm going to tickle your foot tonight!" The next day I asked M if J had tickled her foot, and they both collapsed in giggles. "Yes!"

Beaten by the Space-Time Continuum

My bedroom only has one table, a small bedside one with just enough room for the necessities (a laptop computer and a glass of water). Now I still don't know what my hand was doing in that sector of the universe, but the other day the glass got knocked over onto the computer.

My computer has recovered, and I dug out my Nalgene bottle.

Book on the Four Humours

A while back I promised the title of a good book on the ancient temperaments. I haven't read it yet, and the publisher (Sophia Institute Press) makes me think the local library will not have it, but here's hoping (or, here's to being temporarily sanguine). It is: The Temperament God Gave You by Art and Loraine Bennett.

Would someone just post already?

I'm just coming off a seven-plus day bout of working, and found out that I get to work tomorrow afternoon and evening, too, so the blogging going on around here is going to be darned limited.

On the plus side, I'll get to take some time off if Guy Crouchback comes to visit.

Don't, don't, don't let's start

One of the residents has had some problems with shouting outbursts, and whenever she gets going her roommate will gesture me aside and say in an urgent whisper, "Don't start!" Frequently she wags her finger at me, too. (The injunction is meant to her roommate, not to me.) Sometimes she'll do this for a while even after her roommate has calmed down, so to break up the tension I'll sing the They Might Be Giants song back to her. The best that I can say of this is that a good time is had by me.

I told Mrs. Bear this, and she said it was awesome. I think the dance that goes with it surpasses awesome, but I can't see it (being as I'm doing it).

Introvert vs. Extrovert

Mrs. Bear's recent post, and a conversation on being introverted with a friend in which she told me that I "hide it well" because I seem to enjoy talking with people, have prompted this small clarification:

Introversion is NOT a pathological state (that crazy Jung—always yukking it up).

Furthermore, the distinction between extroverts and introverts is not "loves people" and "hates people." Rather, it is that extroverts are energized from contact with people, especially large numbers of people, and introverts are energized by time alone, especially with large numbers of books.

And, if you want to get into the four ego functions* (and if you have any sense, you'll be into them like a dachshund and a rat hole), extroverts show the world the function that they use most (making them easy to get to know), while introverts show the function they use second most.

Coming up...the title of a good book on the four classical temperaments.

* Disclaimer: this was the best summary I could find (read: the only), but I'd just like to go on the record as saying that I do not believe that hallucinations are simply alternate psychic experiences. Good grief.

Baby Got Back

One of the residents had a birthday a week ago, and her father gave her the DVD Black Beauty. Everyone was excited and the DVD came up frequently in conversation. However, pronunciation being what it is, the first vowel of "beauty" sounded like "oo" rather than "you." I continually found myself on the brink of telling people that Sir Mix-A-Lot hails from my hometown.

No More Meetings!

In about forty minutes I get to go to the third meeting in as many days. This meeting is an improvement on the other two, as it doesn't fall on my days off. (We all have to put up with meetings on our day off now and then, but I been having a pity party on the scale of a five-alarm frat bash because there were meetings on both my days off.) Further, I managed to avoid sleeping for all but one hour last night, so I'd had my heart set on a little slumber, a little folding of the hands in sleep after the morning's duties, but my boss informed me that this makes the devil's work and that I need to come to this meeting or else look forward to a purgatory full of book groups.

The book group in this life has slowed down to two pages a week ("It's so rich!"), so it will take us three years to get through the 300-page book. I can only surmise that the purgatory book group would start at two pages, but gradually cover a portion of the book that is less than any given amount. Then when you finally gave up your own desire to have a sense of the whole in addition to a sense of the details, Grace would come, jump you to the limit (or asymptote), and you would find yourself in heaven and free to read something else.

So how does your intrepid heroine plan to face the day? First, no more caffeine. I've cut down on it to the extent that I've become super-sensitive, and the combination of caffeine (at any point during the day) and a bad-health night sometimes adds up to a grievous sleep deficit which is all my fault. Second, I intend to read more of Freddy the Politician before the book group commences.

God is Good

I just went to the dentist for the first time in five years, and had X-rays taken for the first time in six years. The dread with which I had approached the dentist's chair had nothing to do with a fear of pain. No, it was that terrible grown-up fear of the bill which lurks, green-eyed and slavering, waiting for the psychological moment to bite in the place where it will be felt most. I have a fair amount of dental pain, and had visions of having to sell organs on the Chinese black market in order to cover the fees.

This dentist actually does the cleanings himself—he says he feels like he gets a better understanding of a person's teeth that way. He's not quite as thorough as the hygienists that have cleaned my teeth in the past, but he charges $45 rather than $150, so I'm not complaining.

But the best news of all is this: I don't have a single cavity! The dental pain is simply due to migraines, and I'm not even grinding my teeth from them!

As we say in this house:
God is good!
All the time
All the time
God is good!

Miscellaneous

This week I registered at a new parish, and was puzzled by a blank marked "family salutation." I wrote down "Salve" but something tells me that wasn't what they meant.

I finished the Harry Potter book and very much enjoyed it. In fact, it reversed the one thing that had most upset me about the earlier books. I'm just going to be pleased and not discuss the legitimacy of this reversal—let's just take joy where we find it.

And speaking of finding it, I'm off to the library to find more children's fantasy books. I think it's just about Prydain-o'clock. If my erstwhile readers have any other suggestions, I would love to hear them. I'll probably check out The Dark Is Rising Sequence (although that has always seemed a bit dark to me).

On Bandaids et al

I was asked recently how I had mended my V-necked shirt with a bandaid, which tells me that my writing is not quite a crystal clear prism of brilliant thought. The bandaid was in fact an unrelated accessory, the result of an attack in the bath by a razor wielding maniac a day or two prior. Now that the hot weather is upon us, and even lukewarm showers are not enough to make balance and coordination simultaneously possible, these attacks are becoming both more common and more grievous. In fact, I am becoming piqued at their frequency, though I've been assured in no uncertain terms that I am not only alluring but sultry when plastered with bandages. (Of course, I do lose a significant amount of weight—albeit from only one spot—with each incident.)

However, razors have also brought happiness to these quarters. I consider the following to be a definitive refutation of those who believe that literature cannot teach:

A Willa Cather character sat down after a long day hiking across southwestern deserts to hack at his callouses with a penknife.

Hercule Poirot, in need of a small, very sharp knife to slice open a knapsack which he suspected of containing smuggled heroin, went to his bathroom for a callous knife.

After reading these passages, I went straight to the drugstore, found that callous knives still exist (though they are more razors than knives), purchased one, and successfully removed the callouses from the sides of my feet. However, something that looked very similar came back as soon as I got to my current residence and the semi-public shower, as noted in a previous post. Now I wish I'd never brought the topic up, as the treatment was not successful, perhaps due to my fabulous disappearing immune system.

A New Hope

Only today I was wondering what The Royal Tenenbaums being my favorite movie said about my subconscious. And now I see that Wes Anderson is poised to release a new movie! The dread question is: will it, like another film we could mention, be all wet?

Today I Bought Into Mass Hysteria

And I feel Fine.



But I have to read it hidden in my room as my coworker will burn both it and me if she finds out!

The Gloved Left Hand

Is Facebook.com the gloved left hand of the man (as Mrs. Bear insists), or is it a fun and harmless way to keep in touch with friends who have heartlessly abandoned the blogging world?

Also, is it as prone to being broken into as myspace?

In other words, if I sign up, am I asking to be found the next day with a dagger in my back and an expression of unspeakable horror on my face?

A Picture of Now

From Mrs. Bear

A picture of now, between past and future.

1. a. Describe your outfit. I am wearing a heather-wine-red T-shirt, jean capri pants, and a Band-Aid. I bought the shirt for the color, and didn't notice that it had a V-neck until I got home from the store, so I have to do a lot of re-adjusting so that the world doesn't see more Flannery-flesh than is strictly good for it.
b. What associations does the main color evoke? The main color is one I've rarely worn, and the "heather" texture makes it pretty new in my world (and therefore non-evocative). When I first came across this question, I was wearing a bright turquoise shirt that was the color of joy.
c. Is there a memory associated with that outfit (or part of it)? Unfortunately, this outfit is new enough to justify a judgment of "soulless." I bought both the pants and shirt in May as part of a campaign to dress appropriately to my station in life (which I interpret to mean more than three pairs of weather-appropriate pants). The Band-Aid is new as of this morning. My primary memory in future will probably be twitching the neckline up.

2. a. Are you listening to music? No, it's hotting up around here, so that means no more migraine-making music. However, I was just listening to the song I linked to in question 5.
b. Was this intentional? Yup. But when I first came across this question, I was listening to the Cranberries' first album, which is replete with memories of 1996-1997, the year I first lived away from home, moved four different times in 12 months, and in general experienced an alternative-rock version of Dostoevsky's universe.
c. What does the music make you remember? Exhaustion, getting home at midnight and watching the last of Late Night with David Letterman with my older brother on our functional TV which sat atop our non-functional one, darkness of late night and early morning and the darkness of a bank account with nothing in it.

3. a. Describe the objects within arm's reach. My appointment book (from Barnes and Noble. It is the only day-planner which has ever worked for me, and now my life falls apart without it.) An almost finished baby blanket (which is a surprise for a couple that doesn't ever read the blog), my craft tote-bag and scissors, a packet of fountain pen cartridges (I haven't gotten a needle and syringe, so I can't refill the old cartridges myself), two decorative boxes (still in the bag, just purchased from the clearance table), a bag with a couple of makeup sponges, a P.G. Wodehouse book, I Believe in Love, my watch, a glass of water, a few other books and a journal, and my cell phone.
b. Choose one object and tell where you acquired it. I bought I Believe in Love at a small Catholic bookstore in Plano, Texas. A friend had read the first chapter out loud to me, and I'd been wanting to read more on St. Thérèse of Lisieux's spirituality, since I love her dearly. If I were marooned on a desert island and could only have five books, this would be one of them.
c. On the whole, are the objects new (memory blanks) or old (memory filled)? I don't think any of the items are more than a year old, and some of them were just purchased tonight, while the baby blanket is still coming into being. The day-planner is old in the sense that it shares in the two or three prior ones which were the same in kind but different in number—and they are all very much memory filled.

4. a. What room are you in? My tiny bedroom, chosen over a larger room because this one has two windows and only one mirrored closet (rather than two).
b. To what extent is it yours? It's mine in the sense that if I find anyone sleeping in the bed, I can dump them out of it, and people have to knock before coming in. But I don't own it and didn't even sign a lease for it. It's just part of the job.
c. What kind of memories will you have in the future of this room?I'm not sure. The fact of the matter is that anywhere that I have lived is capable of generating bittersweet nostalgic memories such as featured here. (Actually, there's one exception, but that was pretty exceptional.) I don't know if it's simply that these things in the past are part of me, and thus have a hold on me, or if there is enough good in pretty much anything for it to be a wrench to let it go.

5. What were you doing before starting this post, and what would you like to do next? I was shopping (escaping from the house), then took a break to talk to a friend and crochet, and hope to talk to Mrs. Bear shortly.

I tag Hélène, Sapientiae Amator (i.e. The Slacker Who Uses Classes as Lame Excuses—he probably tells his professors that he'd love to write his papers but can't because his blog keeps him so busy), and Guy Crouchback (Mr. I Just Gave My Sister the Surprise of Her Life by Posting Twice in One Day after 1.5 Million Years without a Post).

A Succesful Ad Campaign

Yesterday I went to Walmart and plopped down $12.84 (+ tax) of my hard-earned cash, bubbling over with excitement. This is what happens when I watch TV (two nights ago, approximately one hour).

I pride myself on being impervious to advertisements, but random samplings of evidence (i.e. what I happen to remember at the moment) suggest that I am actually highly suggestible. I have not found myself wondering how my life would be improved by a vacuum-seal food storage device, but have wondered if it would be "fun" to sign up on eHarmony, and—when very tired—have even thought that the CD compilations (Dance Hits of the 80s, Country Western Songs that Tell Stories) might be a helpful supplement to my overall happiness.

But the fatal commercial this time was a lavender-and-white concoction featuring beautiful feet. A voice-over inquired whether I was troubled with stubborn callouses on the sides of my feet as an invisible pen marked Xs along the exact mountainous regions which have obstreperously refused to be pumiced away. (Apparently this can be a rare—read unique and exquisite—form of athlete's foot). In one moment I had been shown the evil that lurked at the bottom of my soles, and in the same instant shown the remedy. Little wonder, then, that I was found, within 24 hours, solemnizing the union with a WalMart checker officiating.

Now that I have the darn thing, I would like to say that the lotion is kind of messy and annoying to apply twice a day for the next two weeks. A spray would have been preferable. And I hope that the cream does not entirely transform my feet into those of the commercial, as it would be awkward to have cartoon feet on a purple background.

Fruit vs. Vegetable

Mrs. Bear brought up the "vegetable or fruit" controversy in a recent post, which reminded me of a theory I've been wanting to get feedback on.

People always talk about how tomatoes aren't really vegetables, but fruits—when in fact, about half of what we normally call vegetables are technically fruits. Cucumbers, all squashes, all peppers, and eggplants all contain the seeds of the plants. But I've never heard anyone talk about how pumpkins are really fruits. True vegetables would be leafy greens (lettuce, rhubarb) and roots (jicama, onions).

I think that in common usage, the difference between a fruit and a vegetable actually depends on the sugar content. Tomatoes are very sweet, which might be part of why they grab all the attention here. Of course, bell peppers and carrots are also pretty sweet, but they have some sharper flavors as well which may mask the perception of sweetness.

What do you think?

Sing On, Sweet Soother of Souls

The last few days have been difficult. I had to work seven days straight, then today (my first of two precious days off) had to work two hours in the evening, and it so happened that these were the two hours marked off for talking with a dear friend whose son goes to bed at the beginning of them and who goes to bed herself at the end of them. One of the residents has a pimple in a place not ordinarily seen which she earnestly desires to show me, another is upset at living with "low-functioning" people who cannot cook for themselves (and is also upset at not being allowed to cook here), and a third is jealous over the second's accomplishments. We assistants seem to interact on a similar level.

But today's mail brought a used copy of The World of Mr. Mulliner, and it has already soothed my soul.

The man in the corner took a sip of stout-and-mild, and proceeded to point the moral of the story which he had just told us.
"Yes, gentlemen," he said, "Shakespeare was right. There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."
We nodded. He had been speaking of a favourite dog of his which, entered recently by some error in a local cat show, had taken first prize in the class for short-haired tortoiseshells; and we all thought the quotation well-chosen and apposite.

I may or may not have laughed in a manner ill-suited to a house where others slumber.

Five Things

Courtesy of Mrs. Bear and writer's block (my favorite duo).

Five things in my closet:
1) library tote
2) craft totes and projects
3) appropriately trendy clothing
4) suitcases
5) drying rack

Five things in my fridge (N.B. It's not really my fridge, and I do little of the grocery shopping, so I can't be blamed for many of the items.):
1) fat-free American cheese (no comment)
2) cantaloupe
3) grape jelly (YECH! I always thought parents bought this to plague their children, but it turns out that it is preferred by some.)
4) free-range eggs
5) juice watered down to half-strength (almost enough to make a right-thinking person declare holy war)

Five things in my car (N.B. See above):
1) Drew's Famous Party Music CD (you would not believe how much dancing can be done while seat-belted into a 14-passenger van!)
2) wipies
3) step-stool
4) bench seats
5) steering wheel (Okay, it's pretty barren--or tidy, depending on your point of view.)

Five things in my purse:
1) a small notebook for brilliant (ahem) thoughts (a total of one [1] pages used--it turns out that brilliant thoughts have to be written on napkins, backs of envelopes, etc.)
2) wallet stuffed with old receipts that I need to enter in my check register
3) digital camera
4) small day-by-day calendar/appointment book (with lots of brilliant thoughts scribbled on random pages)
5) Cucumber-Melon disinfecting hand gel

Five Good Things about Today (because there ought to be five entries in a "five things" meme).
1) guiding a blind developmentally-disabled man around a carnival
2) riding in bumper cars with this man as the driver
3) making it to the bathrooms on several occasions without Disaster striking a member of my group, despite the dream-like slowness of our progress
4) watching The Great Mupppet Caper
5) going to sleep in a couple of minutes

I tag Helene, Sapientiae Amator, and Guy Crouchback. (Hey, impossible things are happening every day!)

Won't you come out to play?

Most of the cool kids have disappeared. It's okay, I don't need you. I'll just stalk Mrs. Bear's friends list (it's almost like having friends of my own!)

Envision a Black Border

Somewhere a book entitled (I think) My Life as a Burmese Princess exists. This book was brought to my attention by the admirable catalog, A Common Reader, which was to books as J. Peterman is to clothes (but more so). The J. Peterman Company went out of business while I was in college, which was much lamented as it provided a beloved dance entertainment, read by Mrs. Bear and acted out by young men who may or may not have had a beer or two to prep for the role. In looking for something to link to, I just discovered that the catalog has renewed its fountains of strangely inspired prose, which is good for the world but bad for my proportion.

A Common Reader also entered my life while at college, and in the same way, in the form of a catalog addressed to a former student, abandoned in the mail room. (I sometimes wonder what bulk mail addressed to me is spicing up the life of the current students.) Almost every book in it was wonderful. It had, among other things, the full Bagthorpe saga. However, it sold books at list price (plus shipping), and although the worthy publishers of the catalog deserved every penny of that exorbitant amount, I still got the books from the library or amazon.com. Which is probably why the catalog no longer exists.

I've also noticed a dramatic falling-off in used bookstores since amazon.com hit its stride about five or six years ago. My adolescent favorite was in the basement of the Magic Lantern Theatre, a short walk from the downtown bus station--now a mere memory. Remaining used bookstores tend to have ridiculous prices, and generally send an outraged me back to my computer. So although I regret some of its effects, I can't say that I regret amazon.com's existence--the most I can say is that I sometimes feel guilty over it.

The book in question is actually Twilight over Burma: My Life as a Shan Princess. (Information and link courtesy of amazon.com).

I have totally wasted my life...

...For this never occurred to me.

File under coincidence *Updated*

Watch the PA System get hit by lightning (repeatedly) as Rudy Giuliani tries to explain why his position on abortion is not like Pontias Pilate's position on crucifying Christ. (A short summary of his explanation is: "Well, yes, but I feel that an elected official has no other choice.")

Interpretation of Dreams

What does it mean if you dream about trying to get the poetry-book-guinea-pig hybrids (envision a fat Robert Frost book with little orange and white paws) off the floor and safely on the shelf (and in alphabetical order) before the exterminator comes to get rid of the horrible disease-ridden mice that are also running around the floor?

I'm hoping it means that you're about to get a million dollars.

Wipies

Another resident (in her early thirties) has very specific bathroom needs, particularly in the matter of "wipies" (baby wipes). Even when the supply is abundant, her hand ends up being substituted, and we have frequent sessions of removing the evidence from the soap dispenser, sink, towels, and so on. We talk a lot about germs, and about how ladies always use toilet paper (or wipies), and all the rest. She's usually interested in the cleaning procedure and proud of herself for doing it, so much so that I've wondered if there should be a slight punitive overtone to my manner. I don't want her to think that cleaning is evil, but it would be nice if she decided to avoid these sessions by avoiding the initial behavior.

One evening, just a couple hours after we had washed the towels and cleaned the bathroom, I overheard her in the bathroom admonishing herself in lively terms to "be a lady" and be careful of germs--but the evidence of the bathroom afterwards was the same as ever. Her explanation: "I lost my head!" It's really terribly cute (though I can't let her see that!), but I was still perplexed over how much of this was willful.

A couple nights ago I made a grocery store run, getting cleaning supplies (disinfectant spray and clorox wipes, both new to the upstairs bathroom, but necessary given how often it needs to be cleaned), general groceries, and wipies. I got the refills (far cheaper), and asked the resident to let me know when she needed new wipies, as I had gotten a new kind and needed to put them in the dispenser for her. She nodded and agreed, pleased to be provided for.

Now I should have seen it coming, but the next day when I found the old wipies box empty and the clorox cleaning wipes next to it, it was like a thunderbolt from a clear blue sky. Thank God they were the bleach-free kind! I got the resident, explained that I had refilled her wipies, and that the things in the round box were NOT for people but only for cleaning. Some of my distress must have been clear, because she looked sweetly at me and said, "I'm sorry! I lost my head!"

I think she wants very much to please us, but finds herself in a world of baffling rules, none of which make enough sense to be followed. For now I'm keeping the clorox in the very back of the cupboard!

Eight Random Things about Me *Updated*

I was tagged for this meme by Mrs. Bear, who has been gently prompting me to resume blogging.

1. I sometimes know the day of the week, and sometimes believe that I do, but the two rarely coincide.

2. I just finished a Wodehouse book (Jeeves in the Offing), am reading a chapter a week of Community and Growth by Jean Vanier for a reading group, and just started the complete works of St. Teresa of Avila. The Wodehouse book has been pure delight—I’ve been bubbling over with joy from it, and am seriously thinking of cutting out all treats so that I can afford to buy a new Wodehouse book every two weeks or so. The Jean Vanier book is very interesting, but annoyingly fuzzy at times. Drama easily seduces him away from clarity of thought, which is Not Amusing in a Ph.D. of Philosophy. He keeps defining things, but rather than being a true definition, it’s simply one of many formulations that he grabbed from the penumbra surrounding that concept in his mind. The end result is that flights of inspiration caused by his seemingly profound absolute statements are restricted to no more than six inches altitude so there’s not too big a bump when he makes an alternate “absolute” pronouncement. I’m still in the Introduction to St. Teresa’s life, and am totally in love with her. At the end of her life, her doctor said that it was impossible to find a focal point to her illnesses, as her body had become an arsenal of ailments.

3. I’ve had to spend a lot of time recently talking about poopy and why hands should not be in contact with it.

4. The peeling skin from an enormous blister on my foot revealed peeling skin from the blister under it.

5. I daydream a lot, too (see Mrs. Bear’s post), but am entirely unwilling to reveal the subjects. However, in times when hope is painful, I restrict myself to impossible daydreams, which has in the past meant Life as an Intergalactic Superhero Happily Married to a Royal Werewolf. (The setup was provided by an actual dream that involved visiting Catholic bookstores—for obvious reasons).

6. I’ve lived in three different states, five different cities, and eight different houses (counting “living” as staying two weeks or more in a row) in the last year.

I’ll add the other two later (I'm assuming that I'll seem more interesting to myself at a later date).

I tag Helene.

7. I love watching HGTV, especially "Design on a Dime," although it makes me wish I had a lot more energy.

8. One of the hardest things about living in community for me is giving up freedom in the area of food selection.

It's an investment

There’s a number of new condos being built downtown, and they’re all trying to pre-sell the units—one even offers “Hard Hat Tours.” It would be a wonderful idea if it weren’t for the undertone of “for prospective buyers only.” I’ve considered showing up for one anyhow, but the guilty consciousness of subterfuge would probably lead me to such an exhibition of blushing, stammering, nervous giggling, fidgeting and toe scuffing that the striking view of the Seattle skyline through a grey mist would be immediately followed by an impressive barred window seen through heavy sedation.

Ads for at least two of these buildings promise that, if you buy a condo, you will be turned into a beautiful, young, naked woman the instant the ink dries on the contract. I wonder if they have an exemption clause for handsome, successful, devout men—why bother otherwise? But then, these men, being exceptions, would be a minority, which isn’t a dramatically pleasing setup (well, the folks who wrote the bizarre closing scene for “The Gnomemobile”—in which hundreds of young women chase a terrified youth through a soap-sudsy forest—thought otherwise, but even as a child I felt that these writers had, like Homer, slept). The best is brought out of men when they have to compete for a girl to be fond of, and rather the reverse when there are a number of girls being fond of them.

So I gave up the idea of stopping by the convenient Pay Day Loans shop in order to immerse myself in this transcendent and prosperous luminosity. Not so my fellow bus-rider, who wished to “buy out his roommate” for next month’s rent, and who stepped off the bus bubbling “Money, money, money,” after a promising call to the usurers.

Books and Movies Meme

Helene tagged me for this meme. I guess this means that I don't have to feel like a stalker when I look at her blog--though I have it on the highest authority that if someone starts a blog and doesn't tell you, it's only because they don't want you to know...

The instructions are to bold the books you've read and put an *asterisk* next to those whose movies you have seen.

1. Heidi (Johanna Spyri)* I think I've seen the movie, but it was some time ago.
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)*
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With the Wind (Margaret Mitchell)*
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien)*
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)*
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)*
9. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
10. Anne of Avonlea (L.M. Montgomery)*
11.The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
12. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)*
13. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
14. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)*(the old movie)
15. Chariots of Fire (Clarence E. MacArtney)
16. 1984 (Orwell)
17. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)*
18. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
19. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald)
20. War and Peace (Tolstoy)
21. Quo Vadis (Sienkiewicz)
22. The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Victor Hugo)*
23. The Robe (Douglas)
24. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
25. The Story of A Soul (St. Therese)* If you count the movie Therese, which I would rather you didn't.

Simple Pleasures

The all time best snack of the moment is dried tart Montgomery cherries (from Trader Joe's, of course), eaten out of an espresso shot glass (being the only shot glass I have because I'm That sort of girl).

Peace be with you

The street was dark with rain. A slowly blinking red bicycle light, then beyond it the neon yellow helmet covers of two men standing next to the wall. I glanced back and forth between the bicycle (which looked like it belonged to a student) and the two men, trying to remember if this always meant a cop, or if they were simply safety conscious, environmentally friendly commuters. My glance was carefully unfocused, as I’m learning the trick of never making eye-contact downtown. The policemen were doing an excellent impression of "The Men Who Weren't There." At their feet was a crumple of clothes.

I perceived the deadness first, then realized that this poor huddle had been a young man moments before. His head, covered in a bright orange stocking cap, was pressed deeply into the concrete; his two hands lay precisely on either side. His knees tucked under him as he rested absolutely in an extreme kowtow to a violent god.

Early Childhood Spirituality

One of my dear roommates from Texas introduced me to Maria Montessori’s philosophy of childhood and education four years ago, and I have been entranced. Montessori joins St. Therese of Lisieux in proclaiming the readiness of very young children’s souls for a deep spirituality. There is a Catholic program, Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, which provides curricula for children from preschool age through twelve years old. It is only because this program is so remarkably sound that I want to take issue with their introduction of the Last Supper to preschoolers.

In a Montessori classroom, there are quite a few projects which the children are introduced to over time, and which they can then go to whenever they wish. These projects are called Works. The Last Supper Work is a diorama with a long table, eleven little men and one little figure for Jesus, a paten, a chalice and two candles. The child goes to the work station, takes the objects out of their box and arranges them the way he has previously been shown. Children of that age delight in rituals and doing things the exact same way every time, and there are just enough details to capture their attention. In the end the little scene looks quite a bit like the Altar Work (where they get to set up a little altar as though getting ready for Mass.) If I remember correctly, the candles are even lit at the end. Then when the child is ready to move on, he puts the objects away and goes to another work.

Now the problem here is that there are only eleven disciples rather than twelve. The thinking behind the omission is that preschool children are really too young to wrestle with the problem of evil and free will, so Judas is left out of the Last Supper work. If a child asks why there are only eleven, the teacher is supposed to tell them, “Judas left earlier.” The problem here is that it is not necessarily the case. The Last Supper sequence in John’s Gospel doesn’t line up exactly with the synoptic Gospels, but at one point Judas is given bread by Jesus: “So when he had dipped the morsel, he gave it to Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot. Then after the morsel, Satan entered into him.” (John 13:26-7). These are fundamental verses for understanding what it is to be loved by Christ—he always offers himself to us, but it is actually better for us to receive the devil if we want to than to be forced to receive Christ. Love resides in the will and yearns for the will of the beloved, and cannot accept anything less. Love is the most profound respect possible.

It seems to me that a preschooler is more likely to notice that there are only eleven disciples when other works have twelve than that a child would see the twelve and think “Wait a second—how can Judas be there if he betrayed Jesus?” And either way it seems like it would be infrequent, while every single child that does this work is having his imagination formed. Even if they don’t remember this particular bit of preschool, they will retain a strong impression that there were only eleven disciples at the Last Supper, which will make it harder for them to understand the reality of evil and free will when they get around to tackling it—and the grandeur of Love will be diminished in their imaginations.

The Shadow Knows

Today is laundry day which, as those of you who know me can easily guess, is a sacred day.

My uncle and his friend are kindred spirits in this matter. Their washer and dryer are not so much appliances as altars to the laundry gods. Never have I looked upon such greatness as exists in their basement back room.

In the basement back room of my apartment complex there is another grouping of washers and dryers. Shortly after I moved in, I did my first load of laundry and was astonished to find a full half inch of lint in the dryer. This was noteworthy even after years of dorms and community laundry rooms. I cleaned it out and dried my clothes, which came out of the dryer smelling of nothing in particular. This is odd, since the whole point of doing laundry is to luxuriate in the warm fresh-smelling while folding or ironing. In fact, usually your whole room smells lovely, even if you didn’t use fabric softener.

I ironed my disappointing yet clean shirts and hung them up in the closet, but by the next day they smelled perfectly foul. A horrible stale smell, part boy’s-locker-room and part homeless-person (similar to the man who sat down on the crowded bus proclaiming, “Ah don’t know if yer wanna sit too close, cuz ah don’t know what ah got.”) Unfortunately, I didn’t have dryer sheets and really didn’t have enough money to go re-washing perfectly clean clothes that just ended up smelling funny. And I wasn’t certain of the source of the funk. I live in an older apartment building, and you know not what evil odors lurk in the shadows of this building’s heart. Eventually, though, I pointed to the dryer as the culprit.

So I bought the strongest smelling dryer sheets that I could find, used Oxy-clean in the wash cycle to remove the old smell, and went on my way eagerly anticipating the fresh clean smell, thinking how lovely it was going to be to be met by little wafts of “Meadows and Rain” instead of horrible nastiness. I cleaned out the lint again (again thick, but not quite as bad as before), loaded in the clothes with the dryer sheets—and was met by the exact same smell. I can’t tell you how horrible it is. I poured out quarters like water so that I could wash ALL of my clothes, and now this. The lint filter was caked after each load, leading me to believe that the entire dryer has been packed full of lint by month after month without cleaning the filter.

There is no escape. The slovenly habits of my fellow apartment-dwellers have destroyed a whole bank of shiny new dryers. The neighborhood is relatively affluent and quite free of Laundromats.

I face weeks of going about my tasks at work with a junior high wrestling team as my intimate companions.

Desperate Plea for Help

I am running dangerously low on reading material. I've tried Sir Walter Scott, since there is so much of him, but found that there is very little to love in all that bulk. The library has a pitifully small collection of Stevenson and Caroline Gordon, as well as most other classics. I tried branching out into more contemporary fiction with P.D. James, but the following sums up both why she had to be jettisoned and why I am leery of further contemporary fiction--yet that seems to be all the library stocks.

Studies of a Contemporary Author

She’s like an old bitch who, having lost the scent shortly after being let off the leash, blunders on unaware that her earnest snufflings among the leaves tell her nothing.

All the pretension, none of the substance.

Out of her depth in the shallow end.

I don't think I'm quite up for another Mark Helprin yet, and my current library list (Joseph Conrad, Henry James, Edith Wharton, Dickens, Willa Cather and G.K. Chesterton) will probably yield about six books, after the library's selection has gone head to head with the list of their books that I've already read.

So please help me. I just want something light to read when I'm tired, and don't want to come across things about fathers and adopted daughters having an interesting experience in bed and then returning to discovering their roles as father and daughter.

A Diminished Helprin

Some time ago I wrote a short post on reasons to love Mark Helprin. My opinion of him has not changed, but there are also reasons to mourn when reading him. He is so close to being great that the sense of loss at his failure often outweighs the admitted beauty of his writing.

There are two reasons for this. The first is simply a matter of form. Because his sentences are often beautiful and always literate, he seems to have exempted himself from the need to edit. At times he seems to believe that if 3 yards of brocade on a lovely woman make a gorgeous evening dress, 30 yards of brocade ought to be ten times more beautiful.

But the second reason is much more grievous. From the quality of the language to the preoccupation of the main characters, his books attempt to be an homage to beauty. And a person able to write so well clearly does have some understanding of beauty. Yet he explicitly divorces beauty and truth. The falling off here is tragic. He of anyone ought to know that beauty must be true. Beauty demands not just a response, but love. And love is a relationship, a calling forth of the self to the other, refreshing and ennobling the returning self. If beauty is not true, not real, it is not other, and cannot be loved. It is not beauty but merely a chimera of false self-love.

If beauty is not true, we are trapped:

Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

- I Wake and Feel, Gerard Manley Hopkins

Highlights from Ratzinger

Today was so lovely that the only suffering was finding that someone had marked up my library book with a highlighter. This has always distressed me, even in these memory-challenged days of occasionally highlighting texts myself. The difference is that those books belong to me, and my choice of emphasis will not necessarily be annoying others. I have even refrained from highlighting books that I own if I considered the book very likely to be borrowed.

But the previous borrower of this book, Salt of the Earth by then Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, was not so inhibited. Although the book is a delightful piece of light theology—and has already made me love the Pope more—I find myself distracted by the erratic yellow marks. Sets of words have been chosen, so it is unlikely that the marks were made by a monkey or a two-year-old child. But the choices—what is the system of thought behind them? Is there a system? The choice of phrases which are coherent within themselves—“right path” rather than “man on”—argues that thought was involved. Occasionally a new vocabulary word was highlighted (sclerotic), but that was fairly rare.

The following are taken from the page I was trying to read when I paused to write this rant (p. 24). Highlighted words are in bold.

This [a pagan religion leading someone to God] is not at all excluded by what I said; on the contrary, this undoubtedly happens on a large scale. It is just that it would be misguided to deduce from this fact that the religions themselves all stand in simple equality to one another, as in one big concert, one big symphony in which ultimately all mean the same thing.

…in the figure of Christ the truly purifying power has appeared out of the Word of God. Christians do not necessarily always live this power well and as they should, but it furnishes the criterion and the orientation for the purifications that are indispensable for keeping religion from becoming a system of oppression and alienation, so that it may really become a way for man to God and to himself.

Now the reader was obviously not simpatico with the Pope, but he also does not seem to have been deliberately perverse in his markings. These are also not the markings that one would make in order to refute the book. The first example does give the opposite impression from the text, but the second seems to be a highly conventional but pious resonation with the idea of coming to God.

Then the light dawned. The reader had chosen the exact phrases which, if focused on, would keep him firmly in the world of clichés, safe from encountering the author’s thought.

The other words may seem to have fallen dead while all the while they have been germinating, ready to bring forth their shocking fruit at the chosen time.

Spare Change

A panhandler was working the crowd at the bus stop. "Sp'change, man? Sp'ch'nge, man?"

A voice muttered, "Get a job." The bum continued on his way, and the mutter became a shouted, "Get a f---ing job!"

I have a job. I just don't have spare change.

In Fear and Trembling *Updated*

I went to the happiest place in the world again yesterday. I was extremely indecisive, limited by some budget problems and by the lack of kitchen appliances (though I do have a can opener now), so I spent a fair amount of time going to the opposite side of the store to return the can of hot cocoa that I really could live without, etc. The market was crowded to overflowing and its narrow, fascinating aisles were full of people, guiltily blocking the flow of traffic while they darted at the desired objects.

But there was one old lady who was entirely unaware of her hovering fellows. She would park her large basket firmly in front of a shelf, then spend a very long time pondering over each item on it. The ancient hand would creep towards the Chevre, then remove itself, then return, as if carrying on an internal dialog on how salutary the cheese would prove, entirely separate from the animating consciousness. She was parked there for two separate trips to return items that had been judged (after reaching the opposite side of the store) as unnecessary. The atmosphere of "Do you mind?"s and "Could I just reach here?"s was troubling her as little as it had when I dove after the feta.

I told myself to be charitable, that she probably would have liked to be aware of the people around her, but was simply too fuzzy to do so. God knows how often I've been in the same spot. But then her very nice old husband came over and she hit him between the eyes with a fishwife tirade. The subject that really brought the poison out was how he was standing in the way of the other shoppers. She told him in minute detail (but not very coherently) where he ought to be, and as far as I could tell, she'd lit on the worst place. I suppose that just went to show that he was so inept that he could stand in the perfect spot and still get in the way.

So at some level she had known. But the possibility of the weakness finding its source within her own self had been too painful to be supported. I walked away wondering how much my own darting about had inconvenienced the other shoppers.

New Place

Stovetop Fantasy

It was a wondrous feast. After five weeks of being in Seattle, I finally was able to go to Trader Joe’s. I used to shop at Trader Joe’s when I lived in California. After I moved away I would dream of wandering through those enchanted aisles. This dream was not the all time number one flashback to California—that was of the spot on the highway where one had gotten just far enough out of the hill country to be met by the beguiling sea breezes. But that was also the route which one would take to get to Trader Joe’s, so you can make of that what you will. These dreams of Trader Joe’s differed from other dreams of grocery stores. After I moved to California, grocery stores would figure as part of generally nostalgic dreams of my old neighborhood. And while I lived in that neighborhood I would have two-nights-before payday dreams which involved carefully investing $25 in the maximum amount of ramen, frozen veggies, and pasta possible, allowing for one long-term treat of pepperjack cheese and one short-term treat of licorice lozenges. No, Trader Joe’s is more a place of fantasy than utility—fantasy being a combination of delight, function and thrift while utility is summed up by a 50 pound bag of oatmeal.

The menu was of a peculiar character. There’s no point in routing the manager out of his den Monday morning to show me how to light a stove that would be replaced on Monday afternoon. Now it’s possible that he wouldn’t have minded showing me Saturday afternoon, but this is a gas stove which does not automatically light—and even worse, lighting it involves removing bits and igniting something called the pilot light (all attempts at envisioning what this means have been spookily similar to the final scene in “Time Bandits”). And since I have to drive myself to even self-lighting gas stoves with cries of encouragement, and usually greet the flame with a hop and a screech, I figured that lighting this stove would end up involving everyone in the building in a scene that I could never live down. So instead I simply looked for food items which required no heat (I am blissfully free of microwaves—you know that The Man uses them to maintain control over Americans hearts and wills). Further, the items needed to be easily removed from their packages and served, since I also have no can openers, bottle openers, or sharp knives. I do have plates (two sizes), bowls, glasses, silverware and a cheese grater.

Garlic-stuffed green olives, baby carrots, naan (one regular, one whole wheat), feta cheese, hummus, and jalapeno-artichoke dip ended up being the carte du jour. Delicious, nutritious, and breath-freshening. Dessert was chocolate orange candies and dried cherries, and a later snack to calm a querulous tummy was cold cereal—Quaker’s Corn Bran (also known as my favorite cereal for the past twenty years), which disappeared from the Texas markets years ago. It was only at the very end that I could get through the cereal aisle without tearing up.

Since I also have a job, I can proclaim that all good things have been restored.

Get Naked!

When I first got to Seattle, my uncle and his friend arranged for me to housesit for some friends. It would give me a chance to feel useful while looking for an apartment of my own. The soon-to-be vacationers invited us to get acquainted over dinner. They had a lovely house, surrounded by trees. The interior was pleasantly decorated with books and camping mementos. The wife was a gardener and the husband a philosopher, but he had intended to be a marine biologist before he discovered philosophy, so they were going to Central America to do a little scuba diving and underwater photography. In the summer, they hoped to go on a swimming tour of the islands off Croatia. The husband also loved cooking, and had prepared a hearty feast, homemade from organic ingredients. All in all, they were delightful people.

They decided that I was an acceptable housesitter, so the wife showed me around the house, pointing out the electrical box, water shut-off, and so on. As we went through the basement, I noticed a number of outdoor sports watercolors featuring mixed nudes. Then we got to the den, where there were stacks of signs begging us to protect nudist beaches. I started laughing because it fit so perfectly—the love of the natural life leads pretty easily into nudism in the Northwest (slogan “You can’t be too natural.”) The gradual dawning of the situation, beginning with subtle clues, made it all perfect.

While I was housesitting, I went downstairs to do laundry. There at the immediate right of the foot of the stairs and at eye level was a large, colorful painting of two very happy nude surfers. Across the top was the vivid legend “Get Naked!” Nothing could be less subtle, yet it had entirely escaped my notice. I looked around, trying to figure out if there had been a breach in the space-time continuum. There to the right of the painting was a short bookcase, overflowing with some of my favorite books. The Iliad, Emma, The Brothers Karamazov—it all came back to me. My gaze, originally bent on finding extra steps, had been attracted and held irresistibly by these gems in a suburban basement.

In my defense, I believe that I would have noticed a real live nekkid person, even if he were brightly painted and crouching on a ledge four feet from the floor. But to be on the safe side, if you need my undivided attention, get The Iliad, don’t get naked.

Clean Kitchen Clean

I spent the evening at Starbucks, playing on the web and having furtive conversations on my cell phone. When I returned to my uncle’s house, I ate some leftovers, then turned my attention to the other remains of the feast. Acting on the principle that nothing says “I love you” like a clean kitchen, I rolled up my sleeves and sent the dirty dishes scattering in panic before me. It was only after I had reached the point of no return that I remembered that occasionally a homeowner, confronted with a kitchen which ought to have been full of the signs of reveling, hears “You filthy filthy pig-slob!” rather than the intended message. I mused on this for a while, until I found that in addition to musing, I had cleaned the microwave and taken apart the gas grill for that extra touch that means so much. I finished as quickly as I could, refused to look for SOS pads, and ran to my bedroom to fret.

Go Greyhound

“I just got out of Walla Walla.” A deep voice began. “I thought I had another couple of months, but they just came in this morning and said, ‘Get your stuff.’”

“Man, I still feel like I’m in prison.” He was really looking forward to hugging his two children. At first I wondered why his wife didn’t figure in the picture, but after awhile he explained that while he was being processed by the criminal justice system, his wife was keeping company with another man.

The Yakima police were not highly esteemed by the bus riders. Their zealousness in pursuit of their duties was considered suspect. The deep voice mused that he hadn’t had any drugs in two years.

At a later stop, when the bus was fairly crowded, a newlywed couple entered. The bride entered first, calling out that they had just gotten married that day and would really appreciate a seat together. The groom followed, looking authentically bashful and proud and carrying all the luggage. The ex-con volunteered his seat, and once they were seated and reseated they introduced themselves.

On hearing of her traveling companion’s starting point, the bride—like a Victorian spinster who suspects a distant cousinship—started an interrogation to discover mutual acquaintances. “Do you know Larry Smith? He was serving on a weapons charge—they did something with the rape-type charge.” If I heard correctly, her own wedding date was set by the court, being the day she was released from serving 62 days at the city jail.

The ex-con returned to the subject that was troubling him. “Well, my wife’s really burned me out on marriage.”
“Yeah, don’t I know what you mean!” Heartfelt from the groom.
“Hey!” Outrage and the sound of a groom getting punched in the fleshy part of the arm. “Whadderya sayin’?!”
“Oh, not you, honey!” Genuinely distressed at this misconstrual. “I meant my first two wives.”
“Oh, yeah,” completely appeased, “My first two husbands were the same.”
Spirited and good-humored variations on two themes followed: Third time’s the charm and Three strikes you’re out.

The conversation drifted to a comparison of homeless shelters in the region. One received fairly high reviews because of all the classes offered (anger management, basic math skills, etc.), although the shelter showed too little respect for the basic humanity of the sheltees. It was a co-ed facility, which led to meeting interesting people of the opposite sex. And spending time with interesting people of the opposite sex led to wanting to spend more time with them—a natural feeling that the unnatural shelter did its utmost to squelch. One voice called for tolerance, since the shelter was a church facility, and although the others acknowledged the validity of the opinion, they felt that their grievance outweighed this consideration.

The conversation drifted to God. The groom explained that he had been raised Baptist, but as he read the Bible more he discovered that there were only two authentic churches: “the Hebrew Church and the Catholic Church.” So he converted to Catholicism. When he met his bride, she had never read any of the Bible.
“When I heard that, I sat her down and read her Revelations.”
“Yeah, I’d been consecrated to the black arts at age three—you know, the way some people are consecrated to the church. I was the seventh child of the seventh generation, so I was supposed to be the most powerful of all.”
“But after she’d heard the Bible, she didn’t want that anymore.”
“He made me give up my books, my wand, everything. I can’t see my family anymore because I was the seventh child of the seventh generation, and was supposed to be the most powerful.”

The groom and ex-con were smoking together and talking about the Church as I passed them with my luggage.

Spirits of the Age

When I was staying with my aunt and uncle in what is now called the Columbia valley, I rarely accepted their generous offers of wine. Partially I felt that their very fine wine would have been wasted on me—or when it ceased being wasted, I would be ruined for my happy-go-lucky impoverished lifestyle.

Now I find myself surrounded by inveterate wine-tasters, who are always looking to corner one with stories of something rather interesting that they found on their holiday wine tour. I listen with diminishing hope for a natural segue into dachshunds or the Iliad.

There is something essentially ridiculous in the proper appreciation of wine, such that the only right way to acquire it is as an undergraduate, floating in blissful inebriated companionship through an empty summer, entirely unaware of alcoholics on the banks and only too pleased to be foolish.

But as I am, having had no space for youthful foolishness, driving weary hours to spend money I can ill afford on too many liquids to keep separate in my mind, labeling “fun” according to others’ usage rather than my own experience—nothing could be further from a true enjoyment of wine.

Oh to be Free of Student Loans

This morning the bus passed a small sign which read, “Enjoy Saving Money.” “I do,” I thought. “Oh, I do.” I sat in satisfied communion with this kindred spirit for a few ticks of the clock until reality shifted, and the sign, standing in front of a furniture store, pointed out that it meant “Enjoy Spending Less Money than You Otherwise Would Have.”

Stranger in a Strange Land

One of my later (and therefore wetter) errands this Monday had been to drop off an application at a parish. The secretary met me at the door.

“Yucky day, huh?” she said, nervously eyeing the rivers of water escaping from my person.

“Oh, sure,” I said, thinking “‘Yucky’? It’s just fine clean water.” “I’ve come to apply for the office position.” The bulletin had read “Come by, tell us about yourself, and learn more about the position!”

“Oh, heh, heh, heh,” she responded, gingerly taking my resume while carefully blocking me from completely entering the door. She obviously needed to protect the vinyl chairs and wall-to-wall indoor/outdoor carpeting.

Then the door shut and I turned from my nascent dreams of getting half way thawed out and started hiking back to the bus stop.

The Return

I sat staring at the rain through the window of my ninth bus that day. A ten-foot-tall purple neon elephant was happily spraying neon water over itself, humming about nature’s drenching not being thorough enough. The rain which would have been sufficient to drench three states had been stopped over one greedy coastal city and most of that water had soaked its way into my jeans, where it evidently felt welcome and whistled for friends. The idea of resurrecting my blog popped into my mind. There I was, a single girl trying to make it in the big city, all the elements needed for a hit TV show. All that was needed was a slight wardrobe shift from “Wish I Were Warm and Dry” to “Miniskirt Grunge.” The moment seemed more dreary than dramatic, but the seed was planted, and we shall see how it flourishes in the Emerald City.