Maiden Voyage

black capped chickadee

isnt' the web a wonderful thing...I found the sound I was woken by, on a web site of bird calls!

Here Listen

cool huh?

The whole site is here.

dee-dah

It is 5:56 am, and I have been listening to a bird going dee-dah, dee-dah, over and over again, relentlessly, for the past 40 minutes....cruel cruel nature.

the pollen is flying, my eyes are inflamed, my nose runny...giving up all hope of sleep, I turn to my computer, only to find someone has left an organ enlargement comment on my blog! Is this the new spam? now not only in email, but on my blog I will be pelted with obsenity?

In the Sunday Globe yesterday there was an article on the philosophy/psychology of disgust...does ketchup on ice cream disgust you? they asked. A resounding No! echoed throughout my empty kitchen. Does a thirty year old man having sex with an eighty year old woman, they asked? This one I had to think about. If I imagined myself as the eighty year old woman, it quite pleased me.

But "enlargement of a sexual organ that I don't even own" comments on my blog???

That disgusts me!!!

no time

as the deadline looms large for my presentation of my proposed ph.d. program, I am blogging less and missing it so. this morning I was faced with the choice to blog or to email all those important work-related, dry, explanations, negotiations, confirmations, congratulations and obscurations that the liaison part of my job requires. The blogging panel at Simmons last week was faboo, and Scot and Megan and Shaun were assume, we had a full room and I was a happy camper.

then off to NYC to have a wonderful visit with Alex...out to Brunch, shopping at the Dynasty supermarket in Chinatown where he lives, listening to him reworking some of his older compositions on the keyboard while I snoozed in his bed, and dinner-Chinese food, what else-My only frustration was that I only got to watch the first of of HERO which Alex bought on our shopping trip...it hasn't opened yet here, but what an amazing feast for the eyes.

now if only I had time to blog....

getting to the root

who ever thought this procedure up had a beautiful mind...tiny little drills to excavate....syringes with long needles to irrigate and all the while you are grinning like a cheshire cat with the help of a dental dam...something I'd heretofore only heard about in the context of safe sex....don't even ask me about the part where they cauterize these tiny rubber shoots-all natural, the endo assistant assured me-so that they melt into your tooth's root...

if there is any doubt in your minds, let me still it. god does have a sense of humor...Picture this: Me reclining in the chair, the endo man screwing these miniscule probes in and out of the roots of my tooth, with the help of this cool little telescopic or are they microscoptic attachments to his glasses, looking for all the world like the main guy in CSI...what is his name? and oldies 103 as the sound track. The Beach Boys start singing, "good, good, good, good vibrations.." as the excavating drill drones. My endo man and his assisant are singing along. I had to smile. I had to smile.

morning

brilliant orange maple leaves peak out from behind my neighbor's roof top against a bright blue sky and make me smile.

a bath, a blog and thee

or is it thou? no matter...the chill in the air these last few days is invigorating, delicious for sleeping, but the only way I can entice myself to arise is with the lusre of a hot soak...I have a wonderful olde claw foot tub which I adore, except for the fact that the shower/tub fixture is also olde and not wonderful and I need to attach it and remove it with a plumber's wrench and even then, water pours out into the tub when I am supposed to be showering...what is it with me that my plumbing gets more airtime here than anything else? What would Freud say about all this. btw, carpenter fixed hole in wall. No idea what he was thinking, but he decided that the best thing would be to use plywood. bizarre

taking it personally

the great relief and absence of pain can make you euphoric only when bracketed by the constant throbbing and ache of a vengeful tooth; so the days-and nights- have gone; pain, meds, temporary relief, return of pain. I tried, at first, like a good Buddhist, to use the experience, as practice. I entered the pain, tried to see the throb throb throbbing. the rhythmic pulsing, radiating first to the front of my mouth, then to my upper jaw. was it hot? did it have a color? I was a dismal failure. I wanted to dissipate it by experiencing it. Instead it soared and bulged and seemed to feed on the attention I was bringing to it. I only craved relief, not enlightenment. Motrin, Aleve, Tylenol, in succession, alternated, all brought short relief. The ibuprofin with codine made me mildly euphoric, but didn't do any better obliterating the pain and made it impossible to work. The horse sized amoxicillin the dentist prescribed didn't disappear the imagined infection either. I am off to the have the dentist take one more look at this mysterious enamel coated monster, who I somehow have mistreated or offended and who has sought his revenge. What festering absess is he cooking up in his den? Will we be able to unearth it and thwart his evil plan to ruin my Rosh Hashanah? Stay tuned.

hope-delayed

why am I not surprised? mercury remains retrograde and my carpenter cancelled. he had a carpentorial emergency? clearly, the wall-less-ness of my bathroom doesn't qualify as an emergency. he says he will come tomorrow, same time, same place...same glimmer of hope.

and while I am on the subject of bathrooms-I so wanted to be a profound insightful and pithy blogger, but soon this will become know as the bathroom blog-, thanks to all you enlightened and generous men who were willing-not that you had much of a choice-to share your one stall with the several thousand women who had to pee before settling in to hear the Dalai Lama last night at the Fleet Center. much obliged.

His Holiness was a sweet as ever, although tired from the strain on his brain after two full days of conversations with MIT neuroscientists. He was losing his English, but his translator was quite eloquent, and it was enough just to be in his present presence. such a sweet, sweet, man.

green finger nails

Lest my students think i am growing a fungus, let me reassure them and you that I am quite well. The greenish tinge around my nails is the thalo green stain, that anyone who has ever tackled a painting will tell you, just doesn't wash off.

I am painting again, after what seems like an eternal hiatus. Nothing monumental. Simple, small paintings based on some of my digital work, of echinachea flowers. In the midst of beginning my new class, Alex returning to NYU, the endless process of getting the lab working, and preparing my doctoral program design for presentation in November, I never expected to find the space to paint or draw, even a little. Feels like coming home.

hope

phone rings. I give it a dirty look. I am on my couch, devoting myself to my evening vegetative state. I want to talk to no one. Let the machine get it, I think. Then I remember. My machine, pissed that I didn't call in to check it once the whole time I was at the cape, decided to go munchkin on me. The out going message is unintelligible, uttered at just under the speed of light. Alex and I tried to speak in slow motion to get it to be understandable, but when we tested it we found that the record function is also playing at SST speed. So rather that allow people to think they could actually leave me a message, I unplugged it and tossed it in the trash. Remembering this, I picked up the receiver. Hello? Hi, this is John, from Small Changes? I rack my brain, trying to remember what kind of a non-profit charity small changes is and how I can politely disengage without being terribly rude. In the pause, while I am trying to figure this out, the man continues. You remember, I came to look at your bathroom? Light dawns. THE CARPENTER! Yes, hard as it is to believe, even after I kvetched to my absentee landlord, risking eviction, there is still a gaping hole in my celing, wall and floor, allowing my downstairs neighbor to converse with my upstairs neighbor, without having to shout. John, the carpenter continues. Sorry, he says, things got so busy this summer. That's all right, I assure him, But are you really coming? will you really fix my wall? Monday morning. 7:30. It's a date. I'll need a key, he insists. You can have all the keys, all the food in my fridge, all the toilet paper in my cabinet. Whatever you want. Hallelujah.

ah Truro, redux

2. We are not luddites. We love our new powerbook and we love being able to go on-line to see what time the drive-in movie starts, to check our email, to read the latest NYTimes headlines…and above all to blog. At home however we have a cable modem, which means no access on the cape. So we were kinda looking forward to this trip back in time to the fun old dial up days. I had confiscated the two AOL install disks that came with our new lab scanners and tucked them into my bag when I headed for home. I figured although I hated junking up the hard drive with all the AOL drek, we needed access and they were offering us two months free. It seemed like a deal to me.

I waited a couple of days before even attempting to set it up. I liked not rushing to the computer, really being away from work and news and social obligations. On the third day I broke down and was hoping for tons of news and friends responding to my newish blog and I slipped an AOL install disk into my slot loading superdrive and double clicked. The disk opened and I was horrified. There were only PC files on this disk. I took it out, reinserted it, tried the second disk and saw it was exactly the same. I knew that AOL was dual platform, had used it myself, eons ago before I knew any better. I couldn’t fathom why this disk didn’t say for PC’s only or give any indication that it wasn’t suitable for Mac OS.

When I broke down and called tech support at AOL, the rep assured me I was wrong and she would guide me through it. However, of course I wasn’t wrong and I know a Mac file when I see one, and so after signing me up for my two free months and giving me a user name and password and taking a secret code word for identification purposes, she transferred me to a Mac specialist. The specialist was equally adamant that of course the disks were dual platform….until she asked the fateful questions: What system are you running? OS X, I answered proudly. What version of AOL is that disk? 7.0 I said. Oh, she said happily. 7.0 doesn’t work with OS X. You need AOL 8.0.

I had that sinking feeling that we were not going to have internet access this vacation. That Alex wouldn’t be able to see if his dorm in China town had cable. And Susan wouldn’t be able to check out the prototype web site for the CSBA. And I, sadly, wouldn’t be able to blog.

But the AOL tech support person was positively cheerful. Don’t worry, she reassured me. You can just pick up a free AOL install disk anywhere!

Great relief!! Where? I asked.

Borders, Kmart, Barnes and Nobles, Circuit City, Walmart…

She wouldn’t have believed me if I told her we were in the one place in the Northeast that had none of these stores anywhere near us. So I thanked her, hung up the phone, and went out to sit on the deck, breathe and listen to the birds.

Ah, Truro...

1. Ah Truro. Utterly peaceful. Birds wake us in the morning, cicadas buzz us to sleep at night. You can see the sky. Mars is closer to earth in its orbit than it has been for 60,000 years and it shimmers pinkish in the late night sky. We missed the meteor shower, overshadowed by the brightness of the full moon. Last year we lie on the beach at Corn Hill in our sleeping bags and giggled with delight as the meteors streaked across the sky. You can ride your bike for miles, seeing no one, listening to the birds and feeling the breezes. No Walmart, no Barnes and Nobles, no Circuit City, no K-Mart…..

The weather was turbulent for the first several days. Crystal clear beach days would turn to downpours at the drop of a sand toy, cranky days at home saved by the return of the sun. But we were just so glad to be here. Finished Oryx and Crake in the first days. Didn’t love it as much towards the end. Hated the actual ending. But quickly moved on to Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons which I adored. Not just because it took place in Italy and focused on a diabolical plot built around Bernini’s sculptures. But I’ve already said too much. I devoured it and am having trouble finding my next book. Tried to start a few, but they paled in comparison. Alex sadly –for him- finishedthe fifth Harry Potter yesterday and was besides himself. He had been laughing aloud everyday at the beach reading it.He only let himself read it at the beach, because otherwise it would go too quickly. Back at the cape house, he switched to reading ancient Dorothy Sayers novels, which he also enjoyed. I will tackle the 900 page Potter when I get home…it will keep the vacation spirit alive. Susan has been reading her newspapers.

We have biked, kayaked in the Pamet river, been to the drive-in, to see Freaky Friday –Alex laughed a lot at that one too; have spent long, luxurious days at Long Nook beach, which we all, as a family, agree, is the most beautiful spot in the world. Quiet evenings are spent reading, singing and playing the guitar, sometimes braving the crowds at the Highland Creamery for ice cream. We haven’t been into town yet. But we will… Life is good.

heaven is now

Yesterday I headed into the Square for some last minute pre-vacation errands. Had to pick up some cash, get one last book and buy a new bathing suit. Don't even get me started on this whole bathing suit thing. Why anyone ever thought that the best thing for women to swim in is a skin tight sleek piece of fabric that you have to wedge yourself into, is beyond me. Why can't women swim in loose fittting madras bermuda's like men? How come men's bathing suits can be light and flowing and cotton? No rubbing, no chafing.

As the heaven's opened yet again in this monsoon summer, I ducked into the Harvard Book Store, skipping the micro sundae I had planned to have at Toscanni's–after the bathing suit episode I lost my appetite–and planning to pick up a copy of Dan Brown's the Da Vinic Code, to complete my trilogy of his books for beach reading. However, they had removed the 20 % off sticker and I just couldn't bring myself to spend the 30 bucks on the hardback book which I would read on the beach, getting sand in the spine, pickle juice and potato chip grease on the pages, so instead, I browsed. Spent the bulk of my time in my new favorite place, the philosophy section. Don't even ask. I don't know how this happend to me. I used to never even look at a book unless it was fiction. Now I finger Gadamer's Philosophical Hermeneutics as if it were gold.

I drifted over to the new paperback section and I noticed a newish book by Thich Nhat Hanh, No Death, No Fear. It was time to leave, but the rain had become torrential; I had no choice but to start reading. I love Thich Nhat Hanh's voice; no matter what he is saying, I hear the soothing quality of it right away. The premise of the book, from what I could absorb in seven minutes through osmosis, was the illusion of duality, of birth and death. Instead he uses the metaphors of water and wave, of a match burning it self up to illustrate the cyclical nature of all things, of things manifesting when conditons are right and not manifesting when they aren't. And that instead of waiting for some heavenly afterlife where all is perfect, perfection is now. Right here in front of us, if we will only stop and perceive it. Of course although a simple idea, not an easy thing to achieve. He used the word 'home' alot, which in my transitional phase in life, grabbed be, saying we are home, now, right here.

I headed out in the downpour which was fast dwindling into drizzle and the sky had that grey quality that saturates the colors and makes everything appear vivid and alive. For six blocks I walked in the brilliance of the moment,-it almost hurt my eyes-and wondered how it was that life can be so awesome and we miss it most of the time because we are rushing to do the next thing or replaying the last hurtful event or planning how we will get through the time between now and then. I felt a renewed sense of purpose for my vacation: even if constrained by too tight synthetic swimwear that reveals unsightly bulges, even if it rains every single day and we all get cranky, even if I am not at all productive, even if I return as pasty white as I am right now, I can practice, as much as possible, being, experiencing, and existing in the perfection of the each and every vacation moment. No small task.

bits and pieces

stray thoughts, inspired by various media, sparking connections

Finding Snowman, Magaret Atwood's protagonist in Oryx and Crake, an apt companion. He is alone, totally, the last of his species, among a strange new bio-engineered breed. He talks to himself, quotes to himself, but can't remember from whence the quotes came, reprimands himself for playing and replaying old memory tapes.

I have just begun the book and am loving him all the while Atwood's terrifying future in which he lives is a little too close for comfort. Maybe Snowman's lonelyness too closely mirrors my own...

If anyone told me that I was going to spend three of my precious weekend hours in the Brattle theatre (read old, trendy theatre in Harvard Square that shows classic films in a room akin to a barn, where there is no stadium seating; in other words you spend you time, if you are a height challenged person, craning your neck, looking between this person's head and that, to see the not so big screen) I would have maybe have believed them. But if they told me I was going to spend those three hours watching a guy movie, a buddy film, a Clint Eastwood flic, a cowboy movie, a war movie, a badly dubbed movie, I would have said pshaw. And if they told me that I would be in heaven, happy as a clam, loving every minute of it, hoping it would go on forever, I would have emphatically shaken my head and said, no way, Jose.

However, that was the case, on Saturday, when Alex took us to see The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. (Il buono, il brutto e il cattivo! Don't you just love Italian?) I must have seen the movie when it came out, 37 years ago, but was too young to remember it. I did, however remember the theme song and have sung my rendition of the unintelligible words (I swear they are saying "Don't want no raincoat, don't need no raincoat, don't want no, don't need no" in the background) to those nearest and dearest to me, sending them screaming from the room, hands over their ears. The movie was simply amazing. From the very first ten minutes of close-up shots of rugged, ugly cowboy faces, with no dialog and nothing happening except for in the eyes of the actors, I knew I was in for a treat. After this summers' movie extravaganzas- Matrix Reloaded, (and Animatrix) Xmen 2, the Hulk, Daredevil (on video), Pirates of the Caribbean, and my fav, Finding Nemo, and don't get me wrong I loved them all, it was so wonderful to watch a movie devoid of special effects, of computer graphics of anything more technical than some explosives and to find myself riveted to the screen. The shots were stunningly framed, the direction perfection, Eli Wallach was incredible as Tuco, and even the use of the little stub of a cigar that Eastwood was always smoking, or chewing on or leaving behind in his campfire, was filled with meaning. This feel good, buddy film, who can outsmart who quicker and better was also a riveting indictment of war and I found myself laughing at the delightful play one moment and catapulted into the carnage the next and so appreciative of the fluidity in the film that it could hold such a range of feeling and sensibility and do it all seamlessly, artfully.

Yes I did see Finding Nemo twice and I would see it again in a heartbeat and yes it is Disney, ultimately, and yes they do kill off the mother in the first few minutes (um...like you didn't know that every Disney movie kills off one parent -Bambi-or the other -Lion King-or puts them in jail -Dumbo-or seperates them-Little Mermaid, Pinocchio, Beauty and the Beast- to set the scene) and yes Nemo does get separated from his father and they didn't part on good terms and all that other formulaic Disney crapola, but ooh-la-la what a spectacle it is! Soooo beautiful, I could watch that sea anemone's arms wave endlessly, the water glisten forever, laugh again and again each time those sea turtles say "dude!" or "sweet!"

And yes I had to go see it a second time, because after the first viewing Alex was practically incoherent - he was convinced that whoever wrote the part for Dorie (played by that other Ellen) modelled it after me. "They nailed it!" Alex kept saying. They must have followed you around. She is just like you.

Upon second viewing I could sort of see what he was talking about. Not just the forgetfulness. That I keep creating passwords and then forgetting them so that I can't get on my newly configured Airpot network, isn't what Alex noticed. The part that really got him, was that Dorie kept on singing, Keep on Swimming, even after Marlon, the daddy, told her to shh! and this is Alex's quintessential experience of me. That I keep on singing. In the super market, on Broadway, in the Video store, at work, on the bus, in public, in the shower. He believes me to be wildly inappropriate and out of control. I can see his point of view, although that is so not how I experience myself.

But what I was struck by the second time around, was that Dorie was totally in the moment. Partly because she didn't remember what had gone on seconds before. But partly because she was open to what she was experiencing in that moment. If they were riding the Austrailian current and a slew of baby turtles were playing hide and seek, she was right there. If they were caught in the whale's mouth, she was enjoying the ride, speaking whale to their host. Whatever life brought her she embraced, whole-heartedly. In that regard, I am afraid Alex is wrong. I am nothing like Dorie. And I'm not blue. And I don't have freckles. And I sing better than she does. Even if, in the end, I've got the words to the Good, the Bad and the Ugly all wrong. Maybe they do want that raincoat.

the good news

Before we split up, Susan used to read the news to me in the morning. Well, she didn't actually sit there and read to me. But as she read the Globe each morning, she'd gasp or wince or say "ohmygod" and I'd be forced to ask "what!?" and then she'd tell me. She'd synopsize most stories, unless it was particularly unbelieveable, in which case, she'd read the article or the offending portion to me. For 22 years, that's how I got my news. Through the lens of Susan I'd learn what was important, what was critical, who died, what I needed to worry about, what was tragic.

I'd catch the occasional snippet of news on TV, by accident, or on NPR while driving to or from work in the car, but my primary news souce was Susan. I was free to focus on the comics, my horoscope, the book reviews and maybe the arts section, more in concert with the bon-bon eating, dilettante persona I was perfecting, resting comfortably in the knowledge that Susan would feed me the news.

Since last September, I have been responsible for obtaining my own news. For a while, I picked up a free Globe and Times on my way into work. They were stacked in the basement level near the student activities desk, free, for the students. I ended up reading them a day late, because by the time I got them home at night, I was too tired to absorb much. And, besides, I'd gotten in the habit of taking my news with breakfast. Finally, I decided I needed my news the day it happened, not a day late, and broke down and ordered the Globe, home delivery. I get the Times headlines emailed to me daily, but it is the Globe I have with breakfast.

This year, on a whole the news has been very bad. The war(s), of course. The economy. SARS, famine, global warming, the Middle East. No news, or very little of it, is good news. However, this past week, was one of those weeks that made me glad I get a newspaper, glad I have become one who has the news with breakfast. First it was the front page article on Blogging. (BLOGS' SHAKE THE POLITICAL DISCOURSE , Published on July 23, 2003 by Joanna Weiss, Globe Staff). Even tho my blog is more likely to shake the plumbing discourse, I still felt like part of a movement. Like if I wanted to have an effect, at least I had this really cool vehicle. And I like the idea of political action, even if I don't seem to have the time or energy to actually live the life of an activist.

The next article that tickled my fancy was the one about the cell-phone mavin, Carol Page. (Now tell me that isn't her real name!) She's the self-appointed cell-phone etiquette-meister who even has a cell phone etiquette web site. There you can read an advice column, "Should I answer my cell at a funeral?" or be truly and deeply annoyed by dancing cell phones. Although I share with Ms. Page an abhorance of "cell yelling" I draw the line at her objection to the musical rings. I am always fascinated by which folks choose which rings. It reveals so much, don't you think? Another big objection Ms. Page raised was that people tend to talk about really personal things, too personal, she thinks, on their cell phones. All I can say is I rather enjoyed standing on line at the Broadway Market the other night listening to the woman next to me therapize her sister on her cell phone. It helped to pass the time. My own feelings about cell phones? I put off getting one as long as I could. I don't particularly want to be reachable at all times, to all people. But I love the fact that when Alex away at school or out late, I can always reach him! That is, unless he turns off his phone, his battery runs out, he leaves it in his other pants pocket or I get my signals crossed with a non-English speaking denizen of Manhattan.

So the news is mostly bad, and yet, despite everything, interesting. But today, the news was uplifting. Today, I learned that besides my health, there is something else to be thankful for: that I don't have paruresis, or shy bladder phobia. (Helping unlock the bathroom 'stall'; Research, seminars can cure shy-bladder phobia; By Kathleen Nelson, Globe Correspondent, 7/29/2003)

Yes I am neurotic, tending slightly towards full blown panic disorder and a little PTSS; I am deathly afraid of flying. But I am not afraid to pee in the vicinity of other people. In a public restroom, for example. Or in an apartment where others are present. I don't have to go off to a five day seminar where I hook up with a pee buddy and slowly, slowly let that person get closer and closer to me while I pee, potentially modifying my shy-bladder phobia. I'm not suggesting that I seek out situations in which I can pee in good company. But these long weeks, when my bathroom has remained torn apart from floor to ceiling, exposing the rusty innards of this aged house, when my upstairs neighbor telephones to tell me she can see into my shower, and I pee daily to strains of Jazz wafting up from the apartment below, I give thanks to the Globe for reminding me that life could always, always be worse.

day at the mall

Perhaps I shouldn't have been shocked to see all those humans in the mall on an incredibly lovely Sunday afternoon. I would have imagined that they'd rather be at the beach or rollerblading or playing softball with the team from the office. Before passing judgement, I considered that maybe they were there, like me, to get that one last peice of techno fluff that would make their lives perfect.

The principle of delayed gratifcation takes precedence over all. Alex and I had just discussed it that morning. We share the gene for this, saving our favorite snack, our favorite book, our favorite comic strip, for last. Otherwise, what is there to look forward to?

My list for Sunday went something like this: Old Navy, Sears, maybe Victoria's Secret and last, but certainly not least, the Apple store.

I had pants to return to Old Navy, in exchange for which I promised I would pick up a white tank top for Susan who inadvertantly ruined hers in the laundry. Since I lost my receipt, the young women at the check-out counter, where they conveniently handle returns, informed me that I could not exchange these for anything but the very same particular pants, which I no longer wanted. I could, however, get credit by mail.

What does credit by mail mean? I asked, genuinely frustrated and with the beginnings of the dreaded mall headache building up around the edges. The young women explained that they would send me a credit in the mail. Why they couldn't just give me the credit made no sense to me, but I accepted the Old Navy will, and went off to buy the tank tops. Bought two large white ribbed tank tops, (after calling Susan on my cell to confirm that was indeed the size she wanted) and headed to the opposite side of the mall from where Sears is located because my brain is old and addled and I can't remember where anything is anymore. When I got to the very end of the mall, passing, considering, but not entering Victoria's Secret, and found Best Buy, Borders, Filenes but no Sears, I turned round and making a second pass at Victoria's Secrets finally found Sears right back where I had started.

Men's department? I asked, thinking how odd it was that Alex is now a man. A man needing boxers. He agreed, finally, or maybe caved, is a more appropriate description of his acquiesence, to keep some underwear and socks at my house, so that he doesn't have to run "home" whenver he needs a change of clothes. Like a pack rat, I have hoarded tee shirts, hoping against hope that the more of his stuff that makes its way to my apartment, the more he would feel at home here.

The order was for boxers. They come in a package, he said. Plaid. I had no trouble finding the underwear section, but for some reason, the selection in his size was piddly. I finally found a package, medium, 34-36, plaid. Turquoise. Is my son man enough to wear turquoise plaid boxers? I doubted it. But they were all I could find. So I tucked them under my arm and moved on. On my way to the register, I came across another display, Hanes, this time, with manly man plaids: gray, black, navy, forest green and red. These are what Alex had in mind when he said plaid. I totally knew that. Yet when it came time to pay, I kept the turquoise ones, just in case.

By this time my headache was raging. I knew the only thing that would save me was a Starbucks Tazo Chai Creme Frappacino; a quick hit of caffeine for this non coffee drinking girl. Striding back to the far end of the mall, where I thought I remembered the Starbucks, I let my gaze wander towards one of the carts cluttering the ground floor of the mall, and caught the eye of an Israeli hawker.

I'm Shlomi, he tells me. What's your name? By this time he has my hand in his and he is asking me, are these your natural nails? Any fool can see that of course they are my natural nails: un-polished, un-manicured, short but not bitten to the quick: the nails of an artist. He tells me he is going to work magic on my nails. He points out ridges, which I cannot see, but he assures me are there, and the dull color of my nail. With a four-sided rectalinear shape he begins to alternately sand and buff my nails. I am fascinated by the various grades of this cubic nail file and by the attention my middle finger is getting. When he finishes buffing, he covers my nail with his finger so I cannot see the result. He tells me to remain calm, not to scream out it surprise when I see the huge difference that this process had made. I play along and promise that I will not scream. He removes his finger. It is all I can do to keep from screaming. There was my same old little fingernail, glistening a high gloss mall glisten.

He finished off this one finger manicure with some oil applied to my cuticles, (reminding me never to cut them) and a mini hand massage with cream scented like the ocean. For only $39 I was suckered into buying the whole shebang, and it was worth every penny. I had to draw the line, however, when he tried to get me to buy a second set with fresia scented cream for my mother and perhaps a third set would be free, with citrus scented cream, and didn't have I have friends who would appreciated the money they'd save on nail polish and manicures?

I didn't have the heart to tell him that no one, absolutely no one I know has manicures, except for my mother, and the whole point of it for her is to be done to, not to do. I was firm with him, only bought the one set and now with a steal band tightening around my head, I was desperate for my frozen drink.

With ice chai in hand I allowed myself, finally, the exquisite pleasure of entering the Apple store, knowing that I was going to buy. I circled the store once, taking in all the whiteness, the Ipods, the Imacs, the white display tables, the white wires and the sales folks standing out against all that white in their orange "camp" tee shirts. I didn't get the reference and I still don't so if any one wants to clue me in that would be fine.

However I did find a guy to whom I posed my Airport question. Can I, with my cable modem and my Imac, hook up the Airport base station so that I can use the new PBG4 wirelessly from my living room and still have my Imac in the bedroom access the internet? Without a router? Without a hub? The answer, he assured me, was yes. Cable modem in here, ethernet cable out there, printer in here, I hand him my credit card, and I am on my way to the parking garage, Airport base safely tucked into the wonderful white Apple shopping bag sporting the candy red apple logo.

Suddenly my headache is gone, I am slurping the dregs of my chai, and can't wait to get home, sit in my living room, thirty feet from my cable modem, open my PB and log on. When I get home Alex rejects the turquoise boxers with a big eye roll, tells me "They are turquoise!" when I present them to him, but suggests, slyly that they might look good on me. I think he might be right. And they will go smashingly with my newly buffed fingernails dancing happily in the ambient light atop the 17 inch PB's backlit keyboard. Life is rich.

come down from the ceiling

The start page in my Safari opens to a generic Apple/Netscape page. It is annoying at best, but it gives me the temperature, which like my good friend Annie, I need to know before I get dressed in the morning. I have just been too lazy to change it and I don't really have a favorite virtual place in which to begin my on-line day. This morning, a skull icon caught my eye. It was a link to the Lifeline Calculator,a little test to determine life expectancy. They asked the expected questions, how over weight are you, how long did your grandparents live, how often do you exercise, do you smoke? I was doin great until I came to the question about living. That is, with whom do you live?

Family, spouse, significant other? They didn't have a category for "living alone for nine months for the first time in twenty years" or for "my son lives with me two nights a week in the summer when he is home from college." The closest I could come in their multiple choice format was "living alone for less than ten years." With that, they predicted I will live to the ripe old age of 87. Then I tried it again, lied and said I lived with a significant other, I gained two whole years. It wasn't 10 years or twenty, but, all things being equal, living with family will add two years to your life. Two years, when faced with the end of life, is nothing to sneeze at.

On another note, the plumbers are back, but they broke with tradition and came while I was eating my breakfast yesterday. I say they, but there is really only one plumber, a short, sweet, plumber in his late sixties, who apologized for not returning my calls because he had nothing to tell me. He also promised to fix my shower, which currently pours torrents of water into the tub while at the same time a shower stream barely trickles from above. He also brought with him the carpenter, who loved my comic book shower curtain and is going to replace my missing walls and floor. But before he does that, they are still replacing piping and have now ripped out the pipe and a good chunk of the ceiling. There must be some synchronistic, Fung Shui meaning to all this, the walls of my inner sanctum being ripped away, exposing ancient, rusty pipes, peeling, rotted wall board and a view both downward to my neighbor's kitchen and upward into darkness. Not to mention what it is like to sit on my brand spankin new toilet and wonder who can hear me going about my business...no I won't mention that. But what does it all mean? Is it a reflection of some inner renovation? And when it is all put back together will I love my solitude so much, that I won't mind losing those two years?

those dern plumbers

I should have guessed it from the jug of Ice-Melt crystals in the center of the vestibule. I opened the door and there it was, even tho it is the middle of the July, long since our walk was icy. And I knew it wasn't there when I left for work yesterday morning. Somewhere in the recesses of my end of the day mind was the thought, door-stop. Somebody used the Ice-Melt crystals to hold the door open for them, while they went in or out, perhaps carrying heavy objects. I returned the jug to its rightful place beside the radiator and trudge upstairs. It was Alex this time that had to use the bathroom.

Both of us stood staring at the new toilet. Alex with bemusement and I with unbearable sorrow. It is not a bad toilet It is white white, with a small snug plastic seat. But it was only when I saw this new fixture in my old bathroom that I realized how much pleasure I got from the shape of the my old toilet's bowl. It isn't anything one would ordinarily pay much attention to or even talk about. But I loved my ole' toilet's bowl: classic, round, perfect. And I didn't even have a chance to photograph it seriously or, sadly, to say goodbye. And the secret and unexpected visits from the plumber when I am not here, make me nervous. Not to mention the unsightly hole that still remains in my wall (see "renting" in side bar) and the new hole left by the removal of my taller, more stately old toilet.

Truro

Made it to Truro after 9 last night, went straight to bed. Awake this morning to the usual wonderful chorus of birds. Deep sigh of relief. I am not online so I will have to write here on a 17 inch G4PB that Bri and I liberated from the helpdesk before I left Boston. Trying to get used to the lovely thing on my lap, in bed, where I plan to do lots of work on this honey in the coming months-presuming that I get my acceptance letter any day now. However, the cool country air and the banging of the June bugs did not preclude a techo-lusters nightmare. I had cracked the PB and was showing it to Susan. She clumsily dropped it off of the counter where we had placed it and now it was dangling by its power cord. ( kinda like my bike was dangling off of the new bike rack I purchased, right around the Plymouth exit on route 3.) When we rescued it from its fall, several of the keys had sproinged off and a whole section of the keyboard had come unhinged. When we tried to fix it we discovered this section contained 10 teeny tiny drawers, for storage. In the uppermost drawer, number 10, we found several compartments. In one of the compartments was a whole assortment of teeny tiny ink bottles, which I assumed, in the dream, went into the internal printer of the powerbook. Susan’s response was that she had been looking for that teeny tiny drawer ever since she got her PB. She needed it to store her things. There were other dreams about missing trains and chasing Alex and Susan’s sister-in-law already assembling all the Chanukah presents in August: purple glass letters that spelled out their names, but the PB dream was the one that made me laugh.

renting

So, I come home from work yesterday, beat. The bus was late, and then I got snagged at the Bread and Circus by a homeless woman I used to take Tai Chi classes with. She starts ranting about A., my friend and Tai Chi teacher. Tells me he's got a brain tumor and she can heal him but his friends don't want her to and so they took his voice away, and he can't express himself, can only say what they want him to say. I am trying to be polite and listen to her madness, but have to run. I make it home with barely three minutes before I need to leave for my acupuncture appointment. And I've got to pee really bad. I dash up the stairs, unlock the door and leap into the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I breathe a sigh of relief -sigh- until I turn my head to look at the wall to my right. Where there used to be a sweet little yellow ocher panelled wall and just the perfect sized shelf for my toiletries, is now a gaping hole. I can see pipes that were put in before the revolution. And some brand new copper piping---obviously the reason behind the demolition.

So what I want to know is how come it is okay for the plumber to saunter into my apartment when I am not there, not even alert me and do away with my wall. Isn't that against the law or something? Or is it because I don't have a lease and pay hardly any rent, that I have no rights as a tenant?

But more importantly, how come, when I got home today, the cavernous hole was still there?

Check it out...