The apprentice

There is a perfect weekend in winter--the one when you don't have much scheduled, your two men are at home and your daughter promises to stop by for a lunch together. The house is cozy, albeit messy, and the cupboards are full. The teen kid has been easy-going and we have been together a lot lately: shoveling sidewalks, playing Scrabble (me pointing out the possibility for "drivel," which used up all his letters and added a double-word score thereby putting him ahead for the win by just four--I mock him and say your win was based only on drivel!), and cooking together.

Our house is known for big weekend breakfasts. Big, cholesterol-laden brunches with homemade buttermilk biscuits and thick-cut bacon, and fried eggs, over-medium. My son likes to cook and so we are teaching him a few standbys. He stood by the stove Saturday, watching the bacon sizzle, and said, "But how do you have the patience to watch this bacon fry?" He is a techno-multitasker; that is, he can play PSP in one hand, hold the TV remote control in another, all the while watching for text messages on his new cell phone. But I needed to show him what cooks do "in the meantime."

"You don't just watch it, you do other things to get ready for the meal," I say. "Like set out the jam for toast and bring out the eggs to cook from room temperature."

"Can I just go in and watch TV, then?" he asks.

"No, you can leave rising bread unattended or a pot of soup, mostly, but you probably shouldn't walk away from frying bacon."

"Dad does," he says.

"Yeah, well, Dad also once let your sister fall into the ice fishing hole. Only one leg fell through, but still," I say. He knows I'm joking. Mostly.

"Or a cook could read," he says.

"Of course, a cook could read." And so I sorted through a few cookbooks for a cake recipe while he sat nearby, drinking his hot cocoa and reading a novel about baseball.



I love these weekends.

And even if you don't have a lover tonight . . .

Valentine's Day is a day for love: "Book-love, I say again, lasts throughout life, it never flags or fails, but, like Beauty itself, is a joy forever." The Anatomy of Bibliomana Vol.II - Holbrook Jackson

Check out these love books, as seen variously at the Book Design Review blog.

Saucy short ribs, sex on the side

This is mark bittman's attempt at soft porn, I guess. His come-hither poses don't get me but these short ribs do.

It's a good thing we can give food for Valentine's because it seems that's all we have on our minds these days. From MNSPEAK, in "Signs of Spring," editors ask: "Are there any other signs that winter is about to start its inevitable retreat?" Readers respond:

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I know that winter is NOT almost over because I'm still eating everything in my path. I bought one of those 330 piece licorice buckets from Costco and I can't stop eating it. When spring is coming around, some sort of seasonal vanity kicks in and I start eating horrible foods like salads and fruit.

»» Submitted by »»» nateek at 8:53 PM on February 12


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I agree with nateek, I'm still wearing my fat pants so it is definitely still winter. Of course the two bagels I had for breakfast might have something to do with the fat pants too...

»» Submitted by »»» mb21 at 9:31 PM on February 12


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Cat, nothing says I'm glad you were born like a bag of bugels and a can of cheez whiz.

»» Submitted by »»» PwrGeek at 10:05 PM on February 12


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I'm with Nate. I'm like a human composter right now. anything and everything.

pasty white
pants fell tight
hey...is that a fudge delight?
mmmm....good night.

»» Submitted by grote at 10:20 PM on February 12

Cold Metal Kissing

This is my last winter life posting for awhile, I promise.

Remember the winter flagpole scene in A Christmas Story?

In Schoolhouses of Minnesota, Minnesota writer Jim Heynen writes "How to Kiss a Flagpole":

"What is the optimum time of day for flagpole kissing? Wait until the morning bell has rung and everyone else is inside. This will guarantee a sustained fifteen-minute flagpole kiss before anyone misses you. Then the real excitement begins. They'll try everything: soothing talk, encouragement to breathe really hot air, and cups of warm water poured continuously on the area of contact. Ideally, the fire department will come with sirens blaring and then use blowtorches to heat the flagpole below and above the kiss-point."

Now, think of the tongue-sticking on this cold thing:

Minus Thirteen and Sunny: Winter life continued

"Ice fishing" by Niki Grangruth (niki.grangruth@gmail.com) [via]

Clark, the Canadian Hockey Goalie

It's Hockey Day in Minnesota and even if you don't want to step out into this cold, snowy day, you can watch hockey all day on FSN. But you can also catch this video of Clark, the MVP Canadian goalie, which was shown to me by my own 13-yr-old defenseman. And he warns, "there's a lot of the Canadian version of the 'F' word in it, but it's hilarious."

Winter Palace

I'm thinking of NOT leaving my winter palace this weekend, much less building myself a new one out of ice and snow. But if you're out and about and crazy about winter life, you could check out this castle, built by James Westin, in his Edina backyard. His castle will be open to visitors tonight and tomorrow and all donations go to Habitat for Humanity. [via]

Photo Craig Lassig/Minnesota Sun Newspapers

Winter Life

The big snowflakes this morning were lovely but on my drive in I was feeling a little tired of winter already. It's only early February!

You too may be tired of the bleak skies and crusty snow but read the tales--here of sheep farming and here of snowshoeing and cross-country skiing the North Shore--by these hearty Minnesotans and you just might feel rejuvenated.

O v. C: Still on the fence after Fat Tuesday?

This article by Gary Kamiya in Salon starts out:

"I've been leaning toward Barack Obama ever since the presidential race began. But until recently, I haven't been ready to make a final decision. I admit that I was initially drawn to him primarily because of his race: As a black man offering racial peace, he promised a kind of national healing, a chance to both symbolically and literally affirm that America can overcome its greatest divide."

I, too, am still on the fence, but reading pieces like this helps me figure things out.

Citizen parties

Please


And then,

Quote of the day, from The Old Foodie:"[The cocktail hour] The pause between the errors and trials of the day and the hopes of the night. (Herbert Hoover)"

Mary-go-round, Mardi Gras, photo by Chang W. Lee/The New York Times


Carnival or Indianos on the Island of Palma


Men at Carnival in Rio

Their town, our town

On the way home yesterday, I read the essay by Nathaniel Rich in the New York Times about his native Manhattan, how it now resembles so much of American “mall culture,” with Crate and Barrels and Gaps filling three floors of real estate on many of the prime streets, bankers and investors occupying the rest. He mourned the loss of New York’s bohemia, and was glad he now lived in Brooklyn, where he could find comfort in the unique and modest spaces that don’t cater to the world’s tourists.

It does stink that, from city to city, what you might find is exactly what you might find at our own MOA. Bright lights, long walls of sectioned windows, spiral staircases, sales on cue in January and July. The patrons might be better dressed or darker skinned but the wares are still the same.

I was on the plane home from five days in Manhattan where I worked a table at a writing conference. The young woman next to me was a kind of Britney Act-a-like. She had shiny long hair and wore those really big sunglasses with the rows of rhinestones on the side. When she got tired she would fling her head on the fold-down tray in front of her, splaying her thick hair to both sides so that it hung on my tray, too. She fixed her make-up three times during the flight and would turn to me with random questions like, “Did you have fun in New York?” and “Are you scared to fly?” When I asked her about the places she had visited she told me Chinatown and then said, “There were some serious smells there.”

Before we took off she spoke on her cell phone with great exasperation:

“Where will you be? Where will I find you? Is this a surprise? Why won’t you tell me?”

And then she turned to her writing friend beside her and said, “I think he’s going to spring it. I really do. And I don’t have any tissues and I look like butt. I really look like butt.” Her friend, who was quite plain, told her she looked beautiful. They were both from southern Minnesota and had made the trek to New York for the writing conference, too.

She told her friend that she would never had gotten involved with this guy if she had known he was in the service. When the friend asked her where her boyfriend was stationed, she said, “Iraq. It’s a bitch. But we’re writers, right? We can handle crazy.” And then she said:

“He doesn’t believe in anything I do and I don’t believe in anything he does.”

When we landed in Minneapolis and we all turned on our phones, hers rang again:

“What do you mean hurry? WHERE ARE YOU?,” she screamed. “Okay, okay I’ll walk to the baggage claim but can’t I stop and have a cigarette first? Okay, okay, I’m just kidding.”

When we all got to the lower level baggage carousel there he was, holding up a big hand-colored sign on white poster board. I didn’t make out the front side but as she got closer to him he flipped it over to the words “Marry Me” and then he got down on one knee and proposed to her. She said yes and we all clapped. Her friends had come with him and they took pictures of the scene. The old couple next to me had only heard the clapping and seen the camera flashes so they said, “Someone is sure happy to be home.” I told them he had just proposed and the woman asked, “Did he get down on one knee?”

* * * * *

It was a cleaner, sparklier New York since the last time I had visited. I was too busy to poke around much but I did have a fun time. On my first day, after I had checked-in and unloaded the exhibit gear, I took a walk near Broadway. A man came up to me and said I should take his ticket to Spring Awakenings, that he had double-booked himself and was going to see the Letterman show. He said it was intermission now but I could walk over in time to see the second act—-it was really good. I knew it was good; I’ve been following that play. So I knew enough of the plot and if I was going to catch only the second act of any play, this would be it. Besides, all those Tony nominations! And at the Eugene O’Neill Theatre. I had never been. It was the perfect New York moment. Of course I went. It was amazing and Jonathon Groff, who plays Melchior, was unbelievably good. The whole cast was! I felt the need to explain to the two women on either side of me—-in our terrific seats three rows from the stage—-why a man sat there for the first act and me for the second (as if we were frugal Midwesterners who couldn’t afford two full seats). But I didn’t.

One of my colleagues was in town for a day on a separate matter so we met for dinner at Resto, a warm and inviting Belgian restaurant. The beer list! We split the beef cheeks roasted with fries in a cast-iron crock, and another hot crock, this one filled to the rim with steaming clams in white sauce. Perfect! Then we took the #6 back up to Midtown to have a drink at The Algonquin Hotel. The famous writers don’t take up residence much there anymore but the infamous cats in the lobby still do. We drank Benedictine and ate decadent chocolate cake.

On Saturday morning, I took a long walk in Central Park. I hiked under the bridges and around the zoo and by the Wollman Rink. There, in the bright Saturday morning sunshine, were loads of kids—-some taking figure skating lessons and some playing in Mite hockey games. Parents filled the bleachers at one end, where I overlooked the scene from the viewing level above. As one team of Mites came skating with the puck towards the end, a parent shouted out: “Tackle him!” A few people laughed but a young guy with a blue jacket with, simply, “COACH” on the back, shouted back, “Sir, we do NOT tackle in hockey. Seriously.”

I bought a shiny green ring at a gallery on 7th and, because it was my last night and I wanted to get away from the writer’s crowd, I asked the two shy guys behind the counter where a person could go for a quiet drink. One said, “Are you willing to go to Connecticut?” and they both chuckled. Then the same one said he liked a place on 2nd Avenue. “And there are tables there so you can sit down. I don’t know about you, but I like to sit down at a table.” I told him, “I do. Sometimes when I sit at a bar my feet dangle and I feel like a kid.” Then the other guy, a noticeably short, rather sit-com character kind of guy, said, “I like to sit at a bar. It makes me feel like I’m up there with the rest of the adults.” The one gave me the address and told me to ask for Philly. He said she was an artist behind the bar: “It would be a disgrace if you went in and ordered a beer," he said. "It’d be like going to the Met and saying, ‘Oh look at how well they’ve painted the walls.” So there I was, heading over in a taxi, following the advice of two strangers, looking for a woman named Philly. But he was right. She took good care of me, the place was cozy and intimate, and I sat by the window, watching the couples walk by, drinking my good drinks, taking notes in my little red journal.

*photo by Sheila O'Malley. For my New York photos, see her website.

2008 St. Paul Winter Carnival Ice Sculptures

I know, I know, it's cold again. But think of all the Winter Carnival sculptors spared the agony of watching that precious ice melt. . . .

Sunday down time

It's Sunday afternoon and my husband is upstairs going through the motions of the knee machine (sigh of relief when leg is lifted and set into the faux wool lining; grimace and teeth-gritting when the knee is bent up). Today he was able to sustain a bend of a hundred degrees.

Yesterday we watched a bit of the U.S. Figure Skating Championships, which are being held here in St. Paul. "Hey," I asked, "do you want to go out later for a little Bob Costas sighting?" He tried to humor me back. I give him a 9.7 for effort. I thought about his body--our bodies--as I watched the pairs skating and then I wondered what he thought; those Olympic-caliber athletes pushing their bodies through triple lutzes and the most amazing spins and him trying to decide whether or not he can walk with one crutch yet.

The treat for ourselves last night: orders of Steamed Pork Bao (dumplings) with slivered ginger and steamed cabbage, and sesame chicken from Grand Shanghai. Delivered! I took mine with a glass of Summit India Pale Ale. He took his with a side of Percocet and Visteral. We both relaxed some. We watched the rerun of the denim episode on Project Runway and counted the number of times Ricky cried.

Speaking of reality tv . . . I've been thinking about scars and that reminded me about Padma Lakshmi, the host on Top Chef. The scar on her arm has been widely

discussed and plays a part, I think, in her mystique. One can imagine Salman Rushdie writing of it, even after their divorce. And then there's Joaquin Phoenix. That scar on his lip, with him since birth, is sometimes mesmerizing. You know it comes up in casting sessions.

I was examining Ken's long scar and was thinking about how that scar is going to resonate with us long after the staples have been pulled out. We will think about the way we held hands in the holding room at the hospital, we will remember how we covered it with Glad ziplock bags so he could shower. That scar will remind him of the pain and then it will fade away, but from time to time will evoke memory and maybe tenderness. Scars do that for me. The one on my mother's forehead, the one she's ashamed to show--she requests that her hairdresser leave her front curls long so she can pull them over that long scar. She fell out of a car when she was very young and has been covering that now-faded scar some sixty years.

There's the scar across the bridge of my daughter's nose, the scar she got when she was fighting over a heavy Tonka truck with Eric Jon Bredesen at toddler care and he got so frustrated with her he just let go of his end of that tug-of-war. The yellow metal came rushing back at her face and cut her between the eyes. It's small but I still notice it.

My own scars, the ones on my skin, are limited. I have one I got when the surgeon had to lance open a non-recluse brown spider bite on my arm; I had gotten it sometime during the night on a camping trip. My mom noticed all the redness and swelling when I came down a few days later in my sleeveless nightgown and she saw the poison was not only up to my shoulder but had started to come back down towards my heart. Dad rushed me to the flight surgeon at the air base and he lanced that sucker open with the finesse of a sushi chef. And there is the scar from that farm horse who kicked me in the shin (exactly as I had been warned); the scars on the side of my thigh where I fell in high school running the low hurdles, landing with a skid on the old-style track turf, made up of ground-up rocks and rubber; and of course, the scars of childbirth, the ones we're supposed to call our medals of honor.

* * *

I leave Wednesday for a long business trip to Manhattan. I'm trying to organize the house and schedules so that my husband can manage on his own for a few days before my daughter comes over to help. I've got the hockey games listed on the calendar, along with all the notes for next week's "spirit days" at my son's school. I've got quick-make meals in the freezer and a jump on the laundry and bills.

This time I'm not pre-planning a thing for my trip. I'll sit at my publisher's table, mingle, sell the press, and then walk the city on my time off. I'm not planning a side trip to any museums or tourist sites. As my colleague, who just returned from NYC himself, says, the city will be my museum. I've been reading Patricia Hampl and she writes of one of her favorite cities: "[Prague] is a loved city, loved by its residents and by those who visit it. A Western tourist feels quite alone in Prague; it is an exhilarating, surprising sesation. . . . It is a good city for walking; and walking is a good way to feel love."

Heave-ho!

Awhile back a friend of mine told the story of how she cared for her sick and dying dog, Boo. Boo was on his last legs, literally, and couldn't really do the long stairs to my friend's upstairs bedroom. But Boo really wanted to sleep near his owner and she really wanted to sleep near him. Every night she would hoist Boo, a big blonde labrador, up the twenty steep stairs. Every morning, she would carry Boo down, carrying him like he was in one of those Coast Guard rescue carryalls, his front and back paws gathered together under him. He'd sometimes turn his long nose towards her during his carry and lick her neck or her cheek.

One night my friend was very weary and just flopped into bed after changing out of her work clothes. In the middle of the night she woke up to the panicky sound of her dog crooning and crying. Boo had been left downstairs and he was frightened. Out of a dead sleep my friend jumped up from bed, bolted down the long stairwell, picked up her heavy old dog, trudged back upstairs, and laid him down on the rug by the bedside. And then she sat at the foot of her bed, breathing so heavily she thought she was going to have a heart attack.

I thought of this scene yesterday, our first full day home from the hospital. I had work e-mails to check on and respond to, my husband's three meals and snacks, my son's History Day project resources to pick up at two different St. Paul libraries, a home health care assessment, three of my husband's knee workouts on the perpetual motion machine, one set of assisted exercises, two stints on the Game Ready ice machine, an orthodontist appointment for the kid, and his sports practice. At about five p.m. I said I just had to lie down awhile. Wow, I fell fast and hard asleep and didn't wake up until I heard my husband outside the little bedroom, shouting that Tim was downstairs and couldn't get in. Last I had left my husband he was strapped into the motion machine. He must have unstrapped himself, heaved over his legs, got up on his crutches fast, and come to get me. Meanwhile, my son is pounding on the door like there's no tomorrow. I jumped up so fast my head got dizzy and then I ran down those stairs to open the door. The kid just walked past me mad; he had been standing on the porch for ten minutes, wearing his practice shorts under his coat.

I just sat on the last step of the hallway, heaving and hoeing, trying to catch my breath like those firefighters who first come out of a smokey building.

I know some of you out there reading this are home with newborns and are probably thinking, that's nothing. Let me tell you about MY day. . . . But really, I thought I was going to fall apart for just a little minute there.

Blitzed out/blissed out

I'm sure when the double dose of painkillers hits, my husband feels a little like this.

Got any drugs to go with that knee replacement?

Holy cow, that was something. The hubby finally comes home today, five days after getting his knee replaced. His doctor is an atypical surgeon, that is, gentle, kind, understated. After the surgery, which took longer than expected, he came out to say, "The x-rays didn't project how bad his knee was. I had to bear down and dig in. But he had a bad knee before and he has a good one now." The doc had to spend time getting rid of a lot of bone spurs and realigning the leg from the severe arthritis that had developed around the knee.

Needless to say, the patient was in a lot of pain and to top things off, the self-administered IV machine of morphine-like dope shut down for an 90 minutes the day after surgery so it took the staff about five hours to get back on top of things. As they say on the ward, "You gotta stay ahead of the pain." And they hadn't. At one low point, as my husband is fighting the pain, one of the charge nurses leaned over and said something about why men don't have children and that he needed to breathe through the pain as women do during labor. The look on his face was something, "Oh no you di-int throw the labor card at me."

I have the walker, the transfer bench for the shower/tub, the cane (which I must return for a different one, apparently), the raised toilet seat, the perpetual motion machine, the game ready ice maker, the new pillows and bed rest, and a gift certificate for some meals to be prepared by Sociale in Highland. Friends are bringing by a "meat-and-potatoes" dinner tonight. We'll bring it upstairs where he'll have to camp out for the first week, since our only bathroom is up the 23 steps to our second floor. All I wish go well right now is him getting up those 23 steps today!

While he was in the hospital, he got notice for federal jury duty. I'll have to figure out how to get him out of that one. No driving for three weeks.

Man, I don't know how people cope with serious illness and disability. I have the upmost respect for their will and strength.

The Soon-to-Be Bionic Husband

The Big Guy goes under the knife at St. Joseph's Hospital Thursday for a knee replacement. He'll come home Sunday with a new titanium knee. I'll be at home for the week following, trying my best to care for him. We both agree this will be the 159th test to our marriage.

I can't wait for him to have a new lease on life and ease the pain of this bad knee (which has been, well, you know those teaching skeletons and their bone-on-bone joints, without any cartilage or ligaments? That's his knee except imagine a bunch of knicks and chips on the socket, like Goodwill china), which has been hobbling him for a long, long time now.

Except for the money, we are very much alike

Steve Jobs made the news again today when he unveiled his newest, superslim laptop.

When I submitted my picture to one of those celebrity look-a-like websites, they told me I looked most like Steve Jobs.

(Well, maybe they meant Steve Jobs at 25, at left.)

Bundling Up

It's minus 12 with the windchill this morning and I need a new hat. I left my favorite beret in Denver, I think. I have a great knit beanie for play but I need a new hat for work.

These are the ones I like:

I've been walking every day at lunch, going up Summit or Portland or Marshall Avenues to Dale Street and back. Today I have some knit yoga pants to wear under my jeans, but I think they'll be rather bulky. I'll feel like Rhoda Morganstern trying to make it through the Minnesota winters, big thighs and all.



In Fargo, I admired these boots worn by one of the moms, whose all-time favorite clothing site is Athleta. They're having a sale now so you should check them out. I like this Athleta Snuggle Scarf, too, which has a slit on one side so you can easily pull one end through the other. I like the brown version better. . . .


In a few weeks I'll be at the AWP Conference in NYC. I'm sure it'll be cold so while I'm out getting my new hat, I should keep in mind these cold weather fashion tips, from the Village Voice.


Otherwise, my windchill-addled side might have me going to NYC like this:

Monday Morning Report

On our drive home from Fargo yesterday, we counted 13 cars and trucks in the ditch. The cold snap we've got here in the Twin Cities this morning was hovering around the Fargo/Moorhead area yesterday and the highways were full of that black ice. Black ice. Snirt. The vocabulary of the northern front. Do you know what those big chunks of ice and snow compacted behind your car tires are called? A blootzer. (From Urban Dictionary).

Fargo is blootzer heaven. I forgot about all that wind, all that icy snow. When I first moved to East Grand Forks, just across the Red River from the North Dakota side, I heard this joke: Why is Minnesota so windy? Answer: Because Wisconsin blows and North Dakota sucks.

But here's what I liked about Fargo.

1. It's hard to get lost. The city's freeways are not congested and even if you do take the wrong exit, it's as easy as the kiddie version of Pac Man to get yourself turned around again

2. Bar drinks are cheap. Very cheap. 24 oz. mug* of Bud Select, $2.25.

3. Everyone knows the official referee calls for hockey. The minute the refs balled up their fists and put their crossed hands over their chest, everyone in the Fargo Coliseum yelled out, "No way! There's No Way! that's interference." Often in the Cities, the refs will make the same call and the crowd of parents will be saying to one another, "Is that boarding? Cross checking? What's that call, anyway?"

4. The staff at the AmericInn (pronounced Amair Kin) posted our hockey team's picture on the home page of their shared wi-fi station. They also happily gave out extra keys, extra towels, extra blankets, and extra directions to any of us who asked. People all over were friendly to us. Even the minor leaguers from the Fargo-Moorhead Jets, an NAHL team, sat by us before their own game started and cheered on our players.

5. This place. Though I didn't get a chance to visit it, I hear it's the best boutique hotel in the tri-state area.

It is pretty funny to travel with a couple of dozen 13- and 14-year-old boys and their families. Here are some of the memorable quotes from the weekend.

1. "We're not renting a nasty movie, Mom, we're throwing dice. I'm already up $17."

2. "You're blinding me with your beautifulness," from the mouth of an eighth-grader to his attractive waitress at Buffalo Wild Wings.

3. "Yeah, he was hyperactive at dinner," from the teammate of the player who complimented the BWW waitress.

4. "Wow, those boys have better one-liners than I do," from their 20-something coach.

5. "Who threw Joey's cell phone into the pool?"

(Above: My son's preseason tryout team. He's in the middle of the back row.)

*I've been corrected.

"Oh sure. They say she's gonna turn cold tomorrow."**

We finished my son's second high school application last night. If you've been through this before you'll know what I mean when I say he was lying on his back, his head upside down over the side of the ottoman, his arms dragging behind him on the carpeting, and he was saying, "I don't know what to write. Really, I have no idea what to write."

Part of one of his application essay answers was this:

"The person I admire the most is my dad. He was the first person in his family to go to college and he worked hard to make a better life for himself. He got married and had two kids and tried to make our life better than his was. He coached in all my sports up to 6th grade and I feel he has made the most impact on my life, more than any teacher or family member."

Awww.

Then I had a little meltdown--and I promise it had nothing to do with my not being most admired, really--because the printer connection was unplugged and it was late and I was too tired to figure it out. I'm surprised my son didn't sneak back into his Word document to add a footnote, "*the person who I think freaks out too much is . . . ."

One more application to go on Monday and then the kid will take his placement test. His first choice for high school is just two blocks away and is a school he's been admiring and hoping to be part of for years.

Now, I'm off to Fargo, with a carload of moms and a couple of Highland hockey teams for a big Bantam tournament.

**Quote from the movie "Fargo" (1996)

Pick Me! Pick Me!

'Tis the season of school applications. I just ran across my journal entries from a few years back, when my daughter was a high school senior. The entry I'll share with you below was written in March, when application decisions were starting to roll in. This month, my son and I are now preparing his high school applications, a process very much like college for the students hoping to be accepted into the private high schools of the Twin Cities. It's good for me to remember the anticipation and anxiety of the process, as well as the knowledge that in the end, everything seems to fall into place.

My daughter had applied to a number of colleges, from the University of Minnesota, to Loyola/Chicago, to Brown University in Providence, RI, her "stretch" application.

March 30, 2005:
Now I’m four minutes away from seeing M.’s admission decision from Brown. She's on her way to Ireland for an early graduation gift so she gave me permission to check the decision notice. I peeked at 4:30 pm but the site only said to return according to the dates shown on the main admission page. The University of Wisconsin-Madison this year fielded over 21,000 applicants but had room only for 5,600 students. I wonder what Brown’s numbers are?

1 more minute. I wonder how many students are waiting, like me, to click open the decision. Rather than waiting for the “fat” envelope to come in the mail, rushing home each day to pull the mail out of the mailbox, they wait next to their computers, in coffeeshops, at home in the study, in their rooms using their WI-FI connections. The time is exact. No guessing when the letter will come. No blaming the weather or the post office if the letter doesn’t arrive when they think it will.

But what if Brown’s server backlogs? Shuts down. How many will have heart palpitations and sweaty palms? What’s wrong? they’ll think. Why isn’t this working? I knew this wouldn’t work? Ugh, I didn’t get in. How many already know, either through connections through sports (if they were recruited isn’t it all a formality?)? How many will be expecting an easy “yes” to go along with their 6 or 7 other yesses, from prestigous places like Yale, and Stanford, and NYU? How many, like my daughter, did not ace her ACT? Or failed Physics? How many had to tell their own school counselor about Brown, a counselor who said she had never written a letter of recommendation to "that college"?

How many will be awkwardly sad, not the kind of breakdown sad but the kind that hits them silently and hard and they won’t know what to do with themselves because they didn’t realize how much they really wanted to get in?

Four minutes after. I should check. I’ve liked thinking about her at Brown. And then I worry, instantly worry over my own fantasies: What if she makes it in? How the hell are we going to pay $44,000/year? How will she survive in such a hyper-competitive and high-level academic environment? Who will take her under their wing? Who will snub her and make her feel bad? Who will she fall in love with? How little will I see her? How will she feel about her dad as she grows in competence and awareness and savvy? Or me?

Enough. Check. Now. I clicked on the link. No action. It won’t let me move on. It really is overloaded. What if the system breaks down, recomposes, and sends out all the wrong decisions? What would that do? If a freshman class was admitted strictly by lottery, who would survive? Would it really matter, in the long run? Wouldn’t most of those students survive and thrive anyway? Aren't most of these applicants poised to succeed? Isn’t it a self-selecting group?

Check again. Nope. There’s that feeling. Aww.

“The Brown Board of Admission has completed its evaluation of more than 18,000 applications to the Class of 2010, and it is with real regret that I must inform you that your application has been denied.

The great majority of the young men and women who applied to Brown this year are very clearly capable of satisfactory academic performance and of making significant contributions to the college community in other ways. With nearly thirteen candidates for every available space, the Board's task in selecting the members of the Class of 2010 has been extremely difficult.“

It was a long shot. She gave it her best shot. The best she had. I don’t want to spoil her mood on this trip now. I’ll wait. It’s hard to hear no. It’s hard to feel that my daughter isn’t going to get the same amazing experience that those attending Ivy League schools will get. They get it. What do you do when you want the very best for your child and you can’t get it for them? Oh! I could have spent more time with her on her essay! We rushed it all. We sent weak recommendation letters from public school teachers who didn’t really say much at all about her that was unique and witty and splendid.

Well, there you go. It’s in. We can move on, at least. Now, the others are there for the choosing. Pick one. Pick one soon.

Mmmm, yes

Santa, oh Santa, if you've got to make a return trip for some reason (lost your red sack, remembered you left the Witherington's gift of scotch up on their roof, decided to take back the X-Box 360 from that mean Bosley kid) won't you grant me more of the wet wilderness for the new year?

Monday Morning Report

"How'd you sleep last night?" I asked my son this morning as we put on our shoes and overcoats for the short commute to his school. It was his first day back after Christmas break.

"Not good," he said. "I got up three times."

"I know, I heard you," I said, "I didn't sleep well either." I didn't tell him I've been agitated these days, though he most likely knows.

"First, I got up to use the bathroom. Then I got up to turn the hall light on. Then I got up and splashed cold water on my face. That usually helps me fall asleep, for some reason," he said.

Though he's thirteen, I know he sometimes still gets scared in the night. Both of my kids have always had some night frights. When they were younger they'd tip-toe into our bedroom and come really close, right up against my sleeping face, and wait for my dream brain to recognize their presence in the room. Sometimes my daughter would brush my closed eyelashes with her damp and pudgy finger, her idea of a gentle waking.

I get wistful when I see them creating their own ways to deal with things. A bracing splash of cold water on the face is my son's replacement therapy--and that's not a bad thing. As pragmatic and self-satisfied parents say of their adult kids, "They've flown the coop. That's a good thing. That's what they're supposed to do."

As we drove along Ford Parkway, my son asked if he could put on KDWB 101.3. We listened to the drive-time DJ talk about his raucous weekend. My son looked over and said, "I could tell you weren't sleeping well either last night. Every time I looked down the hallway, I could see your light was on. I would have come in but I didn't know if Dad had fallen asleep with the lights on so I didn't want to wake you."

I thought about our morning talk all the way to work: his growing up, his changing needs, how my caring turns into his caring. Isn't that the best legacy of all--to teach the love of self-care that also includes caring for those you love?

"I read, I edit, I pine." (six words) Or, "I live my life on Saturdays." (six words) Or, "The perfect gift for Valentine's Day? (count 'em, six words)

A Minnesota writer and recent Loft Mentor series winner, Rachel Hanel, is one of a thousand writers included in the forthcoming book, Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs from Writers Famous and Obscure. The book, which includes such biggies as Dave Eggers and Joyce Carol Oates, is published by Smith Magazine, and here is their pitch (you can also try your hand at your own six-word life story on their website):

_________________________________________________
Six Perfect Words

Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in six words. The result was "For sale: baby shoes, never used."

Since SMITH celebrates the personal side of storytelling, our twist on this classic concept is the six-word memoir--the short, short true story of your life. It could be the title of your autobiography, or maybe your epitaph. Shorter than haiku and meatier that a one-liner, it truly makes you take stock of who you are. Try it.

"Me see world! Me write stories!" – Elizabeth Gilbert
__________________________________________________

New day, new year

*Painting, "Contemplation," by Sharon Rost, my mom

Riding the Greyhound, tired and broken

If I were a country songwriter, I might finish this lyric but I think I'll just put on a little Steve Earle instead.

I did hang out with a couple of country and western fans (it's been so long since I've even used those words--country and western fans--I don't even know if people in the genre call it that anymore). At Christmas, in Denver, a state just as politically polarized as much of the country, where environmental activists prepare for the DNC this summer and pick-up truck-riding urban cowboys prepare to leave town for the "tree-hugging onslaught"--at Christmas we went to my brother-in-law's sort-of megachurch in the foothills. Presbyterian: I can do that, yes, okay; Evangelical: really? I'm not wearing blue eye shadow, that's all I got to say.

Anyhoo, the church was filled with beaming families. There was so much goodness there in that sanctuary and there was a lot of eye shadow, too, only now it's mauve and white, not blue. And do you all ever watch the Gopher's men's hockey team? Do you know their coach, Don Lucia? He's got the craziest damn haircut and I've always wondered how he ever came to it. Well, now I know. He coached for a long time in Colorado and every other dad in this Colorado mini-mega church had one of those sharp-edged buzz cuts.

The altar was huge and held a big choir, two electric guitarists, a drummer behind a shield of neck-high plastic--a little drummer's cubicle--an organ, a piano, two pulpits, two preachers (neither sporting the sharp-toothed hair), and at one point, 15 or so kids for the little children's sermon. Above the altar was a cross, empty, and two gigantic flatscreen TVs, which at various points carried the text for the hymns, showed inspiring starry night scenes and prompts for the congregational readings.

Before I sound too snarky, I can say there was MUCH talent in that congregation. Various folks belted out songs like final contestants on American Idol.

But the thing I really enjoy about Christmas Eve church service is the singing of the Christmas hymns. It's about the only time I sing in public and I love to burst out with "Glo-oo-oo-ooo-RIA, in excelsis Deo, Glooo-oooo-oooo-oooo-RIA. . ." But the country western evangelicals did a Christmas MEDLEY! altogether lasting about 9 minutes with a blending of 20 songs, and like the poor souls out on the dance floor stuck in Limbo Land with a bad DJ who has them grinding it out to Proud Mary one minute and Nights in White Satin the other, here I was trying to reach the high notes of Away in the Manger and all the while the electric guitars were riffing on over to their sped-up version of Whose Child is This? with tambourines and bass beats, too.

Did I tell you I was in Wisconsin over the weekend for a Bantam hockey tournament? And that our room was right next to the wedding reception suite for Curt and Mary and that until way past two in the morning, I kept hearing young jacked-up groomsmen yelling out, truly, "yee-ha," yee-HA!" "YEE-HA!" all through the hallways. I got up and stuck my head out the door and three of them were walking towards me, their satin vests unbuttoned, their black bowties hanging undone, and they waited until they got right up on me and then held their beers up and whispered, "yee-ha!" then just started shouting and running wildly back down the corridor.

At the Rink, where teams from Superior and Rice Lake and Eau Claire and St. Paul were gathered, the parents sat on cold metal bleachers shouting out "SLOT, SLOT" and "NICE HIT, MATT," and then one of the dads, after his kid's team had been beat by a wide margin, said, "They lose, we booze," and proceeded to head to the bar. Oh Lord.

Riding the Greyhound, tired and broken,
Little Lord Jesus, where are you tonight?
I thought about staying, but what would
that do me?
Instead I just got in a fight.

(insert your own stanza here)

Choices

Back from snowy and sunny Colorado and its 15 inches of fresh snow, back on a delayed and anxiety-provoking night flight (especially for those near me hoping not to miss their connecting flight to Amsterdam) to mild and gray St. Paul and its 7 inches of fresh snow. I feel like I've eaten a whole tin of fudge and cookies and missed out on a lot of quality sleep while I was away. Oh that's right, I did; I have. But I had a full and good Christmas and hope you all had a fine holiday and a little time to play in the snow, if it came your way, too.

This Christmas for me was all about family. Remember that Granta cover about fifteen years ago (Granta, issue #37)? Okay, never mind, that's not exactly what I mean to point out. I mean to point out that a lot of what goes on in families involves a good amount of choosing. Word choices, for instance. Saying the right thing. Saying the wrong thing. Or choosing to say something altogether different from what you really feel. For the sake of Christmas, for the sake of family. Or choosing not to say at all, instead reaching for the tin of walnut fudge and green spritzer cookies. On the days after Christmas I always wonder how many of us just burst out with all the other words we have kept to ourselves during the holiday build-up. I think, how many people are feeling it is finally time to--"Say what you want. This old year is almost over."

Before Christmas I e-mailed a wise friend to ask for her advice on discernment, that is, on discerning what my next steps might be. You know, I'm 46, have been at it a long time in my profession, my kids are growing up, my birth family has grown apart. I'm looking for new ways to deal with a lot of choices I have to/want to make in the coming months. I'm tempted, beginning next week, to follow the path--"Do what you want. The new year has just begun."

Back to Christmas. The holiday choices I most fancied were:

1. My kids' Christmas lists. They were humble: books (Ark Angel and Pendragon, Book 8) and University of Michigan shorts for the boy; a gift certificate to Gopher Grocery and a new computer power adapter for the daughter. So simple, especially compared to the scrolls of wish lists from the others in the family whose presents ring round the Christmas trees like suburban sprawl.

2. My favorite gifts to others included a winter white afghan--knit to order for my wheelchair-bound mother-in-law; a fun cocktail ring for my stylish auntie; the three-volume Allan Eckert set for my husband, and this pretty letterpress stationery for the young women in our group.

3. My favorite gifts from others: new wool socks (lightweight and heavy) for those long portages from my hubby; a Netflix subscription from my daughter; a light blue French beret from my son; a handmade recipe book filled with my mother-in-law's favorite recipes; a sleek leather satchel from my stylish auntie.

4. My favorites of all the foods we chose to make: my mother-in-law's old-fashioned butterscotch pie, my niece's homemade Yorkshire pudding, my husband's tried-and-true standby, Christmas morning buttermilk biscuits.

4. Finally, the book I brought along to Colorado with me was one damn good choice. I browsed most of the titles on my shelves, looking for just the right book to read in the airport, on the plane, over to the side of the family room while the rellies played with their Wiis and their X-Box 360s and their digital cameras and all the other gadgets of the moment. I brought A Romantic Education by Patricia Hampl.

I can't believe I have never read this book. If you love St. Paul, and if you love family history, and especially if you love great writing, this book is an elegant and loving tribute. As I come to these choices that lay ahead so prominently for me, Hampl's words remind me I am not alone. Choices, words, family, free will, obligations, loyalty, love, passion.

A few years after the publication of A Romantic Education, Hampl's first book, I attended the Bemidji Writers' Workshop. I wrote poems under the guidance of Michael Dennis Browne, fiction under Jon Hassler, and memoir, a budding genre at the time, under Hampl. I was encouraged by the positive responses from all those but Hampl. She kept telling me: You're holding back. You're not getting at the truth. You're not getting at anything, really. You are too ambivalent. You have to take hold.

She's right. I am learning to take hold and make choices but they are sometimes too complicated. But people do it all the time. I'll end with this passage from Hampl, a scene of her as a young woman, with her Czech immigrant grandmother, at the small house on West Seventh Street. This book is filled with these telling scenes. I can't wait to finish up work here and crawl into my own bed to read more tonight.

When my older brother went to the university, [my grandmother] asked me what he was studying there. The university was a new aspect of life, introduced by my brother and me.

"Science," I said.

"What is science?" she asked. We were in the back yard behind our house, where she had come to live, in a small attached apartment, a few years after my grandfather died. I turned away from her, and broke off a piece of chive from the window box and chewed on the peppery stalk. That ugly shame, the fury, was on me.

"Science," I said angrily. "Science, you know, science." Brutal, cutthroat voice.

"Who do you think you are," she said, turning back to her apartment, "somebody smart?"

Later I felt guilty. Actually, I felt guilty instantly, almost before I felt anything else. I went to her little neat apartment and asked if I could have dinner with her. I knew what to say. "You're a much better cook than mother," I said.

She put her cheek out for me to kiss. Her skin was perfect. I have never seen skin like it, flawless, more refined and beautiful than a girl's because the color, steady and delicate, was not as alert and harsh. "I wish I had a complexion like yours," I said truthfully. She liked that. Food and beauty, those were her subjects. Sometimes I didn't mind the lovely old subjects of women. I wasn't always fighting her.

". . . Santa baby, come on over tonight. . . ."

Oh, whoops, I forgot you all were reading!

Joys to everyone--and happy new year!

(The Night Editor will be out on vacation for the next coupla weeks.)

A side of blues to go with that holiday cheer

I know, it's the most festive time of the year. But Heather Armstrong at Dooce blogs about depression and recovery, and if you've ever wanted to get behind the scenes or understand more the disease of depression, or if you have been feeling quite sad or uncontrollably edgy for some time yourself, please read this.

Monday Morning Report

'Tis the season for lists. Top ten gifts, top ten books, top ten reality shows, top ten plastic surgeons. Here's my contribution to the listmaking: Top Ten Things I’ll Try Not to Do Again

1. Never sign a book contract until I’ve seen at least one solid, good chapter.

2. Never ask my thirteen-year-old son if he has any hair down there.

3. Never let my auto insurance policy lapse while I’m out of town and my unsuspecting husband is left to drive the uninsured car willy-nilly.

4. Never, never use Purell (instant hand sanitizer) on my vayjayjay at the pit latrine in the Boundary Waters thinking it might somehow take the place of a good shower or bath soak.

5. Never order a gift online--like say a nutcracker for my son’s Christmas surprise--without thoroughly checking the size and dimensions, especially if I think I’m ordering one of those tabletop varieties but instead am really buying a miniature tree decoration, at 1/10 the size and three times the price. (Addendum: Never be confused by any Internet copy that says, “moveable parts.”)

6. Never insist my close family members call me when they’re ready and then forget to turn my ringer on.

7. Never work without backup, especially when my company’s e-mail and Internet servers are on the fritz.

8. Never say, “Well, not really,” when my daughter is stressing about her big night out at the 18+ club with super-thin and super-trendy girlfriends and asks me if her outfit looks okay.

9. Never say “How can I help?” to my boss when my own workload is so full I haven’t had lunch away from my office for weeks.

10. Never tell my 69-year-old and second-wave feminist mother that I went to see the movie Super Bad.

To Grandmother's House We Go . . .

Traveling over the holidays? Watching those Internet storm warnings with greater interest? From today's headlines: "The latest storm's northward shift as it moved east meant the brunt of the bad weather was passing through Kansas and Missouri where, along with Oklahoma, hundreds of thousands of people were still in the dark." Just great, you think.

Every couple of years we get together over the holidays with my husband's side of the family. This Friday we're heading to Colorado. We thought about driving but figured we'd save the headache of navigating wintry roads and slick snowstorms.

Ahh, but now we can look forward to some packed, holiday Northwest Airlines flights. We got four of the last six seats on both flights coming and going and none of us is sitting together. Pico Iyer, one of my favorite travel writers, guest blogged on "Jet Lagged" today about the US of A's unfriendly skies.

Meanwhile, I'm shopping for miniatures: small hand-held gifts I can tuck into our suitcases for the 12 or so family members for whom I need to buy gifts. I thought about bringing my hundred dollars over to the Art-o-Mat at the Chambers Hotel. My friend Sharon and I this fall paid our $5 to get a token for the former-cigarette-vending-machine-turned-miniature-art-dispenser and each of us got a lovely piece of keepable art, in boxes the size of a pack of Pall Malls. You can sort of see mine here on my office door: it's a small wooden block painted with a lovely scene of wintry trees. My friend got a lapel pin that was made from a bottle cap. The artist had painted a little portrait of Abe Lincoln, I think, on the backside of a root beer cap. Lovely.

I could pack 12 of these little objet d'arts in my carry-on luggage and if any of the surly NWA attendants gives us any flak, we'll just heave a block or two at their heads.

Tonight I'm having some girlfriends over for wine and munchies and then a late dinner at the recently reopened Zander Cafe on Selby. Now that's a carrot at the end of the stick!--a nice ending to what's looking like a jam-packed Saturday. I'm escorting Kevin Kling to some book readings today and if you're a Kevin Kling fan, come hear him read from his new book at the Border's store in Roseville, 2 to 3 pm, or at the Barnes and Noble in Maplewood Mall from 3-4 pm. He's a gem--and hilarious!--and his stories will get you in the right mood for this holiday season.

Terms of Endearment

I was editing a piece this afternoon and needed to come up with a better word for "a term of endearment." We pulled out the old hard copy edition of Roget's International Thesaurus (which is worlds better than all these online versions) and found:

pet name
affectionate name
diminutive

I've also heard it called a "lovey," but I don't know if that came from Gilligan's Island where Thurston Howell the Third calls his wife Lovey.

A colleague wrote back in reply to my request for examples: "I thought a pet name was more specific: like calling a plain but lovable husband “Rock” [as in Hudson] or a plain but lovable wife “My Own Bardot."

Don't you love office correspondence like this?

My mom's youngest sister never could pronounce my mom's name, Sharon, and came out with "Zim" whenever she tried. The name stuck and my mom's pet name among her sisters is still Zim. She even signs her paintings with that monicker.

There's "Big Papi" (David Ortiz) out in Boston and "Sweetness" (Walter Payton) in Chicago. Bill Clinton was called "Bubba" growing up and Jimmy Carter often heard "The Grin."

In TV Land, there was "Pepper" for Angie Dickinson's cop character, "Puddin' Head" for Colonel Potter on MASH, and even--did you know this; it's kinda creepy?--"Penis Von Lesbian," the tongue-in-cheek nickname of actor Dick Van Dyke given to him by fellow actors Mary Tyler Moore, Morey Amsterdam and Rose Marie etc. while filming the THE DICK VAN DYKE SHOW. The name, apparently, was a play on words with the actor's own name "Dick" (Penis) "Van" (Von) "Dyke."

Today I also shared e-mails with some women friends about the term "the girls," made popular by the "What Not to Wear" duo, as in "we gotta get you a good bra to keep those girls up." One of my friends wrote to remind us of Kramer's (Seinfeld) diminutive for his testicles: "My boys."

Speaking of my boy, once, when I answered the phone at my husky husband's (then-boyfriend's) house, one of his Greek friends called asking for Ken. My husband has the same first name as his father had but they're not junior and senior. I asked, "Big Ken or Little Ken?" His friend George said, "Oh yes, Big Ken. He is very big."

And when we lived on the East Side of St. Paul, my hubbie would go down to the Earl St. rec center to play ice hockey with the kids in the neighborhood. He always wore a bright green hooded sweatshirt with the lettering "Irish Rebels" on the front, and when I'd get home from work in the evening, all the rough-and-tumble East Side boys would be knocking at the door asking if "the Big Green Guy" could come out and play.

My husband likes to use diminutives all the time at our house. He calls my son "His Lordship," especially when my son says things like, "Can I expect dinner after practice?" He calls me "Sweet Sugar" or "Baby Cakes" or anything else he can get away with before I slug him. We've both taken to calling our strident and politically active college daughter, "the Righteous One."

Who you calling out today, lovey? Any special pet names you want to share with us?

Our Future Vote

Yeah, maybe you've heard about the NYU kids who chose to give up their right to vote permanently in exchange for a million dollars.

I think these kinds of questions are unfair. Often the last thing on the minds of college students is the next election. And the price of higher education is making it even harder for students to get involved--much less feel involved (or invested). They're too busy working one or two jobs to make ends meet. Even Harvard recognizes this fact--even among those students from families making over $120,00 a year. To help free up student time and stressloads, Harvard has joined others in the Ivy League to exchange loans for outright grants. Students from families earning less than $60,000 a year attend Harvard for free. Those whose families earn between $60,000 and $120,000 will pay about $12,000 total.

So at our house we're paying $7,000 more a year for a Univ. of Minnesota education than the average student pays to attend Harvard. (My daughter notes with pride that she is paying a full half of her college education.) Huh. The privileged class just keeps getting more privileged.

And about the election, do these things help?

I'm thinking about launching a local project sometime next year: the Minnesota Beauty Parlor Vote. I heard reference to this phrase--the beauty parlor vote, that is--in a national radio commentary and thought it might be a great window into the minds of a segment of our voting population. And everyone is interested in how women will vote this year, young and old, black and white and brown: Do they support Hillary? Or not? If you all know a good parlor/salon I might poll (with camera and notepad in hand), drop me a line in the comments section below.

Photo of beauty parlor interior, Minnesota Historical Society Collections, 1946

Monday Afternoon Report

I'm swamped here at the office, barely making headway.

If I was as talented as this guy I would close my door, gather all the stuff out of my desk drawers, and cadoodle away. Really, you should spend a few minutes on his site--he's brilliant! (Thanks to Paper Cuts for the original notice.)

Any Given (December) Sunday

Once I worked with a translator who was born in Costa Rica. He worked here as an international manager for 3M. I was working on a somewhat rare manuscript by a Cuban economist and the translator had stopped by my house to drop off the piece. We talked awhile in my foyer. This morning, looking out over the whites and browns of my snowy neighborhood, I remembered what he said about his home country. "You should come sometime," he said, "we have the most beautiful colors of the world--all about us our wildlife is exotic, full of oranges and blues and pinks and yellows. Here, it seems, you only have squirrels and crows. Blacks and browns. Squirrels and crows."

* * *

This is strange; I must have lost track. Money is tight and I'm always juggling bills. But I must have lost track of a few in the busyness of work because when I got back from my trip our home telephone had been disconnected (with a terse script: "This line has been discontinued by the owner's request"). And I found two checks from American Family Insurance, both refunds for cancellations of our two car insurance policies. Huh. So much for grace periods. I've restored all the accounts after a series of long Saturday phone calls but I'm still walking to my son's hockey game tonight, just in case the policy renewals don't go in until Monday.

* * *

One of the New Englanders I ran into asked me this:

"Who is your quarterback in Minnesota?"

"Uh, Tarvaris Jackson, if he's healthy."

"No, no that's not him. Who else?" (This reminds me of the Hollywood fan who approaches a star and says, "I know you. I've seen you on TV." "Yes," the star says, "I'm Leelee Sobieski." "No, no, you're not. Helen Hunt. That's right. You're Helen Hunt. I'd know you anywhere.")

"Um, maybe you're thinking of Holcomb."

"No, not him. Don't know him."

"Well, maybe you remember Daunte Culpepper."

"No, no, he's no good. Who else?"

"Could it be you have in mind Brett Favre?"

"Yes, yes, that's him. That's who I'm thinking of."

* * *

I forgot to mention a detail on my happiness study last week. I often review the local and national best-selling book lists. But I discovered that Publisher's Weekly has a "Books Most Borrowed" category, with lists in Fiction and Nonfiction. I make and sell books but I'm a big fan of the public libraries and the whole concept of sharing and reusing, and I was really happy to see these categories. The #1 borrowed nonfiction title: "Eat, Pray, Love," by Elizabeth Gilbert, and in fiction, "A Thousand Splendid Suns," by Khaled Hosseini. To see both lists, go here (and see other links at bottom of page).

* * *

Speaking of books, a lot of people are talking about the demise of the book review. But recently, at our house, we've kept the spirit alive.

Me: "So I just finished "Lady Chatterley's Lover."

Quietness pervails.

After a moment, K. asks, "Well, how was he?"

"How was who?" I say.

"Lady Chatterley's lover."

"Ah, good one," I say, a twinkle in my eye.

The Out-of-Towner

I got back about 1 a.m. last night and as I wound my way through the user-unfriendly MSP airport departing areas, I felt a little like Amy Winehouse, but without the red bra. I had twenty bucks left to my name and hoped the cab to Highland Park wouldn't be more than that. It wasn't, but it was close.

How did I spend my modest budget on this business/pleasure trip? A few mentions:

1. $9.00 admission to Harvard's Fogg Museum. It was both sleeting and snowing that day and my daughter and I were a bit too tired for this museum visit. You know how you've been racing about and are still trying to be excited about your vacation and then you hit the museum (any museum) and you realize you're just not in the mood? But even though the Fogg's collection didn't wow us, we did find some gems among the Rembrandts, Picassos, and Daryl Hannah-inspired Rossettis to make the stop worthwhile. I loved this "Harriet Leavens" by American Ammi Phillips.

2. A "T" CharlieCard, the new swipeable plastic pass that subway riders have embraced heartily in Boston. I loaded $20 on to the card over the course of six days and took about 10 subway rides from north to south, east to west. We were only a block from the Park Street station and could easily hop a red line to Cambridge, which cost my daughter and me a total of $6.80, round-trip. The same round-trip cab fare, on the other hand, cost us $40 total.

3. $20 bucks: Mmm, fresh clams on the half-shell and a light ale at the Union Oyster House, "America's Oldest Restaurant." William H. Macy, of "Fargo" fame, was in town filming a new movie and dropped in to the Oyster House to sign their famed autograph book. I must have missed him, as well as Bill and Hillary Clinton, who were also in town, and Sen. John Kerry, who apparently lives just one street over from where I was staying. Oh well, so much for celebrity sightings; the clams were damn good. And speaking of politics, one of our cab drivers told us he liked many of the candidates but not Romney, former Mass. governor. He said about Romney, "If he couldn't manage one state, how do people think he can manage fifty?" (Later, we took one of our work lunches at the 21st Amendment, a pub between the State House and the Government Center. It was bellowing with lunch talk and practically damp with steam. One of my work associates told me the place was filled with local politicians. . . .)










4. $9.00 for two cigars. A gift for my husband at Leavitt & Peirce (since 1883). The proprietor was everything that, say, Tim Pawlenty is not: stocky, like Rocky Marciano; stylish, wearing wide-legged, black, pin-striped pants and a tailored white shirt and sporting a severe crew cut; and aggressive, but not in an abrasive kind of way--just, "this is my shop, I'm proud of it, I have good taste, I hope you buy something, please do not engage in a cell phone conversation while I'm trying to wait on you." And I did. Buy something, that is.

5. $10.94: A bottle of rose from the nearby market, which I kept in my room, a turn-of-the-century bedroom with four-poster beds and a (nonworking) fireplace and windows that looked out over Joy and Beacon Streets. Each night when I'd return from my day's work, I'd pull up the brocade chair and sit by my window, sometimes watching the office workers in the rowhouse a stone's throw over, who worked so still in front of their computers I wondered if they were mannequins; sometimes watching out over the park, where I'd see the evening tourists or Beacon Hill dogwalkers, or once, a group of about forty students in heavy sweatshirts and knit caps, jogging around the perimeter of the Commons, shouting out in unison every minute or so something that I couldn't make out, like a bunch of recruits at boot camp only all these co-eds seemed happy to be out excercising in the cold air.

Shining moments

Dec. 5, 2007
The Boston Globe had a headline today: "Our Minnesota wish list," and they write about inheriting Minnesota transplants Big Papi (David Ortiz), Randy Moss, and Kevin Garnett. About Al Franken, they say, "Stuart Smalley should abandon his bid for the Senate seat occupied by Minnesota's Norm Coleman and move to liberal-loving Cambridge, where he could hone his stump speech while waiting along with the rest of us for Ted Kennedy and John Kerry to retire." They also pine for Paul Westerberg of The Replacements, Prince, and Winona Ryder (Really, Ryder?)


I'm staying just across from the Boston Commons, and I can see the big tree wrapped in Christmas lights and the festive, frozen Frog Pond, filled with ice skaters and lookers-on. Beacon Hill is ultra-tony and safe, so I've been able to wander around on my own, watching not to trip over the cobblestone sidewalks or walk in front of the cars winding their way around these tight hills. I'm staying right next to the Old State House, and yes, I've seen many of the JFK, Jr. look-alikes, walking by briskly in navy wool coats and plaid scarfs, clean shaves and dark hair, trim and neat and preppy.

My cabbie the other night said there were more than 60 colleges and universities in the Boston area. Our rowhouse manager tells me that Boston University owns more real estate in this city than any other entity. I said that they must have bought early and often and he said, "No, not really. When you think about their enrollment, and at $50,000/year tuition, and think about their endowments from wealthy alumni, you see how they can afford to acquire all this land, even today."

My daughter and I flew in Saturday and spent a long weekend before she returned to Minnesota and I moved on to my work assignment here during the week. The trip was our gift to her for her twentieth birthday. It was a mother-daughter affair.

We hit this town fast and hard. We hiked the Boston Public Gardens and Beacon Street. We ate sushi in Chinatown and handmade pasta in the North End. We strolled the eclectic Isabella Gardner Museum near Northeastern University and the somber art museums of Harvard. We ate vegetarian at the Veggie Planet in Cambridge and saw a show in Boston's theater district. We navigated our way through the T subway system and caught a terrific poetry reading/jazz trio combo at the Lizard Lounge near Harvard Law School.

We watched the New Englanders closely, and I found her eye noticing things that mine didn't. For instance, we sat near a young Bostonian woman on our flight out, and my daughter leaned over to say, "Look at that rock on her finger." And after walking through Harvard Yard to Church St., she pointed to all the sleek black limousines waiting, with motors running, along the gated fence, and she said, "I wonder how many of the students and professors have drivers bringing them to school." And I watched her banter with the less-monied locals, the repairman and the B&B manager, and her easy way with them all. One told us, in that accent perfected by Ben Affleck and Matt Damon in Goodwill Hunting or Mark Wahlberg in The Departed, "If you're in the vicinity of Hah-vawd, you should go to Hah-vawd, because everyone should see it once in their life."

The thing is: after all those years of parenting a child, pulling down his hat, wrapping round her scarf, warning, warning, warning them to stay out of harm's way, it is utterly delightful to travel with them as young adults. We stopped into a small art and frame shop in the Italian North End and there a tall, big, and boisterous woman of Italian and Czech heritage warmly invited us in to browse. It had snowed that evening and the snow sparkled in the light of the streetlamps. More shoppers came in and then a large Italian family--friends of hers--stopped by after having dinner at the celebrated restaurant, Giacomo's. The shopowner got more glasses so she could share her bottle of wine with all of us, and she told stories about her father, who for thirty years prior had owned and run this quaint shop. It was a sentimental scene, made only more so when the woman stopped and looked closely at my daughter. "Italian?" she asked. "No, Irish," my daughter said.

"You are just beautiful," the shopkeeper said. "Just beautiful. Look at her, will you," she said to us all. And then she looked back at my daughter again, "Just look at your eyes, your hair."

It was a shining moment.

Then we went off to La Summa, a very modest Italian restaurant owned by a woman who had named the restaurant after her Italian grandmother. There were framed snapshots on the walls and on top of the hostess station. We ordered fusilli with baked eggplant and sweet cannoli and pumpkin gelato. My daughter, feeling big and boisterous herself now, so warmed was she by the tightknit feel of the neighborhood, leaned over very close to me, and I thought she might say with the same kind of shining affection I felt at the moment, "Mom, I love you." But she leaned over real close, her black hair and deep brown eyes twinkling in the candlelight, and tilting her head slightly towards the dark-haired server, said, "Where do all these gorgeous Italian boys come from? I just can't get enough of these gorgeous Italian boys."

Ha, a shining moment indeed.