Wednesday, December 8, 2010

A Guide To Seasonal Exterior Lighting

1. No matter how many strings of lights you packed away last year, you will need more.

2. (1) is always true because many of the lights that were working when you packed them away last year will not work now.

3. (2) is always true because holiday lights are designed this way: the entire string works the first year. Two-thirds of the string will light the second year. By year three, you might as well just pitch them—they either will not turn on at all, or they will blink on and off.

4. Because it seems a shame to waste the functioning portions of “year three” lights, you will arrange, bunch up, and wrap them around themselves so as to conceal the dud, or unlighted, sections. This is a bad idea, because just when you have completed these gyrations, the entire string of lights will go out, and you will have to unwrap, unbunch, and rearrange.

5. Whether you use brand-new or older lights, they will all stop working within a few hours to a day of when you’ve finished putting them up. You will have to take at least a portion of them down and start again. Guaranteed.

5a. Corollary to (5): even if you chose to hang your lights on a beautiful, mild day, by the time you have to rework the lighting arrangement it will be minus 5 with wind chill. And you will need to take your gloves off while you’re working.

6. “Dad, you taught me everything I know about exterior illumination.”*

My parent’s next-door neighbor, Mr. Jim, often went with a monochromatic lighting scheme (my parents were strictly multicolor). Many evenings, after dark, my Pop would sneak over and change one lightbulb, inserting, say, an orange amid the unbroken line of blue. Mr. Jim would watch out for him, and when he left, would quietly come outside and replace the discordant orange bulb with a blue one. It amused them for years.

*Clark Griswold, in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

7. Outdoor seasonal lights are not optional, despite any inconvenience they may cause.

8. Happy, happy holiday season, and may your lights shine brightly all the year round.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Antique Words

Recently I learned about a web site (www.savethewords.org) that’s devoted to words that are becoming obsolete. It’s sponsored by the Oxford English Dictionary. The setup is great—the words appear in a big collage on the home page, in all different fonts, and when you scroll over them they call out to you in little goofy voices “Pick me! Me! No, me!” When you choose a word, you get its definition and see it used in a sentence.

Then—if it’s the word of your dreams—you can “adopt” it, which means you vow to help bring it back into everyday usage. Here’s the pledge you take:

I hearby promise to use this word, in conversation and correspondence, as frequently as possible to the very best of my ability.


Some of the words, though uncommon, sound like what they mean. Here are a few:

Boreism: behavior of a boring person

Slimikin: small and slender

Squireiferous: having the character or qualities of a gentleman

Recineration: second time a place or thing is burned down


But some of them are a bit more interesting, mostly because I would never have imagined that there are words that mean such specific, fascinating things. One, weequashing, is defined as “spearing fish or eels by torchlight from canoes.” So cool.

Here are a few more in the who knew? category:

Mulomedic: relating to the medical care of mules

Ptochology: study of beggars and unemployment

Sinapistic: consisting of mustard

Oporopolist: fruit seller

Gutterniform: shaped like a water pitcher


On my first visit I adopted four words, and am already planning how to slip them into conversation. For the first, jussulent, meaning full of broth or soup, I just need to wait for minestrone night. The second, cloakatively, sounds Harry Potterish enough to be fun, and it’s a synonym for “superficially” so it shouldn’t be too hard to find a place for it.

And here are my final two words, two words I could not allow to be lost, the ones that make my heart go pitter-patter:

Isangelous: equivalent to the angels

and

Pregnatress: female power that generates or gives birth to something

How to use them? I’m not sure yet. Something about the holiday season, surely, some happening or feeling of joy or gratitude or blessedness should seem isangelous.

And pregnatress? Hmmm. Such a compelling word shouldn’t be wasted.

Suggestions?

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Encounters With Children

One
A beautiful little girl with long blond pigtails, dressed in a Dorothy costume complete with ruby slippers, stood next to me in the bead store. She was accompanied by her mother and her adorable baby sister, who was riding in a stroller.

While her mother browsed, she took strings of shiny colorful beads and held them up to the baby, who was tucking her chin and drooling, trying to get them in her mouth.

“Look at these, Mommy!” Dorothy said. “The baby needs these.”

“Um hmm,” said her mother.

“She does!” she insisted. “Babies love to be stylish.”


Two
Maggie, my daughter, babysits brothers who are seven and five. One day they were arguing and hitting each other, so she separated them and suggested they draw a picture of how angry they were.

The oldest boy drew himself striking his brother, with big black scrawls all around.

“Wow, you are mad!” Mags commented. “Now can you draw what you could do next?” The boy drew himself and his brother having a conversation, then shaking hands.

“That’s great!” Maggie encouraged. “Now let’s do something else and let all of the bad feelings go.”

A minute later she noticed the older boy hadn’t come back to play; he was still drawing. She went to admire the final picture. He’d drawn his brother in a castle, without a window or door. And the castle was burning.

Takes a while for all those bad feelings to be gone.


Three
We were walking the dogs at the park, and a little boy named Roman stopped to pet them. Roman, who had just turned three, was wearing pale orange nail polish, just like his older sister. (“He wanted to paint them for his birthday party,” his father explained.)

Roman stroked our little dogs gently. “They’re soft,” he said.

Then he said, “Their tails come off.”

Well, no, Roman. Really, they don’t.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

I Do It Myself

I carved the Halloween pumpkins by myself this year. It was fun. I freehanded the faces, did a cursory job of clearing out the gooey interiors, and had a few beauties completed in a half-hour.

Although I have great memories of carving bright orange faces with my kids, this year had its advantages. Nobody complained that there were stringy squishy pieces hanging down behind the eye holes, no one was upset that his brother got one more crooked tooth in his pumpkin's mouth than he did, and no one insisted that we clean and roast every single seed.

Still, I do miss moments like this:



Happy Halloween!

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Signs of Fall

This time of year may be my favorite. The air is crisp and there are so many lovely things to see.

Pumpkins and mums,



Leaves changing color,





And bright berries.



And then there are these signs of the autumn season. Don't they just say October to you?









And they're everywhere you look!



Gaaaaaaaaa.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Verifying Me

So I just posted a comment on a friend's luscious blog entry (www.ofsofterearth.blogspot.com), and as always I had to type in a nonsense word before my comment would be posted. I have two things to say about that:

First, my word today was "calserne." I like the sound of this word and have spent more time than you would think wondering what a calserne might be. Any ideas?

Second, because the sites always show the code word in some sort of scriggly typeface, the "r" and the "n" were hard to distinguish from one another. I had to guess what the letters were before entering the word. I got it right but, Google verification people, "calserne" is not the ideal choice for this sort of thing.

And third (oops, that's three things) why do we have to do this anyway? If anyone were using my account to post a counterfeit comment, presumably that person could type in "calserne" as well as I could.

Now I'm sure there are many highly technical and cool people out there who can tell me what the purpose of these goofy words is. Because the word "calserne" is so diverting, I didn't mind typing it. But can someone explain to me what's up with this?

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Heavy Metal Typo

I'm proofreading something that refers to the 1st Armor Division of the U.S. Army, instead of the 1st Armored Division.

The 1st Armored Division is a more than half-century old fighting unit of soldiers known as "Old Ironsides." And the first Armor Division would be what? Knights on horseback? Those suits of armor that come alive and clunk around Hogwarts in the Harry Potter movies? It's kind of a cool image.

But it's stlll a funny typo.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Survey Results

Recently I read a discussion in the New York Times about shifts in gender norms. According to Stephanie Coontz, author of "Marriage, a History: How Love Conquered Marriage," evidently more men report feeling stress from trying to juggle work and family responsibilities. This suggests, she says, that men are increasingly identifying themselves as nurturers, not just providers. Excellent news, and no big surprise.

Then there was this:

"The best predictors of a man’s marital satisfaction are how much sex he gets and how little criticism he gets. And numerous studies show that women feel more intimacy and more sexual attraction toward — and are less critical of — husbands who participate in childcare and housework."

Wow, really??? Someone needed to conduct a survey to learn this?


Here's a link to the full discussion:
http://roomfordebate.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/02/21/for-women-redefining-marriage-material/

Sunday, September 26, 2010

The West Wing




One of my husband’s colleagues works at the White House, and recently she arranged for Rob, Tom and me to have a tour of the West Wing. It was amazing to be able to stand in the doorway of the Oval Office, walk in the Rose Garden, and see President Teddy Roosevelt’s Nobel Prize displayed on the wall of the Roosevelt Room. In the hallways there is a rotating display of large and beautiful photos of our government officials in diplomatic scenes, and also personal ones like the President hugging his daughters with Bo at their feet.

Tours are given in the evening and it was very warm. So although the chairs in the Cabinet meeting room, which feature plaques with each members’ name and years of service, were interesting, it was also very nice to lean way in over the velvet barriers to better feel the air conditioning in there.

And before you ask, it all looks a little like the sets for the Aaron Sorkin series (which I love) but not exactly. Despite how impressive everything is, it all seems more governmenty and smaller than it looks in the show. The entrance foyer is very nice but less open. The Situation Room is not underground (or at least you don’t have to go underground to peek in). They do not play the theme song when you walk in, though I hummed it under my breath. I did not meet Josh Lyman nor his real life counterpart.

There was a brief moment of excitement when we reached the Oval Office. All of a sudden the guard said, “I need you all to move back,” and hustled us two rooms away. We could still see him, though—he unlocked a door next to the Oval and disappeared inside. Just seconds later he returned and motioned us back. What had happened, we wondered? Had he spotted a personal item on the President’s Resolute Desk, or had a confidential sticky note fallen onto the new carpet emblazened with the Presidential Seal? We’ll never know.

Understandably, little photo-taking is allowed. You can take shots in the press room, but only in front of the podium. Since what everyone really wants to do is stand BEHIND the podium and pretend to call on a representative of the media, it’s a little anticlimactic.

But here’s what was exciting: someone had left a cd on the ledge in the press room. It was unlabeled, but so intriguing. It could been left behind by anyone, could have contained anything. State secrets, photos not for publication, information collected in an undercover sting operation. It vibrated with possibilities.

Oh, how I wanted that cd! There were lots of people around, but no one was looking…. my hand crept towards the ledge…..

But then I paused. What if the person who left it came back and it was gone? And what if the cd had information vital to the security of our country, and I took it with me, and some sinister dudes came after it? I watched 24 for a few seasons, so I know what can happen to innocent bystanders who stumble into the midst of nefarious plots (not to mention people who take what does not belong to them).

It was probably a blank cd. But I’m glad I left it alone. It might mean Big Trouble. And I’m just way too busy.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Specialized Humor

Our cousins and their children are the kind of fabulous family you’re excited are related to you, because it gives you a great excuse to hang out with them. John and Aditi are both economics professors at NYU, and they are charming, funny and brilliant. Their four-year-old twins are charming, funny, brilliant and bilingual. Because of Ishan and Ananya I know that “Nay” is the Hindi word for “No.”

They’re a family of good cooks and happy eaters, too. At a recent lunch in their home, the conversation continued nonstop, with everyone talking over each other and topics switching out faster than the corn, tomatoes and basil from Union Square market was disappearing.

That’s why I don’t really remember how we began talking about some joke involving division. It was right after Aditi offered Ananya some gazpacho (“Nay”) that I realized she was saying something about dividing twenty-five into twenty. John said that of course, the answer is zero.

“Zero?” I didn’t get it.

“You know, like if you have 20 over 25, you cancel out the twos,” Aditi said. “So you’re dividing five into zero. ” She said this in the tolerant tone of someone who’s hearing an old knock-knock joke for the umpteenth time.

Rob, Maggie and I must have looked confused, because Aditi explained, “You know, picture the fraction 20/25 and you draw a line through the twos….”

“So it’s like, math humor,” I ventured.

Well, obviously. So much for elementary-school fractions. Haw haw. I wondered, do all professions have their own inside jokes? Florists? Tax collectors? Funeral directors? The possibilities are endless.

Then we finished our gazpacho and went out for amazing ice cream. I had a scoop of fresh ginger and one of lichee. Ishan ate chocolate with multicolored sprinkles out of a cone. Whenever the ice cream mashed on his face was just about to drip off, he'd call out "Napkin!" My bag was on the floor next to him, and that night, I found some sprinkles in it.

All in all it was a delicious day. It was so delicious that when the person behind me in the ice-cream shop said something about her Diet Coke cancelling out the butterfat, I could even appreciate the nutritionist humor.

Friday, September 17, 2010

After the Election



The primary election is over. My candidate, a friend I've known since she and I were officers on the elementary school PTA, lost. I didn't even get to vote for her, because she's affilated with that other party.

Today I'm thinking about all of the brave candidates who worked hard, campaigned hard, and woke up the next morning and realized they're done. That must be tough.

And then there is this: what do I do with the campaign sign? I had one in my front flower bed and left it there for a few days in homage. After Tuesday, in moments of levity my son and I pretended to be cartoon characters and pantomimed seizing the sign from its stand, stomping over to the trash can and stuffing it in in disgust.

But after we’d had our fun, the question remained: what was the proper way to dispose of this memento? Tearing it up felt wrong, as if I was somehow disrespectful of my friend. Burning it, as you would a flag, seemed too much. Finally I put it in the recycling bin, and when it looked sad there I concealed it as best I could.

But I kept the nifty little wire stand it was resting in. You never know when you may want to put up a sign. There’s always someone to cheer for.

Monday, September 13, 2010

New Perspective

The nice lady who checked out my purchases at Trader Joe’s today was wearing a football jersey. There's a big game tonight. We began to talk about sports, and I said I liked football but was more of a basketball fan.

“Wow, basketball is the only sport I can’t watch,” she said. “I've tried and I just can’t."

Why, I asked.

"It's that sound their shoes make when they squeak on those floors. I just can't stand that sound.”

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Dog Scarf

This morning Schroeder was draped over the back of the sofa, like this:





I said he looked like an antimacassar, and Tom wasn't familiar with that old-fashoned term. It's a scarf that was used on chairs and sofas, to protect them from grease and dirt.

The thing is, my furry little antimacassar creates the grease and dirt.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Next Generation

My daughter Maggie, who is 21, just spent a week working at a leadership development camp for high school students. I worked at the same camp when I was in college, over thirty years ago. One morning she met one of my former counselors and fellow teachers, who was touring the site, and called to tell me about it.

"Eliot says Hi," she reported.

"Oh my gosh, Eliot!" I replied. "He was my first and largest camp crush."

There was a moment of silence. Then Maggie said, "Wow, that is really hard to picture, because he's so old now."

Ba-dum CHING.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

En Vacanses

We recently returned from a trip to upstate New York and Montreal. Here are a few of the things that made the trip memorable:



Any plaque with the word "plunder" in it deserves a second look.




I love that Happiness=a house full of children. I agree.




In the park overlooking the city of Montreal, tame raccoons come out of the brush to commune with the visitors. This raccoon sat on my foot to eat a Cheeto. Way cool.




In Montreal they have pet ambulances! Maybe this is more common than I think, but I have never seen one before.




Although I have nice photos of fields of lavender, a Benedictine monestary, and delectable pastries as big as my head, this was my favorite shot of the entire trip. Happy foraging, little guy, and hope you enjoy whatever you're eating as much as I enjoyed the pastry.

:-)

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Overheard in the Amish Market

Last Saturday Rob, Maggie, Tom and I enjoyed a delicious Amish Market lunch, fueling ourselves with all of the traditionally heavy carbs, fats and sugars we needed to do some serious hunting and gathering at Barnes and Noble, our next stop. The restaurant was crowded, and as a result I was sitting less than two feet from a lovely woman of a certain age, who was tastefully dressed, coiffed and made up. Her companion was wearing a faded baseball cap, a wrinkled polo shirt, a paunch and sensible cream leather cross-trainers.

She asked him, “When you gave me that sheet on the Botox, was there something I was supposed to get from that?”

“Nah,” he replied, “I was just jerking your chain.”

Silence. Then she said, “So, do you think I need some?”

And I thought, dude, your sense of humor needs a serious overhaul.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Things That Are Orange



This weekend I bought two books with orange covers. Then I went looking for other orange items around my house. Here are some of them.




Orange is such a happy color.

:-)

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Wordplay




I do a lot of editing, and the documents I work on often contain repeated words. And as I read those documents over and over in slightly different versions, I have noticed that some words, when you see them again and again, become stranger and stranger.

"Blog" is one of those words. Repeat it to yourself: blog, blog, blog blog blog....it starts to seem like the name of a space alien, some little goggly-eyed guy with a green knob sticking out of his head. “Zone” is another example, because anything beginning with a Z can sound like a buzzing insect, and long Os are particularly goofy, maybe because the lips are pursed in a funny position. Try it—zoohne zooohne zoooohnne. Add to this category any word that combines two others and then requires that you pronounce them differently, like “feather.” If just once you notice that the word is composed of “feat” and “her” you’ll never again be able to view it as it’s supposed to be. See what I mean?--Feat Her. Gotcha.

Today I am editing a brochure about charitable giving in which the word "bequest" appears frequently, and I'm becoming fixated on it. It’s not that “bequest” is particularly strange looking—bequest, bequest bequest—although you can start to rumble around over the “kwest” part, just because it’s got that lovely kwaaaa sound, kwa-est kwa-est kwaaa-est!

The thing that’s fascinating about “bequest” is that it doesn’t mean what it seems it should. A bequest, of course, is a legacy, which is a noble enough thing. But if you read it repeatedly it in its component parts, it begins to loom as a large and dramatic call to action--Be Quest! It’s inspiring! It’s King Arthur’s knights riding off on their fiery steeds, seeking the Holy Grail! We all must Be the Quest!

Or perhaps I just need to get out more.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Game Show

A few nights ago I went to a reading by the fabulous mystery writer Laurie King. (Parenthetically—and I wonder, is one using “parenthetically” correctly if the material is actually inside parentheses?—you should read her books. She’s an awesome storyteller, and an engaging and witty speaker, too.) After the presentation and book signing, I sat at a table in the lobby until my friend Lisa, who had organized the event, was ready to leave for dinner.

As I waited, a little family consisting of pretty long-haired Mom holding pretty baby, handsome Dad and a girl barely out of toddlerhood walked by. The little girl, who had ringlets and was wearing a bright flowered dress, glanced up and I smiled. She planted herself directly in front of me and held up three fingers.

“Three, are you three years old?” I asked her. She nodded.

Next she pointed to the baby in her mother’s arms, who was wearing a flower-covered pinafore with a tiny pink t-shirt. “Sophie,” she said.

By now I was catching on. “Oh, is her name Sophie?”

She nodded again, and responded, “Isabella.”

“Isabella? Is that your name?” Again the little nod.

“Isabella is a beautiful name. There was a queen named Isabella. Are you a queen?”

Isabella shook her head emphatically and looked a trifle annoyed. At this point I realized that she and I were playing Jeopardy. She gave me the answer, and I was to provide the question. And I had broken the rules. So I waited for the next response, which was:

“The park.”

“Oh, are you going to the park now?”

Affirmative.

“Before ice cream.”

“Oh, you’re going to play at the park and then get ice cream.”

We could have gone on, but Sophie was getting a little fussy. So after chatting for another minute, Mom gently urged Isabella towards the door.

Isabella held up her hand with the little moist palm facing me. I almost expected her to say “Wait!” or even “Hark!” but she just opened and closed her fist three times, smiled quickly and skipped away. No words were needed. Isabella already had all the answers.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Update: The Birds Are Winning


(See "Sacrifice" post for back story.)

The fern is looking worse. I was so pleased that it was the first thing our dinner guests saw when they arrived yesterday evening.

Well, I would have been pleased, were I Morticia Addams.

Monday, June 28, 2010

In The Garden


I've always liked this little guy. Strum on, dude.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Sesame Street, With Beer

When my son Rorie was a little over a year old we watched our first episode of Sesame Street. I had vowed that my precious firstborn child would not be exposed to television until he was much older. I planned to provide much more stimulating interactive pastimes to develop his little mind and spirit.

Then I became pregnant with Ra’s younger sister Maggie, and was so tired and morning-sick that I had to lie down on the floor to read to him. We spent a lot of time there, me on my side, propped up on an elbow, and him giggling as he bounced books off my head to keep me awake. As a result of these months, I can still recite Sandra Boynton’s Moo Baa La La La, and I still feel nauseated every time I see it.

So we tuned in to PBS. Rorie loved “Street” and so did I. The characters were fun, the songs addictive, the guest stars and many of the jokes aimed at adults. Bird and Snuffy and the Count, Bert and Ernie and Elmo became everyday companions. The day Maria and Luis’ daughter Gabriella was born, we made a special picnic and celebrated with a few of my Baby Group friends and their toddlers. I think we still have an old VHS tape of the big event.

Fast forward over twenty years. Ra lives in a row house in multicultural South Philadelphia with five other guys. There is a little convenience store at the end of his block, and front stoops on all of the houses.

We visited on a recent Saturday. I brought lunch for Ra and his friends and Maggie and her friend Farah, who were visiting. As often happens when we pull up, Ra’s next-door neighbor Mr. Freeman, who just celebrated his seventieth birthday, was standing outside. He’s taller than Ra’s height of 6’4” and no wider than my lanky son, and I can barely reach up high enough as he hugs me hello. Ra’s friend Chino waved from his third floor window—“Hey, Rorie’s Mom!”

Mr. Freeman both watches out for the boys-- “I tell people, these are my sons,” he says, and keeps them in line, “I tell them, if it gets too loud over there they’re gonna hear from me.” Ra digs his garden for him and takes him to Home Depot. Mr. Freeman and Miss Mattie, his wife, feed Ra regularly, which makes me happy.

We picnicked in the back yard, sitting on mismatched chairs the guys pulled from all over the house. A few stray cats the boys have adopted poked around looking for a handout. The corn and tomatoes they planted were sprouting. Mr. Freeman leaned over his fence and accepted a cupcake. His niece Celestine, a talkative six-year-old, kept up a constant prattle about her toys, her outing to the park, and school (“no matter if you’re listening or not,” Mr. Freeman remarked). Henry, his brother, came out to visit, as did Celestine’s mother Anastasia.

Victor and Anthony, who live in the house on the other side, passed Ra a Corona over the fence and asked if we wanted to try the Vietnamese lunch, a mix of seafood, herbs and greens in a bubbling pot of broth, that his aunts were was concocting in their kitchen. We’d just stuffed ourselves, but next time we’ll leave room. Ra says the aunts are amazing cooks.

Moving from chair to chair and fence to fence, talking about perennials with Mr. Freeman, cameras with Jeff, and teaching autistic kids with Shea, I thought of how we become part of communities we never could have envisioned. Ra had considered small colleges where he could play basketball, but he decided on an ultra-urban school of twenty thousand in North Philly. And while he loves all that big city life has to offer, he has also created a welcoming home, surrounded by friends of all ages, in a neighborhood in a house with a stoop.

Which is where, Maggie told me, the kids sat after we left, hanging out for hours. One of the guys’ friends rode up on his bike around eleven and said, “I thought you’d be out here.”

Next time maybe we’ll stay late enough that I can check out the Street after dark. We have to visit again soon. I promised Mr. Freeman that I’d divide some perennials from my yard and give them a chance to thrive in South Philly.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Summer Solstice


On this longest day of the year, six women gathered on our good friend Cindy's dock to watch the sun rise. We had all awakened before 4 a.m., so our eyes were a little bleary, and each of us clutched a travel mug of coffee or tea. We wore vivid colors in honor of the day. One of us wore bright pink lipstick. The crabbers who passed by looked up from working their trotline and waved, but I'm not sure they knew what to make of our sungazing, in silence punctuated by muffled laughter....

What a perfect way to celebrate the summer light and the joys of friendship. Love you, ladies! I'd put in a 19-hour day with you anytime.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Admiring the Curve of Rob's Blackberry



Today in the grocery store, in an attempt to steer Rob in the direction of the selzer aisle, I accidentally brushed against the mobile device that constantly hangs from his waist.

"Honey," I gasped, "Do you realize I just touched your Blackberry in public???"

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

For Uncle Sam

Earlier today I stopped at the Post Office. The line was longer than usual, and as I moved to the front I could see why. Of the three postal employees working with customers, one was dealing with a pile of letters to be overnighted and another was helping a family—mom, dad, young teenage son and daughter—apply for passports.

I was contemplating my choices for stamps when I overheard the woman behind the counter talking to the passport-seekers.

“I don’t know. They look gray to me,” she said.

I glanced over. She was peering into the face of the son.

“What should I write?” asked the father, appealing to his wife.

“We’ve always called them hazel,” said the boy’s mother.

“They’re really—what color are those eyes? I’d say gray,” the postal worker went on.

By now I was intrigued, mostly because it’s interesting that this kid had reached adolescence without his parents coming to an agreement about the color of his eyes.

The father looked a bit exasperated. He glanced in my direction—I was at the front of the line by then—and I smiled.

“Ask her,” he said to his wife, motioning to me, and then to his son, “Look at this lady.”

The teenager turned to me and I examined his irises. He looked remarkably poised considering that in the last few minutes two different middle-aged female strangers had been gazing into his eyes. He even raised his eyebrows so I could get a better look—at eyes of such a pale blue that they really could be called gray.

“I vote gray,” I said, and grinned at the boy, who looked relieved.

“I said gray,” the postal worker affirmed.

“What color is hazel, anyway?” the mother mused.

So that’s how today I contributed to the U.S. government’s official record of one if its citizens. It was kind of exciting to cast the deciding vote, even if it was a pretty big responsibility. After all, if on his trip to another country the kid wants to learn the word for his eye color, he’d better have an idea what to ask.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Sacrifice

This is the lovely fern outside my front door. Notice how it's thriving!








Let's look a little closer:













Gorgeous, isn't it? Doesn't it make our entryway look warm and welcoming?

You may wonder why I'm not taking better care of this fern, by trimming off the dead fronds, or maybe by watering it just a bit more. You might even wonder why I don't just take this lovely fern out to the compost heap and start over with a new one.

There is a good reason: for the third year in a row, a pair of house wrens have built a nest in my hanging plant. When I try to water it, there is an angry fluttering of wings from within.

And because the babies who came from the eggs that Mama Wren laid have now hatched, the fern is really noisy. Whenever we go outside to get the mail, or to walk this dog:


















the wren babies are cheeping really loudly for more food. (Mom and Dad must be working hard to provide for them--I know just how they feel :-)

But in the last day or so, I have noticed that although a cacophony of chirps still erupts whenever we're in the vicinity, it dies down almost immediately. You can just picture Mama hushing her brood, who are now big enough to follow instructions and wait a minute for the next bite of worm. She's teaching them manners. (Or maybe how to stay hidden.)

In any case, because of the wren family, I am allowing this fern to waste away. It's a dilemma, because if I can't get any water into it, it may die back enough that it won't provide camouflage for the nest. But if I disturb the babies too much by watering, they may hop out before they're ready. (That happened the first year, and although the little guy was okay, I still have not forgotten the trauma.)

So far I'm batting .500--one year the babies flew in time for me to save the plant, and one year they didn't. I don't know what will happen this year.

But I bet the fern likes the company, and is okay with it either way.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Overheard In A Coffee Shop

Yesterday when I was getting my large black unsweetened iced tea with lemon, a young couple, maybe college-age, was in line behind me. They had their arms around each other and were chatting with a woman who could have been one of their mothers.

The young guy said to the older woman, “No, you’re all right, because you haven’t gained weight in your face.”

And I thought, dude, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop right there.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Lost In Translation

I recently reread the Steig Larsson books The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire. The third and final book in the series is coming out later this month, and I want the story to be fresh in my mind. Larsson, who died suddenly after finishing the trilogy, was a Swedish journalist, so the books have been translated into English. They’re excellent translations, too, but as with many books originally written in a different language, they contain a few quaint exceptions to conventional usage.

For instance, “I have to be in Stockholm tonight, so I must hurry away,” one character says in Dragon Tattoo.

My favorite sentence in that book, though, goes like this: “She married someone, never even introduced him to the family, and anon they separated.”

Anon. I can just picture the person doing the translation, having had a long day, saying to him or herself, hmmmm, soon, need a word that means soon, but I’ve used that a lot already. And checking a thesaurus and seeing the elegant Shakespearean “anon.”

I associate this word with the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, when the nurse is calling Juliet inside, and she answers “I come, anon!” And that scene remains fresh in my memory not only because I have seen the 1968 Zeferelli movie more times than I can count, but because when I was in eighth grade we read the play aloud, and my English teacher Mrs. Moore chose me read the part of Juliet.

I was so excited to see who would read Romeo. Might it be handsome Ivan, the quiet guy who sat in the back of the room? He had a deep voice and was even tall, at a time when many of the prepubescent guys came up to the girls’ collarbones.

But guess who Mrs. Moore chose for Romeo? My brother Walt.

I mean, really. I like my brother, but what a missed opportunity. I thought I would never get over the disappointment.

But anon, I did.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Confession

So today in Trader Joe’s I was in the check-out line, having a fun conversation with the checker and bagger, two guys my sons’ age, about a band they are in and music they like. They were stuffing my mishmosh of reusable bags with pita chips and snap peas and too many items involving dark chocolate to name, when I happened to glance at the woman behind me who was unloading her own reusables.

Hers were beautiful and elegant. They were some kind of rough-textured, handmade weave in a mix of blooming colors, with natural canvas handles. And they all matched.

I coveted those bags. I wanted them BAD.

Not that my bags aren’t dear to my heart. I tend to pick them up when I am on vacation or at an event, so they remind me of places and people. The Nature Conservancy one has a panda on it, the Tahiti-floral is from the beach, the mossy camouflage-looking one I got in San Francisco. I had always thought of them as funky and fun.

That is, until I saw the coordinated set in line behind me. They seemed so chic. They looked pulled-together, and fairly traded. These were the reusables of an organized woman, one who probably made a list for Trader Joe’s that actually contained most of the items that found their way into her cart. (I usually go into the store with a list of fifteen items, and come out with three times fifteen. Most of them contain chocolate.)

And I felt inferior. And then almost immediately I felt silly, because here I was, doing something good for the world by not consuming plastic bags, and here she was, doing something good for the world, and who cared if her reusables were prettier? How shallow of me.

So I turned around and said, “Those are beautiful bags.”

I expected to see the woman who fit the bags—slim white jeans, pressed fitted shirt, high heeled sandals, manicured toes, great hair and sunglasses. Instead I was facing a tiny twinkly-eyed, white-haired lady who was rummaging through her purse (which did not match the bags).

“Thank you honey,” she said. “They were a gift from my niece.”

Then she held out a Canadian penny. “Look at this! Don’t know where I got it.”

I took the coin. Canadian pennies, with the profile of Queen Elizabeth, have always struck me as elegant. I said that, and the woman pressed the penny into my palm and folded my fingers over it.

“You take it,” she said. “Maybe it’s lucky.”

By that time I felt lucky. Lucky to be having fun conversations, lucky to be the recipient of a sweet gesture, lucky to be buying chocolate. Even lucky to have my mishmosh of bags. I walked to the car, waiting for other surprises the day might bring, and thinking happy thoughts about a chance encounter with a lovely lady.

Yes, a lovely lovely lady.

But I still want her bags.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Just Say Noprah

“A panini maker is the thing to have.” Oprah Winfrey

Susan Reimer, the very funny Baltimore Sun columnist, once wrote an article listing things experts recommend that we do each day. As I recall (and can’t verify because someone borrowed my autographed collection of Reimer’s columns—if it was you, would you please return it?) the list consisted of around fifty items including “stretch,” “floss,” “eat five fruits and vegetables,” “walk in nature,” “try something new,” “clean off your desktop,” “read for pleasure,” “laugh out loud,” “find three items to donate/trash,” “lay out your clothes for the next morning,” “find time for you,” and “get enough sleep.” Woah—doesn’t leave much time for a shower (unless you’re wiping down the walls with a squeegee, another item on the list).

And these recommendations were nothing compared to the number of tasks Robyn Okrant attempted in the highly entertaining Living Oprah: My One-Year Experiment to Walk the Walk of the Queen of Talk. Okrant’s mission for 2008 was to follow all of the advice disseminated by the admirable and successful Ms. Winfrey via her show and O magazine. She used Oprah’s web site as an additional resource—for example, when husband Jim became a little irritated after she told him Oprah said his bedside TV had to go, she searched Oprah.com for relationship advice.

Okrant says she launched the Living Oprah project to investigate whether she could really “Live Her Best Life” (Winfrey’s mantra) by following someone else’s idea of what a Best Life is. In the first month, she spent over $700 and almost 100 hours on assignments such as concocting Blueberry Oatmeal bars with a hidden layer of spinach (“like green slime”) and incorporating sea life into her décor. She has her clothes tailored, changes her lightbulbs to energy-efficient ones, and names five terrific things about herself. She adds a fabulous chair to each room ($429.62).

Within the next month her husband is remarking “That shirt is totally cutting that lady in half. It’s a really bad length for her body type” (watch Oprah much??) and Okrant is regularly contemplating the state of her fecal matter (according to Oprah’s team doctor Mehmet Oz, it’s supposed to be S-shaped). “Not only do I stare at myself in every reflection I pass to make certain I am acceptably dressed,” Okrant remarks, “but now I need to study the toilet bowl to make sure I’m a proper pooper.”

As the task list and the number of people following her progress via her Living Oprah blog grow exponentially, Okrant struggles to reconcile O’s advice to think about consumption with her recommendation to immediately purchase a new pink cell phone. She reflects that although from the outside things look good—she is dressing more stylishly, getting in better shape and advancing her writing career—she often feels tired and stressed. “While the pressure of making the wrong choice is lifted from my shoulders,” she reflects, “….life in this manner is like an endless run on a woman-sized gerbil wheel.”

Okrant is a yoga teacher, writer and performer, her husband is an artisan, and she was completing a graduate degree at the time the project was going on. Somehow she made it through a year in which she invested almost $5000 and 1200 hours to live (sort of) like Oprah, and even kept her sense of humor and what seems to be a genuine fondness for the Queen of Talk. I would have bailed the day I had to wear those leopard-print flats (“They go with nothing, so they go with everything!”) to the Celine Dion concert.

At the end of the year, Okrant admits, the results were mixed. She acknowledges that she gained “incredible insight into how I might achieve a happier, more fulfilling life,” but also gets that she'll never find her best self by seeking the approval of others. Of course, perpetuating standards many of us will never be able to live up to is profitable. Much of the self-help programming and media aimed at women exist because of our constant state of dissatisfaction with ourselves; if all of this stuff worked, we wouldn’t need it. And clearly the industry expects us to fail and try again—even O magazine ran a story entitled “If You’ve Gained Back Every Pound.”

For me, it’s not about the panini maker, although I do enjoy O magazine and would like to give Oprah a big hug for introducing me to Not Your Daughter’s Jeans. I think Okrant sums it up well: “The biggest compliment I can give Oprah is to acknowledge and appreciate all the lessons I learned from her this year, and turn off my TV.”


Thursday, April 8, 2010

Five Reasons to Stay Married

Last weekend Rob and I were alone in the car for two hours, driving home from Philadelphia where we’d had lunch with our two oldest children and some of their friends. In the course of conversation, our daughter Maggie was appalled to learn that we had only dated for two months before becoming engaged. (We had known each other for two years before that and been good friends, but when one of us was unattached, the other was dating someone else.)

“Two months? Two MONTHS?” she kept exclaiming. “I can’t believe that! What was your hurry?”

Twenty-five years later I can’t really explain what the hurry was either, although it seems to have worked out okay. But since we were speaking of marriage, and since we usually introduce more compelling topics than who’s buying the water softener chemicals on long car rides, I suggested we think of five reasons we should stay married.

The first five we came up with were worthy, and accurate: we share a history, we share children, we enjoy doing things together, we still make each other laugh and we’re compatible in bed (neither of us snores. What did you think I meant)?

But after more discussion, we came up with a few more reasons to stay married:

After all these years, I have accepted that Rob will always take his socks off inside-out, so they have to be turned outside-in before they can be matched and put in the drawer.

Rob has perfected looking interested when I talk to think, while really listening to the game that’s on in the other room. He’s also tolerant enough to listen in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep (he says if I’m talking, then he knows everything is okay).

If I just want to taste something in a restaurant, I can order it because Rob will finish it.

We have taken over the chores each other dislikes. I do the painting and the water chemicals. He loads the dishwasher and figures out how to fit things in the downstairs refrigerator after a large Costco run.

And (drum roll please) the most important reason I will remain married to this man: he runs out to get me Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk, even when the NCAA tourney is on.

Of course, I am usually willing to wait till the half. These compromises are what marriage is all about.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Danger, Will Robinson

I just unwrapped a new hard drive, and here are the first five "Important Safety Instructions":

1. Read these instructions.
2. Keep these instructions.
3. Heed all warnings.
4. Follow all instructions.
5. Install in accordance with the manufacturer's instructions.

These hard drive folks sure think a lot of themselves, don't they?

Compliment


When I showed this shot of pansies to my son Tom, he said he didn't know I could take a photo this good.

Thanks, sweetie. I think :-)

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Decluttering and the Easter Robot

Recently my wise and wonderful friend Nancy, a professional organizer, helped me declutter my basement. Things had been piling up down there for years, and looking at the mess was overwhelming. I needed some support and a little kick-start.

Right away Nancy made me feel better by telling me that I didn’t have a major problem with clutter. She said getting it under control was just a matter of moving things around so they were up off the floor and visible, and then it would be easier to let go of a few items. (A few? Nancy is oh, so kind.)

We started with things that were no-brainers to get rid of. It gives you momentum and a sense of satisfaction. In this category were VHS tapes on which I’d recorded episodes of Thirtysomething (I now own the DVDs), card games with missing cards and puzzles with missing pieces, and a box of old sweaters that a mouse had nested in (nothing like decomposing mouse to make your priorities clear). Incomplete craft projects that dated from when Maggie was a Brownie (Maggie is twenty-one), the inside of an ice-cream maker, and three old phones we replaced because they weren’t working right—out they went.

Next we tackled things that might be useful to someone else, but no longer had a place in my life. The extra-large Rubbermaid bin of holiday ornaments that was labeled “Did not use in ‘05” had additions in different colored marker that read, “ ’06, ‘07, ‘08 and ‘09.” Clearly these gems were not necessary to our festive celebration.

Then things got a little more complicated. We opened a box of cassette mix tapes, probably 75 of them, that my darling Pop (who passed away nine years ago) had made for me. As far back as junior high school, I have memories of us sitting on the floor in front of the stereo working on them together. When I went away to college, spent a year in Italy, got married, had children, my father kept the tapes coming. They’re a record of my life on fragile plastic strips.

“What do they represent to you?” Nancy asked, and after thinking for a minute I realized that when I looked at the tapes, I saw the time and the love that Pop put into them. But I also realized that these cassettes were not my father, and maybe I could preserve that feeling with fewer of them. I chose a half-dozen favorites and kept the boombox with the cassette player, just in case.

Nancy was kind as we unearthed faded old baskets. “But I got an arrangement of cookies in that when Rorie was born!” (Rorie is twenty-two.) She was tolerant of the stuffed pink snake, Sam, I used to sleep with as a toddler.

Overall the process was easier than I had imagined. Seeing my stuff through the eyes of a considerate helper made it much easier to make decisions about it. Out, out, out.

We were almost ready to call it a day when we came to Bunnush. Bunnush, a wind-up little floss rabbit with soft ears and a round fluffy tail, was in my very first Easter basket. Now he looks like this:

When I held him up, Nancy gave a stifled yelp.

“What is that?” she gasped.

“It’s a rabbit,” I answered.

“It looks like something out of the Terminator movies.”

I guess that’s true, but I still picture Bunnush with his smooth brown flocking and his fluffy fluffy tail.

In the end I had two vanloads of stuff to donate, much less dust, and determination to never again accumulate such a mountain of stuff. Nancy seemed to think I had done well.

But I noticed that before she left, she placed Bunnush on a bookshelf in my office, where I pass him a few times a day. I think she expects me to get tired of looking at him, but I won’t. I’m happy about everything I was able to let go of, but Bunnush? He stays.


After all, if you wind him up just right, he can still hop a few steps.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Signs of Spring


First we see St. Francis, shivering in my backyard a little over a month ago. Next we see St. Francis today.

He's hoping for some chocolate.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

TwitWit

There’s a scene in the Disney movie “Bambi” when the adolescent buck is strolling through the Technicolor springtime forest with his buddies Thumper (a rabbit) and Flower (a skunk). The three observe two lovestruck birds circling around each other and ask, “What’s the matter with them?” Wise old owl in the nearby tree says, “Why, don’t you know? They’re twitterpated.” Bambi looks disgusted and says, “Well, that’s not gonna happen to me.” Of course, before long the three friends meet ladyloves, and the twitterpation begins.

Which pretty much parallels my experience with Twitter, the social networking service that allows you to post scenes from your life in 140-character bites. First I didn’t get it, then I was enticed in, and now I am becoming infatuated by the possibilities.

I signed up a few months ago, after my friend Vicki, a fellow writer, said that I should reserve my name because social networking was important in marketing communications. Registering took approximately one minute, and immediately after Twitter obligingly gave me a list of people from my email address book who also have accounts. I signed on to “follow” all of them, mostly women friends and a few business associates. Then I waited to see what fascinating things were happening in their lives. And I waited, and am waiting still. Because none of us tweet anything. Ever.

Why, I wonder? Twitter bills itself as “without a doubt the best way to share and discover what is happening right now.” What's important "right now" may mean links to intellectual and informative articles, if you’re Anderson Cooper; or “Up early today! At the Gym!” if you’re reality starlet Kim Kardashian; or “Rehearsal and Oscar parties tonight. Hope everybody is having a great weekend!” if you’re TV personality Cheryl Burke, who is obviously having a much more exciting weekend than I am. (If Schroeder or Jasper, my dogs, could tweet, the message would always be the same: “Right now! My favorite thing!”)

Even non-celebrity tweeting is a blast when it’s used to capture the small quirky moments of our days, as my college-age children and their friends use it. My daughter recently tweeted the heart-warming “DC + 70 degrees + sunshine + driving with the windows down = one very happy Maggie.” Her friend Laura posted, “Text from my mother: ‘Getting Hair Done. Going red.’ MAKE THE MIDLIFE CRISES STOP.”

There are eeks! moments too, such as when my son Tom commented on our companionably watching the scene in the hilarious movie “Election,” in which a high school student and her teacher share a Diet Dr. Pepper while Lionel Ritchie’s “Three Times A Lady” plays in the background. His tweet, which I will not repeat verbatim, was something about him and his parents finding the humor in a potential underage relationship—eeeeks eeeeks! I would not have represented it exactly that way.

But back to my own personal and valued contacts, and our reluctance to Tweet. My theory is that we feel cautious about saying something that could be misinterpreted or make us seem unprofessional. We’ve heard too many stories about ill-judged emails that go to the wrong person and never go away. And even if we’re just sharing some incident that made us smile, we wonder, does the newsletter editor I work for really want to know about the conversation I just had with the guy who sells me salmon?

Or maybe she really isn’t too concerned how I spend my days (as long as I meet her deadlines) and maybe I’m overthinking Twitter. To me, it’s more about finding the fun than anything else, a small record of quirky events (Tom’s friend Veronica calls it “a baby diary”) that cause us to pause and appreciate and maybe LOL.

So, in the spirit of twitterpation (and because I want to read good stuff from everybody else) you’re invited to follow me on Twitter. My next post might reveal that my other idea for this entry’s title was, “What the Tweet Do We Know?” Or maybe I’ll just post the story from my salmon guy. I think you would enjoy it.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Feeding the Boys

My husband Rob and I are Georgetown grads, and we have season tickets to GU basketball. This season I watched a few games from my comfy sofa, when I didn’t feel like driving into the city on a dark and freezing Tuesday evening. Rob skipped one game, the weekend we had over 30 inches of snow, and he was desperately trying to borrow a sleigh right up until game time.

We sit next to each other at the games, but we have different experiences. Rob, a lifelong player, referee and coach, analyzes the plays, discusses strategy and protests all calls against our team. I know what’s happening on the court, but I also check out all the cute babies, watch mascot Jack the Bulldog pant, and look forward to slapping the players’ hands as they run in and out of the arena. Occasionally I can make eye contact, and they will smile back at me—especially lanky freshman Hollis Thompson, who is consistently charming to the middle-aged lady fan in the purple scarf in section 103, row G, seat 7.

I also overhear great stuff. Last year a group of young men, fans of the opposing team, were discussing guard Austin Freeman who was having a stellar game. “He’s so slow!” they exclaimed. Freeman, who looks like he could bench-press 6’10’’ center Greg Monroe, is a legitimate NBA pick and gets up and down the court just fine. When he does something particularly brilliant, my son Tom and I remark, “Slowpoke makes good.”

But my very favorite pastime at the games is to plan a dinner for the team. Some of my fondest memories of my kids’ high school basketball careers were the team dinners—serving pulled pork, cornbread, mac and cheese, vats of salad and brownie sundaes to thirty-plus athletes. I always made way more food than I thought we needed, and no matter how much there was, someone could usually manage to down a fourth sandwich or scrape the chicken caesar bowl clean.

Feeding those Georgetown players, though, that would be a challenge. I think of them eating mediocre cafeteria food and my maternal instinct goes into overtime. What would they like? I wonder. Pot roast and garlic mashed potatoes? Chicken parmesan? Homemade deep dish pizza? All of the above, with chasers of ribs and potato salad?

I picture the boys coming in to the room, smiling shyly, sniffing the air. After they have piled their oversized plates high and begun to feast, I cruise the room with platters of veggies and massive tubs of fruit salad, urging seconds and thirds. Because they are Coach Thompson’s crew, I know they are polite young men, but I don’t expect them to make conversation. I just want them to have a good home-cooked meal and enjoy it. When they have eaten more than their fill, I press packets of chocolate chip cookies, blondies, and trail mix into their hands for midnight snacks.

The people to whom I’ve confided this fantasy have mostly laughed uproariously. Our friend Peter, a Villanova grad, told me the athletic department would probably think I was a stalker. My brother-in-law Michael, himself a GU alum, said he could think of better ways to spend over $500. I disagree; just the thought of watching the team put away Costco’s on-hand supply of organic beef gives me a thrill.

It is an odd dream, I guess. Why would I want to go through the work, schlep the supplies, and figure out how keep fifteen banquet trays of food warm for the vicarious thrill of watching very large young men eat? It’s a little hard to explain, but I think it’s because they work so hard. I know Rob looks at them and sees trained athletes. I see really big boys, just the ages of my own three kids.

It could happen. Earlier this season I broached the idea to the Hoya Hoops Club (the basketball boosters) president, Al, who listened to my proposition, drew in a long breath and said, thoughtfully, “Well, it’s not against NCAA rules.” Still, Coach would have to approve, and I realize that as March madness looms, the idea of scheduling the dinner hosted by the slightly crazy lady is low on his list.

But Coach, and Austin, Hollis, Greg and all you guys, know I am waiting in the stands, ready to take menu requests. Even Rob would be excited at the prospect of feeding the GU boys. He could discuss the season. Me? I’d be happy to serve thirds on dessert, and maybe score a few smiles.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Why Talking to Think?

A few years ago my husband Rob and I attended a workshop on the Myers-Briggs Indicator, a tool that helps people understand their personality type. After you answer a series of questions, the tool rates your personality tendencies along four scales with opposite inclinations, like Introvert-Extrovert. Most of us came out somewhere in the middle, with traits of both extremes. I remember that one of Rob’s coworkers, Devon, had the highest score possible as a Thinker, or a pure analytical type, versus a Feeler, or an empathizer. “Wow, I’ve never seen someone so far off the charts!” exclaimed the facilitator. All of the women, in one synchronized motion, turned and looked sympathetically at Devon’s wife, Andrea.

It was at this workshop that I first heard the distinction between those of us who think to talk, and those who talk to think. Here’s the basic difference: think to talkers wait to speak until they know what they’re going to say, figuring it out in their heads beforehand. But talk to thinkers, like me, figure out what we want to express as we’re verbalizing. To us, talking is a way to work through the haphazard collection of possibilities rolling around in our heads.

We talk to thinkers make connections between ideas as we go along. A discussion of how unfinished projects are driving you crazy eventually segues into the way your uncle would frequently begin a story with “Yep, that’s the way it was, all right,” and along the way thoughts on creativity, the raw food movement and some funny headline you saw on people.com may emerge. You’re never quite sure how you got from there to here, but you can always trace the path back, if you want to.

Most of my closest woman friends are talk to think, which makes things easy because we identify with each others’ methods and don’t mind being interrupted. We start out with “Now I’m not sure how I want to say this,” or “Help me figure this out,” and everyone knows what to expect.

My daughter is also talk to think, but Rob and both of our sons are think to talk, which is good for me to keep in mind so my style doesn’t overwhelm them. When the boys were younger, I would approach them about dinner this way: “What about barbequed chicken pizza, only you just had that pizza for lunch, or would the chicken be better, maybe with rice, but that’s kind of boring, or I could do that soup you liked, or do you want Caesar? What do you think?” “Yeah, that’s fine, whatever,” they would respond, obviously startled.

Once you know about talk to thinkers and think to talkers, it’s impossible not to want to place everyone you know in one camp or the other. (In a similar fashion, my sister-in-law Jennifer claims that everyone in the universe can be classified as either a pin head or a bowl head, but that’s another story.) But whether I can immediately identify someone’s style or not, I know that, with no conscious effort, I’m attracting others like me.

Yesterday I was standing at the gas pump, waiting for the tank to fill, when another car pulled up next to me. Out of it stepped a woman in gray sweatpants and a hip length striped top. She was tall, probably in her sixties. She had very white skin, very black hair and very red lips. We glanced at each other, made eye contact, and I smiled.

“Why, aren’t you pleasant,” she said, then informed me that she was feeling harried. “I just found out I’m having knee surgery,” she explained, gripping the offending knee. “I’ve already had hip surgery and I think I might have lost my credit card, but I may have left it home in my nurse’s uniform, but I went ahead and called the company and told them that if there are any charges before four o’clock they should deny them. They already cancelled the card and they’re sending me a new one, and I really think it’s at home but I didn’t have a chance to check, because I had this appointment. My hip’s been really hurting again, but it’s mostly because I need the surgery. And I only have ten dollars on me but that’s enough for gas.” She paused. “Thanks, it feels better to talk about all this.”

I knew just how she felt.