Celebrating Old School Style

At the Latke Fest 08 that I recently attended at Josh and Selene's apartment, I came to realize certain truths about parties you attend in your 20's versus parties you attend in your 30's. To wit:

Parties attended in 1998:
- Discussion of who has eating disorders
- Search for over-age friends to buy booze
- Discussion of living with parents
- Leaving early to hit another all night rager
- Complaints about crappy part-time job
- Survey of who's hooking up
- Relaying antics of siblings

Parties attended in 2008:
- Discussion of how easily weight is gained post 30
- Search for good merlot someone recommended
- Discussion of current mortgage interest rates
- Leaving early to attend family function
- Tips on parlaying current job into consulting gig
- Survey of who's getting married
- Relaying antics of offspring


The trick, I believe, is to enjoy your place in life no matter what it is.

On Faith

Faith is not something I often talk about. I'm the granddaughter of a Methodist minister, was raised Congregational and Episcopalian, spent 4 years at an Opus Dei Catholic School, socialize mostly with Atheists, Agnostics, and Jews, and thanks to the most recent wave of refugee resettlement in town, I work with a predominantly Muslim group of kids. I've seen quite a bit of religion and have never really taken to any of them.

When I was child, I remember talking often with God. God was like an imaginary friend - someone you just talked to that no one else could see. I didn't pray to God, I conversed. I talked about my day, had one way discussions on why world events were as they were, asked a couple of questions about Jesus, occasionally requested peace among family members. I played My Little Ponies with God sometimes. God was the only person I told about my secret metal box of treasures I kept in my closet in case the house burned down so I could grab it when I had to evacuate. I figured if anyone would remind me to take it, God would.

But I outgrew talking to God. At some point I started talking to myself instead. Not surprisingly, people react much more positively to children talking to themselves instead of "God". Too reminiscent of Joan of Arc, I guess. Also, God never talked back and I got a bit impatient with the one-sided nature of the relationship. God became this ridiculous part of my past - a figment of my imagination that I was foolish enough to believe in with my childhood naivete. By the time I was 15 I was a full fledged Atheist. The idea of a god or an afterlife seemed like the most ludicrous, arcane idea born of weak people who needed a fake higher cosmic being to give their lives meaning. I gave god away like everything else I'd outgrown.

I've been comfortable in my adult life vacillating between Atheism and Agnosticism. I've been confronted many times by people who believe that I must be without hope or inner peace as an Atheist, but I feel quite the contrary. When I, or others without organized religion, do good deeds, it's not because of Church doctrine or to get into an afterlife. It's a purely altruistic gesture. The more good I see done by Atheists, the more I can believe in the inherent goodness of humanity. I see people who choose a positive path because they want to, not out of fear of religious retribution. And that makes me happy and hopeful.

But I do miss the community that church provided. I miss singing on Sundays and smelling the lilies at Easter. I miss little kids dressed up for Christmas and bad pageants. I miss celebrating life with a room full of joyful people. I but I just can't consider myself Christian. I don't have those beliefs of the supernatural aspects in my heart and I would feel hypocritical and disrespectful to the congregation if I went to a service for the fun of it. I just don't believe in the idea of Jesus as anything other than a really good guy and grass roots organizer who made some pretty incredible changes in a corrupt society. And that supernatural belief in Jesus as the son of god seems to be a pretty fundamental Christian concept. It's non-negotiable to believers.

So today is the first day of Hanukkah, the Winter Solstice, and in a few days Christmas will come. I tend to celebrate all equally since I have friends of those faiths. Truth be told, I love Hanukkah. It's such a wonderful concept and the candles and latkes can't be beat. But again, I'm not about to call myself Jewish because I enjoy the ceremony of the holidays.

But this Christmas Eve, I believe I will attend a service at the local Unitarian Universalist Church. I've done a lot of research and I think it will be a good fit for me. Many people I've met who share my views of religion feel quite at home as UUers, and I'm excited to see what it's all about. It may be great, it may be uncomfortable. I don't know. but I'm looking forward to finding out.

So to all of my friends and families, no matter what you celebrate at this time of year, have a very happy holiday season. I wish you all love, laughter and light.

Farewell my Fish

It's a sad day here. This morning, Thomas the betta passed away. I tried to give him an extravagantly large home, top of the line bloodworm food, a cat to sit on top of his tank, but ultimately it wasn't enough. I've had one of my turtles for 24 years, but I couldn't manage to keep a betta alive. Thomas, I failed you. And I'm sorry.

Fun with Coffee

It's early in the morning, I'm about to go into a Board meeting, and I haven't had coffee yet. I hurt. But, thanks to the good folks at ThinkGeek.com, at least I'm smiling. I give you good folks:

Weasel Coffee

Excerpt: There's a little animal in Vietnam which has magical properties. Locally, it's called a weasel (though technically, it's a type of civet, but let's call it a weasel like the locals) and it sure likes to eat the fruit of the coffee plant. But the seeds don't sit well in its tummy, so it vomits them up. And that's where the fun comes in - for local coffee folks gather up the beans and lightly roast them. The stomach acids seem to wear away the bitter taste of the coffee beans, and the resulting coffee is delicious and smooth.

Welcome Back to Reality

This morning I returned to work after a fabulous Thanksgiving and post Thanksgiving Chicago trip. For the record, I believe my niece is the current title holder for "World's Most Awesome Baby". Five days of non-work fun have left me exhausted and refreshed at the same time.

However, now back at work, I believe I myself am the current title holder of "World's Biggest Idiot". Let me explain. The morning began with me waking up for the first time in five days at 6:45am, as per my usual work schedule. It was tired, I was groggy, I was annoyed. But I was up. And I managed to get myself into the shower. While drying off from a shower that included several moments of trying to figure out exactly what I was doing in there (shampooing? washing? standing blankly and looking at the shower head?), I heard someone enter my apartment. Blind panic set in. What the hell was going on? As the steps came closer to the bathroom door, I weighed the pros and cons of jumping out my bathroom window naked. Pro - survival. Con - death by embarrassment. Then I heard a quick knock and a "good morning". Josh was there, kindly helping me drop my car off at the mechanic's today. Within a span of 7 hours, I had completely spaced on this agenda item. Crisis averted and eventually, car deposited.

Arriving at work 15 minutes late to find my executive director already in the building, I figured the day wasn't going in a positive direction. She informed me that we had finally gotten a call about our federal funding and we would be down $40,000. Poop. I sulked back to my office. What to do? When in time of crisis, go back to the basics. No coffee, no breakfast yet. Must fix these issues. So off to the kitchen. No coffee filters. Poop. Solution? Reworking a filter from another machine. Solved. Next up - breakfast. Two pieces of bread inserted into toaster. Solved. Back to my office to check email while food cooks. Checking email...checking email...checking email...what's that smell...checking email...no, seriously, what's that smell? Off to kitchen to investigate.

FIRE!!!!!! Room full of smoke, and FIRE! The toaster was on fire! Blow it out! Blow it out! It's not working! Unplug it! It's hot! It's STILL ON FIRE! Bowl by the sink - fill with water and douse flames! Done. No more fire. But lots of smoke. Open door to fan out smoke.

FIRE ALARM GOES OFF! Sirens - lights - fire marshals! Threats of sprinkler systems! Firemen arrive and turn off the alarm, after laughing profusely at me.

Back at my desk. To summarize, my first day back I not only didn't get the full federal grant amount we needed (a major failure) but I also set the toaster on fire and set off the alarm system, and had to get the fire department on site to turn it off. Since on Tuesdays we have homeschoolers using our building, I've had the fun task of explaining to 20 people why our building smells like smoke. Oh, and there are a whole slate of other people scheduled to come in today who will also, I'm sure, require the detailed story of how I became the world's biggest idiot on a Tuesday morning.

Confidential to J

I'm not in Chicago, I haven't had 2 bottles of champagne and a bad martini today and I still think you're awesome. Hope you're still smiling whilst you wash the dishes and blushing under those big sideburns. I've smiled every day for the last year.

Survival takes Precidence

It is officially winter in Vermont. Whether or not the calendar agrees, the temperature sure as heck does. It's cold, people. Really freaking cold. And I am under-dressed.

I have never been accused of being stylish in my life. But, for better or for worse, I do have my own style. It involves lots of skirts, brightly colored shoes, v-neck shirts, and cardigans. I'm not all together sure how this style evolved, but I feel comfortable in it and wear this uniform regularly. However, it's not what one would call "warm". To wit: it's is less than 20 degrees out these days in the sun and I do not own a hat.

Years ago I should have learned my lesson. One of my first experiences in Burlington involved my ex-boyfriend bringing me up here for First Night in 1999. I'm a Massachusetts native and unaccustomed to walking around in extreme temperatures. There we have the good sense to stay inside when it's cold. But not up here. I distinctly remember one moment as Jessie and I walked out of Memorial Auditorium mid day having picked up special event tickets, and a woman accosted me. I was wearing my traditional garb of the day: long black skirt, black doc martens, v-neck sweater, and olive green wool Burberry dress coat I purchased in London. Note, I had no scarf, hat, or mittens. I owned none of these. The aforementioned woman stopped me in the snow and cried "Cover up your naked chest, young lady! You'll catch your death out here!" I took her to be a nutcase. Little did I know that I would agree with her 100% mere hours from then. While previously it had been just over 32 degrees during the day, the temperature plunged to 5 below once the sun set. Have I mentioned I had no scarf, hat or mittens? While we traipsed from event to event, my ears, eyes, hands and feet began to sting with a ferocity I hadn't previously experienced. By 9:30 I started to cry. I could no longer feel most of my body. Jessie quickly pulled me into a store on Church Street to warm me, but my face and hands were bright red and weren't warming up. We had, much to my chagrin, parked on the waterfront to watch the fireworks and anyone native to this area will understand that the temperature by the lake is not only colder, but amplified by a wind chill that will strip the flesh from your bones. And I had to walk the 8 blocks to get back to the car with ginger steps and tears still streaming from my eyes. Poor Jessie. He didn't realize until that moment what a flatlander I really was. Back at his parents house I soaked in a warm bath for hours while his mother, a biology teacher, checked my limbs for signs of frostbite. I narrowly escaped.

It's 9 years later and I still live here while Jessie has smartly moved to Cambridge MA. While I do own a set of fleece mittens and several scarfs, I haven't mastered the art of dressing for the weather. As I mentioned, I still do not own a hat. As Josh will sadly tell you, this is because I can't find one that doesn't make my head look misshapen. Fashion over function. However, I'm reaching the point of desperation. On my way to chorus rehearsal on Saturday, there was a good inch of snow on the ground outside my house. This seems like it would trigger some sort of "hey, I should wear socks" response in any intelligent person. Instead, I wore a summer dress (with cardigan, thank you very much) and slip on polka dot sneakers I just bought. I stood out there, brushing the snow off of my car in my tiny sneakers like an idiot. I was cold. Very cold. And stupid. Very stupid. I was only one at rehearsal not covered from head to toe. And when I returned and began to walk to Josh's, I realized I was coveting the clothing of other girls I would usually laugh at. A woman walked by me with fleece lined jeans, snow boots, a gigantic ski hat, mittens the size of oven mitts, and a down filled jacket that made her look like a purple snow man. But she looked warm. And I envied her. And at that moment, I realized I had learned nothing from the last 9 years. It's winter, it's cold, and I'm under dressed. But I swear that from this moment on, I will wear weather appropriate attire. As long as it doesn't make my head look like a potato.

The Wrong Side of Right

I have a downstairs neighbor. Her name is Chris and she is a native Vermonter who recently attended law school in Boston only to return to Burlington, as all good native Vermonters do. She has a job at a respectable law firm a few blocks from our house. She drives a well cared for SUV. I assume she has the oil changed regularly. From what I've seen of her apartment, she shops at Pottery Barn except for the few personalized items from her childhood she has carefully placed about the living room to give it "character". She rides her bicycle seriously, or at least seriously enough to have bike shorts, a helmet, and a strap on water bottle. Her bike is neither blue, nor Polish, nor does it sport the words "The Bluebird Express" across the frame. This fascinates me.

As far as I can tell, when Chris walks into Pottery Barn, her first instinct is to purchase items, not study them so that they can be reproduced in brighter colors later on. When her pepper mill breaks, her first thought is most likely not "I hope I can find a new one in the shape of a person". She has dinner dates with men who wear flannel shirts and drive subarus with ski racks. They do not huddle on a couch watching the second season of Connections over a plate of vegan nachos. She also does not, I imagine, own any clothing she has hand sewed. In her free time, she does not obsessively photograph her kitchen. She did not buy an orchid so that she could cast one of the blossoms in resin to wear as a pendant. Her umbrella is not striped, nor painted, nor large. It is black and it fits in her purse. She does not wear polka dot shoes. She also most likely does not have pets with people names and she doesn't have a turtle she's had since she was six that is named after someone of the wrong sex. She is, in other words, a complete enigma to me.

It is an odd sensation to be faced with someone who makes entirely different decisions for no other reason than personal taste. Her life looks just as bewildering to me as mine must look to her and so we part ways - one upstairs, one downstairs, both left scratching their heads in puzzlement.

Quote of the Day

Today's Quote of the Day:

"Yet another Saturday night spent watching kitten videos on YouTube"

The Difference Between Near and Far

I've been thinking a lot lately about why people give. As a nonprofit fundraiser/grant writer/outcomes director/program manager, why people give has a direct correlation to my livelihood. But it interests me beyond that level. I think fundamentally people give because it makes them feel good. Some may give out of guilt, some may give out of loyalty, some may give out of a sense of obligation. But over all, I think giving your money, your time, or your belongings to others in need makes you feel good. And people like to feel good.

And this brings me to what I've been thinking the most about: why some people choose to give overseas and why some give locally. Because I work in the trenches, so to speak, I'm predisposed to assume everyone would choose to give in their community, or at least their country. But I think it's emotionally easier to give to people of another culture. When you don't know them or their society on a personal level, you get to view their behavior as neutral. All woman can be victims. All children can be hungry. All people can be universally good and just at the whim of fortune. You don't usually have the knowledge to examine whether someone in an African country is the equivalent of welfare mom who may be milking the system. You don't have to know that the farmer receiving subsidy may be an asshole. You don't have to care what his view of gay marriage is. If he's a bigot, you can write it off as a cultural difference.

But locally it's harder to make those sweeping generalizations. When someone gives to a homeless shelter, it's much harder to see the recipients as neutral. All of a sudden each recipient becomes a complex individual with potential mental illness or drug addiction. Giving gets harder when you know enough to judge the people you give to. And nonprofits are reduced to giving out rosy pictures of redemption instead of truthfully representing the day to day crap that most of us wade through.

I guess the best news is that unless your job, like mine, is to decipher what campaign will be most likely to tug on heart and purse strings, why people give is moot. Because people do give. Whether or not it's easier to give to the fluffy puppy rescue organization than to the needle exchange, people still give. And thank god for it.

And fundraising will make you feel like quite the shit peddling social pariah if you let it get to you.

Burlington is my Other Boyfriend

I love my neighborhood. While baking a carrot cake tonight, I realized I was woefully out of confectioner's sugar which is integral to the cream cheese frosting making process. Luckily, a block from my house is the Willard Street Market. You all know these corner markets. They're gas station convenience stores without the gas. They all have approximately three isles of miscellaneous goods and a wall of refrigerated beer and overpriced milk and OJ. This is just such a market. And I love it.

Why, you ask, would a dumpy corner market have my undying affection? It's a true statement that it's ugly. It has the full retinue of 70's faux wood paneling, fake IDs stuffed under the glass counter, 40 year old linoleum tiled floors, yellow tinged overhead lighting, and at least a $1.50 added to every item's price. In fact I was horrified the first time I walked through the aging glass doors. But I've grown to adore this bodega. Not only is it extremely convenient when I haven't had anything beyond filtered water in my apartment for days and I passed hungry a week ago, but it has gems hidden its run down isles. Search hard enough and you find Annie's organic mac and cheese. And what's that in the cooler? Oh yes, it's Tropicana. No concentrate here.

But the true wonder of the Willard Street market is its chief night cashier. I have no idea what her name is, but she saw 60 years old a long time ago and judging from my knowledge of the refugee population and her accent, she's Bosnian. She knows precisely three things that I've experienced: "hello", "goodbye" and how to count American money. She watches exclusively foreign soap operas on the discreetly placed tv behind the counter. She doesn't greet you when you walk in, but she sure as heck knows exactly where you are in her store. She doesn't call me "hon", she doesn't ask me how my day was, she doesn't smile. She does her job with the bare minimum contact required and I find that very refreshing in this overly pleasant town. Sometimes you just want to buy a pound of sugar without discussing your life story. Sometimes you just want that silent acknowledgment that this is just a business transaction and I'm coming back no matter what the customer service is like. And she obliges. And I love it, even if I had to pay an extra $1.50 to get it.

While One Rises, Another Falls

I'm sad to report that Michael Crichton lost his long running battle with cancer yesterday. The Andromeda Strain was a formative part of my childhood, as was Jurassic Park, and I can thank both for my love of good sci fi and my unending interest in microbiology.

Insert Celebratory Title Here

While I'm sure there's nothing unique I can say about this historic and reaffirming landslide election, I feel I should say something. And that something is that for the first time in a long time, I'm proud of this country. I'm proud that so many disenfranchised people voted for the first time. I'm proud that all the kids I work with who are of very diverse backgrounds feel they have a future. I'm proud that my state was the first to go for Obama. I'm proud that former VT governor Howard Dean helped create the 50 state strategy. I'm proud that across the country, people put aside prejudice and instead chose hope. I'm proud that my niece will grow up in a world where anyone can be president. And I'll be even more proud when it's a woman standing in that oval office, which I never thought I'd see in my life time and now believe there's a good sporting chance of it.

Well done.

Why I love our Country

In anticipation of tomorrow's historic election, I thought I'd share this tidbit from today's Burlington Free Press:

"BURLINGTON -- Larkin Forney's been a lot of things in his life -- sex offender, drunken driver, head injury victim, marijuana legalization advocate, prisoner.

This year, he has a new label: candidate for state Senate."


Now, I'm not sure I really need to get into the logistics of him having sex with a 14 year old when he was 26, or his three DUI convictions, or the fact that he lit himself on fire in a suicide attempt. All I can say is that I live in a state where this guy gets to run for state senate after getting 100 signatures on a petition. On one hand it terrifies me since more than one person, I'm sure, has voted for people they didn't know anything about, and on the other hand it reassures me that everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) has access to the government in Vermont.

Small state, big problems. God I hope people do a little research before going to the polls. And you are going to the polls tomorrow right? Right? Good. Do your part. Keep this guy out of office.

Ushering in my third decade

Last week I turned 30. Having psyched myself up for the occasion by telling everyone that I was "turning 30" for the last six months, it wasn't nearly as traumatic as it could have been.

To celebrate, I took my mom, Josh and a group of friends out to my favorite restaurant and then hit the town for drinks.


As you can see, Mrs. Potato Head was the mascot of the evening. Mom hit the nail on the head with this present.


I was thrilled to find out on Saturday morning that I was feeling remarkably well for the morning after a night filled with lychee martinis, mixed drinks that came with gummi worm accessories, and a pitcher of Shed. So what did I do? I grabbed Josh and went to Montreal.



I'm lucky to live approximately a half hour from the Canadian border.


And since it's fall and I live in a foliage wonderland, the drive north was really, really pretty.


Now, I love Montreal. It's heaven. For someone who's always wanted to see Paris but doesn't speak a word of French and is always on the down side of broke, Quebec is paradise. First of all, their road signs are festive and weird:




And it continues into the city:


But the city is lovely and the views down every street are incredible:


Since by this point the cold I'd been fighting off for 2 weeks finally hit me, we took it easy and indulged in my favorite pass time: strolling through the art museum. And Montreal has a great one - the Musee des beaux arts. We took in an amazing exhibit on Andy Warhol and just breathed in the ambiance of modern design. Even the tables at the museum are cool:



It was such fun. Equal parts inspiring and entertaining. And the guard yelled at me in French, which totally made me feel like I passed for a local. Heck, we even have favorite restaurants in town! Now that makes me feel like home. My personal favorite moment was sitting in Allo Indie, this fantastic little Indian joint on Rue Crescent, listening to the manager speak English to us, French to the table next to us, an Indian dialect to his staff, and German to two women at a front table since, if I trust my rusty German, he lived in Munich in the 80's. And did I mention we were all entertained by an incomprehensible Bollywood movie that played over and over again on three TV sets? You can't replicate ambiance like that if you tried.

But all good things must come to an end and, after a teensy bit of shopping (clothes for me, shoes for Josh) on Sunday, we headed home. The drive back was equally as lovely as the drive in:

I couldn't have asked for a better birthday weekend. My eternal thanks to all who helped make it possible, including the Canadian government for again letting Josh and I into their fair country without too much hassle and to the US Border Patrol who let us back out with a smile and a welcome home.

Old Bentley Would be Thrilled

It's snowing outside! Welcome to Vermont, friends, where the first snow of the year typically takes place in October. Luckily the flakes are the wet and mushy kind so there's nothing to shovel. Yet. I of course decided to ignore the possibility that 6 months of winter are beginning and wore extremely impractical high heels and no gloves to work. Lots of fun when I'm doped up on 3 kinds of cold medicine, I assure you. But anyway, it's snowing, I'm cold, I have a cold, and I can't sleep. Let winter commence.

Welcome to the Planet

I'm an aunt and two of my very favorite people in this world are brand spanking new parents of a gorgeous baby girl! A big welcome to Madeleine Grace. This family has been eagerly awaiting you, kiddo, and we're thrilled you've decided to join us.

The planets have aligned

Here's my horoscope:

Today's birthday (Oct. 17): You have many responsibilities, though there is an overriding sense of being carefree this year. You're laughing and having a good time with this life you've built. In December you meet people who bring out the best in you. You adjust your scene to accommodate family, and good financial fortune follows in May. Cancer and Aquarius adore you. Your lucky numbers are 50, 21, 54, 2 and 17.


It's true! Man I love stuff like this.

Who Needs Sleep?

I can't sleep anymore.


Every morning I wake up between 2am and 3am after an intense dream and can't fall back asleep.


The dream varies. Sometimes I'm at work, going through a perfectly normal routine and nothing of any consequence happens. It's so real that I often can't distinguish between whether I've had a conversation in real life, or if I've only dreamt it.

Sometimes, of course, they're nightmares. My old standby nightmares where I find myself in a place that is meant to be my home, often my old childhood house on Chestnut Street, filled with room after room of half filled fish tanks and cages full of starved, dirty animals all on their death bed due to my neglect. And soon the room fills with people who stare at me, horrified. I try desperately to feed and clean all of these animals that I've never seen before knowing full well that they're all dying because of me. But I can't. I can't fix it all. Most of them are too far gone and die in my hands. And that's when I wake up, sobbing.

So then I'm awake, again, and it's somewhere in the late 3am - 4am range and I've tried to go back to sleep through several means: relaxation techniques, shifting sleeping positions, self imposed thought control. None of it works. I lie in bed, face up, staring at the dark ceiling with my mind racing full of all the things I'll do the next day, running through the standing list of projects I'm working on.


At some point I usually get desperate and try to will myself back to sleep. Apparently I just can't follow my own directions. By this time, one of my cats has discovered I'm awake and starts yowling at the foot of my bed to let me know that he knows that I know he's there. I ignore him and try shifting in bed yet again.

It never works. I can't shut my brain off. I've given up coffee and alcohol for days at a time after hearing they could be contributing factors, but no change.

Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick I hear the clock in my kitchen count off the seconds. The street lamp outside my window streams in an orange tinted light that burns through my eye lids.

Screw it. The insomnia wins and I decide to wake up for the day, bleary eyed and annoyed.

Why I Love This Town

From the Burlington Free Press this morning:

"The first Giant Pumpkin Regatta, sponsored by The Lake Champlain Regional Chamber of Commerce, pits the region's giant gourd growers and local businesses against each other Sunday in a competition of size and speed.

The pumpkins will be hollowed out and raced as if they were kayaks in the event at the Coast Guard boat ramp on the Burlington waterfront. The races begin at 10 a.m. and will help raise awareness for the United Way.

Donations of nonperishable food items will be accepted and will benefit the Chittenden Emergency Food Shelf. The chamber is looking for a $500 sponsor for pumpkins."

Pumpkin kayaks racing across Lake Champlain? I'm so there. I'll post pictures if they're any good.

UPDATE: With a nasty cold and an even nastier case of insomnia, I woke up too late on Sunday to attend. From what I hear, 500 people attended to see 8 contestants paddle through Lake Champlain in hollowed out pumpkins. I'm pleased to report that no one was injured in the making of this spectacle.

A Quick Update of Little Importance

Yet again I've been taken to task by multiple people for not updating my blog. Guilty as charged. I have no excuse other than the fact that I write for a living, so I'm not always up to creating a masterful post at the end of the day. I do have a lot I want to share: I renovated a bicycle this summer than I've been riding all over town; I bought a neat old dresser from a woman in Montpelier than I refinished and absolutely adore; I have an almost completely new living room thanks to my cats peeing all over my couch and rug; I scored a desk off the side of the road that I also refinished... I'm sensing a trend here. Apparently I've been doing a lot of refinishing. I will (I promise!) post all of these when I get around to cropping the pictures.

But in the mean time, I thought I'd share something purely off topic: I'm no longer afraid of spiders. Arachnophobia has plagued me in a major way for as long as I can remember. It's been paralyzing. There have been days (very plural) I refused to go into my car, or bedroom, or bathroom or any other essential space because a spider was spotted but went MIA. I lived in fear. Something's happened to me, though. There are just more important things to worry about than a bug I can kill with one swat of my hand. I think living on my own has something to do with it. There's no one to hear me scream when a spider the size of my palm crawls across my floor. Now I just have to step on it. It's a nice discovery. I feel freed from a major phobia. Now I'll just have to whittle down the rest of my list.

Bon anniversaire!

Happy birthday to my favorite sister! I wish you the very, very best of days.

These are a Few of my Favorite Things

I like Burlington. I admit it - I'm a fan. It's quirky, it's compact, it's progressive, and it's so close to Vermont... (that's a joke for the local folks). Anyway, I have a few large projects that I've recently finished that I will blog about as soon as they are properly documented, but for now I thought that I would share a few of my favorite things around town:

My favorite yard sale find ($4 total!):



My favorite bank threat:



My favorite way to pay for a drink:



My favorite tip jar:



My favorite "Open" sign:



And, last but not least, my favorite rear view mirror ornament:


Here's to enjoying your favorite things, whatever they are.

The Berry of Champions

Today I finally claimed the Vermont summer as my own. How, you ask? Why, by picking my own blueberries, of course! Nothing says "New England Summer" like berry picking and boy did I pick berries. After neurotically calling every berry farm within 20 miles to find the cheapest price per pound (winner: Pelkey's in Charlotte at $1.85 a pound), I drove on down scenic Route 7 to the farm:


It was a perfect day - overcast, not too warm, a nice breeze - exactly the rare summer day that doesn't give me heatstroke due to low blood pressure and an inability to regulate my internal temperature. And it was lovely:


I picked 6 sumptuous pounds of the antioxidant powerhouses in a little over an hour:


While in the past I've feared solo expeditions, I admit to thoroughly enjoying the experience by myself. It was peaceful and meditative. It was also great fun listening to grandmothers exchanging pie recipes, mothers keeping track of a cadre of renegade 5 year olds, fathers frantically proclaiming that they had found THE most prolific berry bush, a little girl bestowing the title of "favorite cousin" to whichever relative gave her the most "tester" berries to eat, and watching families be families... laughing, scolding, chatting, enjoying each other's company. It was a great day.

And then I made jam!



Yeay jam and yeay blueberry picking. I highly recommend heading out and discovering the joy of finding a stash of blue jewels in just the right patch of bushes yourself.

I Am My Own Favorite Experiment Take Two: Henna

I'm a bit, as they say, adventurous with my hair. It's been long, it's been short, it's been brown, it's been purple, it's been red, it's been highlighted, and yes, it's still on my head. I cut and dye it myself because I am a) a cheapskate and b) terrified of having anyone to blame for a hair catastrophe but myself. So I woke up this morning, rather bored with my current color (which is, surprisingly enough, my natural hair color) and decided to dye it with henna. Prepare for a hair odyssey, my friends, that began at 10am this morning:


Observe: my natural color:



The set up - more cooking than cosmetology:

Essentially, henna (the green powder) plus acidic water plus pectin equals a kind of lumpy hair gel:



After letting it sit for a 1/2 hour to let the dye release, you get this lovely concoction:

Mmm mmm mmm! The time is now 11am.


And now for the fun part! I glopped (this is a technical term) the gel onto and into my hair:


And wrapped it in a plastic bag:


Then I sat for an hour and a half looking my loveliest. At this time it occurs to me that I have basically cemented plant jelly to my hair and I had to figure how to get the darn stuff off. Well, with my shower on full blast, two heaping handfuls of shampoo and a whole lot of scrubbing, I finally got it all out. I may still smell like I slept on a hay bale, but I really like the result:


My final thoughts? Since henna is plant based and non-toxic, I failed to poison myself with the usual wasteland of chemicals in off the shelf hair dye - pro. I had an excuse not to shower until after noon on a Sunday - pro. The color is really neat - pro. I got to play with mud all morning - pro. On the other hand, clean up was a bitch - con. Did I mention my hair smells like hay? Con. Will I do it again? Absolutely - pro.

The time is now 1pm.

The Tip of the Tongue Taking a Trip

After weeks of watching dinosaur specials on the Discovery, History, and Animal Planet channels, I have a discovery of my own to share. Best dinosaur name ever? Majungatholis. Try saying it a few times. Not bad, huh? I was tickled pink hearing narrators say it over and over. But, then again, I have the sensibility of a 12 year old boy.

I Am My Own Favorite Experiment

Exhibit A - My latest acquisition:


a 5 1/2" x 3 1/2" bruise on the back of my leg. It is the most amazing thing I've done to myself in a long time. I am in awe of my body's ability to produce those colors. But of course, I would prefer it without the searing pain when I sit and it hits the edge of the chair.

FYI - my ex-husband (emphasis on the ex) once gave me a helmet for my birthday so I had some padding the next time I ran into a wall. I am, to say the least, a tad bit on the side of accident prone...

Housewarming Gifts are Awesome

Thanks to lovely individuals Josh and Ed, I have of late received three really dynamite housewarming/travel gifts that I adore. I submit for your enjoyment (da da DAH) the wonderful world of presents!

Submission #1: The monkey dish


Now, granted, this was a re-gift from Ed, but what a re-gift! It fulfills my love of tacky objects AND monkeys. My home feels warmer all ready. Technically it's an ashtray and I'm allergic to tobacco, so I think I'll use it hold my canadian coins. Why? Why not?

Submission #2: Seeing:

This is a delighfully quirky tome that Josh picked up while helping his friend move from Chicago to NYC last week. It is truly awesome. Essentially Seeing: is a book of photos that make every day objects look like faces. Like this:






See (no pun intented)? Is that not fabulous?

Submission #3: Picasso Kitty Stickers



I think the title pretty much says it all. Josh gets high marks again for this one. It combines my love of bright colors, cats, and asshole spanish painters.

So thank you to all who have wished me well on my new abode and especially to those of you who have sent nifty gifts. I am thrilled to have family and friends who have a solid understanding of my desire for the weird and wonderful.