Plunder Woman, Here to Reap and Pillage

Few things are as tempting as a silver plate of fudge samples found unexpectedly at the register of a small-town specialty shop. How loudly the marbled slivers call to us, “Take me,” until we are finally willing to feign the sheepish grin at the teenage clerk and then go in for the kill. Nothing is worse in that moment, standing before a closely-attended sample display, than discovering the absence of the tiny glass toothpick keg. Do I take with my fingers? Are the morsels spaced far enough apart so that I won’t accidentally nudge a second piece with an errant knuckle or fingernail? And then, when you have consumed the spot of divinity placed there just for you, you raise your eyebrows to the clerk and say “hmm.” There’s a slight pause before she hits the total button on the cash register, just after realizing you’re not buying. Only the most audacious among us will, after taking our paper bag of postcards from her hands, go in for the second hit, holding the bit up to her momentarily in silent thanks...though I have seen it done.

Even better is the discovery of the well-hidden, unattended sample platter. A bowl of pulverized peanut brittle or strong, grainy mustard. A mirrored tray of candied nuts whose fresh, warm cousins are churning away just inches behind the glass barrier of the roasting machine. A suggestively open jar of black bean salsa, welcoming, almost daring, an assault of tiny round corn tortilla chips. The experience of sampling, of boldly taking what is not mine, is delicate and intimate and some kind of intrepid. It is the thrill of committing a crime I would never venture, the pretension of indulging in a boutique commodity I can scarcely afford.

Entering a gourmet food shop feels as if the world is throwing a tapas party in my honor. I suppress the urge to crack my knuckles loudly before I begin but quickly find myself moving through each station like Templeton conquering the heaps of edible refuse left over at the fair. Like a gracious dinner guest, I do not turn up my nose at the ones whose descriptions sound unpalatable. Free from the self-conscious inhibitions borne of being watched, I plunge pretzel sticks into every single jam and jelly. I pop a large green wasabi almond and chase it with a paper pill cup of hot mulled cider, shaking out every last drop as if I were standing in the shadow of Jim Jones himself. In the course of ten minutes I take the unassuming little shop for all it’s worth and walk out gnawing a toothpick to splinters. It is pedestrian and legal and even expected behavior, but I revel in an illusion of aggression and dominance, as if I am sneaking out in the early morning hours knowing I will never call.


My favorite places for free samples in Vermont:

Harvest Bread Company, Burlington, VT
The generous slice of wholesome, often-warm bread, accompanied by softened VT Butter and Cheese Co. butter, does not make up the for the exorbitantly-priced loaves…but it comes close.

Cold Hollow Cider Mill, Waterbury, VT
Fresh cider in Dixie cups. A round trough of mustards, jams, jellies to be tasted atop common crackers.

Stowe Mercantile, Stowe, VT
Jams, jellies, salsas, hummus, candied nuts abound.

Vermont Country Store, Weston, VT
An assortment of jams, sweets and cheeses to nibble on and sundry eclectic items to look at.

Cabot Cheese Outlet, Waterbury, VT
Gorge on cheese cubes to your heart’s content. Pop a handful of cheddar cheese shake popcorn on your way in, and on your way out.

Dakin Farms, Ferrisburgh, VT
Smoked cheeses and meats, maple products, salsas, fudge…bring a bib and enjoy.

Jean-Talon Market, Montreal, QC (okay, a short drive from VT)
A feast for foraging fruitarians, this market has lovely displays of fresh fruit samples at each of the hundreds of vendors that sell imported fruits and veggies seven days a week. And although you’ll have to pay for it, the freshly boiled corn-on-the-cob is worth its weight in gold.

Off to See The Wizard

This weekend we traveled some roads oft-taken (Interstate 89 and highways 100 & 108), and also discovered some new old haunts. Vermont promised to be in “peak color” following several weeks of abruptly crisp fall air and months of summer rain. As we do every Saturday from May to October, we began the weekend at the Burlington Farmer’s Market. As always, I had 2 broccoli samosas for lunch, and Matea had a veggie samosa and a Folk Foods “Bennie” bagel sandwich. We walked over to Mirabelle’s afterward to share a snack while we waited for the Flynn box office to open. We bought tickets to our perennial favorites in live theater, Winter Tales and A Christmas Carol. We’ll get tickets to The Nutcracker and an off-Broadway production of Annie when they go on sale later this month.

By the time we left the box office, a light rain and nasty cloud cover were again threatening our plans for viewing Vermont’s own seasonal spectacular, Foliage on the Mount. But after another hour or better, the clouds began to move out to the east. From the top floor of our house, I could see blue skies over the Adirondacks. So we hopped in the car and made our first new discovery of the weekend: Lake Iroquois. Unbeknownst to us, this beautiful lake is a mere 6 miles from our home. The sun shone fully for the first time in the day, and we took a group photo with the lovely red and yellow hues surrounding the lake. We saw a blue heron basking in the sun at water’s edge and a golden retriever joyfully bathing itself in a large mud puddle.

We then proceeded down I-89 to Stowe, where, we discovered, all the peepers in the state were undoubtedly also converging. After moving through Waterbury at a snail’s pace, we by-passed Stowe and a long line of crawling traffic and headed on our own to Lake Mansfield. The lake itself was, honestly, unimpressive, but the drive along the Little River, with surprise cascades and roadside waterfalls, was a great hit. There at the base of Mount Mansfield, we were also surrounded by lovely late yellows and oranges. Afterwards we rejoined the mob of visitors on Rt. 108. We noted license tags from all over the U.S. and felt a spot of pride as Vermonters, as if every towering maple were our own.

As we continued over the notch and through Jeffersonville and Underhill, the colors were dazzling as promised, though many of the early reds had faded in the higher elevations. As we drew closer to home, though, the colors became much brighter and more vibrant. In Essex Junction, every fifth tree seemed set afire. I would venture to say that the spits and flashes of color on our most familiar streets, close to home, were more appreciated than the grand vistas of color, range after range, we had seen elsewhere. (Matea had described a predominantly yellow and green mountainside in Underhill as resembling “bad broccoli.”) At some point, maybe, the dazzle of large-scale color began to suffer diminishing returns. But Lake Iroquois, where we spent only a brief moment, had been superb. The individual maples along West Street in Essex Junction were unparalleled.

We had spent the day focusing on the summit only to discover that, right now, the grass is sublimely green right here in the valley.

Wicked Bunch of Crazies

Today I attended the protest in front of Allen House/UVM Hillel put on by the Phelps family of Topeka, Kansas’s Westboro Baptist Church. I have seen the WBC in the news often, picketing the funerals of fallen soldiers, Jewish community centers and synagogues, and anything having to do with gay rights. This morning I got to face Shirley Phelps-Roper, the church protestors’ new ring leader, first-hand. Since I was attending on official UVM business, our encounter began and ended at the release of my camera’s shutter. There are scores of blogs, newspaper articles, videos, etc. that decry this organization’s hate-spewing messages, so I will not expostulate on it here. I believe the pictures will speak for themselves. (Click on any photo to view full size.)


The WBC brought a grand total of five protesters (all members of the Phelps family), ranging from Shirley (50) to Luke (7), her 11th child. As far as I can tell, they (and GOD) hate gays, women, Jews, Obama, Israel, America...and burgers.




Shirley Phelps-Roper. She said some of the most vile things to those who approached her. Their objective is to provoke the love? protesters, and it is incredible the vitriol that she could spew on command. Good thing the opposing sides were separated by the widest section of South Prospect Street. Shirley led the group in a rousing, rewritten version of John Denver's "Country Roads," replacing "country road, take me home" with "filthy Jew (where's the cash?!), God hates you..." They also chanted other perennial favorite slogans such as "God Hates Fags!" and "America is Doomed!"


The saddest sight of the day, since most of the peace-loving student crowd was wholly unaffected by these wing-nuts, was poor little Luke Phelps, age 7, who stood throughout the rally taking still pictures and video.


This man dressed as Jesus, who was apparently present 10 years ago when the group was in town protesting, stood close to the WBC and verbally challenged them throughout the event. He said the group was much smaller in numbers than they were a decade ago; he hopes, in 10 more years, no one will be left but the child.


On the other side of South Prospect, the mood was decidedly lighter and the crowd was much larger. The group, mostly composed of students, held signs, blew bubbles, and cheered as cars drove by and honked with enthusiasm.


And they chanted. "We say no to hate and fear; Westboro's not welcome here!" "Bigots, bigots, go away! You can't spread your hate today!"


"Gay, straight, black, white--marriage is a civil right!"


Many signs were specific that Vermont does not stand for hate. There's a reason we're here.


"Stop the hate! Stop the hate!" "United against hate! United against hate!" Even from the south side of the street, where the WBC was standing, the chants of the Burlington community members easily drowned out those of the 5 "crazies."


After all was said and done, this group, who has been blasted by religious and secular organizations alike, did little to put a damper on the rightful celebrations of same-sex couples who, as of today, have been granted the freedom to marry for the first time in our state. This couple, and others, were unabashed in their affection before the WBC protesters. Raucous cheers were heard from the student side as a couple crossed South Prospect hand-in-hand.


I will take this opportunity to write an op-ed for the Diversity Task Force newsletter, Diversity Times. As suggested in my quickly-made sign, it's clear that "tolerance" and "acceptance" are not enough to combat the venomous hatred that this group so brazenly displays, or the insidious squeamishness that lies dormant in those who are less vocal. Marginalized groups, our friends, families, and supporters, must be just as brazen with our love as they are their hate.

Happy Marriage Equality Day!

You Grow It, I’ll Habit

I have a confession to make, blog world. Matea and I have been making “deals” on the side in order to feed our addictions and hedonistic cravings. That’s right, we needed a fix. So a couple of weeks ago we met up with an elderly Hungarian woman named Gita, whom a friend told us about, at her home in South Burlington. A number of other strange characters were coming in and out of the house as we approached the door. She greeted us warmly and welcomed us in to view the goods she had precisely portioned out on a scale in her garage earlier that morning. She had brought it in from somewhere in New Jersey the night before.

“Are you Matea?” she said in a thick Hungarian accent. Matea smiled nervously and said yes. I stood near the door as another “customer” walked out, calling behind him, “Danke schön!” My excitement was growing; I hadn’t been able to partake since my college days, nearly six years ago now. After a few pleasantries, money exchanged hands and I was on my way out with the high-quality stuff we had scored.

As soon as we got home, we hid most of it away in a black box. The next morning I prepared a small portion for consumption, removing the stems, etc. I was both giddy and nervous, hoping that the experience would be as good as I had remembered. I could smell the familiar earthy sweetness as I brought it to my mouth. I closed my eyes and took a hit, and it was utter perfection, exactly as I dreamed it would be. It was sweet, satisfying...and a little fuzzy. It was a peach.

Indeed, New Jersey was the last place I imagined getting a peach as good as the ones grown in South Carolina, and I had especially never thought I would meet up with some Hungarian stranger to buy them in 25-pound batches. But it proved to be more than worth it. They were of the perfect consistency, with perfect shape and color. For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been taking four at a time out of the fridge (black box) and letting them ripen to perfection in the kitchen window sill. By now, we are towards the end of the batch and will have to wait another year before Gita and her daughter make the trek down to Jersey and again fill their SUV with crates of the delicate fruit. Until now, it’s been impossible to find an edible peach in Vermont. They’re all tasteless, mushy, or hard. I’m so glad we now have a dealer we can trust.

In that same vein (ok, enough drug references), I’ve also been in contact this week with Hank at Lewis Creek Farm in Starksboro. They’re going to deliver us seven flats of delectably sweet red and yellow cherry tomatoes at the Burlington Farmer’s Market on Saturday. That’s eighty-four pints of tomatoes, and we still need to search for a few more flats of Sun Golds (yellow) to even out the mix. If all goes well, we’ll have over 100 pints of tomatoes this weekend to be cooked down slowly into a confit that Matea makes. It is a deceptively simple mixture of halved cherry tomatoes, fresh garlic and basil, olive oil, a pinch of chili flakes, and a splash of balsamic vinegar, baked for about two hours on low heat until much of the moisture is gone. Served over pasta, it is arguably one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. We make big batches in the summer to last us through the rest of the year.

Hopefully there will also be time to find more sweet corn before winter. The best I’ve had so far this year came from Adam’s Farm Market, at the junction of Mountain View and Old Stage roads in Williston. It was super plump and sweet, and multi-colored the way I like it. Adams also has cut your own flowers available (beautiful Zinnias) and other delicious fruits and veggies grown right there in their garden. I ate nearly a quart of their fresh strawberries the other night, and they were also the best I’ve had this year.

If the forecasters are wrong this weekend like they were last, you will find us in downtown Burlington this Saturday afternoon getting our fix along with the rest of the fresh-food junkies in City Hall Park. The farmer’s market is by far our favorite activity in the summertime. It’s an opportunity for some interesting people watching, a chance to see your neighbors and community members...and their dogs. I love seeing the fresh veggies and growers who show up with dirt under their nails, having just picked my dinner from the field that morning. It is a rare opportunity for a direct connection, and it gives us a real appreciation for what we’re bringing to the table. Last week, in addition to other crops from other vendors, we bought sweet onions (delicious on the grill), carrots, broccoli, leeks, squash, and zucchini from Full Moon Farm, which is owned by Chittenden County Representative David Zuckerman (the Progressive who, incidentally, introduced the marriage equality bill that will take effect this coming Monday, September 1) and his wife Rachel Nevitt. How “Vermont” is that! And an especially rare case of mutual support and symbiosis among community members.

And for my friends who think the prices are just a tad high, here’s an interesting tidbit from another blog on economics:

A recent Oregonian article on the high prices at Farmers Markets raises an interesting question: just what are you paying for? The Oregonian article focuses on the high prices charged at the market and how this compares to CSAs and supermarkets. There is a long discussion of what the prices actually reflect, yet, interestingly, the discussion fails to mention (or at least explicitly couch it in terms of) the basic economic concept of supply and demand.

The demand for farmer's markets comes from people who want to consume the food that can be purchased there, but it also comes from the desire to attend an enjoyable open air market, to interact with the people responsible for growing the food, to be able to select the best possible quality and to support local agriculture.

On the supply side, the cost of providing produce to a farmer's market can be higher because of a lack of effectively taking advantage of scale efficiencies, cost of time and transport to attend the market and the extra cost of selecting the highest quality from among your crops.

Put these two together and there is little mystery why farmer's market prices are higher in equilibrium than in a supermarket, and nothing sinister either: What we pay for as consumers is a lot more than just a commodity.

Hope to see you all at a local market (or in Jersey!)...Bon appétit!

That to Which I Perspire

The temperatures have been rising into the 90s this week in Vermont. Here in the Northeast, where no one seems to appreciate central air conditioning, the heat tends to creep into the house like a fog that doesn’t lift for days on end. I have never been one for summertime, with the breath-sucking humidity, the shocking brightness and the unbearable scorch of the sun. I dread the scourge of biting insects and colorful outdoor event invitations that accompanies the first May heat wave. “Come languish in my backyard for the better part of the afternoon!” “Join us for a dip in our wonderful new (urine-filled cess)pool, with singed meat and boisterous conversation to follow!”

I am the Scrooge of summer.

As a child, I would play outside all day long, despite suffering from “heat migraines” on particularly sweltering days. Occasionally I would come inside, dirt on my bare feet and calves like a henna tattoo, for glasses of ice water to cool off, but most days my mother had to call and call for me to come in at dusk. My grandmother’s house had no air conditioning, and I spent countless hours with my face pressed against the metal grill of the electric fan, or twirling a wet washcloth in the air and then pressing it to my eyes and forehead. There, the preferred activity of my cousins and me was to “play in the hose pipe.” We started off filling a baby pool with water, which was sufficient enough for a half an hour of splashing around, until the Southern sun would begin to poach us like so many dressed hens. A fresh stream of cool water was soon necessary, so we would turn the hose back on and lay back and let the warm water overflow the sides all around us until the pool felt fresh again. Then, after another half hour, when we grew tired of simmering in a cartoon-covered pool now filled with dirt and grass clippings like a broth of cooking herbs, we turned the hose on full-time. We covered the nozzle with our thumbs and power-sprayed each other in the face. We would arc the water into the sky to make rainbows, put the hose down our bathing suits, lean over and let water flow into our mouths and fall out again, spray down the windows and all the cars, the dog…until the entire backyard was flooded with wasted water and mud. Then, in the tamed heat of the late afternoon, we would bike and scooter and dig in the dirt until our bathing suits were dry.

As an adult, I find no such novel remedy when the temperature rises. Now, like then, I am cursed in the heat with a very, very red face. Extremely red, like my cheeks might break out into blisters at any moment. I cannot escape this, and no cool cloth or iced drink will remedy it. At the slightest bit of physical exertion in summer weather, I begin to feel my heartbeat in my face, like mercury surging through a thermometer, my head the red, bulbous tip about to burst for lack of an outlet. I become physically drained, sometimes nauseated, and have the constant sensation of someone breathing on me, hot, hot breath all around me. My one objective these days is to lessen the time I spend between my air conditioned car and my air conditioned bedroom. In the afternoon, after walking the dogs in the direct sun, I want only to retreat upstairs, toss my damp clothing into a pile, and sprawl out underneath the ceiling fan. Luckily, in Vermont, snow flurries are always right around the bend!

But Scrooge is meant, at the end of the story, to find some level of appreciation for that which he has come to detest in his jaded old age. And since I am the Scrooge of summer, it was only a matter of time before I had my own Tiny Tim moment. Last night, because we felt like cockroaches being bombed out of our own mega-hot home, we decided to dine out on the back deck, which is shaded by the shadow of the house in the evening time. The temps were still in the mid-80s as I stood over a hot grill to prepare two very delicious small pizzas (tomato/garlic/basil/asiago and pesto/sundried tomato). My feet were swimming in my Crocs. My face was a glistening crimson, of course. Sweat was permeating every inch of my clothing and cascading down over my temples like a Mad TV skit. But at some point, the eastern sky turned a brilliant golden color. I looked out over my yard—weeds are taking over everywhere—and felt the most gentle breeze. I questioned whether it was a breeze at all, certainly not something to move the hair matted to my forehead, but it was definitely not “hot, hot breath.” As beads of sweat rolled downwards from my fiery face, I was filled with a sense of myself and my body. I felt a tickle on the nape of my neck and in the small of my back. Perhaps in a heat-driven delusion, the ghosts of my past, present and future rushed over me. I appreciated where I had been and where I am headed. Two days before, this yard had been graced with its own plastic pool, and my friends’ toddlers laughed with delight as they dipped toes and faces into the water. I envisioned my own children someday muddying the yard and spraying down our unsuspecting pugs.

Matea and the dogs appeared at the sunroom window, and a feeling of satisfaction and contentment for the present moment came over me like a gulf stream of fresh water from the hose. We slid the cooler, still filled with ice from the weekend barbecue, between two opposing camping chairs and ate the grilled pizzas and watermelon as the sun set. I didn’t smack one mosquito, and never once sighed with exhaustion. I knew, when the winter comes, I will long for the intimacy of sweat evaporating into the summer night.

VH-1 Behind the Music: Learning to Sing Joni

May for us was a month of focusing on one thing and forgetting everything else. Since we closed on the house April 30th and began renovating May 1st, everything from birthdays to anniversaries to dear friendships has gone virtually uncelebrated or unattended. We were literally more involved with choosing a toilet lever than we were in acknowledging our 14-year anniversary on May 30th. And, obviously, I have seriously neglected my poor blog, having spent too much time in work boots and not enough going barefoot. So, in a month when I slipped one year closer to “old age,” and my relationship progressed further into its teenage years, why not a retrospective on a time when “we” were teens and “WE” was in its infancy. Even if this “happy anniversary” to Matea is off schedule, at least it’s under budget!

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At some point in the late 80s/early 90s, my Dad decided to convert our family to a country music household. I resisted as much as I could at the time, holding firm to my beloved Debbie Gibson, Wilson Phillips, Whitesnake, et al; but after a couple of months of car trips featuring The Judds, Reba, and Travis Tritt, the twangy, story-telling tunes somehow managed to endear themselves to me. So by the time Matea and her family had made their way south from West Virginia, the year before we met, I was pretty much as honkey-tonk as they come. She says one of her earliest memories of me (other than my being generally obnoxious) was my singing Garth Brooks’s “Calling Baton Rouge” in the hallway of our junior high school. My earliest memory is having French class with her. My French name was Gabriella, and I think hers was Elise...Estelle...Monique? I can’t remember. But anyway, we were assigned to do a skit together on the topic of getting ready for bed. So we showed up that day decked out in pajamas and got up in front of the class to recite phrases like “je me brosse les dents, je prends une douche, je dorm,” etc. This initial collaboration somehow parlayed itself into a second later in the year. We were dismissed early from same French class to an end-of-year auction for participants in a program called Accelerated Reader. We had accumulated “dollars” over the school year by reading books and taking tests on the computer. Although I don’t remember our being the closest of companions at this point, we ended up pooling our resources in order to augment our bidding power. Who knew that would be our first foray into acquiring communal property? At the end of the day, I think we left with a Zip-Loc bag full of candy and a Santa Clause toilet seat cover which I gave to my grandmother. I was 13 then.

Nearly a year later, we had become slightly better acquainted. The passing of my grandfather in late November of 1994, however, had a profound effect on my life. It shocked me to realize that even family was not permanent. Matea was the first person I told about it at school, in English class. I wrote my first poems that December, and the period of angst and grunge had officially begun. Matea’s compassion during a tough time had galvanized our friendship, though, and I started walking to her house after school. My mom would pick me up around 5 each day, so for a good hour or two, we had time to eat frozen pizzas from the microwave, watch trash tv, annoy her sisters, etc. But mostly we listened to music. She had one Trisha Yearwood cd and one Garth Brooks greatest hits, but otherwise her collection was like a whole new world of unfamiliar musical territory. I had never been exposed to Little Feat, Steely Dan, Amy Grant (ha ha), Cat Stevens, John Prine, and especially not her favorite, Joni Mitchell. By this time, as necessitated by my new grungy modus operandi, I had begun listening to top 40 and alternative radio. Most of the classic rock was a familiar enough approximation to or amalgamation of the hair bands/pop country/alternative rock of my past and present. But Joni Mitchell, with her high-pitched singer-songwriter style, was enough to pierce my eardrums and send me running from the room. But as a much more mature 15-year-old, I learned to bear it somehow and began to break myself in on the folksy soprano, starting with “Big Yellow Taxi.” I sat in the floor of Matea’s bedroom listening to the track over and over until I got the words down. Sing-alongs were important. We routinely sat in front of the boom box for hours, belting out everything from Bonnie Rait to The Offspring. Over the next year or two, both Joni and Matea, had found a place in my soul. I had nailed the high-octave “Pleeeeease” at the end of “Big Yellow Taxi” and mastered most of the songs on both Ladies of the Canyon and Blue.

Fast forward: before we knew it, we were graduating from high school a year early and heading off to Clemson, then graduating and moving to Vermont, and now settling into our first house. Even after 15 years, it seems like we’re just getting started. We were lucky to have had so many years of practice, collaborating, pooling resources, helping each other through hardships. I have learned to have true compassion, conviction, and trust. But most importantly, no matter what we’ve gone through together since she first played “Big Yellow Taxi” for me, I’ve always remembered to savor the high notes.

“Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine. You taste so bitter, and so sweet. Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling, and I would still be on my feet. Oh I would still be on my feet.”

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

A Note From the Eternal Applicant

In case you haven’t heard yet, we are closing on the Pleasant Acres house on April 30th! (If you have any empty boxes, send ‘em my way!) During this process, I’ve realized how much of my life has involved striving for acceptance. Even my rebellious teenage antics worked to grant me general acceptance among many high school peer groups, although I’d say I never achieved a “full membership” in any of them. I studied for 11 years in order to be accepted to college (and no one’s even heard of Clemson up here!!). Matea and I left the South in search of acceptance and inclusion, put our best selves forward in interviews in order to impress potential employers. And here we find ourselves again, relieved at having won the approval of our lender, keeping our fingers crossed also that the inspector approves of our home’s imperfections tonight. There’s a lot of impressing to manage! I honestly don’t know how people of faith can do it, to have that omnipresent judgment and ire “hanging over them,” as it were. Not that I wouldn’t “pass” in that regard, too, I suppose, but good grief.

Well, hope you weren’t expecting too much from this blog entry. Wasn’t in the mood to impress. If disappointed, unsubscribe now. ;)

Pleasant Acres

So we’ve begun the stomach-churning process of looking for a house. You have no idea how many spreadsheets we’ve made and pored over in the past two weeks. It looks like, if everything works out, we may end up making an offer on the first and only home we’ve actually taken a look at (pictured above). We’re going today to see some undoubtedly-inferior dwellings, just to be certain our liking of this house was really love at first sight and not just a one-night stand. The minute I envisioned myself getting tea from the fridge at midnight in my underwear, I knew it would be hard for another place to win me over. I know, the name makes it sound like we’d be moving into a retirement community, but from what we can tell, there are actually a good number of young families there. So, wish us luck that on our second date (we’re seeing the house again tonight) we don’t start noticing a bunch of wrinkles and belches.

A Snarky Remarky

Vermont’s governor, Jim Douglas, has recently proposed making the state’s motor vehicle inspection a bi-yearly, rather than yearly, requirement. Coming from a state that long since did away with such requirements, I think this is one good step toward eliminating a purely-unnecessary, revenue-generating, quasi-bureaucratic, corrupt racket that is sanctioned by this state. Here’s the story of my first VT state motor vehicle inspection.

In 2003, Matea and I were more than happy to get all of our official Vermont documentation, including driver’s license, registrations, tags, and anything else that meant we were bona fide residents of the state. After acquiring a boastfully thick folder of documentation, we had left only to inspect the two cars. Now, limping Matea’s Taurus named “Turtle” from SC to VT was a story of its own—I drove it from PA to VT with the brake lights stuck in the on position— but Matea had been able, quite amazingly, to make this repair by herself in our driveway. So we were certain that these two competent, well-traveled sedans would gain the good favor of any inspector who took a good look at their unmentionables. So, I picked the first authorized inspector in the book: A. Brown Automotive. Several hours after dropping the car off, Mr. Brown called me back to say that, prior to passing inspection, I would need several hundred dollars more in diagnostics to reveal the reason for my check engine light’s being illuminated. I politely informed him that I had memorized the entire inspection manual before bringing my car to him and that, according to section so-and-so, vehicles manufactured before 1996 are not subject to the engine light diagnostic rule. After a slight pause, this monumental a-hole A. Brown snarkily responded, “well, maybe you should become an inspector, then.” The nerve! I calmly asked him to cease and desist in working on my car and told him that I would be there promptly to pick it up. Now, in this state, even when the car “fails” inspection, you still have to pay for the time the highly-qualified master mechanics spent checking it out. Fair enough. But Mr. Brown’s snotty satisfaction with this fact soon turned to glowering disgust when I slapped down my $10 off phone book coupon to bring the total for my troubles down to a mere $5. Take that, A. Wipe!

My second attempt was with a chain I knew, Meineke Car Care (because I trust their spokesman George Foreman implicitly). I pre-paid my $19 and talked the engine light rule over with the lead mechanic. We were on the same page when I left the shop. Alas, several hours later I received the call of death. The clear plastic on the headlights was a little too cloudy for their liking. $600 for new plastic or we would fail again. Mind you, Matea and I came up here directly after college, with no jobs, living on nothing but love and fresh air. We didn’t have the money to go around to every shop in the state to find an honest inspector, let alone to pay for new glasses or exploratory surgeries for our auto-children!! So we left again with no yellow sticker.

I had become frustrated, exhausted, cheated, decapitated...wait... I realized that I was at the mercy of “state-authorized” inspectors whose true first objective was to make money on questionable repairs. Twenty-four dollars in the hole, I made a few more phone calls and found one last shop that had cheap hourly labor rates. I crossed my fingers that they would not be such money grubbing criminals as the last two proprietors I had visited. To my utter joy, after just 30 minutes in the waiting room, I was informed that my baby had finally received the gold star of acceptance. I had but one hurdle to cross before she could don the brilliant yellow number 8 like the rest of her peers. Her front license plate had been riding in the back seat for weeks, as there was no holder for it on my front bumper. In good ole SC, we didn’t have a front license plate required by the state; although, if you loved Jesus, college football, or bass fishing, there did seem to be some requisite plateage for that. But here in Vermont, they like to have every chance at catching the bad guys (I think there are actually 6 bad guys in this state), so we must attach the reflective green identifiers to both ends of our vehicles. So rather than forking over another $15 for them to attach it for me, I knelt down in the greasy gravel of the Burlington Muffler and Brake parking lot and drove two large screws through my pristinely virgin front bumper. This was surprisingly difficult, given the fact that I had no starter holes and I was using a “chubby” (i.e. 3-inch-long) screw driver. Some of you know how red my face can get when I’m very hot or aggravated, so by the time I got back to my feet, front license crookedly but acceptably installed, the combination of the two had brought my cheeks to a hue much like Tammy Faye’s Sunday morning lipstick. Nevertheless, my zippy ‘94-model 626 and I were finally all official-like and on our way home for some much-needed r&errr...vodka. (Tip: I now patronize Champlain Valley Auto on the corner of Williston Rd. and Industrial Ave., where they give quick and trustworthy fifteen-dollar inspections.)

So, in case this entry isn’t already long and boring enough, and in case you all need my perspective on a few more VT driving nuisances, here are a couple of others that come to mind. Is it a law that Vermont parking lots have only one or very few exits? I have been trapped in these asphalt labyrinths for minutes on end before finally finding my way out. For instance, there’s only one exit from Price Chopper on Shelburne Rd., one way out of Linen’s N Things and the Hannaford-Bed Bath and Beyond complex in Williston. If they’re going to make exiting retail outlets so difficult, they could at least be as courteous as the British and throw in a couple of signs that say “Way Out.” Also, why can’t the state trust me to turn left at an intersection with a light? I often find myself idling, alone at the intersection, in one of two situations. The left-hand turn arrow is red but the straight lanes of traffic on my side are green, with no traffic coming in either direction. Or, the lights in all four directions are red, seemingly forever, while the pedestrian walk light chirps cheerily, presumably for all the lost (and blind) ghost men of our childhood kickball games, since there’s no visible human within a mile radius of the crosswalk. If I can use my judgment in turning left along the rest of a 4-lane road, why not at a green light, too? I don’t need a little arrow to tell me the next fleet of on-coming Subarus is still 600 feet away!!

I hate to gripe (actually, you all know I love griping more than almost anything) but really...oh, and one more thing: who’s ever heard of a “jug handle”?

P.S.
This is a much longer story that I’m sure none of you wants to hear (much like the post above), but I thought I may as well issue a caveat emptor while I was on the subject of cars. I am much enamored with my Belle, a 2005 Malibu Maxx LT. I wouldn’t say I was overly-thrilled to be purchasing a Chevy as my first new car, but Belle is special, and everyone who rides in her comments on her mien and temperament. Anyway, to make a long story short, I had a still-unidentified problem with the transmission and neither Chevrolet nor the dealership that did all of my warranty work would stand by the car. After hours and hours and hours on the phone and in person, I (i.e my mechanically-knowledgeable father) got the dealership to cap my financial obligation at $400 (I should have paid nothing). So, my warning is that Chevrolet will not stand by its product. But in particular, Shearer Chevrolet on Shelburne Road has the worst, most incompetent service writers and mechanics that I have ever encountered (they once left a piece of pizza on my engine block during a simple oil change). I believe they outright lie, and I would not purchase a car there if you can help it. Ok, enough car talk.

Gay Tax We Paid This Year

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One thousand, eight hundred dollars.

Thanks, federal government!

Embarrassing Admission #49

When I was 11, my family built a house and moved from our kid-packed neighborhood out to the middle of the country. Before we began construction, we spent countless, intolerable hours (for a kid) “visiting the property.” I suppose my parents were surveying the 38 acres for a perfect building spot, etc., but my brother and I cared nothing for those details. We explored all the woods and streams there were to see and tried to keep ourselves occupied. We shot fire ant hills with our sling shots. One night—I don’t know where Charlie was—out of boredom, I thought it would be a good idea to play with the mace in my mother’s purse. Pretty soon…yes, you guessed it. It ended the only way it could have, with me accidentally spraying myself in the face. I have to give it to myself, though. I bore it in silence, and my mom didn’t find out until many years later.

I suffered other impunities while waiting around there at “the property,” but those shall be revealed in future entries.

How to Penetrate a Pool of Agar Agar-Firmed Panna Cotta

Dinner was prepared for me last night by a dear friend/family member/acquaintance/stranger (ambiguity protects anonymity). It was delicious: fake meatballs and brown gravy over brown basmati rice with maple sugar and peppered asparagus. For dessert, this lovely person had prepared an Italian specialty of vegan panna cotta covered with a chunky mango and lime zest sauce (exactly like the one above but with a different sauce.) To make it vegan, she used a sea weed-derived white powder called agar agar instead of gelatin (which contains ground horse hooves). Agar agar is common-place in Asian countries, used more often than gelatin, so it’s not a strange thing to use in a dish. The thing is, it sets up quicker and more firmly than gelatin. Now, to her credit, she followed a recipe by a woman who has written a cookbook of nothing but panna cotta iterations, and the recipe did call for agar agar specifically. So, when our initial delight at how easily and beautifully it broke free of the heart-shaped molds—it did not crack or fall apart at all—turned to doubt about its compact density, I placed absolutely no blame on this friend-stranger. The mango-lime sauce (partially her own creation) was delectable and fresh, and the panna cotta itself had a delicious, hint-of-vanilla taste. But the consistency was a different story. It was something close to wax lips or cold lard, or if you could imagine a more opaque, solid Jell-O. The cutting edge of the spoon hesitated and quivered slightly upon first entry, then tinged the plate sharply when the heart was finally run through. It broke up in the mouth like wax lips that would not re-coalesce. We did have a good chuckle over it, but actually everyone at the table ate most if not all of the dish—it was good!

So this is really an entry about being gracious. I truly appreciated the meal, was genuinely grateful for the effort. But once we could tell she wasn’t going to break into hysterics over the partially-botched dessert, we began to gently rib her about it. I indicated that it may be more fun to swim in than to eat, though the dense consistency could make it difficult, initially, to penetrate and maneuver in. But mostly I nodded and commented on how nicely her addition of lime zest complimented the mango. I am not one to turn my nose up at a generous gesture, to look a gift horse in the mouth, to be a “choosing beggar.” In fact, as the thought entered my mind as to how this foreign matter would fare in my digestive system, another turn of phrase came to mind: “This, too, shall pass.” And I smiled happily through several more bites. Because the person who prepared this thoughtful creation for me may as well be a blood-relative (not to say that she isn’t—anonymity), and you know what they say, “blood is thicker than water”…though not thicker than that panna cotta—oh, zinger!! Though our close relationship would have permitted some candid criticism, disappointed exasperation, or outright whining on my part, I instead gained access to my terribly underdeveloped magnanimous side (do I sound like Margery Kempe?) and bit the gelatinous bullet, as it were. So, how do you penetrate an awkward or potentially hurtful situation with a loved one? One spoonful at a time.

UPDATE: B served up a second attempt this week, with half the amount of agar agar and strawberries instead of mango-lime sauce. This time, it was very nice. Much more palatable and, I must say, swimable.

De revolutionibus orbium coelestium

I was musing the other day on the relative primitiveness of "us," this current human civilization. With the advent of carbon dating, archeological excavations, and other scientific breakthroughs, we seem to be much more adept at seeing backward than we are at looking ahead. We can look back today on prehistoric peoples that had little awareness of the next village over, let alone their geographic location in the world. We were amused as school children by misguided stories that Columbus may have been afraid of sailing off the edge of the earth. We find these ancient civilizations unevolved and primal. Indeed, we have come a long way since some version of the flat earth concept was pop science, but are we not just as geocentric in our views today as the sixteenth-century Copernican detractors? We can no more conceptualize a light-year than Cro-Magnon man could conceive of a nautical mile, and we are no more aware of other life forms (ok, aliens) than the Mesopotamians were of the Incas.

To get to my point, I believe we are now in view of another Copernican Revolution, and that humans many generations from now (if the earth is still able to sustain our population in many generations) will look back on us, in the 2000s, as a mole-like culture only able to visualize our immediate environment. We will be their ancients. If you search YouTube for “The Most Important Image Ever Taken,” you will see a short video on the deep space images captured by the Hubble Telescope. The narrator explains that, even in a patch of night sky that appears dark and vacant to our eye, there are billions of galaxies that contain ever more billions of stars not unlike our sun, which could conceivably be orbited by billions of planets not unlike our own. With this knowledge, are we really to hold fast to the narcissistic sixteenth-century notion that we are the center of the universe, that we are the only ones?

Anyway, all of this brought to mind an old poem that has been a favorite of mine since I was a teenager:

EARTH

If this little world to-night
Suddenly should fall through space
In a hissing, headlong flight,
As it falls into the sun,
In an instant every trace
Of little crawling things--
Ants, philosophers, and lice,
Cattle, cockroaches, and kings,
Beggers, millionaires, and mice,
Men and maggots all as one
As it falls into the Sun. . .
Who can say but at the same
Instant from some planet far,
A child may watch us and exclaim
“See the pretty shooting star!”

Oliver Herford, The Bashful Earthquake, 1898

This delightful verse, written 70 years before man landed on the moon, debunks our own self-importance, both in biological and social classification (a millionaire is no better than a maggot in an apocalypse), as well as among the other inhabitants of deep space. It also helps to soften the impact (pun intended) of the realization of our eventual destruction; it makes it all so...pretty. But the actual light at the end of this tunnel vision comes with the conclusion that, while human beings may not be vitally important, and while all the “little crawling things” of Earth are nothing if not inconsequential, the same cannot be said for the individual. The parts are greater than the whole. Like the starfish tossed back to the safety of the sea by the kind passerby, we are all dependent on and important to someone. It’s true, we can hardly claim to call ourselves a speck within the vastness of the universe. But to someone, I alone may be colossal.

Why not...a first-draft poem:

Second Nature

The Kashmiri leather of this new journal
has not become creased with use.
The empty pages fan out endlessly
with some potential and some obligation.
I am a pitiful site to behold,
near thirty with much space and little talent.
Yet I have untied the beaded straps
from around the cover with an intention.
I must imprint on these sheets truths and lies
more lovely than the embossing that hides them.

My love stands engaged at the stove,
stirring in spices with a wooden spoon.
In a moment she brings the spoon to her lips
and blows away a wisp of steam.
She knows easily what is needed
and casually takes another jar from the rack.
She would not mar handmade pages
with strike-outs and second attempts.
I think I will begin with the way
yellow curry falls from her fingertips.

Happy Day, Valentine

I love you.

Embarrassing admission #246: places i’ve squatted.

I've done it only twice in the past, probably, 10 years. Both dire emergencies. Both on the historic homesteads of famous authors. Some years ago, Carl Sandburg, Hendersonville, NC. Some months ago, Robert Frost, East Middlebury, VT. (Please don’t ask for the photographic evidence.)

UPDATE: Again recently, I found myself in this precarious position while taking the kids on a search for a haunted graveyard. I guess the spirit of the dead just has this adverse effect on me!

My Fashion Faux Pause

In high school I found two outlets for my self-expression. First, I wrote painful poetry with titles such as “Bereft” and “Desolate.” Inspiration would strike me suddenly, and I would fall to the floor amid the current of students and scrawl stanzas that captured my deepest teenage emotions. I spent most of two years in geometry and algebra II facing backwards in the classroom (or out in the hallway) filling the pages of my notebooks—no wonder I didn’t become a mathematician or chemist; thanks Mr. Gilbert and Mrs. Poor! The second manifestation of my budding independent spirit and requisite rebellion against my parents, the hallmark of my teenage persona, was my choice in attire. Many who know me today would be surprised to know that, once upon a time, I put a great deal of thought into my personal fashion (and it didn’t involve even one collared polo). It may be interesting to further note, if you’ll allow me to digress, that prior to high school I had embraced two other distinctive (read: no one else did this) trends. In fourth grade, I wore full camouflage on nearly a daily basis. In seventh grade I got a very frizzy home perm and wore an ensemble of matching stretch pants; puffy-paint, mirror-sequined tops; and white turtlenecks. I also encouraged my little brother around this time to get a rat tail and lines shaved into the sides of his hair. Hott!

As 1994 rolled around, I immersed myself in the new fashion wave sweeping across the country: grunge. I became known for wearing flannel over-shirts and, in particular, a dingy yellow corduroy jacket a la Kurt Cobain. I also experimented with wild hair colors, overalls, combat boots, 70s sweaters lifted from my deceased grandfather’s closet, and bright laces in my doodle-ridden Chuck Taylors. I carried a messenger-style knapsack from the army surplus store on which I had drawn an image of the earth and the words “World Peace.” My clothes were a clear warning: “High-voltage angst. Keep back.” Surprisingly, there were very few of us who committed fully to this style, so it definitely garnered the attention I suppose we were all secretly hoping it would. There was a bit of competition and in-fighting among the “grungy” of Emerald High who were vying for the top spot in ultimate eccentricity. I once got into an argument with an upper-classman over which one of us had switched to neon laces first. It was the same, I guess, as other girls’ anxiety over procuring an exclusive, one-of-a-kind purse or prom dress, except…not. This fashion statement served me well for the few years I needed it, but thank jeeves I did get out before it mutated into full-blown Goth.

I think now, a decade later, I may be suffering from some form of fashion ptsd. Aside from the true aversion I have to “dressing up,” which has persisted since I was a small child, I become intensely nervous whenever anyone comments on my clothing. I shrug and throw up the international “I don’t know” hand signal when someone says they like my shirt/pants/shoes. “Oh, cute hair cut” throws me into a tail spin, gives me hives. I mutter incoherently. I guess I’m just bashful that way. My signature style these days is the casual comfort of jeans and polos in the summer, jeans and sweaters in the winter. Crocs, Crocs, and more Crocs, although I did recently make the leap to Dansko clogs for work. I have two pairs of dress slacks that I probably wear twice a year with a button-up shirt (un-tucked). There are no aberrant colors, patterns, logos, or rips hanging in my closet any longer. I draw as little attention in this regard as possible, sort of like overcorrective steering that has landed me in a muddy, fashionless ditch on the opposite side of the road.

Officemates have offered lucrative bribes to see me in a dress or in heels, or even just a little lipstick. I, of course, jovially demur whenever they mention it. I like to keep it simple and non-descript these days, as vanilla as possible (vanilla may be too kind a word), and let my innate eccentricities manifest in areas apart from my apparel. Except, now that I think about it, I really wouldn’t mind having that puke-yellow corduroy jacket back. It was my constant companion in a former life, a security blanket of sorts that I eventually had to remit to the universe in exchange for adulthood. If I had it today, though, I’d sneak off somewhere, slide my arms through the silky lining of the sleeves, pull my hair out over the collar, run my hands over the soft cords to smooth it out in front. I would wrap up in it just for a moment, at ease in familiar skin.

Hundred-Year Dash

This post should probably be filed under an “Embarassing Admission” header, but over the years I’ve accepted this part of my past as something not to be ashamed of. Ok, here goes: between the ages of birth and 12, I was a die-hard professional wrestling fan. I know, crickets (chirp, chirp). But I’ve come to realize that my much-anticipated trips out to the Greenwood Civic Center to see the “wrasslin” were extremely important formative experiences. Now this was mostly back in the 80s, before professional wrestling became the high-drama, steroidal super-sport it is today—it was still a simple (but violent) story of the triumph of good over evil. For instance, the crowd’s chanting “USA, USA, USA!” at the entrance of the “Russian Nightmare” Nikita Koloff became a strange first introduction to late Cold War-era American nationalism.

My first and best memory of going to wrestling is of my Ma Hughes. My great-grandmother on my father’s side is one of the most supremely loving and gentle women I have ever known. She has given me lessons both grand and small, on unconditional kindness and humility, how to smile in sunshine and rain, or what it means to love a pug dog. She has lived on Second Street with my Granny since the 70s, when my Pa Hughes died of lung cancer. Granny happily shared her modest home in a small mill village with both Ma Hughes and her adult son, Barry, who is mentally retarded.

My grandmothers are relatively young—they were 40 and 60 respectively when I was born—and though they were nothing if not protective and even doting, they would practically let me get away with murder compared to my parents. I rode my bike in the road, stayed up late watching Freddy Kreuger films on the weekends (rated R!), and ate Food Lion Neapolitan ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I also owe to them my penchant for television game shows. Countless hours of Chuck Woolery’s Scrabble must have improved my standardized test scores somehow. Anyway, their youthfulness and leniency went a long way in creating a tight-knit relationship with me. I spent as many weekends and summer days with them as my parents would allow. So when wrestling came to town, we would all four pile into the car, probably stop for dinner at Ryan's buffet, then head out to the Civic Center.

On one of the first trips I can remember, I jokingly dared Ma Hughes, who was then in her mid- to late-sixties, to race me across the parking lot. To my surprise, without another thought she took off like someone had fired a starting pistol. Now, believe it or not, I used to be pretty quick and nimble myself, but there was no catching up to her that night. She laughed and laughed and gave me this big hug when we reached the door. I don’t know why that story sticks in my mind so, or why it always, always makes me smile, but it does. These were folks of little means, but they gave me more treasures than I will be able to count in my lifetime. We will celebrate Ma Hughes’s 90th birthday on New Year’s Day next year. In a way I know that she and I are still racing, and that she will still beat me to the finish line, but we’ll both be laughing the whole way.

More on wrestling in a future post.

A Facebook Intrusion

I've been tagged a number of times lately in friends' Facebook notes requesting 25 random things about myself. Now that I have amassed a set that's benign enough and random enough, I figured I'd post them both on Facebook and on here. So here we go.

25 Random Things About Me

1. Matea and I moved to Vermont in ’03 (it’ll be 6 years in May!). We had our civil union at long last in March of ’04. Now it’s time to expand our family.
2. I’ve never been more disappointed than when I saw both friends and strangers vehemently (or, worse, casually) supporting Prop 8. I’m certain that one day you’ll come to be just as disappointed in yourselves and your judgment.
3. I’m a pretty slow reader, which didn’t help when I was reading hundreds of texts for my MA in English. My obsessive underlining and marginalia didn’t speed things up, either.
4. My Myers-Briggs score: ENTJ (I was borderline E, and if I were more honest, I might be a solid I.)
5. I read thousands of useless facts. I also love Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy. I also research everything. I wouldn’t buy an electric pencil sharpener without reading a couple hundred reviews of it first.
6. I take a spreadsheet on every vacation. It includes an itinerary with the name of venue, contact info, description, and address. GPS systems have increased my enjoyment of road trip vacations ten-fold. I like to know what I’m doing and how to get there (plus, when you’re with Matea, you don’t mess around when looking for the outlet center)! Spontaneity happens along the way.
7. I have been vegetarian for about 5 years now. The choice was based on ethical, environmental, and health-related reasons. I found that attempting veganism was too socially isolating, so I relented (happily) and decided to stick with small amounts of cheese and eggs.
8. I have a love/hate relationship with writing. I feel compelled to do it, but writing a story takes me to a strange place mentally, so that I’m almost completely disengaged with everyone else in my life. Lately, the choice has been to disengage with the writing.
9. My favorite thing to do is watch movies. I think my record is somewhere around 8 movies in one day. When the production studio’s intro plays, I am completely engulfed. I really love a good documentary, too. As far as television goes, I’m quite amused by The Office, 30 Rock, The Daily Show, and Boston Legal.
10. In high school, I had a rainbow of hair colors, wore grungy clothes, and ran around the halls pretending that bees were attacking me. Today, I’m unbelievably normal. I still miss my puke-yellow jacket, though.
11. In elementary school, my friend Leslie and I used to make audio tapes of ourselves doing radio shows, commercials (don’t squeeze the Charmin), etc. I remember once I was Rue McClanahan and she was Betty White, for some reason. …Another of my childhood friends wrote about a rock fight in her 25 Things. I had one once, too, and threw a sizeable rock directly into the mouth of my neighbor Jason. It knocked out a couple of his teeth, and his mother was NOT happy. Similarly, I accidentally broke another friend’s foot in third grade. Sorry again, Shawna.
12. I have never had a broken bone, despite the fact that I played every sport I could from third to tenth grade. I used to have a true passion for softball. In high school, I also played basketball and volleyball.
13. In our dorm at Clemson, when we still ate meat, Matea and I used to cook frozen chicken fingers in our (illegal) toaster. We took the smoke detector down so it wouldn’t go off. We’re lucky we’re alive.
14. I am confidently agnostic, proudly Unitarian Universalist.
15. Why did we have to wear that weird beanie in Girl Scouts?
16. I sucked my thumb until I was 9, with no ill effects on my teeth. I do have a tiny dimple on my thumb now, though. Also when I was 9, I was in the play “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” at the community theater in Greenwood. Also, my teacher Ms. Daniels made us give her back massages during class. She was a somewhat robust woman, and we called the flanks of her back her “waterbeds.” I shudder to think about it now. I also remember her constantly yelling at us to “ferme les bouches” and “stop bitching!”
17. My second year of grad school was one of the best times of my life.
18. I have been passing back and forth a half-eaten piece of pizza crust (now shellacked) via different creative vessels (inter-office envelope, the toilet of a pop-up book, a voodoo doll’s bag, a pure-sugar Easter egg, etc) with my friend and co-worker Mary for about 2-3 years now. The crust in still, unbelievably, in pristine condition.
19. I am definitely no video game freak, but I do have a great affinity for the game “Rock Band.” I fancy myself a pretty awesome drummer. Haha.
20. I often find myself in stressful situations in my dreams, and many of them are action dreams, like I’m literally a ninja fighting against someone, or I’m being chased by someone trying to kill me. Some mornings I feel exhausted by the traumatic experience I’ve had.
21. I absolutely love my two pugs. Laney is 9 now, and Milo is 14; they have trained me well.
22. I really do try to live according to my principles, and I think I do a pretty good job at it.
23. I might get a history major one day. How will this help me? It won’t, but I can get it for free while I work at UVM. …Nevermind. That would be a huge waste of time.
24. When Matea turned 20, I got Papa John’s to make her a pizza with pepperonis arranged into a 2 and a 0. They mostly just looked randomly-placed, and I had to point the pattern out to her before we ate it. That same year, my Mom turned 40, and I did my best to make her a birthday cake (where were you, Matea?). It tasted like corn bread covered in icing. Thanks for eating it anyway, Mom. I’ve stopped attempting food-based birthday surprises.
25. I have a blog called “Places I’ve Gone Barefoot.” I haven’t been posting that often, but I hope to be more diligent about that. http://www.placesivegonebarefoot.blogspot.com/

The Title of This Entry Could Be Any Pam Tillis Greatest Hit: “Shake the Sugar Tree,” “Let That Pony Run,” or, Perhaps, “Queen of Denial”

In this New Year, like many others, I have made a long mental list of the big R-words. That’s right, Regrets...from ’08 and beyond. Like most people, I haven’t eaten right or exercised enough, haven’t saved as much money as I could have, haven’t found enough time to be still, haven’t found satisfaction in my career, haven’t nixed my negativity, haven’t generally lived up to my true potential (boy, that’s harsh). But after a week of wallowing in these failures and mulling over the reasons for them in my head, I’ve finally settled on my official New Year’s resolution: I am going to grant myself a pardon, let myself off the hook...sort of.

My mistake every year is to hold onto all of my inadequacies, maybe in order to teach myself a tough lesson, and attempt in vain to trudge on while still securely harnessed to them. I get a good running start, hit a steady stride in the free space between last year and the next. Then somewhere around March, ok, maybe February, I run out of slack and the straps I’m connected to yank me backwards, nearly back to where I began, like that bouncy bungee cord thing you can do at the fair. I wind up on my back, sore, hungry, and exhausted.

This year, I’m letting go of the elastic band, and making sure it lets go of me (I’m still going to the fair, though...LOVE the hypnotist..but that’s off topic a little). I am going to see what it feels like to walk about unbridled, with my shoulders high. For now, I will focus on making one good decision per day. To eat a carrot instead of a cake (hmmm...does carrot cake count?). To put that cool new gadget on my ’09 Christmas list, rather than on my ’09 credit card bill. To climb a rock rather than play Rock Band. You get the picture. I’m also going to make a list of my joys and seek them out. More photography and classic and documentary films. I’m also going to re-read my Orals materials, so I don’t lose that great wealth of knowledge! I am leaving the past in the past; today is a new day. Guilt, Regret, Anxiety, Despair--so long, old friends.