marshmallow soup(s)

Housewives

2007-03-04T08:25:00.000-05:00

I have a dirty little secret, and it's time to come clean. My name is marshmallowsoup(s) and I watch the Real Housewives of Orange County. There, I said it. I feel much better already.

I have become obsessed with these self-involved, fake, life-preserver breasted women. Clearly, lots of other people have too. If I am going into full disclosure mode, I might as well also come clean about checking Bravo message boards as well. There, I said that too. I feel better again.

This show causes quite a commotion on both the television and computer screens. Soon after I started checking in on how other people felt about these ladies, Bravo revealed that they were getting so many posts (many of which were extremely mean spirited) that they had to start censoring messages for the first time in their web site's history. I also heard rumor that Television Without Pity (another well traveled message board) had to actually shut their entire Real Housewives message board down for good. These women sure do engender a lot of feeling in people--mostly negative it seems.

Which brings me to this question: Why the heck do I like this show so much? If we all hate the Real Housewives so much, why do we spend our time watching and reading about them? If I'm honest, I think it's because I like to feel superior to these women. Yes, they may all drive $75,000 cars, wear outfits that cost more than everything in my closet combined, live in huge houses with pools, and seem to have a lot of time to play tennis and drink cosmos, but they also all seem pretty sad and not that bright. Most of the women are terrible parents, seem to have no clue about how to have a satisfying relationship with anybody, and one of my biggest pet peeves--possess absolutely no self awareness. And this it seems, is exactly why I watch.

I watch because I like to heckle at the screen, sigh loudly when one them does something ridiculous, and cry foul at all their stupid choices. I admit it, I like to watch rich people make fools of themselves. But, I must also admit that I feel a little sorry for them all too. These women have every material want supplied, but they sure don't seem very happy or fulfilled by life.

Whether intended or not, the show highlights the cracks in our country's current obsession with all things luxury and monied. One can have all the money in the world, and it still doesn't guarantee to make you happy. In fact, if one believes the things we see on the Real Housewives, being obsessed with money is more often than not a symptom of some sort of deep seeded psychological problem. Get these women some therapy!

Let's hope that the women of Coto, Orange County can serve as a cautionary tale for the rest of us. Having 15 Louis Vuitton bags and two Mercedes SUVs in your four car garage doesn't solve life's problems. In fact, it may actually cause some of them. Diamond necklaces and designer bags are nice and all, but they don't replace everything else in life. Let's stop obsessing about our own need for more and more luxury items and leave it to the ladies on television. Clearly, it's working out so well for them.

Put in Place

2007-02-11T19:44:00.000-05:00

I was complaining to my mother today about something annoying my downstairs neighbors had done last week. Then, to put that final punch on my story, to show how absolutely, completely annoying they are, I ended my story with the following: "And then when I walked by their apartment today they were vacuuming. Can you believe it? Vacuuming. How bourgeois is that?"

My mom just looked at me. Rightly so.

Lucky Magazine

2007-02-08T14:01:00.000-05:00

I know that some of my dear readers have heard this rant before, but I believe that it warrants yet another reminder. Here we go. Why oh why did Lucky magazine go over to the luxury goods dark side?

I am what they refer to as a charter subscriber of Lucky magazine, and I remember back in the day when I was actually a tiny bit proud (okay, maybe the better word is pleased) to be tangentially associated with them. I liked that they were a bunch of smart girl Oberlin grads who seemingly created this magazine because they wanted to make sure that you knew it was okay to be intellectual and also like fashion. I liked the sly references to Carol Gilligan and Walt Whitman. Most importantly, I liked that the clothes they featured were actually within financial reach. There was a chance I could put together some of these outfits.

Fast forward four or five years, and Lucky has almost completely shed her sexy librarian image and has morphed into Ivanka Trump on steroids. It's difficult to find any item of clothing that costs less than $400, and when one does, it's listed as a "cheap deal." Gone are the sly references to life outside of fashion--literature, travel, or philosophy. Instead, we are handed only crumbs of the old Lucky in the form of glowing profiles of Daddy's little girl jewelry designers who live on the upper east side with their dog, huge walk in closet, and very shiny hair. I must admit that a small piece of me wishes that was my life, but there are plenty of magazines to turn to if I want to live vicariously through models and socialites. I miss the original and unique zest of Lucky.

I always say that I am not going to renew my subscription this year. And every year I do. I think it's because I'm holding out hope. Hope that someday Lucky will return to the way it was--or at least give me some sign. A reference to Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed perhaps? That would seem just. But of course I just keep hanging on--either hoping they finally do see the light, or I can start affording $400 sweaters.

Teeny Boppers

2007-01-07T18:31:00.000-05:00

It's been a long time since I have written here. It's a whole new year in fact--2007. Take a bit of inertia, add a glob of job exhaustion, and then mix them both with a little fear. I'm back though, at least for a while.

And you know what has inspired me to blog again? A stupid television commercial--a stupid television commercial for a breakfast cereal no less.

Said commercial is for Total cereal and involves a teenage girl and mom. Girl borrows her mother's "vintage" jeans from some unknown past era. Girl wears the jeans a lot and looks good in them. Mom gets jealous because daughter looks good in jeans (um, hello? Your 16 year daughter is SUPPOSED to look better than the 45 year old you--that's called the cycle of life), and starts obsessively eating Total cereal every morning.

It seems mom starts eating Total cereal at the expensive of good parenting. We watch her passively let her daughter walk in and out of the kitchen day after day with different boyfriends (in the MORNING!), hair styles, and outfits, but always wearing those jeans. Mom only has eyes for her 100 calorie serving of Total cereal--and for one upping her daughter it seems.

Finally, the day arrives. Mom has eaten so many bowls of Total cereal that she can now get her new and improved "Mom butt" into those jeans again. She smuggly tells her daughter that she wants them back, and the last scene shows her bouncing down the stairs, hair in ponytail, t-shirt on, and wearing of course, those jeans. All she needs is some bubble gum to complete the teeny bopper picture.

I know I sound old and decrepit saying this, but parents are supposed to be parents. They are not supposed to be their children's best friend or co-conspirator, and certainly not their competition. They are the parents. They make rules, they set boundaries, and they care if their teenage daughter wanders up to her bedroom with a variety of sketchy looking teenage boys!

Parents and people over 30 are not supposed to try to look like they are 15. It may be tempting, but it is unbecoming. I thought for a brief moment that some of the more current teenage wannabe fashion trends were fading. Audrey Hepburn's image starting showing up in Gap ads, waists got a little higher on pants, and layering and structure showed up in clothes again. It seemed that it was beginning to be cool again to act your age.

I'm not so sure now. If Total cereal is trying to appeal to the typical American consumer, I take this ad as a very bad sign. I pity the poor teenage girls trying to navigate the world these days. And I think I pity the poor moms even more.

Daylight Savings

2006-10-29T10:37:00.000-05:00

I used to somewhat look forward to daylight savings. It was an event that often worked in my favor. When I was in college, it gave me an extra hour to finish that paper or study for a test. When I was newly out of college and exploring my new home of San Francisco, daylight savings gave me an extra hour to spend out and about experiencing city nightlife. And don't forget that glorious feeling of being able to sleep yet an hour longer without the guilt. I still didn't like that it got darker earlier every evening, but the perks that came along with it made it seem not that bad. I should also mention that living the west coast also tended to soften the blow. I don't ever recall it getting dark at 3:45 p.m.!

But fast forward a few years, and daylight savings is practically giving me hives. You see, now I live on the east coast, where it does in fact seem to get dark at 3:45 p.m. in afternoon. The changing of the clocks also serves as a harbinger of what is to come--wintry, cold, miserable days. I'm older now, and getting to spend an extra hour on Saturday night drinking doesn't bring the same thrill anymore. I'm much more likely to be in bed by 11:00 p.m. now.

And now, due to my job, I'm afraid that I will won't see the sun again until April. I leave the house at 6:30 a.m. and often don't get home until 5:30 p.m. or so. I also never leave the building once I get to work. Minus a few moments in the morning when I am too sleepy to care, I predict long, depressing days lighted only by office quality fluorescent overheads. Goodbye sun, hello Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD).

I better start searching the Internet for sun lamps and discount trips to Aruba.

Berk's in Harvard Square

2006-10-17T18:21:00.000-04:00

When I was a Massachusetts high school and college student I tended to favor fuzzy sweaters, patched jeans, and I must admit, accompanying fuzzy hair.

I was still finding my own personal style, but I did love to shop. Harvard Square was my shopping Mecca, and I loved the shoe store Berk's most of all. If I remember correctly, it was even where I bought my first pair of Doc Martens! I could always count on Berk's to provide me with some stylish, yet comfortable shoes (minus that Doc Martin purchase--but hey they were cool and stylish for ladies back in 1990).

My taste in shoes and hair products has become more sophisticated over the years, but I still love Berk's. And why shouldn't I? Just as my style has changed with the times, so has Berk's. Case in point: Berk's now carries a small, but well edited, collection of reasonably priced clothes.

The collection consists mostly of basics--designer jeans, American Apparel shirts, and Tulle jackets and sweaters. Although it's not the kind of place you would go looking for that perfect party dress, it's definitely the place to go to fill out a wardrobe. And if you are like me, you have a lot more use for a great fitting pair of jeans and a sweater than a $300 silk dress. But that's just me. I'm much more of a Cambridge gal than a Newbury street gal.

I highly recommend taking a peek at both the current shoes and clothes.

I did note on my last trip there that they even still carry a good selection of Doc Martens. Sure brought me back, but I'm also sure glad that I've since figured out how to successfully defrizz my hair--well, most days at least.

The Politics of the Fryeburg Fair

2006-10-11T10:20:00.000-04:00

I went to the Fryeburg, Maine fair earlier this month. The fair has existed in various forms for about 150 years. Founded in 1851, it started out as a place for Maine farmers to show off their best agricultural and bovine specimens.

Speed up to the year 2006, and the fair now has it's share of commercial kiosks that ply mops, dream catchers and hot tubs, but it still continues most of the traditional events such as a skillet toss, harness racing, and ox pull contests.

The best parts are generally the demonstrations: How to hook a rug, dogs herding geese as they would sheep, flower arrangements and maple sugaring to name a few. And don't forget the food. In a period of about three hours I ate one Italian sausage, eight fried dough "nuggets," one maple sugar ice cream cone, and some french fries.

Unfortunately, I arrived on the last day of the fair this year and it definitely had a bit of the "party is over" feel to it by the time I got there. The 4-H kids were packing up their poster boards that they had lovingly decorated to inform us city folk about the complexities of goat raising, there were two for one sales on everything from baby rabbits to belt buckles, you could tell that the smiles were becoming a little forced on all the staff.

Tired as both we and the rest of the fair goers and staff were, there were still some amazing moments. As we were heading back the car, we stopped by the main demonstration area. The place was packed. And why wouldn't it be? It was the tractor pull finals! Mullets and Black Sabbath t-shirts were the fashion of choice, along with John Deere hats and plaid shirts. We decided to mull around a bit and waited for the opening ceremonies.

They opened with an oral history of New England tractor pulls. Interesting, but not that compelling. Then, a woman who sold tickets at one of the fair gates, got up to sing the national anthem. She stepped up to the mike and belted out one of the best versions of the song I have ever heard. It was clear, unsentimental, and heartfelt. Men stood and placed their caps over their hearts. Women quietly sang along to themselves. It was getting close to sunset, and the light on the red and orange leaves the served as the backdrop to the event was lovely.

There was no political rhetoric, there were no professional photo opps, and no thought of all the recent political scandals. We were all simply listening to a woman singing about a place that she loves. And we were agreeing with her. If I had done a poll, I would guess that I vote differently than most of the other people in attendance. But in that moment, it didn't matter. We were all brought together by a shared hope and caring for our country.

I want this country to return to its best intentions, and I assume in their own way, so did everyone else around me that afternoon. We may differ in how we think our country should go about it, but my hunch is that having moments like these can only help.

the skinny on fashion

2006-10-02T15:59:00.000-04:00

For many women, fall means it's time for new clothes, new trends, and a new look. However, I've found that when one lives in Boston, it's difficult to get a sense of the annual fashion trends. I usually appreciate Boston's more laid back approach to fashion and trends, but there are some times during the year (fall being one of them) when I wish we were just a little more fashion forward.

The high number of professors, graduate students, and preppies here keep us from taking any trend too seriously. The professors get rewarded for looking as unfashionable as possible (if you have time to think about clothes and style, you can't be taken seriously). The graduate students are too preoccupied and poor. The preppies are wearing the same clothes they wore in boarding school 15 and 20 years ago (wearing new isn't very frugal--and why buy when you can pillage your grandmother's Maine summer cottage closet?). It seems Boston chooses not to do fashion, at least not enough of us to make much of an impact.

I got to thinking about all of this because I saw a woman wearing "skinny jeans" today. Skinny jeans, the fashion magazines tell us, are an integral part of this season's "new silhouette." I've been seeing them in magazines, reading a few Web site articles about both their merits and drawbacks, and have seen them in a few stores. But up until today, I had never actually seen them on a real live human being.

I will refrain from commenting on whether I like this new look or not (mostly because I'm not sure yet--this woman could pull them off pretty well, but I'm not so sure most people could), but this fashion forward sighting once again reminded me how I miss the vibrancy and fashion risk taking of other cities such as San Francisco and New York.

I like fashion, but I don't think many people would call me a fashion risk taker. And even though I will probably never own a pair of skinny jeans (whether I live in Boston, New York, or San Francisco), I miss being around people who do. I miss being around people who take fashion seriously and have their own strong sense of style (trends or not) even more so.

Yes, fashion can be frivolous, and yes, there are many other much more important things to worry about. I fully agree that one has to be careful of putting too much stock and effort in trends and shopping. But when done well, fashion also makes wonderful street theater, can make life more pleasurable, and most importantly, makes you feel good about yourself.

Here's hoping that Boston denizens decides to take the fashion plunge. A whole city may thank you.

Fall Lies

2006-09-28T19:35:00.000-04:00

Although the past few early fall days have been lovely here in the greater Boston area, the change in the air, the early tinges of color on the leaves, and the darker evenings make me quite sad. Until I moved to California, I just assumed that the dark days of winter was the price that humans have to pay. I thought there was no life without snow, cold, ice and misery. I bought into the "the change of seasons makes you appreciate each one all the more." Yeah, right.

My move to California liberated me from these Yankee New England thoughts. Some might even be as bold to call them lies. You know what? Nice sunny weather makes you appreciate nice sunny weather. Snow doesn't make you appreciate anything. Nor does ice or minus zero temperatures. In fact, they all make me quite cranky.

I'm smarter now that I am back in New England after my California stint. I know that in a few short months, or possibly even weeks, the winter chill will begin to set in, and we will be in for many more months of cold and darkness. And every supposedly pleasant fall memory reminds me that it's all getting closer and closer.

So when others are smiling over sweaters, apple picking, and leaf peeping, you'll find me engaged in quite opposite activities--Complaining, worrying, and general bad moodiness. You'll see me, I'll be the one with scowl.

Driving along the water

2006-09-12T19:01:00.000-04:00

I always thought people exaggerated a bit when they talked about how terrible Boston drivers are on the road. "Oh, it can't be that bad," I would say. It's the same pride that makes people like Dunkin' Donuts. It's something to unique and proud about Boston, but when it comes down to it, not that different from the coffee (or driving) in other cities.

Ha! Oh how wrong and what a young innocent was I. These days I spend an awful lot of time on one of the most dreaded stretches of Boston highway and road: Route 1A. Said plainly, it sucks. Drivers swerve in and out of lanes, cut you off with barely a wink or nod, and alternately slow and speed with no warning. And don't even get me started on the incredible number of untimed and slow red lights.

Worst of all, I find my behavior being influenced by my roadside neighbors.

I believe you now Boston. Fully and surely. Yes, we are horrible drivers. But I'm not quite ready to be proud of it. Give me time though. After a year of this, I just might be.

She's back...

2006-09-02T12:10:00.000-04:00

I was without regular Internet access this past month. And although I am certainly glad to have it back, I also came to appreciate the extra time, calm, and solitude that came from my temporary removal from the information highway. I found myself reading more, taking walks, and even cleaning. As cliche as it sounds, I was definitely more productive. And possibly happier.

But I also found myself strangely lonely. Since I abhor the phone, I didn't communicate as regularly with friends, and I realized that I use blogs, news Web sites, and message boards to feel connected to the human race. Without them, I was a bit lost. I'm not sure I like that.

I like to use the term "false intimacy" when it comes to describing various types of Internet relationships, and I think I was creating a bit of my own false intimacy by lulling myself into believing that I am fully connected to all these people, thoughts, and things available out there on the Web. I'm not. Not fully at least. I'm connected to my neighborhood, my friends, my job, and family. Those are harder connections for me, but I think (and hope) more worthy.

All this is to say that I'm not going anywhere. I'm grateful to be back, and I'm sure I'll remain searching and typing away on my keyboard. But I do want to make sure I remind myself that there are other connections out there--and not all of my best and rewarding relationships are going to require a keyboard and cable modem.

"The O"

2006-08-02T21:32:00.000-04:00

Has anyone else noticed that the overstock.com ("The O") spokeswoman is looking a little worse for wear these days? I'm hesitant to wonder why. I think that is better left unknown.

Things I learned this weekend

2006-07-30T17:20:00.000-04:00

Green Herons make the oddest mating call. It sounds like a foraging pig.

My favorite italian ice flavor is lemon. I can't change it. Always was, always will be.

I am happier and more satisfied when I read more and watch t.v. less.

I actually enjoy the beach.

Johnny Foodmaster is surprisingly calm on Sunday afternoons, especially compared to Whole Foods on Sundays.

Wellfleet oysters are the best oysters.

Sometimes just letting things be is the best thing to do.

Clink of the Glass

2006-07-24T21:34:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite summer sounds is the clinking of dishes and glasses through open windows. People's voices occasionally rise through the noise, but it is the clink of porcelain and glass that I like best. It reminds me that people are living--eating, drinking, and sharing companionship. It's easy to forget that during cold and grey New England winters, and I try to soak up as much of the outside action as I can during summer's all-to-brief stint here.

This oddly makes me have something in common with former Alcatraz Island prison inmates. Even though I toured Alcatraz at least 10 years ago, one story always stuck with me. As part of the tour, I was able to listen to recording of a former inmate describing his days on the island. With longing and deep nostalgia in his voice, he described how much he looked forward to New Year's Eve in prison. It seemed that the Saint Francis Yacht Club hosted a huge party every year, and due to something about the air and water that time of year combined with the large number of guests, would allow the prisoners to hear the party sounds across the Bay--clinking wine glasses, women's laughter, and big band sounds. He said he would never forget those sounds as long as he lived. They reminded him that there was life out there.

Now, trudging through New England winter weather is certainly not as bad as being locked up on Alcatraz for years on end, but I do feel some empathy with Prisoner Number 12495. I hope I can remember the sounds of tonight during the cold harsh days of January.

Humiliation

2006-07-21T13:11:00.000-04:00

I went to the gym for the first time in quite a while last night. I should be going much more often, especially since I'm not working this month. Unfortunately, my utter and lovely lack of structure has turned me into the ultimate sloth.

Every day I tell myself that today is the day. Today is the day that my summertime health regimen begins in earnest...and then the day passes, and of course I've figured out every possible way to avoid setting foot anywhere near the Central Square YMCA. I have to go to the grocery store today, and I can't possibly do both those things in one day! That would be humanly impossible. I then beat myself up about my lack of focus and motivation. It doesn't help that I see other women on the street with sleek biceps and toned calves in their hot weather wear. They clearly can make it to the gym, and they probably even...gasp...work!

So yesterday I finally did it. I went to the gym. I reconciled myself to my guilt, said what the heck, and just made myself go. I went to swipe my card at door and request my two towels (it had been so long since my last trip that I couldn't remember if I had any waiting for me in my locker), and waited for my picture to come up on the attendant's computer screen and get buzzed in. To my great embarrassment, a big green alert message came up on the monitor: CUSTOMER HAS NOT BEEN IN CLUB FOR OVER 30 DAYS.

What? I mean come on! I know it had been a while, but 30 days? Make that over 30 days? I'm sure my facial expression registered my embarrassment and surprise, but the polite attendant only smiled and kindly handed me my towels. "Uh, thanks" I said sheepishly and snuck through the door as she buzzed me in.

Ugh. what's the point, I thought. I'm clearly done for now. Why bother? Clearly I'm not made for the gym. Why even try? Once settled on my favorite elliptical machine, I calmed down a bit. I got into the groove and started to look around a bit. It was quiet in the gym since it was pretty late, but there was a smattering of people running on treadmills and at the weights.

And you know what? Most of them were older and shall we say, a bit more Rubenesque than I am. My embarrassment left me, and I started to push. If other people can make the effort, so can I. We all have our insecurities, especially physical ones. That's life. Now I can't guarantee that I'll go again today (although I'm still telling myself that this morning), but I can cut myself some slack. I think that's going to get me going to the gym more frequently than anything else.

Dinner for Seven

2006-07-14T12:26:00.000-04:00

I enjoyed the company of six very different, but very interesting women last night. All former co-workers, they ranged in age, life trajectories, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and politics. Even though we are all quite different, and at different stages in life, we still all get along quite well.

I arrived at dinner expecting a simple and nice meal, but I was pleasantly surprised by both the range and depth of food and conversation. It all converged to create quite a mix. Conversations topics ranged from one participant's recent breast cancer to another's very recent motherhood. In between we discussed the state of U.S. Education, reality television, gay rights, and our favorite local restaurants. Mojitos, a lovely cheese souffle, colorful salads, corn, and a Rosie's birthday cake completed the mix.

This evening reminded me how important woman friends are (not that I needed much reminding), and how helpful it is to get other people's perspectives and advice, especially from those with different life experiences. I've been thinking a lot about community lately (how to create it, engage in life more, and what I want my life to look like), and last night solidified its importance for me. My community is here, I just need to make sure I continue to nurture and appreciate it.

A change of heart

2006-07-10T15:47:00.000-04:00

I went to the Cape this weekend. For those not up on their Massachusetts vernacular, "the Cape" is also know as Cape Cod, and is that part of New England that narrows into a penisula into the Atlantic ocean and looks a bit like a hook. It's a vacation mecca, and this is where people wear tiny whales on their pants with little to no irony.

I used to hate the Cape. I found the preppiness both annoying and intimidating, it always takes much longer to drive there than one thinks it will, and the endless fudge shops and tacky galleries left little to be desired.

I love Martha's Vineyard, but because I lived there for a few summers and because its island location isolates it from some of the hustle and bustle of the rest of the cape (this is even more the case for Nantucket), and it has a more bohemian feel than the mainland cape, I generally feel more comfortable there.

So, I was bracing for the worst this weekend. Instead, I found myself pleasantly surprised. Much of it could be attributed to the company on this particular journey, but I found the Cape more delightful than I ever had in the past.

The purpose of this excursion was a bird/whale watching trip. We drove down on Friday night and arrived at about 7 p.m. We walked around Hyannis (a touristy and slightly honky tonk town), and settled on a fancy dinner at the Black Cat. It was a pleasant respite from the rest of the noisy clam shacks.

We got up the following morning and were on the boat by 6 a.m. Although the departure time was a bit early for my taste, we did get to see a lot of birds. I focused on the whales--humpbacks and fin. It was pretty amazing. A humpback breached right in front of us and two finbacks came right along the side of the boat. All told we probably saw at least 15 whales.

Back on land, we napped for a few hours and then went out to explore again. We embraced the honky tonk nature of the town by drinking some beer, eating ice cream, and playing miniature golf and skee ball. I heart honky tonk. To balance out the tackiness, I was also pleased to find a cute store that sold very pretty silkscreen t-shirts.

The next day we headed out to Sandy Neck Beach and walked along a marsh trail where a coyote darted out in front of us. Eventually we made it to the beach and changed into our bathing suits behind some sand dunes. We spent a good hour in the water and on the rocks and then trekked back to the car. We finished out the day by watching the World Cup in a British Pub.

All in all, the weekend was the perfect mix of natural and more material pursuits. The Cape never looked so good to me.

Thank You Notes

2006-06-29T17:16:00.000-04:00

I was brought up to write thank you notes. As a child, I would dutifully write them to grandparents and my mother's friends under her watchful eye. I didn't love writing them then, but I did it, and they didn't seem to induce as much guilt in me then as they do now in my adult life.

These days I find it incredibly difficult to write thank you notes now that I don't have my mother always bringing me pen, paper, and stamp. I've read the suggestions in the living magazines (always have cute stationary on hand in order to inspire, set up a writing station at one's desk with all needed supplies, etc.), and I've tried them, but in the end, they still don't work for me.

I know I need to write them, but even with all the pieces in place, somehow I still get stuck. It's hard to be a grown up, and when I have to write the thank you note on my own without the help of a parent, it seems I can't do it.

I fret, toss and turn at night, and beat myself up over and over again, but I still find it hard to put pen to paper and thank someone for their thoughtful gift or kind words. There's too much to think about...Is it wrong to start a thank you note with the words "thank you?" My mother always told me so. Is my handwriting too childish looking? I think so. Where are those stamps? Certainly not here where I want them to be.

It's not that I don't appreciate the gifts and thoughts that people bestow on me. Quite the contrary, I am extremely grateful. But somehow, when it comes to thanking people for them, my inner grown up refuses to come out and help me. Let's hope she comes out of hiding soon. I'm sure my great aunt does.

Done

2006-06-22T13:35:00.000-04:00

As of 12:30 p.m. today, middle school is now only an increasingly distant memory. Thank the good lord above.

In search of the photobooth

2006-06-19T22:41:00.000-04:00

My sister recently got married in San Francisco. It was a lovely wedding for multiple reasons, but by far the most fun part of the wedding involved a photobooth and some well chosen props. Not surprisingly, as the night went on and the alcohol continued to flow, the photobooth became more and more popular. Some boas, oversized sunglasses, and fake teeth made the picture complete as they say, and a very fun time was had by all.

This photobooth success got me thinking about where and how I might recreate the photobooth experience here in Boston. When I lived in San Francisco, I was able to find a few bars that housed photobooths for public use. Some were true old fashioned original black and white photobooths, and some were more modern polaroid photobooths, but they all were fun and cool. And even though they were different, the commonality was that they were available for use!

I've done some searching here, and I've yet to be able to find a bar or restaurant with a photobooth. There used to be one at Diesel cafe, but I think it got lost in their semi-recent expansion. I've seen a few sticker booths at local malls, but somehow that doesn't quite seem the same to me. A photo is solemn, fun, poignant, and romantic all at once. There's something about a picture (especially a black and white one), that perfectly captures a mood, a place--more so than a sticker is ever able to do.

So Bostonians, can you find me a photobooth here?

Dunkin' Donuts Mayhem

2006-05-30T22:48:00.000-04:00

Spending the morning with two rather disobedient and conduct-disorder inclined middle school students can be quite exhausting.

I should know, at least once a week I take a few of my charges on out-of-school "field trips." These field trips are designed to keep these students out of trouble in school, and for the most part, they work. The problem is that the life outside of middle school is just as if not more conducive to trouble causing and rabble rousing. Funny how it works that way, eh?

For example, I took two of them to Dunkin' Donuts a few weeks ago. In the span of about five minutes they 1) stole the tip jar off the counter 2) started throwing spit balls at each other, 3) took ice out of a cooler and put it down each other's shirts and 4) dropped the F-bomb about 15 times.

I, was of course, mortified. And unfortunately, even though I was a stern as could be, even yelled at them (which I try my hardest not to do), there wasn't much more I could do besides get them out of there as soon as possible without further causing a scene. I did get them to return the tip jar, which I see as a small victory.

The whole incident made me think quite a bit. Clearly these kids don't see me as much of an authority figure (although they told me I was a "hardass" because I made them put their trash in a trash can and other teachers don't do so). It's also clear that no one taught them that certain behaviors just aren't okay. No matter what. Being thought of as a pushover certainly made me feel sad (or rather ineffective), but realizing how much teaching and parenting these kids have missed out on made me even sadder. I work with them a few hours a day for a few months. I'm trying to counteract years of pain and hardship. That's a pretty tall order.

I can try hard and do my best, but there is only so much I can do. I need to remind myself of this sometimes. I have to take time for myself and spend some time indulging my interests and not being so hard on myself. Unfortunately, getting a coffee isn't quite as relaxing anymore! Maybe it will be again someday.

Inman Square

2006-05-25T18:41:00.000-04:00

I live in a charming Cambridge, MA neighborhood called Inman Square. Like most neighborhoods in this area, the "square" is in fact a collection of streets that run into each other as death defying angles that cause major traffic jams, inappropriate language, honking, and generally taking one's life into one's hand.

And even though these quaint street configurations can be quite annoying, they do help contribute to a nice neighborhood feel. Inman Square is a prime example of this. Cambridge Street constitutes the main drag, and then a few other key streets converge and commingle in order to create this neighborhood full of funky coffee shops, used bookstores, ethnic and high-end restaurants, and the occasional hipster boutique.

A coffee shop, firehouse, classic deli, bank, and small grocery store anchor the area of Inman that is mostly closely identified as the true "square."

And even though it creates some increased adrenaline in my body when I try to cross the street there, I do appreciate the charming craziness that this meeting of the streets creates: Hipsters and methadone clinic clients mingle together at the coffee house, fire men and women take breaks from the wait for the next big fire out on the street and smile at passing kids, local merchants do their business, and the buses come and go bringing people up and down Cambridge Street.

There was a point in my life (not so long ago) when I thought Massachusetts was boring and provincial. It may be still. But I don't mind anymore. I now know that all I have to do to remind myself that there is life here, all I have to do is stick my head out my front door.

Items

2006-05-19T16:14:00.000-04:00

There are few things that always hit the spot right on for me. No matter my mood, good or bad, they always make me feel better than I did before. They are as follows, and in no particular order.

1) orange juice in the middle of the night 2) listening to a good CD while driving on a cloudy afternoon 3) ocean breezes and 4) handwritten letters in the mail.

Sleeping in Shifts

2006-05-17T16:48:00.000-04:00

My current job requires that I arise much earlier than I have previously been used to doing. My alarm goes off at 6:15 a.m., and I try to be out the door by 7:15 a.m. or so. I'm at work by about 7:45 a.m. I go through the motions for a good part of the morning, and it's not until 9:00 a.m. or a little after that I finally really wake up and function.

By noon, it feels like the day should be over, and by the time I leave work at 3:30 p.m. or so, my brain and stomach believe that it's dinner time. I spend a lot of time at work on my feet trying to anticipate and de-escalate one middle school crisis after the other, so I also get pretty physically and emotionally exhausted. By the time I arrive home, it's all I can do to grab something to eat and collapse on the couch. Of course, I usually also end up falling asleep.

I tend to then wake up at 7:00 p.m. reasonably rested and ready to go. This is all well and good, since this is when my normal working hour friend tend to also be ready to go for evening activities, but of course this also means I end up staying awake way past my self-designated bedtime. I'm still wide awake at 11:00 p.m., and I do everything in my power not to go to bed. I check my email hundreds of time, watch a 1/2 hour television show, surf the Internet; it really doesn't matter what, I just don't want to go to sleep.

You see, giving into sleep would mean that I am that much closer to tomorrow. And tomorrow is generally not something I really look forward to (at least when that tomorrow involves an agenda of stressful middle school work items. The more I prolong the night, the farther away boys throwing chairs through windows and girls running away from home seems.

But of course, when I wake up exhausted the next morning, after finally going to bed at 11:30 p.m. or midnight, I'm even less ready to face the issues of the day. I know it's a bad habit, but the alternative is even worse. I desperately need to stretch out my evenings and jam pack them full of events, or the thought of facing the following day seems even more depressing.

I only have 21 days left of actual work this school year (you were surprised I've counted them out?), so I think this sleep cycle will probably stick for now. I can sleep and do whatever I want this summer. I can make a whole day out of going to Walgreens, that's fine by me. But for now, I need to cram all I can into those precious school free waking hours.

Umbrella Man Redux

2006-05-11T21:08:00.000-04:00

For those keeping track, Umbrella Man was spotted with my very own eyes on the streets of Inman Square today. I was relieved to actually see him of course, but also sad that he was still in the same predicament. Interestingly, he has moved away from the ice cream store and now takes up residence outside one of our many local bars. I hope that isn't a bad sign.

This new sighting has rekindled my interest in him. Does he have a girlfriend? How does he handle all that rejection day after day as people pass him by on their way to lives, friends, and family members? Where does he go every night after he leaves my neighborhood? I'll probably never know, but I am in some ways glad he is back.

Poodles

2006-05-07T08:17:00.000-04:00

I've been dog obsessed for quite some time now. We always had a dog or two growing up, but I have to admit that I rarely paid much attention to them. That was my sister's job. I paid a bit more attention to our menagerie of guinea pigs, mice, and parakeets, but I don't think many people would have ever described me as a "pet person."

This all changed over the past year or two. I began to come around to the way of the dog. And not just any dog mind you, but the...gasp...the poodle! I admit it. I heart poodles.

I trace this obsession back to two sources:

The first: My sister and her boyfriend have had a small chihuahua mix named Espey for a few years. She is a very sweet, smart, and easy to manage dog. My introduction to Espy sold me on the benefits of small dogs. They travel with ease, can sit on one's lap, and are satisfied with small walks around the block as opposed to hour long romps through fields. A small dog is a city dog, and I am a city girl.

The second: Once I got convinced that small dogs were the way to go, I started obsessively looking on petfinder.com. I spent many an hour scanning the profiles of Fifi, Killer, and Tinkerbelle. I soon realized that I was not alone in this obsession. My friend J. was just obsessed with finding a new pet, and after extensive research, she settled on the poodle. At first I was shocked. A poodle? Those fluffy, silly, ladies who lunch dogs? No way. Well, it turns out, yes way.

J. has been more proactive than me in the pet department, and actually got a mini chocolate poodle named Nico about six months ago. I was instantly sold on the poodle. Smart, cute, and wonderfully loyal, Nico is my new idea of the ultimate dog. He travels everywhere, doesn't shed, looks like a mini teddy bear, and likes to cuddle. The result of all this? I am now equally poodle obsessed.

I know that my life isn't quite ready for a dog yet, but I am working on it. The responsibility that comes along with dog ownership is still a little daunting--always having to come home to feed, walk, and care for a living creature (that's not myself!), etc.

Until then, I will take Nico for walks on weekends, continue to cruise petfinder.com, and dream.

Winter Shedding

2006-04-25T21:49:00.000-04:00

It seems to be finally spring here in Massachusetts. Mind you it was still rather chilly this weekend, but at least the flowers are out, the trees are in bloom, and possible snow storms are now quite impossible.

When the weather turns, so do my thoughts of reinvention. I anticipate the summer months and the "anything is possible" attitude they invoke. Summer is a distinct season here (unlike in San Francisco) and it seems that whether one is currently associated with a school or not, summer still holds a special and important place in New Englander's hearts that I have not found quite so intensely elsewhere.

Summer means trips to the beach, camping, a more relaxed work environment (I had never heard of "summer hours" until I moved to Cambridge), later nights, and vacation. We know the warm weather will only last for a few months, so it's almost as if an statewide edict has been declared: Summer is here! Enjoy it, now! Whether one wants to or not, one becomes a "summer person" when living here.

I'm looking forward to the break that summer brings, but I'm also looking forward to the potential possibilities. My thoughts turn toward pretty dresses, strappy shoes, and bright colored t-shirts--and all the excitement and new possibility that comes with that.

I'm ready to shed the cold spirits of winter and bring on the new and tender ones. It takes time though. Just as my feet need to adjust to different shoes each spring as I move from heavy socks and boots to more delicate sandals (band aids and I become quite chummy each spring), so do I.

Spring is a bit like a big band aid--it gets me ready for the summer and yet still protects me a bit as I transition, careful not to let me go too crazy. I certainly appreciate spring's care, but I'm feeling ready to move on. I'll patiently wait, but I'm gathering my supplies so I'm at the ready--skirts, new shoes, band aids, and sun tan lotion. See you at the beach.

Ghost Stories

2006-04-23T21:32:00.000-04:00

I've always been fascinated by ghost stories. I am particularly drawn to ones that involve tragedy and children. I was greatly influenced by a Sunday night Disney Special that aired when I was in elementary school, and whenever I hear of similar stories, I can't help but remember this one. I only remember bits and pieces of it, everytime it returns from the recesses of my memory, I can still feel the mystery and excitement that it evoked in me. I was obsessed. I still am it seems. These are the details that I can remember:

*It took place in New Orleans
*The ghost was girl named Inez who came from a rich and eccentric family
*Inez wore a white party dress and had curls in her hair that were accentuated by a large white bow
*She was responsible for solving her own murder. Only then could she rest in peace.

Does this ring a bell with anyone?

I left my heart in san francisco

2006-04-20T13:07:00.000-04:00

I am one of the lucky ones. I recently returned from a lovely visit to San Francisco. After weeks and weeks of non-stop torrential rain, the clouds parted the afternoon my plane touched down in Oakland, and I got to enjoy four days of gorgeous sun and views.

The visit was hectic as usual, but each time I go back I get better at prioritizing friend visits and activities. For example, one of my friends kindly hosted a Monday night dinner party for 14 that allowed me to see many people at once. I felt grateful that so many people came out for my viewing.

I got asked many times if I had any plans to move back. It is tempting, I must admit. I miss my friends, the weather (of course), and the general joie de vivre of San Francisco living.

I also miss being "in the know" about a city. Even though I grew up in Massachusetts, and I've now lived in Cambridge for over two years, I still feel so much more at home in San Francisco. I know the local politics better, I know where to find a good tailor, I have favorite pizza and coffee joints, the knitting store owner still remembers me, and almost every corner holds some sort of memory. I grew up in San Francisco--it's where I turned into an adult.

Although I seriously doubt I ever will move back to San Francisco, not only do I consider myself lucky to have returned from a sun and fun filled few days there, I also consider myself lucky to have lived there for so long. I sometimes wonder if I would be in a different place if I had not (Would I be married with kids, or have a more substantial career?), but at the same time, I wouldn't trade most of it for the world. San Francisco put a lot of effort and energy into making me who I am today, and I thank her for it.

cupcakes

2006-04-14T14:12:00.000-04:00

Cupcakes have always been "in" to a certain extent, but during the past five to ten years something of a cupcake resurgence has occurred. I remember receiving a cupcake cookbook sometime around 1996 or 1997, and then soon after that the cupcake was brought into the spotlight by Sex and the City and New York's Magnolia Bakery.

It's of course difficult to resist the pull of the cupcake if it includes the hope that it might make one look like Sarah Jessica Parker sitting in a tiny Roberto Cavalli dress and cutely getting frosting on her nose.

Unfortunately, it seemed that as the heightened popularity of Sex in the City waned, so did the cupcake's.

But stop the presses, or rather the kitchen aid mixers, I've begun to notice a cupcake second wave of popularity. There are multiple blogs devoted solely to the perfection of the cupcake, many brides now choose to serve tiers of cupcakes over the traditional wedding cake, cupcakes can be found in high end bakeries and restaurants, and bookstores brim over with cupcake cookbooks.

There are a variety of theories that try to explain the renewed interest in the cupcake. One believes that in a diet crazed society the small size of the cupcake makes it more appetizing than its cousin, the layer cake. Another states that with the increased interest in design and nesting, the cupcake offers a new canvas on which to impress others with one's culinary finesse and trendiness.

I tend to think it has more to do with the nostalgia theory. Cupcakes remind us of our childhood--birthday parties, baking mixes, and picnics. In this increasingly uncertain world, wholesome reminders of "simpler days" are hard to resist. This is the crux of the popularity of the cupcake.

I think I'm going to pull out the old Betty Crocker recipe book right now.

The Devil

2006-04-10T21:53:00.000-04:00

I saw the Daniel Johnston documentary this evening. It's called the Devil and Daniel Johnston, and although some of the reviews I read thought it was exploitive, I certainly didn't. I knew nothing about him before I stepped into the theater, but I was enthralled by his story. It manages to be both unique and an everyman's story all at once.

A musical and artistic genius tormented by mental illness, Mr. Johnston makes many grave mistakes in his life, but he seems to always be able to get people to see his talent, and people want to help him make that talent come to fruition. It made me think about what my talent is, how do I want to viewed by people over the long run, and probably most importantly, it made me think about passion---what is it, and where does it stem from? A fitting thought to contemplate on one's birthday.

Things that make you go hmmm...

2006-04-05T16:29:00.000-04:00

Is it a bad sign that my current romantic life has many things in common with one of the eighth graders I counsel? Me thinks the answer is yes.

Harbingers

2006-04-02T16:25:00.000-04:00

Spring weather turns my thoughts to pretty skirts, sitting outside having drinks, evening movies, ice cream cones, breezy curtains, dogwood trees, trips to Gloucester, and late night phone calls.

Umbrella Man

2006-03-26T21:09:00.000-05:00

I was walking past Christina's ice cream in Inman Square a few days ago, and I suddenly realized that someone was missing. It used to be that I couldn't walk past there without being asked to purchase a street sheet newspaper by a very distinctive and peculiar homeless man. He was very tall (at least 6'2" or so), very skinny (couldn't weigh more than 130 lbs), very pale (practically transparent) wore all black leather (rather S&M), and complimented his look with leather gloves and large black umbrella (rain or shine, summer or winter).

He was exceedingly polite, mild mannered, and always very grateful if anyone ever bought one of his "street sheets." I was fascinated by him, and often tried to figure out his story. I discussed him with my friends and roommate, wondered what the ice cream shop owners thought of him, and even considered following him one evening to see where he went after he left his regular corner.

Did he have a home that he returned to each night? Did he live with his parents? In a halfway house? Behind a building? He clearly went somewhere, since he was never out on the street after 10 p.m., and he usually showed up again sometime in the late morning. What possessed him to dress like that and where did he get his clothes? What events had brought him to the corner of Prospect and Cambridge streets selling newspapers and asking for money?

I tried to be kind to him. Even if I didn't always buy one of his newspapers, I always smiled and said hello. I was a bit disturbed by him, but I also felt incredible sympathy for him. It was difficult to admit, but he reminded me of the saddest parts of myself.

So it was with some distress and embarrassment that I realized a few days ago that I hadn't seen him in months. Many months. I can't even remember the last time I saw him, but it has to be over six months ago. I don't even know what brought him back from the recesses of my mind again. I'd certainly walked here many times without even giving a thought to him until now.

It shames me that I could so easily forget this man. It seems I didn't really pay much attention to him after all.

Family stories

2006-03-23T19:17:00.000-05:00

My paternal grandmother was an interior decorator. She came to the career late in life, but by the time that I came along, she had become relatively successful and well known. She lived in Washington D.C. and often decorated the homes of politicians and ambassadors.

Her home was always beautifully appointed and served as a showroom and a way to bring in clients. Her office was in the third floor of her house and I remember being awed by the yards and yards of hanging fabric along the back walls. It seemed extremely glamorous and sophisticated. If I was visiting and she had to work, I would sit myself among the fabric samples and sort through them all by color, style, and texture. I loved the heavy textiles and furs the most. I remember one afternoon in particular when my grandmother let me make myself a little nest of corduroy and chenille under her desk. Swaddling myself in the yards of heavy fabric like a baby in a receiving blanket, I couldn't imagine a better place I'd like to be.

My grandmother oozed glamour. She was a former low-level royalty from Budapest, Hungary who had been much spoiled as a girl and young woman. She told stories of 20 foot Christmas trees, multiple servants, boyfriends, and glamorous garden parties. When World War II hit and then subsequent invasion of Hungary by both the Germans and the Russians, she lost everything--her home, relatives, and friends. She eventually made her way to the United States, married a very American newspaper editor, and settled into D.C. life.

I fell in love with the glamorous tragedy of her life, and it became a large part of my own life story. I didn't identify with my mother's seemingly more pedestrian working class Irish Catholic background. That was a boring and familiar story, especially in a suburb of Boston where half of my classmates were named Donnelly and O'Malley. Instead, I chose to focus on the glamour of my grandmother's past. It made me feel special and different.

I took these cues from my grandmother herself. She had a strong tendency toward ignoring the bad and distasteful, and focusing only on the glamorous and positive. She was an expert at creating images--some of which were based on reality and some of which were not. This served her well in both her career and many parts of her life, but it didn't always serve her well in others.

Over the past few years I've come to realize that a lot of the images and stories about my grandmother's side of the family aren't quite what I thought they once were. It doesn't mean that they aren't all true, but I've learned that the stories I grew up with actually have their own stories as well. It's just now up to me to figure out how to tell the new versions of them.

Time to move on

2006-03-20T21:34:00.000-05:00

I believe that I am well on my way to setting a "how long can one make 2 week disposable contact lenses last" record.

These babies have seen about five three day holiday weekends come and go, outlasted a hair dresser or two, and have taken me through a job change.

Loyal to a fault, my lenses have certainly served me well, but my eyes have started giving me pretty clear signs that the romance is over--tearing up when I get a little too curt, drying out and becoming prickly, and of course, not returning my phone calls.

It's been a great run my friends, but it's time to move on. Thanks for the memories, and don't call me, I'll call you.

Listening In

2006-03-16T19:38:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite activities as a child was lying on my parents' bed and listening to my mother talk to her mother on the phone. They lived only a town away from each other, but the day-to-day stresses of life made it easier for them to communicate via the phone. They used these nightly conversations as a way to stay in touch with each other, connect, and slough off the residue of the day.

I found listening in on these conversations immensely comforting. I would put my head on the pillow next to her and let my thoughts wander round my head. I liked to hear about my life: my town, my school, my sister, etc. from a familiar but slightly different and more grown up perspective. I would curl up next to her on the bed and listen to the familiar words and stories and it made me feel safe, important, and a part of something larger than myself. I was often the topic of these conversations, and I quietly basked in the unconditional love and comfort that I felt moving back and forth along the telephone lines.

I often slightly disagreed with my mother's take on a particular story or interpretation, and occasionally I would decide these disagreements were important enough to warrant an intervention in my mother and grandmother's conversations. I was usually only pushed to intervene when I felt that my side of the story wasn't getting told quite correctly or I was being somehow negatively represented.

My mother generally humored these interruptions, but it was my vanity that usually caused me to break into her conversation, and it would always break the quiet comfort I felt otherwise. My mother did not take to vanity very well. I would get slightly embarrassed, and then return my head to the pillow and begin the listening again. I would try to regain the comfort I felt, but it wouldn't fully return until the following night's conversation.

Something about the silence and uncommented upon stories was what both my mother and I needed--or at least were more comfortable with and was more familiar. We both seemed to need to have that silence there in order to feel connected to each other.

I'm not sure what that says about us, but I do know that I still make my mother call my sister in California when I am at her house and I even though now I typically listen from the couch instead of the bed, I've still been known to curl up next to her and listen to the two of them talk about life in Boston, my mom's job, my life, etc. Old habits die hard.

The Aristocrats

2006-03-16T18:57:00.000-05:00

A recommendation:

Don't try to watch the movie the Aristocrats while eating a veggie burrito. Especially while watching George Carlin in the Aristocrats. The combo ain't pretty.

Left-handed knitting

2006-03-14T21:13:00.000-05:00

I have been taught to knit approximately seven to ten times. The first time was in my tender youth, and taught by none other than my grandmother. Seems that if someone can successfully be taught how to knit, it would be by a grandmother. Not so. If I remember correctly, she actually counts for lessons one through three, but even though she was both talented and patient, it never stuck.

Fast forward to overnight summer camp where I was taught once again by a visiting middle aged English woman. She was very kind, but was unable to take me over to the knitting side. Maybe I was intimidated by her accent and frequent John Donne quotes. I took a break for a while and then tried to take up knitting again one cold and depressing January during my sophomore year of college. I got a little farther, but I never made it past the knit stitch, and soon lost interest as my friends returned from winter break.

When knitting became "cool" again after then celebrity best friends "Nonnie and Gwynnie" started knitting scarves for their then celebrity boyfriends "Matt and Ben," I took up knitting again. I took a class at a San Francisco knitting store and the woman was rather unhelpful. She found my left-handedness minimally distasteful and maximally an affront to all knitters everywhere. In an act of left-handed solidarity, I stubbornly refused to listen to anything she said.

The knitting breakthrough finally came about four years ago. My friend C. is an avid and talented knitter. I went to her with my troubles, and she agreed to intervene. We set the date, a quiet Sunday afternoon, and I arrived with both a high sense of excitement and doom. I had been conditioned to believe that I knitting and I were never meant to be friends, but I also had a sense that this time somehow might be different.

I was correct. C. did not chastise me for being left-handed. In fact she very kindly and earnestly went through each step with me over and over until I finally got it. Starting with "the pretzel" (basically the slipknot one used to cast on) and taking me all the way through into knit and purl, C. never made me feel inadequate. In fact she made knitting quite fun. Suddenly it seemed easy. Or at least manageable. Finally, finally, finally, I could knit!

I've taken a few classes since then (I highly recommend "fixing mistakes") at various different knitting stores and they have certainly been helpful. Even so, I'm still pretty novice, and I've come to reconcile the fact that I'm probably never going to be a "great" knitter. It's just not in my spatial make-up. I do however aspire to be a "good" knitter. I don't need to make intricate multi-patterned adult sized sweaters, but I would like to be able to whip up the occasional baby sweater or pom pom hat when the urge or babyshower hits.

An ease with knitting has not happened yet, but I am willing to be patient. Afterall, it took me quite a few years to get where I am now, what's a few more? I am particularly hopeful because C. and I are once again living in the same city. I am grateful for this for many reasons, but knitting assistance is certainly one of them. I have already put in a request for help on a baby sweater, and I have high hopes. It may take a while, and it may not be perfect, but at least I will have fun.

Making T-shirts

2006-03-09T21:13:00.000-05:00

Somewhere along the way I started making baby t-shirts and onesies for friends' babyshowers and general kid gifts. At one point I thought I might turn it into a mini-business (who knows, I still may), but for now, I'm sticking to leaving the business ideas behind and keeping it all a hobby.

I used to try and silk screen them all, but making multiple silk screening masters proved to be too tedious and difficult a job for such a small batch of t-shirts. As a result, I turned to the tried and true iron on t-shirt transfer.

Purchased at both big box stores likes Staples and Target as well as art supply stores, transfers come in various sizes and for either dark or light fabric. Even the relatively simple iron on transfer proved to be somewhat confusing for me, but I think I've finally got the hang of it now.

I tend to like to put simple but funny sayings on my shirts, e.g. "Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful" baby onesies or "Running is My Anti-Depressant" shirts for runner friends. I have some other ones in the works too, but I still may want to start that business someday, so I'll keep them under wraps for now!

Save A Guinea Pig

2006-03-06T21:30:00.002-05:00

Please note: March is Adopt-a-Rescued-Guinea-Pig-Month. Act Accordingly.

Ex Libris

2006-03-05T11:03:00.000-05:00

Ex Libris is my new old favorite game. It's even surpassed Taboo (and that's saying something).

Ex Libris is a English parlor game that appeals primarily to readers and writers. I used to play it a lot in San Francisco, but once I moved back to Boston 1) I didn't have a lot of people to play with and 2) I left all my copies of the game with people in SF.

Here's a description of the game:

Players try to both:

* guess the correct 1st or last line to a novel
* write a face 1st or last line to a novel and trick other players into thinking it is real

Points are scored for making correct guesses and for tricking other players.

The actual 1st/last lines for novels such as the following are included:
* Moby Dick
* Pride and Prejudice
* Jude the Obscure
* Zuleika Dobson
* The Spy Who Loved Me
* The House at Pooh Corner

A few weeks ago, I was in a gaming store in Harvard Square and saw a copy. All my lovely Ex Libris memories came flooding back. I had to get it!

I played with a few San Francisco ex pat friends here in Inman Square, and it was as just as good as I remembered. It didn't hurt that I beat the pants off of everyone. I tried hard not to gloat, but I was only mildly successful.

We haven't played it since (hmmm...should I take the hint?), but not to worry, I'm hatching a plan to bring Ex Libris into my regular game playing routine again. Let the games begin!

Save Gocco

2006-03-04T16:56:00.001-05:00

I first became acquainted with the Gocco printer in 2003. For the uninitiated, the Gocco is a mini silk screen kit that can be used to create prints on cards, fabric, etc. Out of Japan, it was originally created as a children's toy, but it's become reasonably popular with the adult DIY crowd in the United States.

I'm still squarely placed in the novice stage, but there are many people out there in the world who can work magic with the Gocco.

See below:

Impressive, non?

But there is trouble brewing on the horizon. It seems that the Japanese manufacturer isn't satisfied with the level of sales in both Japan and the United States, and has decided to discontinue manufacturing the entire Print Gocco system. Not surprisingly, this has caused a small but powerful rebellion. A group called Save Gocco has sprouted up to try and convince the current manufacturer to either change its mind or allow another company to take over distribution in the U.S.

If you are a crafter, and DIYer, an art fan, or simply a fan of the little guy, consider joining in on the Save to the Gocco campaign. Your inner artiste will thank you.

Parenting

2006-03-02T20:38:00.000-05:00

Did you ever notice that today's babyboomer parents tend to keep their children in stroller until they hit puberty? I see children fully capable of walking, let alone reading (and probably even smoking cigarettes) strapped into strollers as their parents push them along. To make matters worse, the parents are usually completely ignoring their kids--yapping on cell phones or talking to some other adult.

I suspect that's the reason these kids are strapped into the strollers to begin with. The parents just don't want to deal with their kids. In fact they often don't know how to. They aren't used to dealing with their children on any regular basis, and they are often pretty stressed out to boot. The nanny, daycare, and gymboree play dates...they all combine so that when the parents actually do have to actually hang out with the kids, they aren't quite sure what to do with them.

Strapping the kids into strollers and keeping them from dawdling, zig zagging down the street, or stopping to pet the neighborhood dog (or whatever kids these days want to do), seems to be the best solution for many stressed out parents. An easy short term solution to taking care of your kids, but not so great a long term one. It's not the parents' fault as much as it seems to be society's, but everytime I see some oversized kid being pushed down the street and I see the comatose look on the kid's face, I get just a pang of sadness.

Middle School Students

2006-03-01T18:12:00.000-05:00

I recently started working in a middle school. I now spend much of my day surrounded by preteens. They are a funny and weird species, let me tell you. One minute they are giving you the evil eye and making you feel about the size of a pea, then the next minute they are begging you to show you the latest dance move or walk them to their next class. I feel like I'm still quite unschooled in middle school ways, and I'm definitely on a steep learning curve. Entering into teenage land is complicated stuff. Being the recipient of their preteen angst is even more complicated.

Simply observing their interpersonal social interactions is much less complicated. That serves as pure entertainment. Just today I overheard a group of about four or five girls talking about "Joe." It seems that Joe is a bit of a Casanova. He spent much of the afternoon asking out through the bulk of the seventh grade girl population. From what I could gather, no one took him up on his offer. Not a very successful Casanova, but one nonetheless. The girls seemed both titilated and repulsed by this behavior. A pretty reasonable response in my book.

The Bachelor

2006-02-27T17:04:00.000-05:00

Season five of the Bachelor completes tonight. The finale...live...from....exciting Paris! Paris is certainly exciting, but somehow this show has managed to make even Paris and the French countryside as about American and "exciting" as an Olive Garden restaurant. Yet, still I watch.

The Bachelor used to seem more exciting to me--even when it was filmed in boring L.A. I used to watch the Bachelor religiously. Obsessively. Friends and I would gather round the television and watch with our glasses of wine in hand. We would analyze, predict and wonder about each of the Bachelor's choices, and what would happen in the future to him and his final pick. These were smart women too. Professors at UC Berkeley, lawyers, and teachers. We were women who fully and utterly identified as feminists. Yet still we watched.

No matter how enlightened and non-traditional we all were, we were still drawn to the romanticism of this supposed fairy tale love story. We put our own spin on it with a post-modern feminist analysis of each bachelorettes' action and movement, but we still fell for the fairy tale. Of course not one of the Bachelors has actually married his chosen Bachelorette. In fact, they seem to usually break up about 5-10 minutes after production ends. We knew these relationships were doomed, but we still hoped against all hope, and still we watched.

I don't watch the show nearly as often as a I used to. Yes, I'll still watch the finale, and yes, I still have a general sense of which Bachelorettes made it how far, but it doesn't hold the same interest for me anymore. The show has certainly lost it's novelty five seasons in. That's part of it. Bachelor whittles his choices down to two (it usually comes down to "good" girl vs. "bad" girl), and then after some media blitz, they break up. We've seen it over and over now.

I'm jaded about the Bachelor's choices and plot lines, that's true. The show itself is wearing thin. But I think I'm jaded about other things as well. I'm a few years older than I was when I sat around with my friends watching the first few seasons, and a little more jaded about relationships now too. I don't believe in many fairy tales any more, post-modern feminist ones or not. But rather than seeing this as a negative change, I actually see it as a positive one. I may not believe in fairy tales, but instead I think I now have a more positive and realistic understanding of what it takes to sustain a successful relationship. It takes work, communication, patience, humility, luck, and humor--among many other things.

I thought I was different from the bachelorettes on t.v. because my prince charming was going to be some indie rock boy who read deep literature, and not some independently wealthy bank manager water ski specialist. Even though my fairy tale was more non-traditional, I still believed in it. It allowed me to believe that I didn't have to work at relationships, that they just happened. I know better now, and I'm happy about that. I'll still watch, just not quite so obsessively.

His Holiness

2006-02-26T11:09:00.000-05:00

Whenever I have brunch at Henrietta's Table in Harvard Square, I almost always see some sort of local celebrity. It's a power brunch kind of place, at least by Cambridge standards. Mind you these are B-level, Boston-provincial style celebrities, but they are celebrities nonetheless. I confirm this by noticing that other diners are much more diffential and awestruck by them then they are by me over coffee and french toast.

Examples include, Kasey Kaufman, a Boston channel 4 news anchor, Dr. Dean Whittla, former Dean of the Harvard Ed School (note the inevitible confusion over his double use of "Dean"), and Alan Dershowitz, brash legal talking head.

Some people have reported seeing John Malkovich at Henrietta's as well, but alas I cannot. I have seen him at a local bookstore though. And my friend reports having seen him at Pier 1 Imports not once, but twice (that's a mystery in itself). JM sighting are so common in Cambridge these days that he seems to barely count now.

Mildly interesting celebrity sightings? Yes. Particularly noteworthy? No.

Now, things have changed. Yesterday morning catapulted me into a whole new land of Cambridge celebrity sightings. While looking for the bathroom to relieve myself from my five cups of coffee, I noticed that my companion's face had suddenly become quite slack. I looked in the direction at which it seemed his awe was coming from, and it suddenly became quite clear the reason for his awe. Standing in the atrium of the Charles Hotel stood Richard Gere, his wife Carey Lowell, a few seemingly local Cambridge types, and a Tibetian looking man in Buddhist robes.

Now, we are pretty sure RG wasn't dining with the actual Dalai Lama, but he did seem to be engaging in some of his non-acting work. I later heard that Richard had been awarded the annual Harvard Hasty Pudding award, so it made a little more sense that he was here in our fair city (and I also happen to know that his sister is a Dean at Cambridge's Lesley University).

However, even with these Massachusetts connections, I still find his local sighting more interesting and intriguing than any of my previous ones. One of the reasons of course is his higher placement on the celebrity food chain, but there was something else as well. I think it was the juxtaposition of his celebrity with the Tibetian monk. It was so "very Cambridge" and yet so very "not Cambridge" at the same time.

Half of Cambridge's population probably fancies themselves as dabblers in Buddhism and progressive politics. More power to them, but they are usually doing it in oversized LL Bean sweaters and with fuzzy, uncombed hair. This is the Cambridge way. However, RG clearly has more "it factor" than about 99.9 percent of the regular Cambridge population, and to see that "it factor" engaging in more typical Cambridge life (eating at Henrietta' Table, brushing snow off one's shoulder, socializing with those oversized LL Bean sweater types, etc.) was most interesting to see.

After a few more moments of furtive glancing, my companion and I went off about our business and left Richard to his. Henrietta's Table will never be the same again.

squeak of the wheel

2006-02-24T09:32:00.000-05:00

I had to make a companion visit to the emegency room earlier this week (my roommate thought she was having a heart attack or something...turned out to be a false alarm). Although it was slightly annoying, it did make for some excellent people watching--the three boys with minor gunshot wounds chatting on their cell phones as they waited for treatment, the local drunk getting his fingers checked out, and the woman from the morning bus stop.

I was particularly struck by the fact that on a random Tuesday night in February, I seemed to recognize half the emergency room population. The local drunk is often sighted outside my front door drinking out of his mini airplane-sized vodka bottle (a minus of living above a liquor store). I often see the bus stop woman in the mornings. We don't talk, but we often awknowledge each other with a small smile. What was she doing in the emergency room at 11:30 on a Tuesday night? I didn't get the answer since we stuck with our bus stop ritual. Even though the scenery had changed, our manners and rituals did not.

Although I had never been to an emergency room before, it makes sense that there would be a lot of interesting human dynamics to observe. I wasn't banking on animal watching though. That was more of a surprise. While waiting for my roommate to have her vitals checked, out of the corner of my eye I spotted something small and black dart across the floor. Based on the reactions of the people around me, it quickly became clear what was so anxious to get from one end of the ER to the other: A mouse. People's feet went straight up on their chairs and there was a fair amount of yelping. Not the most heart warming scene in an ER. At least it wasn't a rat.

owls

2006-02-20T22:32:00.000-05:00

i heart crafty owls

Cat or Dog?

2006-02-19T20:57:00.000-05:00

The rivalry between cats and dogs is a long and storied one. People tend to be "cat people" or "dog people." Rarely is one both. However, usually they are refering to a like or disdain for one four legged animal or the other. I prefer to refer to the rivalry in terms of people personalities. "Cat people" are people who refuse to please others, while "dog people" (the more common in my opinion) are people who generally want to make others happy if they are able. I used to pride myself on my catlike qualities, but lately I've been seeing the positives in the more dog-like qualities of people pleasers. It certainly makes life a bit easier to navigate, and I've come to notice that caring for people and making their life easier actually makes mine too.

2006-02-19T18:24:00.000-05:00

Marshmallow Soup is the name of a one hit wonder band from the late sixties. Out of Ottawa, Canada, they hit it big in 1969 with the song "I Love Candy." I didn't know any of this way back in 1993 when I also named my Friday morning college radio show "The Marshmallow Soup." I just thought it sounded cool and was somewhat original (at least it did in 1993 at a somewhat provincial women's college in Western MA). Fast forward to 2006, and I'm searching for a good blog title. I've been feeling both old and nostalgic these days, so maybe it makes a certain amount of sense that I'm trying to return to my college days. Regardless of the pop psychology analysis, I've settled on the name. Marshmallow Soups. I've added the "S" as an ode to my maturity (and because the singular was already taken).