Sheila Landre's Towel Manifesto

My mother asks that I post this as a public service announcement to all towel users, present and future.

ABOUT TOWELS
An Expository Essay

These guidelines for towel usage will help you form good habits and save money in the future when you are in charge of towels of your own. There are many kinds of towels and each has its own purpose. Some require extra care and some do not. Some are more cost effective than others. Some have sentimental value to their owner and some do not. Some are disposable. Some last forever if properly treated.

Bath towels are decorative and useful. They are usually made of cotton terry cloth, come in several sizes, and are often purchased to match the decor in color and style. They are intended for public viewing as well as private use. They are meant to dry by absorbing clean water from human skin. Please do not mop the floor with them, wipe off hair dye, toothpaste or whitener, or bodily fluids with them.

Rinse all that off before you get to a towel so that you are merely wet. Then hang the towels neatly on the rack or a hanger to dry out for the next usage. Otherwise towels must be washed using extra soap, water, and electricity. Over time utility bills will increase as more and more towels are unnecessarily washed and dried. Eventually the towels wear out faster and need to be replaced.* Someone has to pay for these.

*Such worn-out or nonstandard towels may be redesigned as “Utility Towels”, used whole or subdivided, stored separately, folded to indicate they are no longer for use on human surfaces, and can be marked as such with an indelible marker. (See Paragraph 4. Use as an alternate to Paper Towels).

Kitchen towels serve a similar purpose and come in two categories: small towels for drying hands, usually terry cloth, and small towels for drying tableware such as plates, pots and pans and silverware. These are cotton or linen and are often decorative, even seasonal. Some households choose to use the same small towels for both hands and dishes while others differentiate. Each is used to dry plain water from surfaces. Dishcloths (sometimes called “dishrags”) are meant to be soaked in soapy water in order to wash dishes, etc. and countertops. They are then rinsed clean and hung by the sink for future use or put in the washer and replaced by a clean cloth.

Kitchen towels should not be used to wipe up spilled drinks or food, mop the floor, clean spaghetti sauce off the stove or jelly off children’s faces. Do you think somebody’s grandmother embroidered these things just so you could destroy them? If you want to clean up messes which might leave stains, use the dishcloth and then rinse it or use the paper towels (or utility towels) --that’s what they are for!

Modern paper towels --or “PT” not to be confused with “TP” (toilet paper) on a shopping list--come in a variety of configurations and absorbencies as well as with colorful decorations. They are meant to be disposable. Please fit the product to the need and do not use more than necessary. Paper towels now can cost nearly $3 a roll so why would you waste great gobs of them simply to dry your wet hands when there’s a perfectly good hand towel right there? And while you’re at it, why not hang the towel back up the way you found it? Paper towels are ideal for those little messes which are dropped on the floor, for cleaning jelly faces or the emergency bodily fluid situation. Don’t overlook the usefulness of a box of tissues or an efficient house pet to augment your kitchen towel needs. They come in a wide variety of sizes and styles.

Of course if you have unlimited financial resources your choices are broader. You may choose to use paper towels for all your cleaning and drying needs. You may not care if your best bath towels are stained with tomato sauce or bleached with tooth whitener. You may delight in washing every towel after every use and drying them until they are hot enough to burn your hands. You may enjoy the feel of masses of paper toweling soaking up water from your barely damp hands and then filling up the garbage can with their wadded masses. Some people find that very satisfying. Maybe you enjoy defiling your grandmother’s handiwork by using her lovely day-of-the-week tea towels as a mop. When you are calling the shots, that will be your choice.

Thank you for reading my essay on towels. I hope I have given you something to think about and that someday you will consider passing this information on to your children, grandchildren, other family members, and closest friends.

Happy drying!
Sheila

The Moon's Twin

Where DOES the time go??

I have been doing a lot of reading lately, mainly Natalie Angier's The Canon: A Whirlygig Tour of the Beautiful Basics of Science. A whirlygig tour, indeed! Whether you are a science-head like me, or just a fan of fantastic prose, this is a book worth reading. Ms. Angier has a flair for the alliterative and the poetic. Reading her paragraphs is like a hyper-speed Easter egg hunt. Just when you think you've spotted every pop-cultural reference and hidden couplet, you realize, in retracing your steps, that there was one more gem hiding in plain sight. Not only do I love the book, but the book makes me love and treasure science again. The wonder of childhood magnifying glass adventures is restored, and the magic of our world is made real again. Tall order, eh? Yes, and delivered with a bow on top in this fast-paced, fluid and compact volume.

Speaking of magnifying glasses, have you seen this piece about grains of sand? It makes me want to run out and buy a magnifying glass right now. And spend all day at the beach looking at sand.

(copyrightProfessor Gary Greenberg, SWNS)

Gorgeous!

I've just finished the chapter on Astronomy, and am headed into Geology (completed Statistics, Chemistry, Molecular and Evolutionary Biology and Physics). Here's something I've learned that you might not know either: at the center of the Earth, there is a moon. Rather, there is a dense, solid central core, made mostly of metals, about the size of our moon.

The original chunk was part of an orb that collided with the Earth in the early days of our planet's formation. In return for giving up a chunk of itself, this roller-derby queen of a planetary object lopped off a section of Earth that now floats in orbit around us, tethered by the gravity of our comparatively large mass, and the weight of our dense, metallic center. Like Shel Silverstein's Missing Piece, or the long-lost human halves in The Origin of Love, the pale, reflective, floating moon is doomed to circle its lost counterpart, held tight by its gravity, forever kept at a distance by its magnetism.

Isn't science beautiful?

Maryland Farmer

If you ever have the opportunity to watch the dubbed-for-TV version of Jackie Brown, get yourself a bowl of popcorn and prepare to crack up. I don't know who is responsible for the alternative language, but they must have had a great time. Still looking for the definitive list of all the substitutions.

Here are a few culled from the internet:
1. Mamajamma
2. Maryland Farmer (as in: Shut the farm up you farming Maryland farmer.)
3. Mud shoveler

These I managed to write down between belly laughs:
4. Melon-peeler (Picture Samuel L. Jackson saying, "You tell that farming melon-peeler I want my money.")
5. Motorscooter
6. Mortgage broker
and the mysterious
7. Mobyfinger
8. Snack was substituted for the s-word on more than one occasion.  (I don't want anymore of your snack, Mobyfinger!)

Still Breathing

The soundscape at the winery sparkles with birdsong in the morning when I arrive. Mockingbirds, finches, acorn woodpeckers, yellow warblers, bluebirds, robins and assorted other peepers, cheepers and songsters throw their two cents into the mix.

Tiny gray and black, blunt-beaked birds pick through the cracks between the stones for insects and seeds. A tall heron occasionally strolls through the vineyard, and hawks and turkey vultures cast slowly looping shadows on the hills. Some days it's downright Snow-Whitish around here.

A pair of rosy-capped House Finches, in particular, has its nest in the joint of two beams under the eaves in front of my office window. This morning, as guests were arriving for the first tour, I could see one couple standing on the picnic bench on the patio, pointing at the nest. Three babies huddled inside, close enough that we could see them breathing. The nest seemed to be built at an angle, sloping towards us. That was when we noticed the two hatchlings on the ground below the nest.

One of the nearly-naked little babies was already a goner, but the other still gasped weakly for breath. I got a ladder while the gentleman who had spotted it held it in his hand to keep it warm.

Some of you may already have your wagging finger at the ready to scold us for touching baby birds, because everyone knows their parents won't accept them when they've been touched by a human. And you would be wrong. According to naturalist Lyanda Lynn Haupt, the author of Crow Planet (and probably many others) it's ok to quickly scoop them up and pop them back in the nest. Bird parents would rather have a live baby bird that smells funny than a dead baby bird. This doesn't mean that we should go around poking into nests and petting them, just that in an emergency, we'll likely be forgiven. (Having just finished the book yesterday, I was perhaps a bit overzealous in the encouragement of my accomplice.)

I'm ready for your second objection as well. Baby birds fall to the ground for a reason, and bird parents who can't build a proper nest for them don't deserve to reproduce. We should let nature take its course for the betterment of finches everywhere. On this count, it turns out, you may be right.

Within the hour, the poor, pathetic little thing was back on the ground. On closer examination, it appeared that the nest had been pulled or tipped out of position, its edge at a coy angle, like a lady's cloche hat. The three remaining hatchlings were clinging fiercely to the far edge, their half-bald backs pulsing with breath. And something else: they were twice the size of the two fallen young.

Holding the tiny, gasping creature in my hand, I realized that the parents were not just foolish birds who had built a faulty nest, but perhaps the intentional architects of this catastrophe. Three healthy babies, two weak ones. Without the physical strength, (or maybe even the ruthlessness) to pick the weaklings up and drop them elsewhere or push them out, they simply pulled at the nest's edge and let the rest happen as it would. And it did. The stronger siblings prevailed. I held the unfortunate thing in the warmth of my palm until I could find a small box so that at least it would have a quiet place to slip away. I heated a wet towel in the microwave and placed it in a zipper bag under the box for some warmth in the chilly office.

Defying Charles Darwin's tenets and nature's wrath, I climbed back on the ladder and tacked a few supporting twigs to the beams like a balcony railing, to keep the rest of the nest from falling completely. The three strong babies can relax their frantic grip and maybe get some rest. The finch-parents have returned to tend them without any visible fuss or dismay, and their remaining offspring may well live to breed next spring.

The warm, quiet little box sits on the desk next to mine. Inside it, the little bird is still breathing, still moving now and again, no longer gasping or writhing. This could be a sign of improvement or decline, it's hard to tell. Even if it recovers from this morning's ordeal, it is too small to survive much longer.

Having disturbed the natural course of events, I'm now left with the dilemma of what to do with it. Was it perhaps the wind, or the gropings of an unwelcome predator, that set the whole drama in motion, and not the will of wise birds? If it lives the remainder of the day, dare I slip it back into the nest?

I don't know the answer.

***

Update: Believe it or not, the little thing made it through the day and seemed to stabilize. Because it was still too weak to hold its head up to feed, I decided it was best to deliver it to the local wildlife rescue.

At the rescue desk, the veterinary nurse who accepted my little package said that they had received at least nine other little birds just as feeble and featherless that day, so it will be in good company. It's up to him/her now!

Heartwarming

Recently, after a not entirely unpleasant but not fun dentist appointment, I thought back fondly to my childhood dental experiences. (Yes, you read that right.)

We had the very best dentist* from the time I was ten or so until I left Modesto at 18: Dr. Robert Venn. He is still practicing.

(*Due in no small part to the very comprehensive insurance that my dad worked very hard for at Pacific Bell)

I am so thankful for those early experiences with a gentle and compassionate dentist, whose staff was friendly, and whose treasure chest was always full of toys. I remember one experience in particular when I bravely, silently endured the giant needle, but great big tears rolled out one after the other anyway as I stared at him with big, wide eyes. He wiped my tear away with his finger and said, "Why you're a little waterfall, aren't you? I'm sorry this hurts, sweetie." For some reason, the memory of that tenderness still brings tears to my eyes.

I looked him up on the internet and wrote him a thank you note, to let him know what a lifelong impression his professionalism and kindness made on me. As an adult, I have no stress when it comes to dental work, and can almost fall asleep in the dentist's chair. I told him so.

Here's the response I received:

Tamara-

It was wonderful for me to read your card and feel the sentiment you shared.

I have found that life's joys are around human connections and for that reason your extra effort in contacting me is greatly appreciated.

I've also noticed that the graces in life which we receive are best appreciated when we are open hearted, and it is with that attitude that I thank you and wish you open-hearted possibilities for your future.

Bob Venn

I post this not because I want to pat myself on the back for thinking of writing him a note, nor to betray the confidence of his personal reply, but to shine a light where it is deserved, on a truly lovely and remarkable individual who is still influencing the lives of those he treats.

Dr. Venn, you are awesome.

Loyal Gum Chewers

I thought about that phrase, "loyal gum chewers," and all I could picture was a gang of slack-jawed, flabby patriots convening under limp banners.

Fear not, Southern ladies! I do not (ever) chew gum in public, as long as you don't count the inside of my car as public. I never chew it at the store or in front of anyone other than Mike, or very, very close friends, inside the car or inside my private home.

And, for the record, I have been choosing Trident White or Orbit White lately, because they are in wrapper-free packaging AND they claim to whiten. I am all about maintaining the choppers.

Got an Extra Minute? An Open Letter to the Manufacturer

Dear Makers of Extra Gum,

My husband and I both chew gum after meals during the day when we aren’t able to brush. We’ve been loyal purchasers of Extra for at least 20 years.

I appreciate the updated flat packaging, but I think you are missing some opportunities to add value to the product. If someone is taking the time to read it, chances are they have an “Extra” minute, so why not make it count? Here are some ideas for the flap:

1. Things to Do with an Extra Minute

Time saving tips

Simple stretches to ease tension or improve posture

Money saving tips

Nice things to do for others or yourself

Links to worthy charities for quick click and donate programs

Traffic safety tips (Got an Extra minute? Here’s how to adjust your rear-view mirrors properly. )

Any helpful, healthy or useful things to do with 60 Extra seconds

2. Tales of Extra Effort

Very short stories about ordinary people doing the Extra-ordinary

Unexpected discoveries that took an Extra minute

3. Extra Brain Builders

Word games, brain-teasers, puzzles, optical illusions

Inspirational quotes or sentences from great novels or writers

Short poems or pieces to memorize

Brain improvement exercises

Easy puzzles with links to an Extra website with more challenging puzzles, challenges, etc.. Solve a series of puzzles or riddles to collect points and win things, like a Nintendo DS with brain games, an Xbox Kinect, or a family game night set. Consumers could come back each time they get a new pack to get a fresh set of puzzles and earn more points.

Be useful, be smart, be interesting, make the most of that minute, and add value to the product. No matter which category, include a link to more of the same, plus the other two, on a website that engages and interests. Should you decide to include them in your marketing plan, even commercials could be used to give people a brain-teaser or party-trick skill challenge. I can imagine people saying, "Wait, wait, I need to watch this Extra commercial," so that they could pick up the next clue, or stand up and challenge their TV watching partner to a one-minute skill test before the next show starts.

These ideas are just starting points, and I’m sure you’ll think of many more. I think it would be neat to bring back the fun of opening a new pack of gum, kind of like Bazooka bubble gum. You always knew you were going to get a joke, and it was usually silly, but it piqued your interest to see what it would be, and you always shared it with someone else.

Best regards,

Tamara Landre

I (Heart) Healdsburg

Mike and I spent yesterday's sunny, blue-sky afternoon on one of my favorite drives, northward and out of the Napa Valley through sleepy Knight's and Alexander Valleys to the town of Healdsburg.

The drive takes more than an hour, longer if you stop to taste wine at one of the friendly family wineries along the way. Since Mike and I are both in the wine business, we tend to shy away from tasting rooms unless we have out of town company.

Depending on when you start your drive and from how far south, if it happens to be lunchtime when you pass through Calistoga, do not miss our number one favorite barbecue joint: Buster's BBQ. The tri-tip sandwich is the maneuver here. Definitely, positively, do NOT get the "Hot" sauce on your first visit. Or if you do, get a little side container of it to dole out or dip in as you eat, unless you are a glutton for searing, sweat-inducing, lip-throbbing pain. It IS delicious, though, with depth of flavor and tang that will impress as well as inflame.

This time of year, pink plum trees are in bloom and line the roadsides of these quiet valleys, whose stumpy, head-pruned vineyards are interspersed with yellow mustard. It feels like farm country, with old stone buildings, knoll-top farmhouses, and faded wood-barns spaced well apart among the green hills and the occasional sprinkle of goats or sheep. In one pasture, three out of four horses were sunning their round barrel bellies on the ground, making it look like an especially strong wind had come through and blown them all over.

Once in Healdsburg, head for the square. Beer-lovers, go directly to the Bear Republic Brewing Company, just off the main square. There is ample parking behind the Brewing Company in a large lot, or on the square itself. Mike and I sit at the end of the bar and drink a pint or two with lunch. The food is not extraordinary, but it's good for pub food. The beers are the star of the show here, but it's also possible to have a pretty good burger, a cup of fairly healthy and flavorful chili, or a salad, and not feel like you need to see a cardiologist immediately.

After people watching and sipping our favorite brews, we sometimes stop in to at the eclectic Erickson Gallery across the street, but yesterday we bee-lined it for one of my favorite bookstores anywhere, Levin & Company. I love to browse the big flat tables stacked with new hard-cover and paperback fiction, non-fiction, and big coffee-table design books. It's such a pleasure to book-shop with a bit of a beer-buzz going, running my fingers over the textures of the covers, letting my loosened subconscious mind lead me to my next long read. Yesterday I picked up F in Exams, a collection of funny bad answers to test questions, , and Dave Eggers' annual Best Non-Required Reading. Many cozy evenings of enjoyment to come. Someday I may read many of my books on an electronic device, but I will surely miss the smell of a book. Maybe in the future, Kindles and Nooks et all will be fitted with devices that atomize that inimitable papery smell so that we can still pretend.

Next, we stopped in at 14 Feet for an eyeful of uber-retro-chic design inspiration. Marne and her partner have an eye for furniture, fabrics and objets d'art that will make you take a second look at your storage unit. Well, only if it's crammed with well-loved mid-century and industrial furniture. I wish I could afford to buy all of my furniture from them.

Last stop on the square for the day was Flying Goat. A perfect espresso for me and a house-made chai for Mike. The art installation changes all the time.

You may wish to pick up a snack and browse the wonderfully curated collection of items at the JimTown Store. An eye for vintage treasures and a quirky, retro sense of humor and style is evident at the store. More notes here.

Ahhh, Sundays!

Fishing

Kelp heads bob among the rolling breakers of the foggy cove. A spiffy scenic-route-sign seagull preens on the wet sand to my right, casting furtive lunch-seeking glances my way.

Mike is standing on a medium-sized, irregular boulder to my right, which overhangs a shallow, turbulent area of the surf zone that is free of kelp. This is where he hopes the rockfish will be waiting, poised attentively on fin-tips, watching for his bait of chopped frozen squid to drop.

There is a light, cool wind and a crush and rumble of surf. The sun is casting a weak light through the scrim of fog that makes it bright enough for sunglasses.

He is still preparing his bait. Seagull still equidistant between us, in case there is food in the near future.

This little rocky cove is infinite in its possibilities. To my left, the fine lace of a dessicated leaf, left strung together by its intricate vasculature, sits amid a pile of shredded plant material: lacy, golden leaves, delicate fern-like fragments, waxy, long, narrow strips of seagrass, a sinewy tendon of kelp, wisps of feathery, Seussian moss, all captured by a softly waving hand of dried kelp whose end is lodged-- or planted-- under a rock on this sometimes submerged beach.

The sand, a mix of tiny pebbles reluctantly yielding to sand, really, is gilded and strewn with this tinsel of the land and sea. The leaves are most remarkable.

The sun may burn through to this little cove today, or it may not.

He stands patiently atop his rock, shifting his weight... Hey! He's caught a fish! A nice, big one. Looks to be a surf perch from here.

Seagull keenly observes from above, but no fish guts are on the offer this round. Mr. Perch is thrown right back in as the sky shows patches of blue through the fog. The perch are mild-flavored, fine-textured fish, pleasant enough to eat, but we have the luxury of choosing not to. Or, he was simply too small.

He prepares another baited hook and casts again, resuming his alternating stance in the saddle of the boulder.

The fog recedes further.

Crows and seagulls cross paths overhead as they commute to daytime stations. Misty clouds zoom southwards, but the distant fog seems to be growing and advancing.

After the first fish slaps back into the ocean, he and I communicate via matching baby claps to signal, "Yay! You caught a fish!" I approve with quick taps of my fingertips, "Yay!" "Mr. Fish goes free!" he claps. "Yay!" I answer. And on we go.

The wind is more gusty now, as the land behind heats and the air rises.

Reeling, reeling in... is it kelp, or nothing, or another fish? The latter. Almost looks like he caught the same one, only just a little smaller. And back in she goes.

More bait, more casting, more standing. We've been here an hour. Two fish: not bad.

I think I'd rather read a book than write one. Because, well, dialogue, for one thing. How do you make conversations purposeful, intentional, serve the end of what needs to happen, when in reality they are clumsy, haphazard, awkward and frequently pointless?

He straddles the front crest of the big rock now, for a different angle on the shallows, looking like he's riding behind the ears of a giant hunchbacked toad. He flings his lure with intent and gusto but reels it right back in and shakes his head at me.

The sea here dances with a range of blues, browns and greens, fringed with a rustle of white.

Reeling, reeling....kelp!

Each time the sun burns through the mist, the colors reveal themselves in its light. I have completely lost feeling in my rear end and also have to pee.

How was it that there was no warning of the tsunami in Indonesia? Although, to be fair, I know that when a tsunami warning was issued in Santa Cruz in college, we responded not by loading our loved ones in the car and heading for higher ground, but by filling our stomachs with beer and making for the cliffs. So it may not have helped at all.

At least one person and one dog have been here already today. The person's footsteps, still clearly impressed, a purposeful segment from one area to another, the dog's a joyful, erratic tangent of punctuation marks through the sand.

Catching Up

Ok, I'm combing back through the now spam-free comments...

I'll start with this one, which is election relevant, though it was made about a different election, from Kate:

"Although there are promises made the candidates may not be able to keep, at least the people I vote for KNOW what I want, and may even attempt to give it to me. What worries me is the other side doesn't even seem to have a CLUE as to what I want, so how will they ever be able to work for my interest? If my president doesn't know I want soda in my drinking fountain, I know I will NEVER get it from him/her."
Original Post

Whether we get what we hope for in 2010 or not, we have to remind ourselves that our country doesn't rest on the shoulders of the reigning political party, but on us, the people who go to the polls, enabling a system to exist that at least strives to keep our country free and fair.

As Jon Stewart said recently in response to being asked whether he was disappointed in politicians (I paraphrase): "No. If I go to the zoo and a monkey throws feces at me, I say, 'What do you expect? It's a monkey.' What disappoints me is when the zookeeper doesn't say, 'Bad monkey.'"

"oh, how cute... do you know what kind they are?" Emily
My little watering-can dwellers were Bewick's Wrens.
Original Post

"I have found your blog by a curios coincidence. My maternal grandmother was born in Long Run, Ohio in 1893. She married a Martin Milosewski , a coal miner, and they lived in Short Creek but divorced him circa 1921. She remarried and divorced several more times before her death in 1947, Lansing, Michigan. I have a photo of her with her name Valeria Waszkiewicz. She also went by the name Lily. Do you think there is any connection? I wouldn't have except for the inclusion of Short Creek Ohio." Georgia

Hello Georgia! I'm guessing you are probably long gone. If it weren't for the fact that my blog was attacked by spammers, I never would have found your comment. I would be happy to compare family history notes with you if you happen to see this follow-up comment.
Original Post

"What a lovely contemplation of the stuff we collect and carry with us. Really lovely!"

Shana, this was over a year ago, but thank you very much for the compliment. It means a lot to me coming from you.
Original Post

Here’s where to find the indispensable silicone spatulas:
Kellers in Modesto
www.kellersgifts.com

and more info from loveblueskies:

“I have the spatula and love it too!! It was a gift purchased at Sur La Table.

After much research, I learned the initials stand for William Bounds. I don't think they make the cookie spatula anymore, but they still make a Sili Jumbo Jack spatula which I must have!

I just found 2 cookie spatulas on sale at Sur La Table. The blue one was item # 520254 for $3.99 and the yellow one was item # 664730 for $1.99. Happy hunting to see if they have any left!”
Thanks, loveblueskies!

"Mmmmmmm, granola. Will you please borrow Abbie in a few years and teach her to make granola? That is exactly the experience an aunt and niece should have. I can picture the day: a slightly drizzly gray sky, Abbie in the apron that my grandmother made for me, standing on a stool next to you looking very serious as you explain why melting is done over low and not high heat. Once again I don't understand why I got a brother instead of a sister. I deserve a sister."

I would be more than happy to make granola with cutie-bootie anytime (cheap flights on Alaska right now!), though I suspect by now you might have beaten me to it!
Original Post

Thanks for the tips about silken tofu (love it!), zapple pie (ditto, though real apple is my pie du jour), pear upside-down cakes and rashguards and other sun-protective clothing in lieu of coral-polluting sunscreens.

Ok, that's it. I've used up this little chunk of time, and I'm going forward from now on, and not back. AND, very important, I'm disabling comments for future posts, to keep the spam-monster at bay.

Right now, with this beautiful, sunny fall weather, I'm in the mood to make these short ribs and some homemade cinnamon bread. Anyone have a good recipe???

Um, I guess you'll have to contact me some other way!

Remember- You’re not managing an inconvenience, you’re raising a human being. (Kittie Frantz)

You know how sometimes you try to make something from a recipe, say, bread, but no matter how many times you try, you just find that it isn't in you to be a good baker? Other people have the touch, the time, the special knack, whatever it is, that it takes to make delicious bread. You like their bread better. They are good at it. Hooray for everyone. They make good bread, you like to eat good bread. We are all happy.

This is how I feel sometimes about children. Not that I want to eat them, of course. Other people are so damn good at making them-- not just the *making* part, but the raising part, I mean. I don't think I have the innate skills that it would have taken to make good ones.

And what is more tragic than preferring other people to the ones you made yourself?

Betrayed

In the fourth grade, a girl named Mei Lin (or May Lin) pretended to be my friend at recess, and then when the bell rang, she and her friends dragged me way out into the field and then ran back. In the dragging process, I struggled to get away and also very seriously wanted to harm this Mei Lin (Wang? Wing?). I dug my fingernails into her arms and held on. By the time we made it back in, we got in trouble for being so tardy after the bell. Mei Lin suddenly conjured up an elaborate story about how I had held her down out in the field and scratched her arms. She held out her maimed limbs for the teacher to see. There was no question that I had dug in hard, but in my mind, I had been fighting for my life. I was so dumbfounded by the audacity of her lie that I had no response at all. I received the punishment (whatever it was) and she did not. It was the first time I remember someone lying so brazenly and completely to a teacher and getting away with it, but not the last. Also the first time I remember being so openly betrayed.

Facebook Ate My Blog

I finally have to admit it. Did I mention that I received a trophy in the mail from the sprint triathlon back in October? Probably not. I got third in overall Athenas! I was pleasantly surprised.

Pilgrimage

I woke up in the middle of the night knowing I’d go to see the butterflies. The next day, my anxious mind wrestled with my need to drive, until I’d exercised my last excuse and finally coaxed myself to the door.

They have come from hundreds, even thousands of miles away, on fragile wings, sometimes fringed with wind-wear. To see them, it’s astounding that they travel at all. Fewer and fewer of them each year, dwindling to naught or simply dipping, we don’t know.

When I lived in Santa Cruz, on the west side, the park was an easy bike ride from my shabby student rental in “the circles”. I don’t know how many visits I made on my new bike, helmetless in those days, hair blowing dangerously in the wind, before they arrived that first time. Down West Cliff Drive, hook a right at the park on a quiet weekday morning, follow the road and then head down the dirt path to the right.

Riding that bike, the first bike I’d ever purchased with my own money—probably the first big thing I’d ever purchased, if I think about it—was one of my favorite things to do. Sometimes I felt like I was ten years old again, riding wherever I wanted to go as fast as I could, with no particular destination.

The first time, I don’t know that I knew they were there before I went, or if I had heard they would come. Dripping from branches, in flickering clusters, they warmed themselves in shafts of light that seeped through the canopy of eucalyptus into the quiet grove. What I remember is how magical and serene it was to ride through the mist and stay there in the quiet of that half-lit grove among them.

Now, twenty-five years later, young, clean-shaven park rangers patiently answer questions from a road-addled tourist at the gate. Yes, the butterflies are here. Yes, you can take your dog into the park, but not to see the butterflies (duh) and please make sure your car is parked in the shade with the windows down and obvious water for the dog and don’t stay too long because other people get really upset if they see a dog in a car for a long time. Ten dollars for day use, please.

The quiet dirt path has been replaced (very necessarily) by a new boardwalk, which is attractive and sturdy, designed to take the abuse of eager nature-lovers. At the base of the walkway in the grove itself is a low multi-level deck.

At first, it is lovely just to see the Monarchs flitting silently between the trees. You'll notice that there are no close-up photos. The butterflies are very, very high up, though when it's quiet, and bored children have dragged their parents back to the beach, they'll swoop teasingly close to the deck.

A mother and her young daughter were lying on the edge of one of the deck’s steps, looking up at the treetops. They were talking sweetly, sharing an enviable mother-daughter moment. A small family group was listening to a female ranger talk in whispers about the butterflies and their journey. I caught just the end, just enough to hear her say, “…people who saw them twenty years ago, in the 80s, say that there were hundreds and thousands of them…what you can do is plant milkweed to grow during the seasons that they are traveling…”

I don’t want the butterflies to be just another thing that is dwindling, dying, disappearing. Once there were hundreds, herds by the millions across the plain, great black clouds of wings in the sky, etc., etc. My generation really is Generation D, for disappointment. Everything “used to be” bigger, more. Everything is just outside of our grasp, lost to us by just a little bit.

But then I think, how lucky that I was one of the people who saw them then, who got to stand in that grove alone, on a quiet weekday, not surrounded by well-meaning eco-tourist families whispering questions below the fluttering clusters of insects. I could come down any morning I wanted, and see them hanging on drooping eucalyptus branches, wings still too wet with dew to fly.

As soon as the woman and her daughter left, I found my own spot on the deck and leaned back, resting my head against the wood. The family group moved on, and the couples that trickled down into the grove were respectfully silent.

Directly above my head was a branch whose clustered leaves fluttered—every bare twig shimmered with the dun undersides of their orange and black wings. The sky was blue, and the smell of eucalyptus was caught up in the occasional breeze. There was a serenity in the scene that made me wish to stay. But I had promised the rangers that I wouldn’t leave my dog for long, even though she was safely parked in deep shade, and so I had to be on my way.

***

First stop: The Bagelry, downtown Santa Cruz for a "Dark Star": An "everything" bagel with thickly-layered with cream cheese, chopped olives and chopped walnuts. (PS- they call it the "Ultimate" now.) Mike’s favorite from his MBA days. Mike does not have a Master’s in Business Administration, but he was once the assistant dean at the Monterey Bay Academy. After a walk around the block with the dog, fill the water jug, use the clean bathroom for customers only and park in the free parking for customers only.

Second stop: Butterfly grove

Third stop: Lighthouse point

Fourth stop: Caffe Pergolesi for a chai (the chai by which all others must be judged-- perfect.)

Fifth stop: Pizza My Heart for a pesto pizza to bring home to Mike. Another favorite.

Sixth stop: Cemetery

Stuff

Let's talk about stuff. The stuff that we crave, covet, pursue, stash and hoard.

The thing about things is that they outlive us. Look around the room you are in. Barring natural disaster, everything in it will last longer than you do, or at least it can. There are things that come and go, of course. Rubber bands, pens, bobby pins and paper clips seem to originate at the point of purchase and then slowly dissolve back into the air to be purchased all over again. And paper, in the form of mail, notes, and to-do lists, seems to do just the opposite, multiplying, spreading and clogging up the room like flat, white tribbles.

But the objects, for example, a computer, a metal desk lamp, a framed Polaroid, a picture of Karen and Abbie, a picture of my grandfather, a photo card reader and a painted rock my mother made for me on my fourth birthday. Many of these things will remain with me my entire life. If the lamp breaks, I will reluctantly throw it away, likewise the computer, though most likely both will linger in the garage for years before making it to the disposal site, if past lamps and computers are any indication. You never know which things will go the distance, but they are there somewhere around you already.

When I look at magazines about homes, I'm always drawn to the lean, simply decorated ones, or the ones that look as though every piece was hand-selected by former Pottery Barn stylists. Although I know I loved everything I have once, when I brought it home, I don't love everything now.

In fact, right now we live in a home that was furnished when we arrived. We've become accustomed to the excessive curves of the sofa and the giant bed we had to buy new sheets for on the first night we slept here, and the rattle of the handles on the dresser that signals whoever is still sleeping that the morning routine has begun. But when we leave someday, this stuff will stay, ready for another round of property managers.

So here I am, in my early 40s, with a lot of little stuff and no big stuff of my own. The vintage red chenille sofa is long gone, the platform bed dissembled. I do have a plain dresser with vintage glass knobs that belonged to my grandmother and was used by my father. And this desk, which is oak and not my style, but which I got for a very good price. It serves its purpose.

"Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." (William Morris) Easier said than done. How useful are eight sets of headphones? How useful are a thousand books, some I'll never read again, some I've never read at all? A stack of magazines two feet high, four single-hole-punches, all the same? The things that are hardest are the things that are beautiful, or were beautiful to someone else, and now sit in a box or a drawer. Likewise the things that are useful, but not right this second. These are the things that someday someone will find in that same box or drawer or another one and say, "What was Tamara thinking? What does this mean?"

And yet they remain and we are helpless against them. It is so hard to let things go, once they are infused with meaning, even if their only significance is that they have become ours. It's more than hard-- it's painful. To think that they might not be cherished as much as we once cherished them, even when we no longer do. To think that there will be a space where they once were that has nothing in it, and that the thing, the framed card from someone we don't remember, or the wind-up godzilla, or the oak desk, will go on and perhaps end up in a thrift store with a ten-cent price tag or worse, (much, much worse), go to WASTE in a landfill, this is just too much to bear.

So we keep. And we squirrel away. And we file and stack and shelve and cram, and then one day we are weighted down by all that we have and all that we have saved and we feel like we can't breathe anymore and it all has to go, but how and where, and oh, not this little one right here, because that is very special... all the memories clinging like glistening webs to every single piece keep us mired in and tethered to things.

The thing is, things can be let go, to continue on their paths, coming from wherever they came from and going wherever they are going to go. If we can sort out what's precious from what's just passing through, maybe we can lighten our load just a little bit.

********
(George Carlin once said, "your stuff is stuff, other people's stuff is sh*t". Funny routine NSFW. Damn he was funny. RIP.)

Here's an interesting reflection on stuff from the movie The Labyrinth: YouTube link. I find myself remembering this when I set out on a mission to sort and discard and wind up sprawled on the floor with an old book amid papers and tchotchkes an hour later.  Hoarders with legs.  Note: despite the fact that the giggle-inducing phrase "manipulating her junk" is used, this is also a neat insight into the puppetry involved in the film, which has become a cult classic.

Stay Gold II

Here's my gang. That's me in the middle. There are a couple of people missing from the original "Table" group. You can see the neckline of the dress, but that's about it. Trust me, it worked. (I think that's my disembodied arm growing out of my friend Karen's shoulder...)

I Second That Emotion

So...HOW WAS THE REUNION...I MEAN, THE DRESS?
(I know you've been waiting for this. You'll read shortly why it's taken me so long to get a picture up of the darn thing.)

The dress turned out great. I don't have a good picture of it quite yet, because smarty pants here had to replace her dead cell phone on Wednesday of last week, and got a fancy phone. The fancy phone takes videos as well as pictures, and the little button for video is well, little, and also a little too close to the one for the camera, so I got several very short films featuring me and my friend Karen standing very still and smiling while her father told us to look like we were having a good time, as well as a couple of three-second masterpieces starring two unrecognizable people dancing to Devo.

But that is beside the point. I think there could be a little bit of tailoring applied to the, ahem, forward-most portion of the dress, or I might just need a little more...comprehensive tan, if you get my drift. Maybe I'm just not used to that deep a neckline. But overall it fit very well, and I felt good. I will extract a still from the videos and post asap. Or you could just use your imagination or look on facebook at the shots other people have posted. I'm the one in the black dress. No, the other one.

The reunion weekend was delightful. It was such a joy to reconnect with some of my oldest friends. After all these years, love sees right through all the changes that have happened to each of us over the years. I wish I'd had more time to talk to each person one on one.

Friday night, I was composed, adult me. I could stand back, observe and appreciate my friends for the great people they have become. My high school friends are some of the neatest people, and parents, you could hope to know. Many of them are teachers, and collectively, they have a bunch of kids. These are the people you want raising and educating the next generation. Kind, present, bright people, raising good kids.

There's something that's been bothering me, though. I'm trying not to kick myself for this, but over a 24 hour period, I feel like I completely regressed. By midway through the reunion on Saturday night, I was high school me, just as sure as Michael J. Fox used to get hairy ears when the moon was full.

I forgot completely about my vow to have meaningful conversations with few people, rather than trying to chat with many. I forgot that people who ask "How?" have more fun. I treated myself to a shot of tequila. I squealed when a song came on that I knew. (You can hear it in one of my micro-movies!)

I don't regret grabbing my friend Rusty for Donna Summer's "Last Dance," nor do I regret going back for a round of hugs for the people I'd really enjoyed seeing.

I do regret trying to make guilty (impulsive, slightly drunken) conversation with people I didn't remember that well, or remembered but never really knew that well. When I should have just smiled and said, "Hi, how are you?" I said other things that were equally embarrassing to both parties. Something along the lines of (shouted over too loud, too old New Wave music) "I know you, you're _________, you look GREAT! WHAT?? HOT! You look HOT! I KNOW, THE MUSIC IS TOO LOUD!" as they tried to decipher my bouncing name tag. Ok, not quite that bad, but close.

Or when I told a former female classmate, who may or may not have been a bully in high school, en route to the restroom, that I'd seen her picture on facebook because we had so many mutual friends and she just looked at me and said, "Yeah?" I wanted to run. She looked really beautiful, actually. Her dress was a similar style to mine, but shimmery gold with a leopard-ish print. I should have said something about that instead.

Really, what I should have done was allow silences, moments of quiet for things to happen, for people to

***
and that's where I stopped when I realized that I was going on and on about what could or should have been rather than what was. So I put the post away, about a week ago, and didn't wrap it up. So now I am. Now I have to go pull those stills out of the "movies" so you can see a picture of the dress.

I don't know if you realize this, but I have crossed a barrier this year. In the three years that I've been blogging, I had never posted a picture of myself on the blog. Until the triathlon. Now that many of my friends have seen me on facebook, I got over the fact that I'm not 21 anymore. I look the way I look.

Here's the room where I spent the reunion weekend nights:

Oh you tease...

I just realized that I never described the dress itself! (That's a link so you can check it out.) The dress itself is black. It has 3/4 length sleeves (perfect since the mosquitoes chewed up my left upper arm, so I now I won't have to explain the huge red welts to anyone. The front is "surplice" style, and there are horizontal "shutter" pleats the entire length of the dress. It is lined, and as I mentioned, heavy on the hanger. It doesn't feel heavy on, but then, I've only worn it for a few minutes at a time so far. If you are going to the reunion, act surprised.

If you look at the picture, you'll see how it looks on the professional fashion model. You might not have guessed this, but at 5'5" I am not a professional fashion model. I was once told by a theater costumer that I had a "short waist," meaning there is not much distance between my bottom rib and my hip bone. About 2 inches, I think. I've been trying to have a waist ever since. Anything belted is out of the question. In this dress, I have a waist. That is worth two times the price of admission.

The other reason I didn't want you to see the link is that you'll know what I paid for it (less $10 on sale and $20 for opening a new account, don't forget). Sometimes you want to tell the world about a bargain-- other times you want people to think you spent a fortune. I don't care if you know, but I wanted to maintain the illusion that a dress so fabulous must have cost a mint to others. I did forego renting the adorable Kate Spade bag below from bag, borrow or steal, getting some serious bling out of the safety deposit box, or even getting a professional manicure or pedicure (ok, I broke down and got the pedicure). I'm keeping it real, folks. I may look fancy this weekend, but remember, I'm still the girl who personally put Bartles and James through college.

Damn, that's a cute bag.

Ok, I'm off to pack.

Here's what I was doing this month last year. And the year before. Some cool shots of my grandma (finally) showing me how to make banana cake. Thanks, Grandma.

Yes!

Saturday morning, determined to forge ahead, I called to make an appointment with a personal shopper at the Nordstrom in Corte Madera. I explained my predicament, and was told I'd get a call back over the weekend. By Monday evening, I hadn't heard from anyone.

On Tuesday, I arose in an optimistic state of mind. I walked the dogs, had a little smoothie, did a little work on the computer and prepared to shop alone. Off to Marin.

The first stop was Macy's, to return the brown dress (see previous post). I thought about cruising the dress department there, but I was on a mission to Nordstrom.

Next stop, Nordstrom's customer service counter, returned the silver dress. Easy-peasy. The customer service gal asked (as they often do) if I'd like to open a Nordstrom's account. I asked if there were any discounts on a first purchase if I did, knowing that there was a possibility I would be plunking down some serious dineiro. There was, so I signed up for a card. (Danger! Danger! In my twenties, this would indeed have been a dangerous thing to do, but I have since learned that plastic money needs to be backed up by REAL money.)

I walked about ten paces away from the desk, then thought what the heck, and went back to ask about the personal shopping services. A call was made, a personal shopper was available, and in moments, the angel appeared.

Norah has been working at the Corte Madera Nordstrom since it opened in 1985. "When I opened the store, darling, we didn't have a dress under $300." She was dressed in a navy and white dress with a pebbly texture and gold details, a thick hammered-gold choker and moderate heels. Her sandy-colored hair was cut in a classic bob, framing her large, roundish glasses.

Originally from England, Norah's british accent was all but gone, leaving behind a diction that more closely resembles a kinder version of Mrs. Howell from Gilligan's island. She may have actually sprinkled her sentences with "dear" and "darling" or I may have imagined it.

We introduced ourselves and got right to work. "What is the occasion, dear? Ah...what time? Evening? Ah, there will be lots of black, black is always elegant. Let's go to the dress department, then. What's your size?"

At first, she just cruised the racks with me, quizzing me and pulling everything close to my size. "What about this? Do you like purple? You're young, so you can show the arms, darling, not like when you get old and they go all crepey. This has a lovely neckline, you wouldn't need jewelry, and this...how about a little color? Do you mind a print? Let's just try it." And so it went until we had an armload of dresses in my size. She ushered me to a dressing room, "Let's find you a nice room, darling," and there I was. "Take your time. I'll check on you from time to time. Be sure to come out into the corridor if there's something you really love."

Just under a dozen frock contenders lined the walls of the dressing room. The fourth one from the left had many alluring qualities on the hanger, but as I've learned the hard way, you have to try it on to know. I remembered what my friend Karen said about her terrific dress: "of the meager selection they had, it was the one that fit me best" and I set myself to finding the one that simply fit me best.

I started working my around from the left. The first dress was not quite right. I can't even picture it now. The second, the same, not quite it. Norah peeked in a time or two. The third, a red and white wrap number (...a copy of a Von Furstenburg, darling) wasn't even tempting. As I used to do with my stack of books when I brought them home from the library as a kid, I very quickly abandoned my pre-decided order and jumped to the one I really wanted.

The black one. The fourth from the left. On the hanger, it was heavy. I slipped it on and had a heck of a time reaching the zipper to get it all the way up. I thought of calling for Norah, but I figured if I can't zip it, maybe I shouldn't wear it. Then I turned around.

(Is that the opening baseline of "Brick House" I hear in the background?)

I brought my black slingbacks with me from home, so I popped them on and trotted down the corridor to look for Norah. As soon as she turned from the rack she was working on, she said, "Look no further, darling. You've found it. Don't try on another dress."

I think I got goosebumps.

I did go ahead and try on the rest of the dresses, and some of them weren't bad. But she was right, none of them worked quite as well. I left the store (after less than an hour, mind you) reeling with the high of a successful hunt.

Well, I almost left. The woman at the Kiehl's counter must have spotted my delirious demeanor. She slapped some pretty smelling lotion on me and massaged my hands and I just said yes to everything. She was a pro. Crinkled some paper to get my attention, asked if I'd tried their new lotion, told me it would make my skin look pretty (lotion? not unless it is laced with diamonds or hallucinogens, which this one might be) gave me samples and caught my eye wandering to the lip gloss, cha-ching. Another pretty smelling sucker with goopy lips. I had to get the heck out of there.

When I got home, Mike didn't rave the way I'd hoped he would, but he did say, "YEAH. That's it, that gives you this (two-handed gesture meaning bounty) and this, (another two-handed gesture meaning waist-definition). Good job, sweetie."

So the saga of the elusive dress comes to an end. For now.

Now for the reunion itself....

The Dress Drama Continues

Ok, for those of you following this, neither of the dresses worked out. The first, an adorable chiffon number in chocolate brown that was very Fred and Ginger, was a skosh too tight in the ribcage. Nothing that couldn't have been dealt with, but I'm going to be dancing, for lord's sake, and I need my AIR. (What do you think about this one?)

The second was just laughable. On the surface, it had everything going for it: gunmetal stretch satin, ruching at the bust, three-quarter sleeves. Great color, comfortable, form-fitting. But then, it lost it. The seemingly forgiving ruching at the waist turned out to look like a handy pocket for...something...right at belly level. Not sure what. Ammunition, maybe, or extra Kleenexes. I couldn't get it to lay casually "ruched", so I looked like a very well-dressed kangaroo.

And you know something's wrong when you turn around to show your husband the rear view and he says, "oh, no, honey, no, you can't wear that dress." Who on earth would put a seam down the center of a woman's butt, and then add more drapes of fabric emanating out from that seam? How, and on what planet, would it be more attractive to look like a parade grandstand from the back? My rear looked like the valance in a very fancy boudoir. A noir boudoir, even. So no go. Both dresses will have to go back, and I will have to proceed with Plan D. (Plan A being the first dress, Plan B being shopping, Plan C being ordering on line and hoping for the best.)

The funny thing is, since I began the quest for THE dress, I have worn some outfits that my friends (especially my gay friends, champions of swell dressing) have thought were pretty good. They practically swooned when I pulled out my knee-length lace skirt, slingbacks, charcoal hemp fitted t-shirt and chignon for martinis the other night. I considered wearing that, but I made the mistake of trying to go understated five years ago and felt underdressed. The horror.

Plan D is what I did yesterday: calling up Nordstrom's and asking them to have someone ready to pull as many cocktail dresses in my size and general style as they can and have them ready for me when I get there on Tuesday. This used to be a common service, but with the economy, I don't know if they can still pull it off. Otherwise, I'm on my own. It may work, or I may just have to slog through the confusing arrangement of boutiques until I find or don't find something. I'm taking the lace skirt and the slingbacks in case I have to fall back on Plan E, but let's hope I don't have to go there.