Trout Towers

Jedi Yoga

2012-01-11T22:06:00.000-05:00

I get through yoga class by pretending it's Jedi training.

I do this because I think it may actually be Jedi training. Why else would people do it? It's the only way some of the stuff they make us do makes sense. It's also the only way some of this could possibly be possible. You have to use the force rather than just plain forcing it, or you fall over.

You know you're in Jedi training when you hear something like "float your left leg up toward the ceiling." I don't know about you, but my legs do not float anywhere. How does this phrase make any sense at all unless it's about Jedi mind tricks? Like when you can't get the waiter to bring you a clean fork so you float one across the restaurant from the wait station yourself.

Speaking of forks, I sometimes combine my Jedi training with being The One. You know: There is no spoon. I figure the only way my teacher gets into that twist where she looks like a pretzel and I look like a squashed bug is by knowing there is no spoon/body. There is no yoga teacher and she's not actually doing the pose, she's just visualizing her body all twisted up. Et voila. When I do this I picture my actual, physical body curled up in bed while my Matrix body mirrors my teacher.

When I do Ashtanga (or, more accurately, when I do whatever it is I do when in an Ashtanga class) I sometimes imagine I'm sparring with Laurence Fishburne. At the very least it entertains me to the point of not wishing for instant death.

I've experienced varying degrees of success in my training. I have yet to float anything anywhere and Morpheus is still laying me flat. But there are moments of Jedi glory. Just this morning, in fact, I walked into class and noticed another woman heading toward my favorite spot. I said "that is not the place in class you seek." She looked at me briefly and headed off to the far corner.

It's totally working.

the perils of legible handwriting

2012-01-05T15:23:00.000-05:00

Sugarplum's homework last night was to neatly copy her New Year's resolution onto a piece of colored paper and hang it in the hall at school. Her resolution is to clean up the house "because it's really messy."

You got the part about hanging it up in the hall at school, right?

On the bright side, Chris will be teaching a course in building robots at her school soon, so as the teachers and visiting parents discover we are slovenly heaps of humanity, the kids' coolness ratings will soar. Maybe the combination will earn us a reputation among the elementary academic community for being geniuses. Geniuses are often messy.

For the record, my resolution is not to clean up the house. My resolution is to make sure Sugarplum sticks to her resolution.

For the last several years I've replaced resolutions with watch words. I've also replaced cleaning with living, but that's another story for another day. I can't tell you what my watch words are this year because that will jinx it and all hope will be lost. I can't tell you what they were last year, either, because I've usually forgotten what they are by April.

In my defense, I forget what they are by April because I've more or less incorporated whatever it is by then and/or gotten annoyed at my own henpecking. I do wish I could remember what they were because they were really good. Things like "courage" or "listening," for example.

I cheat and pick ideas that are already in the works. My biological New Year* starts sometime in September, so I get a sneak peek at what the theme of the year is going to be.

I think I can safely tell you, without jinxing anything, that this is the year in which I do things that scare me. I noticed this a few months ago. I said yes to projects that usually would have made me hide under my bed. I made scary decisions based on nothing more than the knowledge that something had to be done. I asked for and received things I hadn't asked for before because I was afraid I'd get them.

It seems to be a trend, this doing-scary-things, thing. I expect to spend the next several months weaving in and out of abject terror. Hopefully by April it will be old hat. I'll be so brave, nothing will phase me.

Which will come in handy if the world does in fact end in December.

I think that's why we make resolutions. Not because the world will end in December, but because we do things in cycles. New Years is when we give a nod to things that come and go. We put on extra layers in the winter, we shed them in the spring. We learn and then we practice. We fear and then we embrace. We are messy and then we clean up.

We teach our children the value of order and then we take a nap while they tidy up the place.

*I have no idea what a biological New Year is. I made that up.
** The end of the world throws resolutions into a whole different tail spin. Without giving too much away, I can tell you that I did not resolve to learn how to make my own clothes from milkweed pods.

walking meditation

2011-12-30T12:17:00.001-05:00

When we got married we got the usual boatload of gifts, which was awesome because although we had both lived on our own for several years and had our own stuff, all that stuff was worn out and gross. Now that I think of it, maybe that's why people get married every few years.

From our friends who had recently moved to Maine, we received a big basket of Maineness. It was full of things they had discovered and loved at their farmer's market - blueberry jam, hand-dipped candles, scone mix - all kinds of things. We loved it.

A few days later when I was putting things away, I realized that the brochure for Ivy Manor Inn, included in the Basket of Maineness, had a gift certificate tucked inside - good for two nights. We couldn't pack fast enough.

We adored Bar Harbor. We explored Acadia National Park and watched the sunrise from the top of Cadillac Mountain (where we also checked for phone messages, since it was the only place we could get a signal). We hiked the Jordan Pond trail and mourned that we were too late for popovers (which are legendary). We had breakfast twice each morning because we couldn't choose between restaurants.

We liked it so much, we gently toyed with the idea of moving there. If we lived there, we thought, we could explore all the things we were just catching glimpses of.

And then we came home and realized there was much to explore here. We have a state park near us that we knew nothing about. We have a wildlife sanctuary we had never explored.

I was in that sanctuary this morning, taking a walk and thinking about how it took a trip up Cadillac Mountain to get me off the couch and into my own backyard. It's not huge, but if I ever get tired of it, there are National and State Parks to explore nearby (although getting tired of it doesn't seem likely.) Going there never fails to clear my head. I think my Mass Audubon membership should be covered by health insurance. It's ... fabulous.

And it was right here, all along.

So, the moral of the story is: Don't open your presents so fast you miss the gift.

12 explanations of how we ended up on the Nice List

2011-12-25T20:30:00.001-05:00

One

We found the missing library book and returned it. Bonus points: It's been gone so long it increased significantly in value and now can go in the Rare Book collection

Two

We relocated several field mice from our house to the church down the street instead of smashing them to smithereens (the mice, not the parishioners).

Three

We did not release “Holiday Favorites on Solo Cello,” by me. You're welcome.

Four

We taught our children to say please and thank you and to not kick the seats in front of them at symphony. (If you need any tips for your own children, we used bribery, threats and an electric collar.)

Five

I did not change my mom's cell phone to Smells Like Teen Spirit, despite many opportunities.

Six

We support the arts, the plumber, and the auto body shop. Some more generously than others.

Seven

Chris didn't get any tickets for speeding or reckless endangerment this year.

Eight

We cleaned our house for company that one time.

Nine

Coming up with 12 things is harder than I thought

Eleven

We have nice friends and are banking on guilt by association.

Twelve

I've noticed that Santa has taken to cloud sourcing. It seems everyone has turned into Santa Claus. There's the fake ones, of course, who are just in it for the (cookie) dough, but I've noticed a growing number of real ones mingling in polite society. As the Bible says, “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained elves unawares.” (Hebrews 13:2, New Trout Translation)

I think this means you must have made the Nice list, too.

In which the universe conspires to make me less grinchy

2011-12-24T16:30:00.001-05:00

During pretty much every holiday, I am in splendid spirits until right at the end when I hit the wall. I look up and realize that I am doing everything and without me there would be nothing done that is done. And I get really grumpy about it. And yelly. Because what says "Happy Thanksgiving/Christmas/Ground Hog's Day/Friends Coming Over" better than a self-righteous outburst?

I hit that wall at 12:22 today.

Right in the middle of making chestnut bisque for lunch (fa! la! la!), I realized I had probably missed the post office, where the package from my sister and my ornament* were waiting for me. The package from my sister had a pile of gifts for the kids in it. The ornament was sure to be awesome and I wanted it on my tree. Pronto.

And then I got all shades of grumpy because honestly, why is all this up to me? Does no one else know where the post office is? Does no one else know how to make lunch?

Fa. La. La.

I skidded into the post office parking lot, ran inside and was astonished to find the package pick-up window open. When I thanked her for staying open, she said "we usually close at 12, but I figured people need all the help they can get."

Amen, sister.

And then I came home and ripped into my ornament, finding not only a handmade, drunk, wry snowman (which is completely our holiday decorating theme) but an ornament made especially for me.

The wall of holiday bitterness and taken-for-grantedness crumbled.

And the chestnut bisque was not ruined despite being abandoned - with the immersion blender standing up in the pot - when I ran out the door.

Chestnut Bisque
10-12 ounces chestnuts (peeled - I buy them in bags at the grocery store, all ready to go)
olive oil
1 small onion
1 leek
2 cups vegetable broth
2 cups almond milk
pinch cardamom
pinch nutmeg
palmful dried thyme
salt to taste

Saute the onion and leek in olive oil in a saucepan. Add the broth and chestnuts and simmer for 30 minutes. Add the almond milk, cardamom, nutmeg and thyme and blend thoroughly (as mentioned, I use an immersion blender because I'm lazy and it's my favorite thing ever.) Salt to taste. Sing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Eat.

*I am part of the most Superior Ornament Exchange Ever, hosted by Jett Superior. As luck would have it, Jett herself drew my name. I win at Christmas.

Of mice and more mice

2011-12-17T09:30:00.009-05:00

If at some point in the future you are listening to NPR and hear a story about how the Cape Cod fishing industry was destroyed by mice, please deny having read this post.

We have a seasonal mouse problem here at the Towers. We've closed down most of the mouse super highway, but old habits die hard and some (mice, not habits) are still finding their way in. Generational memory. We are pacifists (read: squeamish), so the trap we use catches mice live instead of smashing their brains out their ears.

It has occurred to me that smashing their brains out their ears may be the more humane route, but I'll get to that.

I asked google how far you have to take a mouse so it doesn't find its way home, and the general consensus is pretty far. A couple miles far. In my favorite comment stream (which is completely worth reading), one person noted: "They will find their way back unless you sing "Born Free" while releasing them."

I was doing that already. They also say to paint their nails so you can see if the mice you're catching are repeat clients. But we live in a pretty tony neighborhood (look at us), so chances are the mice in the other houses also have had pedicures.

From the sound of things, I should be taking them about 2 miles. The harbor is about a mile, but the route involves mouse obstacles (ponds, etc) so we're hoping it does the trick. It also seems like a nice place for mice to live. For bonus points, there's a church at the harbor so I think the mice are a tax deduction.

I've been getting some strange looks in the parking lot when I arrive with a mouse to release, so I've taken to driving down the other side - the untouristy side. It's a little scrappier over there. When I go at night, I can't help but think of On the Waterfront.

They are reluctant to get out of the trap, but once they do, they all go running off in the same direction - which makes me worry that I've created a non-indigenous mouse colony where the fishing boats will be. I imagine all the buoys sinking because they've been hollowed out by mice and filled with... whatever it is that mice like that doesn't float. I haven't completely thought this through. When you hear about it on NPR, let me know what it is they put in there.

It has also occurred to me that the distance you need to drive the mouse is less about how far away it needs to go before it decides to relocate, and more about increasing the odds of getting eaten. Now that I think of it, if a mouse shows up with our particular shade of nail polish, we should throw it a party.

Furthermore, I fear that one day we will find ourselves tied up, Gulliver-style, and relocated to the harbor by an angry horde of mice. They were here first and have indigenous rights.

I hope they at least paint our nails.

flocks of doom

2011-12-15T14:06:00.005-05:00

So there I was, minding my own business at the dining room table, when I noticed about eight different kinds of birds in what would be the garden if all the plants weren't dead. There were two kinds of woodpeckers, some cardinals, chickadees, a tufty-headed thing, a bunch of bluebirds and some other things I couldn't identify. Honestly, you're lucky you got that much information. Is there a phone app that has facial recognition for birds? I used to have a book, but looking up birds in the bird book is like looking up a word in the dictionary to find out how to spell it. Yes, it must be done - but where do you start?

It was the bluebirds that really got me. I never see bluebirds. Don't they know it's December? Don't the other birds know? This wasn't the usual assortment of ornithological drabbery we generally get at this time of year. This was a veritable Hallmark card of songbirds.*

I sat there wondering what cataclysmic meteorological event had driven them into my yard. That's the only possible explanation - like when all the woodland creatures take flight in Bambi. They weren't bluebirds of happiness in my yard. They were bluebirds of imminent doom.

This new outlook is either a sign that a) the End of Times is truly near or b) I have lived in New England too long.

I grew up in Colorado, where people are less cynical.

Colorado: "Look! Really, really fuzzy caterpillars! It's going to be a great ski season!"

New England: "We'll probably lose power for six weeks, maybe more. If not in this storm, surely the next."

Things were generally more upbeat and optimistic in Colorado. I blame the altitude and resulting lack of oxygen to the brain. I don't know what to blame the pessimism of the northeast on. I'm going with either the Puritans or higher education.

When I came here, people knew I was from Somewhere Else. I have lived here long enough so now instead of auspicious signs, I see omens. I fit in better now.

But it's hard not to find the birds weirdly reassuring. Four of them piled into our birdbath and splashed around - two bluebirds and two something-elses. They didn't seem panicked or rushed. There was nothing about their frolicking that signaled an approaching tsunami. They were... pretty.

In the early fall we had a... swarm? herd? flurry? ...of dragonflies in the garden. There were probably a hundred of them. I think it's technically impossible to signal global tragedy with dragonflies. Ditto ladybugs. We get a lot of those, too.

Maybe the take-away is that beautiful things show up at unexpected times. Maybe it's that we'll all find a place to land when we need it.

Maybe it's that I don't know a thing about birds. Maybe this is the normal time to migrate and all the different kinds were just carpooling.

Maybe I just don't look up often enough.

*It's okay, I don't know what a Hallmark card of songbirds looks like, either.

The Great Pecan Pie Experiment

2011-12-14T20:58:00.004-05:00

A few years ago I thought it would be a swell idea to try a bunch of different pecan pie recipes until I made The Perfect Pie and I'm just now getting around to it. I should mention right off the bat that I don't make pie crust, so that was not the issue. Not that there's an issue. I just want a delicious pie.

It's Chris' birthday, so I got him a chainsaw and made him a birthday pie. No, they are not related. We have a woodstove now (not the one that was in the driveway) and Chris has been going around tidying up friends' fallen trees. Thanks to fallen trees, we haven't turned on our heat yet. Every time the oil truck drives down our street and doesn't stop at our house, I feel weirdly victorious. Anyway, his Polly Pocket Little Helper Chain Saw wasn't doing the trick, so I went to the hardware store and told them I needed a chainsaw for my husband for his birthday. They promptly hoisted me onto their shoulders and marched me through town with a big "Wife of the Year" banner waving over my head.

It's been a busy day.

I didn't have dark corn syrup, so I switched up the recipe a bit. And pecan pie can get a little teeth-itchy, so I tried to tone down the sweetness with a substitute that would still do the trick. Finally, don't put birthday candles into a pie that's fresh from the oven unless you like eating wax. Things they never told me in Home Ec.

Pie Number 1:

1 unbaked pie crust (I get the rolled-up kind)

3 eggs

1/3 cup corn syrup

1/2 cup rice syrup

1 cup brown sugar (scant)

1/4 cup melted butter

1 teas. vanilla extract

1 cup pecan halves

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Beat together the eggs, corn syrup, rice syrup, brown sugar, butter and vanilla.

Roll a pie crust into a pie pan and make it look like you made it.

Dump the pecans into the pie crust and shuffle them around so they cover the bottom.

Pour the egg mixture over the pecans.

Bake for 1 hour or until you can stick a knife in and pull it out clean.

Allow to cool before adding birthday candles.

Mine didn't spill over, but if you want to avoid having your oven catch fire, put foil on the lower rack. Trust me on this.

The verdict? We're looking for something a little beefier. I'll try a fourth egg (overkill?) to make it more of a custard.

Any suggestions?

Small things

2011-12-08T07:28:00.001-05:00

One

Our chickens aren't laying. We got kind of a complex about it, so we asked around and it turns out no one else's chickens are laying either.

But then our upstairs neighbor said that maybe they were off because the Grande Dame of egg laying had perished and they had all forgotten about eggs. He suggested I put an egg decoy in the nesting box to remind them.

Having no egg decoy, I wrote "decoy" in pencil on a hard boiled egg and stuck it in the nesting box when they weren't looking.

It worked.

Two

Our other upstairs neighbor brought down a plate of lemon squares just before the kids went off to school. Sugarplum took a long look at them before she left so she could describe them on a poster if one went missing.

Three

We've been trapping mice in the have-a-heart trap and driving them down the street to their new home. Since we've been dropping them off at a church we're hoping they're a tax deduction.

Four

I am going to sing in the Messiah. I have a vision of the other singers walking out in the middle, muttering "there is no God."

Five

I wrote about how my cello lessons are going.

Six

I kicked coffee and now I can't remember why. I can't remember why because everything's all hazy and muffled and I can barely keep my eyes open.

Seven

Chris has about 97 billion songs to turn into music videos for various bands he's recorded. Turning them into videos requires lots of playing and replaying as he gets all the cuts in the right spots. Therefore, the song he chose to make a video of was "I want a goat for Christmas."

He'll get nothing and like it.

Eight

House Rule: You are not allowed to pick just the things you like out of the Chex Mix. If you want a handful of pecans, dive accordingly. Appearing nonchalant is the key to success.

Nine

Housekeeping tip! While low light is the key to making your home look like you may have cleaned it, super-super-duper energy-saving lightbulbs in your bathroom fixture will make it look like a crack house.

Ten

Christmas is when you move all the extraneous crap out of your house so you can put all the Christmas-related extraneous crap into your house. New Years is for putting away the extraneous holiday crap so you have a clean slate to fill with new extraneous crap over the course of the year.

pumpkin chiffon

2011-11-23T18:20:00.004-05:00

Every year, on the night before Thanksgiving, my sister and I make my mother's recipe for pumpkin chiffon pie. We live in different states, but we have the same pie experience and therefore are practically in the same kitchen. For the first few years, we'd call each other and compare notes. "What does 'custard consistency' mean," she'd ask. I'd describe what mine looked like when I thought it reached custard consistency, she'd agree, we'd decide that we couldn't both be wrong and it would be The Law of Custard Consistency as far as we were concerned. We would forget this law from year to year and have to call for moral support.

After the first few years we didn't need to call each other. Since we didn't chat the night before on pie-related business, we'd call on Thanksgiving day. "How'd your pie come out?" we'd ask - which is Sister Code for Happy Thanksgiving.

This year, for reasons I cannot fathom, she's forgoing the pumpkin chiffon in favor of some sort of mincemeat abomination.

I feel so alone.

You see, if mine comes out horribly, I want to know that hers is delicious. Or, if mine comes out looking like a fluffy, orange bridesmaid's dress, I want to send her a photo and ask if hers is nearly as spectacular.

Somehow there are Good Pie years and Bad Pie years. Which does not stop us from eating them. It just stops us from gloating.

But we won't be eating the same pie. I am all alone, waiting for the custard to cool so I can fold in the egg whites. Her pie is probably done and she has nothing to do but read smutty romances and eat bon bons.

Misery does not like it when other people read smutty romances.

This year I will call her and say "how was your pie?" which is Sister Code for "was it even Thanksgiving without mom's pie?" We'll compare notes on the relative merits of pumpkin vs. mincemeat. We'll discuss how much more sleep she got than I did.

It will be like we're in the same kitchen, states apart, eating pie.

And for that, we are thankful.

operatics

2011-10-22T15:14:00.004-04:00

When I quit my job I told everyone I was leaving so I could write more. Everyone thought this was a cover story for a deep dark company secret because no one believes the reasonable explanations - only the crazy ones.

In fairness, I didn't believe my story either.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself with three operas and two ballets to review in the next two weeks.

I will be more cultured than any yogurt money can buy.

Here are my observations so far:

Observation number one

Ballet audiences are way better dressed than opera audiences. It's like opera audiences are TRYING to look like over-educated academics. I mean, I know they ARE over-educated academics, but come on now. Granted, I should count my blessings because the academics are some of the better dressed ones. The woman in front of me last night was wearing a black t-shirt with a rhinestone pattern that formed an elaborate necktie.

???

Furthermore, when did reusable shopping bags become acceptable alternatives to handbags?

Observation number two

Did the young couple snogging in front of me pay for their orchestra section seats and if so, did they not know you can get a nice hotel room for that same $340+ dollars?

Possibly related: get off my lawn you hoodlums.

Observation number three

If you get drunk before an opera and giggle throughout, make sure it's a comedy. Actually, scratch that. I like hearing people giggle.

Observation number four

I'm fine with people being comfortable at the opera and wearing whatever they want because I think more people should just shut up and go. It's that I also want the performance to extend off the stage and into the lobby. I feel cheated.

I try to fit these observations into my reviews, but short of writing them in code or uploading them as an image, they have not made the editorial cut.

Which is why God made blogs.

If I write anything vaguely entertaining about what I'm reviewing, I'll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, I'd like to go on the record as saying that these shoes make my feet hurt and that I will only hot roller my hair for press seats valued at over $150.

Carry on.

The Upstairs Neighbors, part 768

2011-10-19T08:46:00.004-04:00

Everyone needs an upstairs neighbor.

There are cat people and there are dog people. We are upstairs neighbor people.

About three years ago our friends needed a place to live while they looked for a house to buy. We were in the process of playing Musical Livingquarters and moving our bedrooms downstairs, so we invited them to take over the upstairs while they looked. We all thought it would take a few months, not a few years, but we're all very okay with the change of timeline.

You say "oh that's fine for you. You live in a tower."

I hate to disillusion you, but we don't actually live in a tower. It's a fairly average two story house that happens to have a kitchen on both floors. If we were Jewish, we could easily be kosher. Or we could have a vegetarian kitchen and a non-veg kitchen (read: Bacon Cookery). Or a macrobiotic kitchen and a microbiotic kitchen. The possibilities are endless.

But I digress.

We have friends who live in gigantic houses and say they still don't have enough room. More room is nice, but we like living in a big puppy pile. We like to be close to each other. If we had more space, we'd probably still all end up in the same room.

Our upstairs neighbors are the same way - or at least they're good fakers if they're not.

There is something great about sharing space. It's why people gather in town squares. With this many people living here, Trout Towers is its own town square. Come to think of it, as a computer consultant Chris IS the town square. Oh I slay me.

It is comforting having friends in the house. I know that if I'm eaten by wild dogs, someone will figure it out pretty quickly. There are always people around who have my back - simply by virtue of standing behind me. And you know those friends you never see because you're too busy doing laundry? Laundry day is when we see the most of our friends.

I understand that this isn't for everybody, but my recommendation is you build a yurt on your roof and ask some friends to move in. You may really like it.

For the record, I felt this way even before the Upstairs Neighbor left a chocolate oyster on my diningroom table on her way to work.

High Security

2011-10-17T19:33:00.000-04:00

Do you lock your car?

I admitted to a friend the other day that I feel guilty when I lock my car. It's like announcing that I don't trust my neighbors for beans. Granted, it's not my actual neighborhood neighbors I'm talking about. I never lock my car at home because a) I kinda hope someone steals everything out of it and then details it, and b) I am lazy. It's when I'm in a parking lot - say, in front of my favorite coffee shop - and I have my laptop in the front seat so I know I should lock it but....

But I don't like telling people I don't trust them.

So I walk away from the car and lock it with the remote - being very careful not to let it beep.

And then when I come back to my car I surreptitiously unlock the car from a few feet away so I can open it and hop in like it was never locked. If I forget and try opening the door, I cover by giving the car my best "who locked my car?" look.

I only admit this to you because it turns out I'm not alone.

The friend I mentioned it to feels the same way about not wanting to offend his fellow townspeople.

We live in a small fishing town. Can you imagine locking your car in Mayberry? I can just see Aunt Bea frowning at someone whose car alarm was going off. "Not very neighborly," she would say.

I wonder if it's the people who are not from here who pull up next to me and alarm their car before going into the post office. I wonder how many of the other cars are unlocked, with keys in the ignition.

Not only do we trust our neighbors, we all drive cars no one wants.

And we all secretly hope that someone will throw away all the empty coffee cups while we're in the post office.

In my friends' towns, people don't look at you weird when you set your car alarm. Conversely, they would think you were a moron for leaving your laptop on the front seat of your car - locked or not. And they're probably right.

Maybe there's a bit of a New England thing mixed in with the Mayberry Factor. It is Not Right to presume that you have something that someone else doesn't have and would want. To presume that would be to admit a Failure of Thrift.

Which is very un-New Englandy.

But when I forget I've locked my car in front of the coffee shop, I end up spilling half my coffee as I struggle for the lock. That spilled coffee adds up. So basically it's six one way, half-dozen the other.

Which is why I don't lock my car.

Moving on.

2011-10-15T22:25:00.004-04:00

I quit my job.

Just one of them, but still. I quit.

Here's what happened. I worked and worked and worked and then I had babies and when I went back to work I did it part time - you know, for the babies - and I figured as long as I was working part time I would try writing more as part of my work.

Which worked, but not enough. So when a new client came along that was really pretty dreamy in every possible way, I said yes. And it's been great.

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH....

I missed writing.

So I quit the job. And here we are.

Today is Day One After The Last Day At Work. I have submitted a column.

The thing about writing is that once you start, it's hard to stop. So I've sent my column and - I hope you don't feel used - I can't simmer down.

There are only so many facebook updates I can post without looking desperate. That's what blogs are for. I don't worry about not looking desperate here. It's kind of a given.

Besides all that, I've missed you. Can we be friends again?

Will you come help me fold all this laundry?

your highly caffeinated friend,

Susan

on starting and stopping

2011-07-14T11:53:00.001-04:00

On Tuesday my car wouldn't start. Today (Thursday) my car won't stop. Wednesday was somewhere in between. I suppose it usually is.

When my car wouldn't start, I was waiting to meet a friend I had invited to go to the theater. The other friend (I have two) who was going to meet me at the theater canceled, so I was waiting to meet the second friend at The Appointed Spot when I discovered my car wouldn't start. I'm sure he wasn't at all suspicious when he drove up and I asked him to drive. His car is clean and comfy and I would totally fake a dead car if the opportunity came up again.

Today I was on my way to work and when I stopped to run an errand, I couldn't get the ignition to turn off. After a few seconds of hand-wringing and driving back and forth through town like a squirrel at a four-way-stop, I pulled over and called the dealership. It is a key cylinder something-or-other.

While I am not prone to stalling my manual transmission, there is something disconcerting about driving through stop-and-go traffic with a car you can't start if it stalls (key won't budge in either direction). And did I mention I was almost out of gas? You're not supposed to fill your tank without turning off your engine. Even I know that.

So now in addition to keeping my tank full when anyone I know is pregnant, I have to keep my tank full in case my car won't stop driving. My car is a cross between The Red Tent and The Red Shoes.

Here's the thing with cars. When they don't work, they can either put you in a tailspin or give you a chance to breathe. I've been needing a chance to breathe lately. How often do you get to sit and just be where you are? Or sit in a clean and comfy car and be glad for the way things sort themselves out?

The woman at the dealership said sometimes people stay in the waiting room after their cars are finished. Who can blame them?

File under: car repairs are cheaper than therapy.

The Ten Commandments, for Atheists

2011-06-29T01:07:00.004-04:00

After leading his people through the wilderness for a bunch of years, Moses needed to brush up on his management skills. So he went to a Human Resources workshop and studied the habits of highly successful people. This is what he found.

1) Highly successful people don't worship people or things. They know that if they make a god of something, it owns them. Worship your highest, purest, best sense of right.

2) Don't make something material in an effort to experience something spiritual.

3) Don't name drop. If you're in tight with the person/concept, you don't need to throw its name around. And if you're not in tight, it's inappropriate and offensive.

4) Take a day off once a week and remember how you got there.

5) Don't run with scissors, be nice to your little brother, never lick a frozen lamp post... basically, do what your mom says. Dad, too.

6) Don't kill anyone, yo. (This includes sucking the life out of them.)

7) Don't sleep around. Be respectful of yourself and others.

8) Don't steal. When you steal, it tells your brain that you don't have what you need. Your brain only knows what you tell it. Tell it the right stuff.

9) Don't be a smack-talking smack talker and quit throwing people under the bus. It doesn't help your case. Quite the opposite, actually.

10) Life is not an arms race. You've got stuff. I've got stuff. We all have our own stuff. Be good with that and it will be good with you.

Pillars of Salt

2011-02-11T17:34:00.007-05:00

You know that kid who was kind of creepy in elementary school? The one you stayed away from because he'd probably beat you up or say something so withering that you'd go home and beg your parents to move? Then, many years later, you're at a party with friends and he shows up and is completely charming?

That's what New York is like for me.

For years I have loved hating it. I called it "Sodom on the Hudson" and imagined everyone to be pushy and mean. This was not entirely unfounded. We had playground issues, so to speak, in the early stages of our acquaintance.

But friends had invited us to see an opera with them and then a week at a New York apartment popped up in an auction benefiting our favorite theater. So we bid. And got it.

I was as surprised as anyone.

Every time I saw a picture of New York I'd get nervous all over again. Old habits die hard. But I really like opera and was pretty sure I'd get to see one (I did much more than that - see my Opera Betty post for gloaty details). So I pretended I wasn't scared. And made Chris drive.

Here's what happened: People were nice.

After the MoMA one day, we were deciding where to have lunch and a man stopped and asked if we needed help. He then told us about four restaurants nearby. When we chose the one he was on his way to, he gave us the run down of what was good and where to get in line.

We live in a tourist town and walk past groups of lost tourists all the time without stopping to offer help.

New Yorkers are nicer than us.

We had dim sum in Chinatown with our friends from the Magazine of Yoga. When we were done, our pile of empty baskets was taller than Studley.

Sugarplum and I had tea at American Girl Place. The nice thing about this is the looks people give you when you walk down 5th Avenue hand-in-hand with a happy, doll-toting child. The skeevy thing is how you feel when you wake up the next morning and realize you spent triple digits on accessories and spa treatments for a doll. They offer bellinis for the adults in the cafe. A hit of Valium might be a nice addition.

Samantha gets her hair done

We went to the Statue of Liberty and looked up her skirt - which seemed kind of rude yet necessary.

We saw every single thing in the Metropolitan Museum of Art by way of looking for the bathrooms.

We made sure we did not spend the night inside the Museum of Natural History. I think they made that movie as a way to get people to leave.

The people who work at the Metropolitan Opera and at Ellis Island made us happy to be human.

In fact, the whole trip made us happy to be human. I think what had scared me about New York before was its inhumanity. This trip was, well, personal. We met invisible friends and friends of friends. We met strangers. We were introduced as family and colleagues.

We had a fabulous time and no, we will not shut up about it. Stop asking.

Death of a Chicken

2011-01-26T07:32:00.000-05:00

Unlike other chicken eulogies you may have read here, this one is mostly true. (A sentence you don't get to type every day.)

Jewel was the chicken who inspired Sugarplum to tell people about "mama's favorite chicken" - people who may have wished they didn't know that mama had a favorite chicken. This is one of those things you overhear and then set the wastebasket on fire so people's attention is drawn elsewhere.

But it was true.

We did not choose Jewel. She was a stowaway. We had ordered, among other breeds, a black australorp but when it came time to figure out which chick was which, we found it puzzling. I know it sounds chicken-racist, but some of them look very much alike.

So we ended up with a barred rock instead of a black australorp. We like to think Jewel chose to come live with us and perhaps disguised her features to avoid detection. By the time we figured it out, it was too late. The flock had all gotten to know each other. The missing australorp was happy in her new home. All was well.

A couple years ago I went through some extended family nonsense and had to spend most of my time away from home. When I'd pop in to recalibrate, I'd visit the chickens in their yard, where Jewel always came over and waited for me to pet her. There is something weirdly reassuring about a chicken's love when your world is going massively awry. Probably because most of them would just as soon eat you if you stayed still long enough. You expect love and support from your partner, children, dog or cat, but when you also get it from a chicken it feels like the universe has put a sticky note on your head that says something... universey.

Last year when we were on vacation, our chicken-sitters woke up in the middle of the night to a terrible sound of clucking and squawking. They ran to the coop and chased out a raccoon who had broken through the defenses of Fort McChicken. There were no casualties, but Jewel had taken a hit.

Here's how I think it went down: When the raccoon broke into the coop, all the chickens raised the alarm except Jewel, who bravely stood between the raccoon and the other hens. Chickens peck pretty hard and I bet the raccoon is still sporting some chicken scarring. She fended off the attack until reinforcement arrived.

The raccoon cut the wires to the alarm system and surveillance, so it's my word against nobody's.

Jewel survived, but we were not optimistic.

As we nursed her back to health, we noticed that three of the other chickens protected her somewhat fiercely. One chicken, Tulip, did not. Tulip was kind of a jerk. You will here note that Tulip did not get a eulogy when she was eaten by a fox.

In the months that followed, Jewel proved herself to be the kind of fighter that would fend off a raccoon attack and live to tell the tale. Her broken beak healed but carried the mark of bravery. Jewel was a very brave chicken.

Last night, tucked into her nesting box, Jewel passed away quietly in her sleep. I imagine her singing "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" to the other hens as she passed.

She will be missed.

And I don't care who knows it: She was mama's favorite chicken.

(Here is a post I wrote about Jewel a couple years ago)

Yo Ma-Ma

2011-01-05T11:36:00.005-05:00

I took my first cello lesson today.

I envisioned the cello and me running toward each other on the beach, enraptured. There would be rainbows and butterflies and an indisputable soul-connection. It would be love.

You have possibly already figured out it was not like that.

It was my fault we didn't hit it right off. The cello was, of course, completely itself. I was not. I was awkward and stilted.

My teacher kept telling me to relax.

I can't relax, I thought. I want it to love me.

It was even worse once we were alone. I couldn't hold the bow right. I didn't recognize the sound the strings made. I thought I knew this cello I had brought home with me. It felt so right at the stringed instrument rental place. It felt... perfect.

But cellos are different from violins (they don't sound like you're sitting on a cat, for starters). You hold the bow differently (who knew?). Cellos aren't as prissy as violins. They require a bit of weight.

I really need to stop comparing it to my ex. The violin was a long time ago. I was young. It's been over for years.

But I do have a blister from all the pizzicatoing. I didn't know playing cello would demand actual flesh.

I have about 17 pages of music to practice this week. I think that should get us started. A little time together would be a good thing.

I'm sure we can make it work.

I've got the rental for six months.

landing paper airplanes

2011-01-03T20:03:00.001-05:00

Years ago I had my tarot cards read at a party. I did it because the friend we were with really really needed to break up with her boyfriend. We figured if she heard it from a mystic authority, she'd listen to reason. So I went first to show her how spiffy fun it was.

I was writing a book at the time (I have been writing a book since the fifth grade), so I asked when it would be finished.

Imagine my surprise at finding there was no novel in my cards. There were, however, lots of little things. She asked if I published pamphlets or small inspirational stories. I had no idea what she was talking about.

It has recently occurred to me that the pamphlets she saw may have been blog posts and articles. These wouldn't happen for at least 10 years, so she must have had excellent distance vision.

While I still hope to get a book finished, I've started to wonder if books are going the way of albums. Yes, people sit down and read a book from beginning to end, but more and more, they are carrying around snippets. They have songs in their iPods and blogposts in their readers.

I imagine literary mix tapes aren't far behind. Perhaps they're already happening and I, having not smashed anyone's heart to smithereens lately, have not been given one.

By the time I get my novel out there, it will be like "hey! my album just came out on 8-track!" Which is not to say it won't be awesome.

On New Year's Eve I met two long-time Trout readers. One had told me she might be there, but the other popped up quite unexpectedly. It's impossible to accurately describe how surreal that is. The idea of people reading what I post is an amorphous swirl of "well isn't that nice" that doesn't quite seem real. It's like after years of reconciling Santa as a metaphysical concept, he shows up and introduces himself.

Knowing that real people who I can see (and other people can see, too) are reading what I write gave these words a tangible place to land. They are no longer floating out in the ether. They've been caught and held onto long enough for someone to be curious about where they came from.

Which made me wonder if I may eventually wind up on a literary mix tape.

I can think of no greater honor.

Restocking the Belfry

2011-01-02T09:40:00.004-05:00

"We'll call the exterminator when I get back," my boss said, many years and thousands of miles ago.

There were bats in the attic of the school where I worked, and someone had expressed concern about methane build-up. I never considered myself a particular fan of bats, but the idea of exterminating them didn't set well with me. So I made sure my boss had really left for her business trip and I called Urban Wildlife Rescue.

"We have some bats and my boss wants to gas them. I have a week to get them out of here. Can you bring a shoe box?"

They arrived, after explaining patiently that it was winter and they'd need to keep the bats in coolers until spring because they were hibernating. The coolers in question were the kinds of things you take to the beach full of beer. My point being, check before you grab a cooler if you hang with wildlife rescue people.

I took them to the attic, which turned into a scene from Scooby Doo when we walked in. Flurries of bats were illumined by thousands of pinpoints of light. The roof, which was a good two+ stories high in the center, looked like a colander. The rescue people informed me that a) there weren't enough coolers in WalMart for the quantity of bats we had and b) we'd have to fix all the holes or they'd come right back.

The wildlife people then scheduled a visit with a sonar thingy to see if they were part of SETI and sending messages from our attic. Or something. Instead, they discovered that we had a nursing colony. My school had the dubious distinction of housing one of the largest bat populations in the metro area. The National Wildlife Federation was called, but not by me. I was busy looking for a new job.

While I had failed to relocate the bats, I had made exterminating them impossible.

Not only that, but since it was a nursing colony, they strongly encouraged us to hold off on the 97 quadrillion dollars worth of historic restoration we had scheduled. Construction crews were halted until the babies left the nest. Or whatever.

My recollection is fuzzy, but this may have been when I moved across the country. It was "unrelated."

This was all many years ago. My boss and I became and remained friends in spite of the bats. Or perhaps because of the bats.

Last week she sent me a message to let me know that the school was finally patching all the holes. The bats, she said, would need new homes. I fully expect UPS to deliver WalMart's entire stock of coolers - marked fragile - to my door.

The Trouts Step Out

2011-01-01T22:22:00.011-05:00

If I just tell you some of the stuff we do and then shut up before I go and ruin it, my life sounds pretty cool.

Like this:

Today Sugarplum and I flew to Nantucket for breakfast.

Now you have this picture of what kind of person I am. I look good right? You don't need to know that I was wearing my flannel pajamas (the ones with gnomes on them) squinting at my email one minute and shrieking at Sugarplum to get dressed the next.

She, of course, was already dressed. That's the way kids are when they want to grow up to be pilots. They get up and pull themselves together. Then they spend a few hours doing experiments with their 300 Electronic Circuits! kit before breakfast. So when there's an email from a pilot who offers to take them flying, they are ready.

We had an hour to get to the airport, which spawned its own chaos of chicken feeding and dog walking and jacket finding. I got dressed and then walked the dog, which totally threw off the neighbors who have been placing bets on which pair of pajamas I'll have on. I like to think they have at least a passing interest in my pajama selection and take pains to warrant their puzzled stares and drawn blinds.

Sugarplum decided she wanted to be a pilot when she was four. A friend of ours, who we (surprise!) know because he's married to someone in a band, is a commercial pilot and likes encouraging kids to learn to fly. Today was gorgeous and pretty much the whole rest of the world was hung over, so it was a good day to hop on a plane. (Actual paying people get to go first.)

Captain Dave put Sugarplum in the copilot seat, boosted up by someone's flight suit. He buckled her in and showed her what a few of the gauges were for.

Seriously, how cool is that? When I was 8 I learned to write limericks. Eight is soul forming, people.

We had breakfast at the airport because it is Nantucket so even the diner at the airport is awesome. Sugarplum poked her egg yolk and announced "these must be local eggs."

I'm going to give you a minute with that.

We took a cab into town, where Sugarplum shot video of the cobblestone streets to show Studley when we got back. She also took video on the flight home, although we haven't watched any of it yet. The flight was smooth but her camera work requires a solid hit of Dramamine.

Studley will dig the video. And I'll just keep playing the scene in my head.

Today Sugarplum and I flew to Nantucket for breakfast.

(and it was delicious)

The Real Trout Towers

2010-12-10T18:00:00.000-05:00

It's always disconcerting inviting people to Trout Towers for the first time. It's even more disconcerting when I invite one of you.

By "you" I mean people who have come to know Trout Towers through what I've written - real-life friends who know me and read the blog, and internet friends who have become real-life friends. You have an image of what it will be like, and I don't want to let you down.

In general, I think people are let down.

After all, it is just a house. There are no turrets. There's not a widow's walk. We do not have topiary shaped like chickens.

There are signs of life around the house I notice only when people are coming over: the drift of items tucked in and around shelves; ceiling lights we didn't find a fixture for and forgot; handprints on walls; half-finished projects. It's as if we lit the house with candles all week and then brought in stadium lights for when guests arrive. Stadium lights are very unflattering.

All of this is not what I think of as Trout Towers, nor is it what I think of as I hatch cockamamie plans for parties. I don't think of the failings until it is too late and guests are en route. Hiding in the bedroom is out of the question because that's where people put their coats.

I could try to blend with the coats, but here's what happens: Once there are coats on the bed, I start seeing Trout Towers the way it really is.

People arrive and I remember that I love them. I offer food. They offer food. We are all so glad to see each other, everything else melts. The stadium lights shift their focus from the flaws to the friends. They are radiant.

At some point I realize I've invited five times as many people as I have chairs. (This is why I don't do dinner parties.) I worry about being a good hostess for a few seconds and then am derailed by something shiny - like friends connecting with other friends, or someone's baby falling asleep in my arms.

I am suddenly, unspeakably proud of my home. Because this is Trout Towers. This unselfconscious buzz of people and kindness. I don't have the shiniest candlesticks or the nicest countertops or the most organized bookshelves. I do have the most interesting friends with the biggest hearts and the greatest talents. As some very wise person once said, "the ornaments of a house are the guests who frequent it." They pretty much go with everything.

People may very well be let down by the lack of chicken topiary. Believe me, I feel their pain. But as cozy as this pile of coats is, I'd rather hang out with my friends and family.

That's where Trout Towers is.

Thanksgiving

2010-11-24T18:48:00.004-05:00

A friend shared this with me the other day and I thought you should have it. Happy Thanksgiving from all of us at Trout Towers.

LET US GIVE THANKS

Let us give thanks for a bounty of people
For children who are our second planting
and though they grow like weeds
and the wind too soon blows them away,
May they forgive us our cultivation
and remember fondly where their roots are.

Let us give thanks:
For generous friends, with hearts as big as hubbards
and smiles as bright as their blossoms;
For feisty friends as tart as apples;
For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers,
keep reminding us we've had them;
For crotchety friends, as sour as rhubarb
and as indestructible;
For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants
and as elegant as a row of corn,
and the others, as plain as potatoes and so good for you;
For funny friends, who are as silly as Brussels sprouts
and as amusing as Jerusalem artichokes,
and serious friends, as complex as cauliflowers
and as intricate as onions;
For friends as unpretentious as cabbages,
as subtle as summer squash,
as persistent as parsley,
as delightful as dill,
as endless as zucchini,
and who, like parsnips,
can be counted on to see you throughout the winter;
For old friends,
nodding like sunflowers in the evening-time
and young friends coming on as fast as radishes;
For loving friends, who wind around us like tendrils
and hold us, despite our blights, wilts, and witherings;
And finally, for those friends now gone,
like gardens past that have been harvested,
but who fed us in their times
that we might have life thereafter;
For all these we give thanks.

-- Max Coots

internment

2010-10-07T07:23:00.000-04:00

I realized the other day that children are basically interns. They share our work space (life) and learn how to do what we do (live) so that they can hit the ground running when it's time to get a real job (life).

Like interns, they learn the most by watching us do our jobs. They see how it's done in real life and learn to apply what they see. Things like "using a fork" come to mind. Like interns, we give them projects as we feel they're ready for them. They pour their own juice, they dress themselves, they make their beds. Little by little, they take over their job responsibilities - which we fine tune as they present finished projects. My son, for instance, often puts his pants on backwards. We're working on that.

In return for putting their own pants on, we give them food, shelter, clothing, and a steady paycheck of unconditional love.

Which is why it's such a drag we can't sometimes fire them.

Because, you see, they don't act like interns. You say, "please put your popsicle stick in the trash" and they look at you blankly. You find the popsicle stick in their underwear drawer. You say, "put your shoes on, it's time to go" and they respond with "why? You're always the last one out." Show me one intern you wouldn't fire for that.

There is no recourse with Human Resources. They stopped taking my calls ages ago.

Why is it so hard for kids to just do what we ask them, already? Don't they see that it is their job? I come home from work and every single thing I do is questioned.

Why do we have to eat that?
How come I have to put my own clothes away?
It's bedtime?!?! I'm not even tired. This isn't fair.
He hit me first.
She hit me first.

Or they don't say anything, but have obviously decided the request to not leave the loaf of bread on the kitchen floor was rhetorical.

It ends up being like that Nike slogan except instead of open roads and a nice typeface, there's twirling eyes and a face the color of the cherry popsicle now melting in my shoe.

Just. Do. It.

Now.

With interns, you ask them to do it and they do it. If they don't think they can do it, which is totally fine, they ask for clarification. You set them straight and they do it. Or you fire them. You say, "I'm sorry, this isn't working out. Since you are so good at making all the decisions around here, I think it's time you left and formed your own company. Have a nice afternoon."

With children, when it's time for them to leave and form their own companies, we get all nostalgic for the popsicle sticks and the wrong side around pants. We realize that part of what they were learning was how to make their own decisions. They learned how to ask questions. They developed negotiation skills.

The physical tasks we assign them are a forum for learning bigger skills. The natural consequences they encounter in their childhood workplace carry through to their adult workplace. If, for example, they leave their clean clothes on the floor, there is a possibility the cat will throw up on them.

These are life lessons. Our job is to keep those paychecks of love coming, even when our interns don't seem to want them. Our job is to show them the best things we know, so that they can figure out their own best ways of doing it.

When it comes to kids, the only pink slips should have ruffles. And maybe popsicle stains.

rotated pigeon inversion

2010-09-18T20:47:00.004-04:00

Busy! So busy!

I've been writing, just - you know - not here. And it's really taking a toll on my real-life life. Without this place to put my little stories and thoughts, I tell people things over and over and over. My friend's son who played the Sheriff in Robin Hood even though his name is Robin? He never again wants to hear how Studley gets all shades of confused when we refer to him as Robin instead of the Sheriff.

"Robin! Let me tell you this adorable story about my son!" Good lord, that sentence ages me by about 4o years every time I so much as think it.

And then I've started telling random strangers things that they really don't need to hear because I've stopped telling you. Because you're not strangers, obviously.

These things have got to come out because little stories are like sneezes and if you suppress them they will put your back out or dislodge an eye.

Completely unrelated:

Yesterday I was interviewing an artist I like. At the end of the interview she asked where she could pick up a copy of the paper. Neither of us lives in the town where it's published, so I didn't know where to send her. "You can find it online," I suggested. "I'm never totally convinced they'll print what I write, so I always check to see if my column is online on Fridays."

If that doesn't inspire confidence, I don't know what does. Hey! Thanks for the interview! I'm gonna run right home and write something that no editor in his or her right mind would want to publish!

The self-denigration gene runs strong in my family. It's a good thing I'm not a surgeon. Me, to patient: "wow, I've never seen these scalpels look so shiny! I hope I don't mess them up. I'm kinda new at..... hello?... hey, where'd everyone go?"

Here are some of the shiny scalpels I wielded recently:

This week I wrote about how picnics crush fear like rock crushes scissors. It's in The Magazine of Yoga. The Magazine of Yoga lets me write a column every month even though I haven't taken a yoga class in years. They seem to think that since my brain does a convincing rotated pigeon inversion, the rest of me is let off the hook.

Rotated pigeon inversion sounds like it could be dinner.

Speaking of dinner, last month I wrote about the Zucchini Principle at TMoY.

I can't believe there are people who actually encourage me to write this stuff. It's as if when I was in high school, wishing on all those stars that Justin Myers would call me, the stars said "unbeknownst to you, Justin Myers is gay. But we'll make it up to you down the road a bit."

For the record, Justin is not the boy I wrote about in my latest submission at Polite Fictions: What Happens After the Kiss. The assignment was to write about what happens after a pivotal moment. I liked this one.

My alter ego, Opera Betty, has a radio show on womr.org on the second Sunday of each month. It's about opera but it's like if highbrow scowled a lot.

Both Opera Betty and Trout Towers are on Facebook. It's way easier to write two sentences than one blog post. Who knew?

You know what else is harder than it looks? Writing about pop-culture. It turns out what I write about mostly is stuff that makes people cock their heads and say "what even is that?" Which does not qualify as pop-culture. So let's all pick something weird that I know about and make it popular so I can write about it on MamaPop, okay? That would be great. Let me know by Sunday night - I write every Monday. Who doesn't love Mondays? Hmmm?

My favorite MamaPop post to date is the one on Sarah Ruhl's Vibrator Play.

And with that, I think I'm out of all danger of dislodging an eye.

Bless you.

learning the ancient ways and staining pretty much my entire kitchen in the process

2010-08-29T20:33:00.006-04:00

Don't distract me, I'm making jelly.

On my stove, right this minute, is a pot of simmering beach plums. I cannot tell you what a miracle this is. But first I should tell you what a beach plum is.

I don't know what a beach plum is. On our way to go pick them I said to Sugarplum, "if someone threw a beach plum at me, hitting me in the head with it, I wouldn't know it was a beach plum." She was quiet a minute before asking "why would someone do that?"

It's good sometimes to have these conversations, if only to assure us she's not the product of agamogenesis. Her sense of humor comes from Chris' side of the family.

Beach Plum Jelly. Cape Cod is known for its cranberries because no one will give up the location of the plums. Notice the lack of landmarks in the photo. I had to have it certified and run through an anti-4square processor before posting it. I was practically blindfolded and driven to go pick them but everyone knows I can't remember squat these days and am directionally disinclined anyway.

If you are hit in the head with something about the size of a concord grape that looks like that thing in the photo, you've been struck by a beach plum.

Even if you can find the silly things, you can't just go and make the jelly. It doesn't work that way. Someone has to teach you. The directions I was sent home with today? They're not what we did in my friend's mom's kitchen. They print the recipe in the newspaper. They cut the recipe out of the newspaper. They put the recipe on the counter. And then they do something entirely different from what's in the recipe.

I don't know how I made the cut, but if someone asks if you want to pick beach plums and make jelly, you cancel your vacation plans and go. And take your minion so you can pick a lot in a short amount of time. Lord knows when you'll be allowed near these bushes (trees?) again.

We picked so furiously there may be a baby bird in here somewhere.

These are yummy, by the way. I always thought beach plums were something you couldn't eat until you had stewed them for 48 hours with an entire bag of sugar. Like rose hips. "Beach plum" sounds like a euphemism for something, doesn't it? New Englanders are good with such trickery.

When you cook them down according to nothing you'll find in the paper, they make the most beautiful juice you've ever seen. Crayola should make a crayon called Beach Plum Jelly Juice. It's that pretty. I think I will dye my children that color in the morning so I can love them even more.

One step, the one I'm doing now which is why I have all this time to not tell you how to make beach plum jelly, takes at least an hour. I heard that and said "Yay! Ice cream at Harbor Freeze!" which is exactly what she was hoping I'd say because I'm sure there's a step I missed while I was at the harbor eating ice cream.

Again with the New England Trickery.

I'll let you know how my batch of jelly goes tonight. They sent me home with a jar from the batch we made together, so if all goes horribly wrong with mine, I'm sending it to that show on NPR that figures out such things.

Car Talk, I think.

And that's if I don't get picked up by the FBI. I sent a beach plum photo to facebook with the caption "blindfolded and taken to undisclosed location" and it didn't load for about six hours because it probably put up red flags from here to Kentucky.

That's really going to throw my mom because when she finds out I know how to make beach plum jelly I will become her very most favorite youngest daughter ever - and then when the fbi calls, thirty seconds later, she'll have to deny knowing me.

Do you see? Do you see what it does to people? It's no wonder they don't tell you where they are or what to do with them. They are trouble, I tell you.

Delicious, Crayola-colored trouble.

Beachwear

2010-07-17T14:15:00.009-04:00

When I told the dressing room attendant at the swimsuit store to brace herself for the screaming, she probably thought I was kidding.

It's been a few years since my dad stonily bought my first bikini at the mall. When we reconnected with the rest of the family he said "sorry we took so long. The cashier dropped Susan's suit on the floor and it took 20 minutes and security to find it."

Since then things have.... changed.

When I drop my current bathing suit on the floor, it takes me 20 minutes to find my purse, my children, and the random small dog that may have been walking by at precisely the wrong time.

Things are different now. Maybe in some ways they're better.

How could it be better, this judging of suits by what they do cover instead of what they don't cover, you ask? It's all a matter of what you look for in a beach day.

There's a disconnect between what I think of when I hear "beach day" and what I experience on a beach day. When I think of spending the day at the beach I imagine reclining chairs set under a canopy. I picture iced drinks with mint leaves. The hors d'oeuvres have no sand in them. I do not know where these things exist, but I've lived at the beach for about15 years and I can tell you, they're not here.

For years I went to the beach, sprayed myself with fryolator oil, and passed out from heat exhaustion. I'd wake to find myself caked in sand and sweat. And then I'd wrap myself in cold, damp cloths to ease the sunburn. I am by nature the color of a fish belly.

So how does my beach scenario change, now that I'm wearing bathing suits that take up an entire dresser drawer? In a word: kaftans.

I am of an age where I can wear kaftans. Kaftans are the next best thing to a canopy and, if I'm not mistaken, are the ticket to being invited under a canopy. "Nice lady! Please come sit with us under our canopy and teach us to play mah jong! Have a drink! I do hope the condensation doesn't spot your lovely kaftan." I still don't know how to play mah jong, but I won't let that get in the way.

I have always loved long flowing things, but back in the day they interfered with my tanning efforts. Bathing suits were selected for the tan lines they would not leave. These days no one wants to know where the tan stops so there is simply no point in exposing any more of me than is necessary (I have lovely ankles).

Kaftans have an air of cool sophistication. The bikinis which I choose not to buy (you're welcome) do not have an air of cool sophistication.

In a kaftan I will be unruffled. I will be a serene oasis in a landscape of sweaty, sandy, overheated, sunburned humanity. I will be the woman that all the other women hope to be when they are of the right age to wear a kaftan.

And if it doesn't work out exactly like I had hoped, I will at least have something nice to put on when I go out to feed the chickens in the morning.

I just wish I had thought of this before I tried on all those suits. I bet the dressing room attendant does, too.

punk rock agriculture

2010-07-01T20:24:00.003-04:00

This morning I peeked in on the kids while they slept. They were so cute - all relaxed and floppy, with little smiles on their sweet faces. It made me want to shriek "get up! get up NOW!" at the top of my lungs because the child-shaped dents in the ceiling would have made me giggle for years.

But I didn't because I am good at keeping up appearances and the appearance du jour is Responsible Mother.

I have made this little Domestic Nest here for myself which looks quite convincing to the untrained eye. We have chickens and vegetables and a tire swing for crying out loud. We don't even live in the country.

Then you look a little closer and you notice that our corn, which is still juvenille, has gone and dyed its hair. When we shuck it we'll probably find multiple piercings.

This is the sort of thing that happens to us. We try to do something normal (corn in your flower bed is normal. We read it somewhere) and everything goes all King's Road on us.

We should probably just roll with it. We'll change our chickens' names to Wendy O. Williams, Exene Cervenka, Nina Hagan, Lena Lovich, Patti Smith, Palmolive and Amanda Palmer.

We need more chickens because I could go on like this for ages.

People ask us about the chickens all the time. How much work they are, how many eggs we get, what on earth possessed us to get chickens - stuff like that. They think they would like to have chickens of their own to name but they don't do it because they're not in the same position we are.

For a long time I thought they were under the impression that we have some kind of innate agricultural leanings, which we don't. We have bookwormish leanings and culinary leanings and musical leanings that run from opera to punk rock but no, we have no agricultural leanings.

What I have come to realize is that it has nothing to do with agriculture, this perception people have of us. We are not agricultural people, we are people who don't care what the neighbors think. That's what they mean by the position we're in.

Or maybe they just know how awesome our neighbors are. Our neighbors are so awesome they've taken to reading Bukowski to the corn when the rest of us are sleeping.

And to them, I look every bit the part of a responsible mother.

Chris still wonders how much of this story is true

2010-06-19T14:33:00.007-04:00

Years ago I ran over a bunny rabbit in the road on the way to my friend's house. It was not on purpose.

Since it was on the way to my friend's house, I had to pass the scene of the crime on a regular basis. On one trip I noticed that at the exact spot of the bunny's demise there was a fresh repair in the road. The lines of tar looked like a message and for just a second I wondered if the road was trying to communicate something. Perhaps it was a warning to other bunnies. Or maybe the psychic impact had a thermo-dynamic effect on the pavement, causing it to crack in ways that could be read like tea leaves.

I began looking at other tar repairs, wondering in turn what each one meant. Some were obviously just repairs but many were intricate and meaningful. Maybe the paving crew was Hindu?

One day not long after the Bunny Incident, Sugarplum and I were on a walk through the White Cedar Swamp. She noticed some markings on a tree and because I am not to be trusted, I told her that those were notes left by the fairies and gnomes who live in the swamp. Most of them were love notes, I told her, pointing at one.

I realized the pattern I was pointing to was the exact same pattern as the one in the street.

I wonder how many times the lies I tell my children are actually true.

Over the next year I saw it in:
1) a tattoo
2) graffiti
3) soba noodles left on a plate next to me at a sushi bar

Then I was at a party and the man next to me said that he was a prophet. He seemed pretty smart and totally not weird or anything so I asked him about the symbol I kept seeing.

Turns out he had said "prof" not "prophet" but as luck would have it he taught Bible history, which was handy because I had started wondering if it was something in Aramaic and maybe I was channeling a dead priest and if so did the stigmata hurt?

I drew it for him on a cocktail napkin. No, he told me. It was not Aramaic. But he offered to look into it and tucked the napkin in his pocket. Astonishingly, I never heard from him again.

The last time I saw it, it came tick tick ticking out of my fax machine quite out of the blue. There was a new Persian restaurant in town and they were faxing over their menu.

It means soup.

elsewhere

2010-05-24T20:42:00.003-04:00

At first I was perturbed with the universe for breaking our new washing machine just before Memorial Day weekend. I mean really, the timing couldn't have been worse. All our clients are kicking into full gear and we are simply not in the mood to wash our clothes in the stream.

Then I realized it was the best possible thing because you know what makes you want to do things like write press releases? An impending trip to the laundromat. I have gotten more things off my back-burner list in the last few days, all in the name of avoiding the laundromat. Sorry kids! Looks like we're stapling towels around you again for school today! Mommy is sooooooo busy.

One of the things I got done was edit a submission I wrote for the Magazine of Yoga. I had sent the first draft off a week or so ago and when the editor emailed me back it was more like having a personal trainer than an editor. Also a therapist. In the face of hauling 18 loads of laundry across town, her suggestions seemed surprisingly manageable. My post went up on the site this morning. (woot!)

Eighteen loads isn't much of an exaggeration.

It was also my turn at Polite Fictions last week. We're finishing up the alphabet of regret and I wrote U is for Us. You might like it, unless you're my mother in which case you should skip over the swearing part.

And finally, Opera Betty is getting a radio show! We go into production very soon. Right after the washing machine is fixed and I repair the staple holes in all our towels.

speaking of needing our eyes checked

2010-05-16T08:29:00.003-04:00

We had much chicken drama this morning.

There are times when having no actual experience with raising chickens may be considered a handicap. Or a blessing. Jury's still out.

We have 5 baby chickens and 5 grown up chickens. The babies are not all babies - two of them are teenagers - but none of them can vote so for the purpose of this post, they are babies. We got two of them and then for reasons known best to the chicken people, waited a few weeks for the next three. I think they were backordered. Or they didn't have our size and the hens had to hatch more. It's complicated.

At any rate, we had two shifts of baby chicken boxes in our livingroom. When it came time to move them out (bigger little ones), we put them in the Tea House, which is an auxiliary coop that neighbors Camp Chicken. All was well.

Yesterday we (Chris. This is all Chris' fault) decided to move the smaller little ones out too. We put them in the Tea House. Lines were drawn. Alliances were formed. The babies hid in a corner.

Chris (this is all Chris' fault) suggested we put the bigger little ones in with the grownups. A pecking order was formed, with the bigger littles firmly at the bottom. All was well until bedtime.

The bigger littles did not go into the coop, so Chris (see above) put them in after the others had gone to bed. He then looked all over the yard for the escaped little littles, found one, lost one, found two, captured one, cornered the other and then discovered all three inside the tea house. They should move to New York and do street corner shell games.

All was well.

I went out at 5am to let them out and make sure they were all alive in case we had to "drive some to summer camp" before the kids woke up.

The larger littles were lying in a pile in the corner of the coop.

There were only two chickens in the tea house.

As I started to pack up the larger ones' stuff for camp, they miraculously came to life and ran out with their new friends. Fakers.

There were still only two chickens in the tea house.

I told Chris, who insisted that there were three in when he closed them up but claimed it was all his fault anyway. I pretended it wasn't. We went back to sleep after we had looked high and low for the third chicken. She had obviously stolen a neighbor's car and driven herself to summer camp.

This is the one who kept squeezing through the fence into Camp Chicken yesterday, where she ran around terrorizing everyone before squeezing back through to the safety of the tea house. She is a firebrand, that one.

Which is why we should not have been surprised when we looked out an hour later to find she'd returned.

This is Trout Towers and we have a chicken with an attitude.

the science of optometry

2010-05-12T15:33:00.003-04:00

It has come to my attention that I can't see as well as I once could. This is most apparent when someone presents a splinter to be removed. I cannot see the splinter and estimated guesses as to its whereabouts are under-appreciated.

After a period of fretting and hand-wringing and worst case scenario-izing, I made an eye appointment. That appointment happened yesterday.

Eye appointments are fabulous. You should really make them more than every 15 years. The chair is comfy and sometimes they even give you a place to rest your chin. All chairs should come with foot and chin rests. Once you are nice and comfortable, they ask you to do things that are much less repulsive than the other things you have to do in the course of a day.

You read letters, top to bottom, until you get to the line of hieroglyphs. The hieroglyphs are there to trick you.

Then they ask you questions. I get asked questions all day long but I don't know the answers to those questions. Those are questions like "why are we so far over budget?" and "who totaled the company car?" The optometrist asks questions like "which one's clearer? A or B?"

I like questions I know the answers to. And if I get them wrong, who will know?

I could tell I was getting them right because the more I answered, the better I could see. It was like magic! Toward the end, the letters looked like they had been cut with a scalpel from black construction paper.

But that's not the interesting part. After the "exactly how blind are you" part of the exam, they start looking at the eyeball proper. They put drops in your eyes and after dropping the drops they say "that's yellow highlighter" and you're all "hahahahaha! that's funny! as if you would actually draw on my eye with a yellow highlighter!" and you wipe a little laugh-tear from your eye with a tissue and it looks like a bug got squashed in your eye because the tissue is bright, bright, bug-gut yellow and it turns out they did actually just put yellow highlighter in your eye.

Just as you are deciding never to trust them again, they put another drop in your eyes and tell you they are testing the pressure. The drops will make your eyes feel like they are wrapped in double stick tape.

Finally, they put drops in your eyes to dilate your pupils, and send you to the waiting room to look at magazines but not read them because you have yellow highlighter and double stick tape in your eyes.

When they get you back in the chair, they tell you they're going to look inside your eye with a bright light. What they don't tell you is, they are looking inside your eye for ants which they then set on fire with the light and a magnifying glass. It's the only possible explanation for someone to point a light that bright at you. Also, I know that's what they're doing because after they do it, all you can see is exploding ant fireballs.

And then they tell you you need glasses, which you pick out while still under the influence of exploding ant fireballs.

Which explains a lot.

educating children

2010-05-09T19:51:00.003-04:00

Okay so who here was awakened by breakfast-making children at 5:30 this morning?

Part of me was all "no Susan, Do Not Ruin this! Be a good sport! Do it for the children!" and the other part of me was all "who super-glued my eyes shut?"

I resuscitated myself enough to chose from the menu (created two weeks ago): Cheerios, toast, rice cake with peanut butter, peanut butter sandwich. I also got to pick something to drink. Studley had asked me a couple days ago how to make juice. He said "I know you start with water and salt, but then what?"

I had coffee.

But this isn't about me and my search to find a culinary institute who accepts 7 year olds. This is about why I am suing my own mother for emotional distress.

She came over this afternoon because we made her. I'm sorry, but there is just one of her and five of us so it goes that way. With her she brought the Heifer International magazine. It has pictures from all over the world and lots of animals - right up our alley.

"Look!" she said to Sugarplum, showing her the picture on the back. "Isn't it cute?"

Sugarplum looked at it quizzically. "What is it?"

It was a picture of two people and a very cute baby something or other in a pen. Frankly I had no idea what it was so I said, "well, read about it. There's a paragraph right under the picture."

Sugarplum, who reads voraciously and has been known to correct our spelling, looked at it again, looked more puzzled and handed it to me to read.

"In just three months in 1994, more than 800,000 Rwandans were killed in one of the worst acts of genocide in recent history...."

That? Will put you right off your peanut butter rice cake and salt water.

sensory overload

2010-04-27T20:59:00.003-04:00

I am alive.

And I have nothing.

So I thought I'd tell you all about how things have smelled around here lately. You know, in case you don't have 5 baby chickens of your own hanging out in your livingroom.

They are smelly.

It's the teenagers that are the worst. Two of the babies are 3 weeks old and they are classic teens. They are gawky and clumsy and smelly and I swear if they weren't covered in feathers they'd have pimples. Technically they should stay inside another week but we have had enough. Enough!

You know what else is smelly? Fish sauce. When we were on vacation (we went on vacation) we went to a Vietnamese restaurant and had caramel fish. So I looked it up and lo and behold, it's really simple to make! You caramelize the sugar and add 1/3 cup fish sauce. That's the hard part because when you add the fish sauce to the hot sugar, you have to evacuate the entire neighborhood. It smells like someone lit a hamper of dirty socks on fire.

Studley told my mother-in-law, "it smells awful but it's dinner." I can't believe they ate it. There is no way I would have eaten anything that smelled like that when I was a kid. No. Way.

But enough of the stink! What are we listening to, you ask?

Well last night Chris was playing this total emo song over and over and over again and if I didn't know better I would have been on the phone with the Samaritans. I don't know exactly what the Samaritans do, but there's a sign as you come over the bridge that says "Desperate? Call the Samaritans" and this seems as desperate a case as any. Can't you just picture him sitting in a bean bag chair, in the dark, listening to this song over and over again?

Meanwhile, I'm upstairs wanting to drown myself in the sink.

We don't even have a bean bag chair and he wasn't really even listening to the song. He was doing something audio-engineerish to it. And to do the audio-engineerish thing, he has to play the song even more than I played J. Geils' Freeze Frame album.

It is no wonder audio engineers have all those fork marks in their foreheads.

As for how things look around here, no one has stepped up to be a full-time (pro bono) housekeeper. The house is the visual equivalent of fish sauce.

I trust you will now be more grateful for the next three weeks of silence. You're welcome.

xxoo,
her Troutship

for what ails you

2010-04-05T22:17:00.004-04:00

Have you ever noticed how much stuff there is in Chinese restaurants? Bamboo and chimes and flutes and fans and auspicious this and that. It must be working because the Chinese restaurant that made me think about all this has been in town for at least 15 years. That's pretty impressive, considering how hard we are on restaurants around here. They usually leave town in tears after a year or two.

I see their decorations/good luck symbols, and wonder if we'd do well with some sprigs of bamboo at Trout Towers. Maybe a red door. Or a water feature that's not in a hamster cage. There are so many things we could do to luck the place up. But then, what would people think?

Would they think we felt we were somehow lacking? Would they look at our carefully arranged whatnots and conclude that we have skeletons in our Helpful People closet? That our bread is apt to mold? That our mice are anemic?

Same goes for those stone bracelets that look like rosary beads. You know the ones? They're made of rose quartz or amethyst or hematite or something else that's good for whatever your issue may be. I pick them up, run them through my fingers and wonder what they're for. Then I imagine a total stranger pointing to it on my wrist and saying something like "can't keep a boyfriend, eh?" I can totally see myself yelling at an unsuspecting passerby: "I can keep a boyfriend just fine, thank you!" which I would then have to explain to my husband.

I was not raised in a tradition rich in auspicious signs and wonders. However, I have created my own tradition of never telling anyone what I'm afraid of. Did you see Witches of Eastwick? It's a bad idea to answer the question "what are you afraid of" honestly. Putting cures all over the place is like wearing a rope of garlic around your neck. You can't shrug off the wooden stake in your backpack with an explanation of arachnophobia.

I think the answer is in finding enigmatic cures that aren't part of the usual repertoire. We like to keep people guessing. Our cures come and go because everything comes and goes so we have to keep changing our dosage. Right now these cures include:

Two baby chick in the livingroom = hope
Piles of spring clothes on the way into the kids' drawers = growth
Piles of discarded clothes on the way to Good Will = gratitude
Half-eaten apple crisp in kitchen = happiness
Extra family members = community
Dining room floor covered with art supplies = activity

There are more, but they're secret. All I will tell you is that they make it difficult to walk through the livingroom without tripping. Others are filling the chairs and a couple are stashed on top of the fridge. They all have meaning, if you give me a minute to think about it.

And you thought we didn't have all this stuff strewn about on purpose.

Ha.

of goats and undergarments (not in)

2010-03-13T07:14:00.005-05:00

I have always been jealous of Chris' job. Not so much the plugging things in and making things work part as the going out and listening to live music part. Every time I try to justify a night out with the girls and cite all the nights he's been out listening to music, he pulls the "I am a sound engineer and they are paying me" card. And then I'm supposed to feel all bad for him because all he does is work work work and he never has any fun and boo hoo for Chris.

I don't know why it took me so long to figure this out, but I finally wised up and got a job at a theater. As part of my job, I have to go see live theater at least a couple times a month. I am a genius.

Last night I went to my first job-related performance. When I asked the production manager if I could come, he said "yes. But for marketing purposes only. You're not allowed to enjoy yourself."* I assured him I was only coming because of my deep commitment to my job. It had nothing to do with my deep commitment to getting out of the house and mingling with like-minded adults.

I don't get out much, so the "what to wear" question was an issue. What are arty, theater types wearing these days? I settled on a long, black dress that doesn't fit me very well in the first place and is constructed poorly in the second place so I have to pretend it's strapless because by the end of the evening it has scooted around to the point of being essentially strapless. I remedy both issues by wearing a rubberized condensing tube, which extends from my knees to my armpits.

Question: When you wear a rubberized condensing tube, where does the rest of you go? Do you get taller?

Since I live in a community where people try not to look like they dressed up on purpose, I had to dress down with a pair of riding boots. I have these Frye boots I found in a consignment shop on Newbury Street years ago - which I've realized were in the consignment shop because they are steel belted and you feel like Cinderella's sister getting into them.

Between the tube and the boots, it took me about 45 minutes to get dressed, leaving me a little sweaty and out of breath.

I arrived at the theater unable to breath comfortably and with the sneaking suspicion that my boots were giving me muffin tops. There were a few people in the box office, who I let clear out before asking my coworker where the VIP employee seating was. She invited me to come around to her side of the ticket window, at which point I noticed she had a baby goat sleeping in a banana box behind her desk.

Apparently I work for the little theater that Kafka built.

Let me here state that this is not a Waiting for Guffman type theater (not that there's anything wrong with that). Last year they did things like The Blue Room by David Hare, The Bald Soprano by Eugene Ionesco and Speech and Debate by Stephen Karam. They do exactly the kind of theater I want to go see. And they have a company goat.

Take that, Chris. It's work.

*I am their marketing director. This potentially puts my blog into the murky area of posts for pay whenever I write about things that happen at work. I have resolved this by writing posts of no value whatsoever.

cultural exile is nice this time of year

2010-03-03T10:36:00.009-05:00

I am a firm believer in the "you get what you ask for" school of thought.

Before you start hurling produce at me, I will admit quite frankly that you get a lot of other stuff, too. This cannot be denied. So maybe the thought should be "if you want something, you should ask for it."

I mention this now because when I moved back to Cape Cod I was concerned about sending myself into some kind of cultural exile. At the time, you could not even get an espresso in my town (which is practically immoral).

To make matters worse, I was moving here from Denver, where I attended gallery openings, subscribed to opera and ballet, frequented live music venues and practically lived at the Denver Center Theater thanks to a friend who worked in the mailroom but didn't like theater and gave me all his comps. I also went to arthouse movies because they were in historic movie theaters and they made me feel all smartish.

And then I moved to a fishing town. Which is great, don't get me wrong. Driving through town and seeing boats all wrapped in plastic for the winter is mind-boggling to someone raised in the mountains. There are stacks of lobster traps in the yard of the commercial fisherman next door and I can't think of hardscaping I'd rather look at (unless its a teahouse. I like teahouses).

The biggest problem was that I wanted both the lobster traps and the city culture: Edgy theater; foreign films; art that doesn't match the couch (more on this later as it seems I've become a couch-art matching housewife); Moroccan food delivered to my door and a community of like-minded people. That last one is the zinger because if you have a community, eventually someone learns to make Moroccan food.

Anyway, I just now realized I have everything I thought I was leaving behind. This month WHAT (which I've had a crush on since moving here) is starting Cinema WHAT and showing dozens of movies that will make me feel smartish and less like a couch-matching housewife.

I have been missing that smartish feeling. The whole time I've been here, I've been looking for things that give me that smartish feeling. I asked for it, relentlessly.

Now I find that there's art and film and food and poetry and music and espresso, right here in my back yard. I have no idea what to ask for next, but I better make it good.

What are you asking for? What makes you feel smartish?

Outermost Radio

2010-02-28T20:32:00.006-05:00

I have now been on the radio twice, which makes me a consummate professional. Or a consommé professional. One of those.

Last Friday I was a guest on the English Breakfast Show at WOMR in Provincetown. This required that I get up and out at an absurd hour so as to arrive in Provincetown by 8a.m. Provincetown is not particularly close to me, so I thought I should leave myself some time. I woke up at 5:30.

I didn't have to wake up at 5:30 because really, how long does one need to get ready for radio? I woke up because I kept having those dreams in which my phone was ringing and the station was saying aren't you supposed to be here? Over and over again.

I got up and dressed and still had about, oh, seven hours before I was due, so I stopped by the bakery to bring them a little something. I heard the English are fond of kippers for breakfast but then someone sent me a kipper link and oh hork. I got scones.

The show started at 6am and they were in full swing as I drove north. It is very funny to hear oneself discussed on the air, let me tell you. They were playing songs pertaining to trout and towers and because my mind isn't what it used to be, I was all "oh my gosh! I have a blog called Trout Towers! Can you believe the coincidence????" Thankfully I figured it all out before I arrived and went on the air. Ahem.

Driving into Provincetown, it hit me what a crazy opportunity I'd been given. I was in a seaside artist colony, as a guest on a community radio show. Provincetown has seen the likes of Eugene O'Neil, Norman Mailer, Hans Hoffman, Robert Motherwell and so many more it's just ridiculous. When you drive into town on an early winter morning, it's easy to imagine all those people sleeping off the previous night. Under normal circumstances this revelation would have made me turn around and go hide under my bed.

I arrived way ahead of schedule, since in February there's no traffic and you can actually find a parking space. I sat in my car and listened to the show hosts banter on about what they were supposed to call me and what they thought I'd be like.

Despite my hermit tendencies, the desire to be part of all this was irresistible. And there were scones to eat. I went upstairs and proceeded to regale them with tales of Trout.

At one point I mentioned that I'm an introvert, which puzzled my host Sebastian. First, he sings at Showgirls (the drag cabaret in town) and does theater so it's probably hard for him to imagine how anyone could even be an introvert. Second, he wasn't wrapping his head around how an introvert is okay with writing so publicly. That's just plain silly. I'm not writing publicly. I'm writing on my couch, by myself, while my robot vacuum cleans up after my children. There is nothing public about this.

And the fact that people all over the world could tune in and listen to the radio show? Neither here nor there. I got to sit in a historic building, chatting with two new friends about nothing in particular.

I was invited to be part of one of the most creative communities you can imagine, and it was a blast. We can definitely chalk this one up in the "things you never imagined doing" column. Pretty neat.

And it's all because I sit on the couch writing, and you read.

Thank you.

Trouts on the move!

2010-02-19T17:14:00.007-05:00

No need to avert your gaze; we are not spawning. We just went on vacation.

I was looking for places to go and realized all my research involved restaurants. I mean really, does it matter where you go as long as there's good food? So we went to Boston, which is practically like going to Europe on the cheap.

We stayed in the Custom House, aka the pointy pointy clock tower near Boston Harbor. It's historic. I can tell you all about it if you'd like. I can even tell you that the bathrooms were very clean and the rooms were quite lovely before we had our way with them.

And I can tell you that it's a block away from Quincy Market and even though you might feel like you're eating in the gift shop and it's totally cheating to grab meals there, you'll want to get the mac and cheese.

When we were done with the mac and cheese, we wandered to the North End and continued eating. We went to Theo's, Antico Forno and Taranta, with a little stop by Mike's Pastry just to be thorough.

The night we went to Taranta, Sugarplum told everyone in the hotel that "mommy is going out to dinner with two of her invisible friends." Specifically, TwoBusy and Ms. Picket of Polite Fictions.

When you meet internet friends for the very first time in real life, you should try stepping on the tablecloth and knocking over the table. You will have to catch dishes a la Crouching Tiger and your invisible friends will be very impressed. Or they will pretend not to know you.

You know what's funny about meeting invisible friends? You feel like a total stalker. You can practically finish their stories and you know all these personal things despite the fact that you have never seen them before in your life. It's wonderful and completely unnerving all at once.

Anyway.

Contrary to popular belief, we did not just eat. We went to museums. With our children. On school vacation week. Without sedatives.

As you know, we spent Monday at the MFA. On Tuesday we went to the Museum of Science (lightening!). On Wednesday we used our clout as Trouts and were admitted to the aquarium early, as guests. We were gloaty Trouts. On Friday we went to the Isabella Stewart Gardner and the ICA.

Coming from the Gardner, our view of the ICA was a little skewed. We usually like modern architecture and contemporary art, but after the Gardner we found it, how shall I say? Soul-suckingly barren. Also a little giggle-worthy as all we could think of was Unhappy Hipsters.

Chris and I discussed this in the privacy of the glass elevator. You have to be careful in places like that or you inadvertently become performance art. I wonder sometimes if modern museums have microphones that are set to only pick up hushed tones. These whispers are then broadcast into another part of the museum as disembodied secrets.

I think it's brilliant, actually, and if you are the curator of a modern museum, you're welcome.

I learned some things through visiting all those museums. If you are a 20-something looking to work/intern at one of Boston's fine institutions, I can direct you toward the best fit based on my fashion observations. I could absolutely distinguish between museums if I were blindfolded, spun in circles and then introduced to an intern.

I also learned that when parents sound smart when they're telling their kids something, they're probably reading from an exhibit card.

And that Bostonians are actually very nice and helpful, although it is a closely guarded secret.

And that after seven days of cannoli, it's nice to be home in sweat pants.

The end.

Museum of Fine Arts

2010-02-15T18:31:00.005-05:00

We are in Boston. It is school vacation week.

We had this vision of spending lots of time in museums. We pictured wandering through galleries, eating fruit and cheese at a cafe, living the mythical life of city people.

We did not picture hordes of children.

We also did not factor in the very real possibility that our own children might not want to wander through galleries learning about different artists (although we are riveting). We did not picture them collapsing in the coatroom, too overwhelmed/bored/hungry/hot to go on.

When we got off the T, Chris said "wow, it's like Woodstock for short people" because oh my lord who's been having all these children? They were piling in in droves. And all we could picture was lines and pushing and waiting and probably some throwing up. We pictured our children, catatonic in the coatroom.

Which is not at all what we had in mind.

That's when the museum people handed us the brochure of kids' activities planned in galleries all over the place. Those kids scattered like blown dandelion poofs.

Our family favorite was the Where the White Things Are sculpture exhibit. The kids looked at a display of white sculptures and then made their own from white craft supplies. Sugarplum made a chicken from a plastic egg, pipe cleaners, silk flower petals and a doilie. Studley made a robot with a piece of styrofoam, a pipe cleaner and some googley eyes. It took them well over an hour, during which Chris and I took turns wandering through the galleries and eating fruit and cheese.

Then they made mythical creatures out of clay and we took turns in the Seeing Songs exhibit.

The kids carried their white sculptures all over the city, garnering comments and praise everywhere they went.

It was a really good day.

Yes, this is a shameless yet unsolicited promo for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. But I figure why even have a web journal if you can't use it to publicly thank an institution?

Thank you.

p.s. We forgot their clay sculptures - a lion left lying on his back to dry and a slab of clay with holes, which is probably another robot. Feel free to add them to your permanent collection.

The Cheap Seats

2010-02-08T01:54:00.002-05:00

In the days leading up to a live radio gig, you will think of all kinds of smart and funny things to say on the air. You will not say any of these things.

You may or may not go completely paralytic when the radio host introduces you.

You will forget to mention your own role within the music industry. You will sound in turns like a 1950s housewife promoting her husband and a rabid fan of whatever band you're playing at the moment.

The bands you play may or may not make a mental note to never take your calls again.

You will laugh inappropriately when someone says "ASCAP" on the air.

You will wonder why it's okay to say ASCAP but not other, similar-sounding expressions.

You will worry about saying something that sounds like ASCAP but isn't. It will plague you that the vigilante sidekick who is usually on hand for bleeping is not in the building.

At which point you will realize you didn't check the lyrics of the songs you're playing.

Your radio host will note that you turn crimson when you are nervous.

You will want to give your house credit for the rising career of your Upstairs Neighbor. You'll want to list all the musicians who have lived in your house, hung out in your house, played chess in your house. You'll want to mention the musician who, for reasons that still escape you, installed mahogany clapboard in your shower.

You'll want to introduce the last song you play because the songwriter is practically family and calls you Mrs. Crusher. You then realize that if you did say all that, you'd be out of time before you could explain that it was not a reference to your girth.

You'll want to play the 6 cds that are still in your bag but notice that the studio is turning out lights and handing you your coat.

You will get home and discover that your internet friends were quietly, patiently listening from afar.

You will be so pleased and proud, you will find yourself unable to sleep.

--

p.s. If you feel so inclined, please go to the Cheap Seats' facebook page and be a fan. And then ask her nicely to have me back on the show. She fed me brownies and I would like some more.

Alive!

2010-02-06T13:26:00.004-05:00

Brighton is snowed in and has lost power. She has a gas stovetop and a pantry full of non-perishables, so it will be at least three weeks before they have to eat the dog.

If worse comes to worse they can sit on the kitchen counter and warm themselves by the stove. I have no reason to be worried about them. And yet, I am.

They have no internet.

The kids have smart phones and so could just keep charging them in the car but the car is in the garage and the garage door is electric so if they want to charge their phones without draining the car battery they will first have to take an ax to the garage door. Which can be splintery.

And while the kids have smart phones, I'm quite sure Brighton does not and can you even imagine what she's missing on facebook right now? There is a Winter Emergency in her area and how will she know if she can't read all the snowmageddon posts?

To be prepared for a disaster, you really need a 5lb drum of beans, a 5lb drum of rice, a cubic acre of fresh water and a hamster-powered wifi rig.

Speaking of hamsters and natural disasters, people are always asking us if we're going to eat our chickens when they get too old to lay eggs. This is a totally unfair question because our cat has not laid a single egg, ever.

Our cat is extremely lucky it is not snowing here.

it's possible I've had too much coffee

2010-02-02T09:52:00.006-05:00

Lately Chris has been trying to figure out how we can use our skills and strengths to make Heaps of Money. This is funny because I've been trying to figure out how to use Chris' skills and strengths to make heaps of money for years.

This morning it was all rainbows and sunshine and twinkly lights and I knew I had the key to early retirement.

Have you seen the making of Prodigy's SMBU? It's the only way I can get Chris to listen to Prodigy. It shows how the mix was made - copying and pasting samples, changing the pitch, etc. Chris uses that kind of stuff all the time. Just not for Prodigy.

We have friends who have a rock and roll band and also a kids band. The kids band is the cash cow. Kids music is the answer, my friends.

We have kids. We have technology. We will start a band called Progeny, in which kids sing Prodigy covers.

We'll use samples from our current kid music library, like Dan Zanes' "hellooooooo" from his song House Party. It will be genius I tell you.

Chris thinks we should change the words. I think that defeats the purpose but I considered it in an attempt to humor him. I suppose we could change "smack" to "snack" but then we'd get sued for all the resulting eating disorders. He said "smack" is not the problem, which is disturbing because after all this time I had no idea he was pro-recreational drugs for kids/corporal punishment.

He says we could change the line to "snack my dish up" and now I have "change my pitch up/ snack my dish up" stuck in my head. A clear sign that it will be HUGE.

Chris agrees my idea is the key to early retirement. He says we'll never work in this town again.

He must think we'll have to move when Disney hires us.

Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948

2010-01-30T20:18:00.005-05:00

It's Doppelganger Week on facebook.

I boycotted it because I don't know how to post a picture of an actual doppelganger.

The Free Online Dictionary (which uses the words "free" and "online" and is therefore considered an authority in this context) defines doppelganger as "A ghostly double of a living person, especially one that haunts its fleshly counterpart." I seem to remember a doppelganger being the manifestation of a character's alternate personality.

It's really hard to get pictures of those.

I remember a Twilight Zone episode that had a doppelganger driving away on a bus, looking creepily out the window at the doppel she was ganging. But mostly I remember learning about them as a literary device in high school English.

Know what I realized? I can name every single one of my English teachers.

In one class we listened to old radio shows, watched The Most Dangerous Game and read Nine Stories, by JD Salinger. What do all these things have in common? I think that our teacher really liked them. It was like going to a city with someone who loves architecture. They show you what to look for and you never see it the same again.

When you are in high school, you are essentially a gang of doubles. One big bundle of potential. Which version of You will you go on to be? The only thing that's absolutely certain is you won't stay who you are. For this we are grateful.

If you're lucky, you have teachers who wrestle your attention away from the Tiffany's catalog long enough to teach you about things. Important things. Things like Who You Will Be When You Grow Up. But they don't call it that.

They call it English. Or science. Or whatever resonates with the you that's most you. At the end of each day and with every choice you make, another busload of old selves drives away.

I don't know about you, but I tried on countless versions of me. Eventually I chose one, but my evil twins are legion and I hold them near and dear.

They just don't photograph well.

writing and poetics

2010-01-22T09:21:00.004-05:00

Well hello there.

We are 5/7 of the way through Opera Hell Week here at Trout Towers. I've been feverishly writing synopses over at Opera Betty so that our guests would be fully operational when they arrived to watch. I am in the midst of a Barber of Seville synopsis right now. For those of you unfamiliar with Opera Betty, it's as if a frat boy put down his everclear punch long enough to write a column on fine wine. Except it's not about wine and I don't drink everclear.

I also have a freshly penned post over at Polite Fictions. It equates retirement to a kind of slow death, which is one of my fears. Thank goodness we will have to work until we're 104. After that we'll be put in a museum.

Finally, I wrote lyrics for a country song despite a longstanding dislike of country music. Some friends wrote the music and I filled in the blanks based on their description of how it was to go down. Once it's recorded I'll have Chris make me some kind of virus which will have the song play on your computer every time you type the letter q. You're welcome.

You may now carry on with your carryings on.

ballet boy

2010-01-14T20:56:00.010-05:00

Long ago and far away, I dated a man from the Dominican Republic. He was a dancer and we spent most of our evenings watching either hockey or ballet. I was, I must admit, quite infatuated with the idea of dating someone from a ballet company. It is often the ideas of things we have a crush on, isn't it? The reality of our relationship is a little fuzzy, since my concept of it was so vastly off base. It turns out the real lives of Princes Charming are not made of organza and tulle, nor populated by wandering minstrels. I never truly accepted this discrepancy.

This is what I remember most about him: He said "There is enough ugly in life. Art should be beautiful." He said this because I tended toward the edgey, spikey, thinky kinds of art. I still do. But his statement resonated with me.

Here's what I wonder: If people end up looking like their dogs, do they also end up acting like their art?

Both of these make me nervous. I kind of wanted a pug (although Sugarplum nixed that when we read about eyes popping out). I think we do end up acting like our art. I, for one, get snippy if I listen to too many hours of old school British punk. I do not currently have much artwork that's the equivalent of old school British punk, but I used to. I wonder if it was his comment that weaseled its way into my tastes?

Like my dancer prince, I want life to be made of organza and tulle - I just want it to be smart organza and opinionated tulle. I want it to make the world better and smarter and edgier. I want it to be beautiful and honest and faithful to itself. I want it to lift things up, not cover them up.

It's a fine line, and I want to make sure I'm not going the route of rose-colored glasses.

It's also possible he just didn't want to go to art openings with me any more. Right after the art comment, he may have said "I don't especially like your friends and I don't understand their art and I think there's a game on." I just heard the bit about beauty.

It's the kind of things pretend princes say.

Opera Hell

2010-01-12T11:57:00.005-05:00

Next week Trout Towers (the real Trout Towers, not the blog Trout Towers) is hosting Opera Betty's Hell Week: Seven Operas in Seven Days. People may or may not come.

It turns out all the operas we'll be watching need to be added to the Opera Betty site, therefore I'll be spending a bit of time there in the next few days. I've just added a synopsis for La Fille du Régiment. I have six to go. Here's the schedule so you can play along at home:

Sun: La Fille du Regiment
Mon: La Boheme
Tues: Tosca
Wed: Romeo and Juliet
Thurs: Salome
Fri: The Barber of Seville
Sat: Magic Flute

It seemed a nice mix of comedy, tragedy and nudity. Do enjoy.

in which I become hysterical and Chris is the sensible one, for a change

2010-01-08T22:31:00.005-05:00

Chris likes to complicate things. He likes to figure out innovative ways to accomplish otherwise simple tasks. If I ask for a garden sprinkler, for instance, he will suggest we put in a rainwater aqueduct with a saltwater condensation desalinizer as backup.

So when he noticed a crack in the wall of the basement, he started devising plans. Complicated plans. Some of them involved lifting the house off the foundation. Others entailed leveling the slope our house sits on. None were easy. He was absolutely convinced that big, complicated measures needed to be taken, stat.

Fortunately, we know about 40 general contractors/engineers/smart building-type people. They all told him not to worry. If the crack isn't growing, which it's not, there's nothing to be concerned about. Several years have gone by, and the house has not collapsed. The crack has not grown.

Recently, Chris started clearing out the basement. It's a big basement, with years and years and years of rubbish and years and years and years of treasures all intermingled like a lasagna. He's gotten rid of a lot of stuff and organized what's left. For the first time in forever, you can see the walls. And that's when I realized that our house is going to fall down.

The wall is not just cracked, it's bowing. You stand in the empty basement and have this feeling that the earth is going to push right through and squash you flat. And if the earth doesn't squash you flat, the wall will give out and the house will squash you flat. Either way, you're toast.

So I run screaming from the house, put my children in the chicken coop for safe keeping and ask Chris what are we going to do what are we going to do what are we going to dooooooo? How soon can we get a new foundation or pour a concrete retaining wall or just excavate everything and surround ourselves with concrete pillars? Can we build flying buttresses? And why are you just standing there, Chris?????

In the midst of all this, Chris has been working on sound design for the studio and has decided where some new walls should go. These include a weight-bearing wall that runs the length of the house. Which we now have.

The weight-bearing wall is earning its sound studio keep, as it's already quieted some hysterical screaming.

Now I just have to go bring the kids back inside.

And cancel the guy with the bulldozer.

Hope is not actually a chicken, for the record

2010-01-06T12:59:00.010-05:00

Two and a half years ago, I was at a friend's house when she came home with a box of baby chicks. They were kind of irresistible. I liked the idea of backyard chickens and told her they might be in our future, eventually. I just wasn't ready for all the chicken hoopla. Chicken hoopla being a building with a concrete floor and a fenced in run. Also an agriculture license, probably.

She convinced me there was no chicken hoopla. She told me you can have a simple coop in your backyard (at least where we live) and have a flock of one or two. She showed me coops you could build in an afternoon. She told me where to get baby chicks. She made me drink the punch.

I came home and announced my new found desire for chickens. Since I am the elitist prig of the family, Chris thought I was joking.

I asked for chickens for Mother's Day, 2007. I also asked for a small coop to put them in. Nothing fancy. I didn't want anyone to go to any trouble or expense. I wanted a coop we could move around the yard so the chickens could eat bugs and, er, fertilize.

We got three chickens. They lived in a small coop in the back yard until we lost one to a fox/coyote/neighborhood hoodlum in the middle of the day and moved them into the vegetable garden out front.

In 2009 we got more chickens. They are cute and fluffy and we cannot resist them. We became The People With Chickens.

The Upstairs Neighbor offered to build us a new coop, which he he did a few weeks ago. Our new coop is shingled. It has a sloped roof and trimmed windows and a bright red door. It has a fenced in yard that I could hang a hammock in. It has enough square footage and nesting boxes to house a dozen chickens. It is exactly what the chickens wanted.

It is also exactly what I wanted, despite the fact that it's exactly what I said I didn't want originally. Sometimes we don't want something because we're pretty sure we can actually have it.

Sometimes that something is chickens. Sometimes it's not.

Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-Emily Dickinson

dear anonymous

2010-01-04T16:52:00.005-05:00

"Do we really have to know about this?"*

Short answer, no.

Honestly? I forget that you're out there. I don't call up random strangers and tell them all the details of my domestic life. I don't even do that with my friends. I'm more like the crazy lady on the park bench, telling stories. You're welcome to sit next to me if you want. I will give you some crumbs and you can feed the pigeons.

I write because I like stories, not because you have to know about it. Especially if you know us personally and really don't want to know. Too much information, I get it.

Slightly longer answer, yes.

I think we do need to know that sometimes people are fragile. No matter how confident they seem, people are sometimes tired and broken. I think we need to know that other people, people who like each other, sometimes argue. And that it's not the end of the world. We need to know we really are on the same team and even in moments of fury, we can see what we need to see. We need to know that other people are struggling with things, and finding resolution.

We have too many friends who held it together on the outside and then fell completely apart on the inside. While I respect the privacy of my home and family, I don't think it's bad for people to know that we're not the Stepfords.

It's not a reality show I'm running here, it's an online journal. Come sit on my bench with me if you wish, and I'll tell you stories.

But only if you want to hear them.

*asked by anonymous commenter on last post.

(thanks to everyone who had my back)

auspicious

2010-01-01T20:48:00.005-05:00

So one day I'm sashaying around, all rock-starry, and the next day I'm at a party, hiding in the bathroom.

I would say "obviously, there's something wrong with me," but it doesn't feel like anything's wrong. It feels more like when you drop a glass on a tile floor and say "oh, dang. Someone should clean that up." Kind of pointy and splintery and scattered, but clean-up-able. It's not me that's in pieces. It's just this thing at my feet. It just happens sometimes. The crying. The hiding.

Still, spending New Year's Eve in a bathroom is not as auspicious as one might hope.

Equally inauspicious is waking up the next day to find oneself in the midst of a domestic dispute. Words were thrown. Someone may have implied that her partner, her spouse, her white knight would prefer it if she wore a ruffled apron when she cooks and cleans. Doors were slammed. House guests pretended not to hear.

"Mmmmm," they said. "This coffee's delicious."

Doors were opened. More accusations were hurled. "You make me out to be some kind of sexist monster," may have been said.

A sexist monster. This makes me inappropriately glad I have who I have. Because anyone who thinks it's monstrous to want his wife all be-aproned is okay with me. The pointy bits lose their bite. We are on the same team and there is hope for us. We are hugging in the kitchen, weeping. The houseguests look out the slider and point at things in the yard.

"See? There's a cardinal in the butterfly bush!"

And lo and behold, there is.

how Chris Brogan taught me to use my phone

2009-12-31T07:16:00.008-05:00

Just a little warning: I had 3.5 hours of sleep last night and I woke up this morning all wide-eyed, with a teenager crush on the world. What I'm saying is, beware of majestically long sentences with rainbows and sugar sprinkles popping out of them.

At one point last night I was standing in the wings watching a Clutch show, and Chris Brogan taught me how to use my Droid.

It all started a couple years ago when I begged a mutual friend to ask Lindsay Maines if I could interview her husband. Lindsay did a quick Google background check on me, found that I was absolutely not to be trusted and we've been friends ever since.

Now I know the last two paragraphs are all linky-linky name droppy and all, but seriously, I don't know anybody. I am a shy little hermit. How I end up in these situations is completely beyond me. It seems the simple smallness of the world does all the work and sometimes it's just a matter of showing up.

Last night, we showed up.

I must here admit that I had the giggles almost all day yesterday. We, the Trouts, were going to see, ON PURPOSE, four hard core bands - a significant switch from the tea-and-crumpety pace life has taken lately.

This is fine for me because although I am an old and persnickety owner of chickens/knitter of felted squid/would-be player of mah jong if someone would teach me, I have a history of rock shows.

Chris, on the other hand, is just plain persnickety.

We spent most of the show in the balcony, staring saucer-eyed at the mosh pit. Have you looked at a mosh pit from above? It bears a striking resemblance to something you'd see on a microscope slide.

A few songs into the Clutch set, we met up with Lindsay (if you didn't click the link, her husband is the bass player), who scurried us back stage. And that's when things got surreal.

The next thing we know, Lindsay's heading back out to collect Chris Brogan (who I wrote about here). And the four of us head off to find a place to watch the show. On stage.

Standing in the wings, Chris Brogan and I both pull out our Droids for a picture. I notice the band is more glorious on his screen than mine so I poke around and discover that you can zoom with the Droid's camera. Wonder of wonders. Chris said he discovered it when he saw a guy at the Pixies show do the same thing.

Which means that not only are rock shows a business expense, they could probably be paid for out of the kids' 529 account.

So I basically went to a Droid workshop with a couple thousand of my closest friends (who were, I must say, pretty awesome as show crowds go). A few of those new friends we hope to keep forever and always. Because as tea and crumpety as we've become, we have an awful lot in common with people who love rock and roll.

For instance, we could all use a nap.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-25T06:55:00.006-05:00

Twas the morning of Christmas
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
Except for the mouse
Which is in the Havahart trap.

It should have heeded socio-traditional advice.

I think our kids are broken. It's almost 7am and neither is stirring. I wish they would wake up because I really would like to open my presents and it just doesn't look good for the kids to find their parents all squealey under the tree with ripped paper in their hair.

On another note, we saw Santa last night. He dropped by a party we went to and gave a little gift to each child. We have a picture of our kids sitting in his lap. Which is a Christmas Miracle.

We have this picture because Sugarplum and Studley knew that Santa was our Upstairs Neighbor. Otherwise I would have a picture of Santa, alone, with the sound of screaming just out of the frame. I have lots of those pictures.

It went better with Mrs. Claus when we had breakfast with her a few weeks ago. Sugarplum thanked her for all the gift-wrapping, since she had observed that Mrs. Claus probably did it all.

"Actually, we have elves for that," Mrs. Claus answered.

(later....)

The kids woke up and we opened our stockings. Chris has been looking disparagingly at my awesome pile of loot, as if I had anything to do with his behavior over the last year. Can I help it if Santa thought I should have an entire box of dark chocolate covered almonds with sea salt and turbinado sugar? Santa knows how awful I am capable of being and was probably very relieved at the way things turned out this year.

We're taking a little break to brush our teeth with new toothbrushes, play with Studley's Cootie Bug and to say hello to our friends.

Hello.

We wish you a very merry Christmas (or a happy Friday). May you get a pony.

love,
the Trouts

happy blizzard!

2009-12-19T23:06:00.004-05:00

Can someone tell me why kids are so frantic to go play in snow?

It's barely light out, yet something primal woke them from sound sleeps and marched them to the slider in awe. Note: In this part of the world we call sliding glass doors "sliders."* I am not from this part of the world.

I am from a snowier part of the world. We made snow caves and snow angels. All winter there was snow snow snow snow snow. My mother, who was not from that part of the world, was fond of noting that our town often looked like a Christmas card. It was true.

I, too, woke up early to enjoy the snow. This is what I do to enjoy the snow: Make coffee, look out windows, enjoy the quiet.

I like going out in the snow if it involves reaching a warm destination which serves food. I like going out in the snow when I am properly equipped and no particle of actual snow touches my actual body. Frankly, I cannot believe I survived my childhood.

The chickens, for the record, stand with me on this point. Did you know that chickens are quite expressive? Right now they have "this is not remotely funny" written all over their faces.

Meanwhile, the kids have made so many snow angels they are eliminating the need to shovel.

And I'm making more coffee.

Which I'll share with the chickens.

(child labor)

*In this part of the world, liquor stores are called package stores. Officially. So yesterday everyone was "off to the packie" in preparation for the storm. I love New England.

a career on ESPN

2009-12-19T09:52:00.004-05:00

We had breakfast at Hole in One this morning. It's a donut shop. GET IT?!?! Hole in One?

On our way out, Sugarplum asked about the name and why they had golf clubs on their sign.

Me: Sugarplum, do you know what a hole in one is?
Sugarplum:
Me: Like in mini-golf?
Sugarplum: Yes! when you hit the ball and you get a goal without hitting it again. But it's much harder on a REAL soccer field.

you'll get a live mouse for Christmas and like it. so there.

2009-12-13T21:52:00.004-05:00

I think it's because our television is really awkward to get to. And once you get to it, there are no comfortable chairs. And it's drafty.

That seems the only explanation for why Christmas has become something altogether different around here. The people telling us what to do and how to feel are musicians. And lord knows they are a bizarre lot.

We have seriously been spending all our time going from party to fundraiser to charity rock gig to reckless celebration of all that's right with the season. We have not been shopping. We're not sure what we're supposed to shop for. But we do know we should send some cash over to the NOAH shelter and we should help underwrite a couple of radio shows we dig and make some woolies for women and kids or warm up those who are not loving the winter so much. We know this because instead of sitting in an uncomfortable chair, in a drafty room, watching tv, we've been hanging with our friends.

I know, I'm getting preachy.

But dagnabit, Christmas is not about getting a Lexus. And it's not about getting in a twist if you don't get a Lexus.

So I think I'm making everyone dorky little presents this Christmas, and contributing to some local organizations with what's left over. Maybe I'll make pipecleaner reindeer antlers and make some of these mice into Christmas gifts, if people are really lucky.

And yes, there's a big package on its way here from Amazon because we do not sleep on beds of nails and transcend all human desires. If we know someone really could use something, we try to get it for them. Also I ordered myself a new phone to take the pressure off.

But there's a balance.

Amazon doesn't sell the life we want. It just sells things to make our lives look like the lives we want.

Frankly, I'd rather have a life.

(I forgot to mention all the people who gave their time and talents to the "Christmas Miracle" cd. 22 tracks, one weekend. Benefits Fragile Footprints @ Jordan Hospital. Puts things in perspective, no?)

or Clara could just whack it with her slipper

2009-12-12T19:24:00.004-05:00

We have a mouse problem.

As with any mouse problem, ours started with indisputable signs. Signs like actual mice dancing the tarantella in the middle of the kitchen floor. And mouse poop in the cat's water bowl.

I don't happen to be lying about the water bowl. How's that for a flip of the mouse paw to authority?

Since we are raging pacifists, we decided not to poison them or sticky tape them or suck them up in the shop vac, although the shop vac was very, very tempting. We got a Havahart trap instead. Which is awesome.

We put some peanut butter in it, et voila! we caught our first mouse. And then we caught another one. And then the trap got all excited, or maybe nervous, and started snapping at everything that walked by. Including dust.

Meanwhile, we grew concerned about the possibility of having one mouse that just kept coming back. One friend said she put nail polish on her mice before releasing them. Have you ever looked carefully at a mouse's toenails? She must have had a very steady hand and maybe an ether-soaked rag.

Being unskilled at mouse pedicures, we figured we'd just take them a reasonable distance away. "Reasonable distance" is of course open to interpretation.

There's an old joke about two guys hiking in the woods. They see a bear, and one guy puts on his running shoes. The other guy goes "you don't really think those shoes are going to help you outrun that bear, do you?" and running shoe guy says "no, I just have to outrun you."

Which is my way of saying we're letting the mice loose in our neighbors' yards.

This is easier than Sugarplum's suggestion of blindfolding the mouse, spinning it around several times and then driving it to the mainland.

Tonight, after Chris had gone to work, I noticed the trap had shut. I was pretty sure it was more dust so I grabbed the trap to reset it - literally scaring even more poop out of the mouse inside. I texted "MOUSE!!!!!" to Chris but he did not cancel the show he was doing and come running home to save me. Which left me in a bit of a pickle.

I couldn't leave the mouse in the trap until Chris got home because it would surely communicate the dangers of the trap to its friends and family. We can't let this kind of information circulate.

I didn't especially want to release it myself because, while I'm not afraid of mice, I am afraid of rabid coyotes and things that go bump in the bog. I didn't want to leave the kids alone in the house and then, inevitably, get eaten by an angry skunk.

They're vicious, you know.

But I really couldn't let the mouse sit there, warning the others.

So I took it out. In the dark.

And put it in Chris' Jaguar.

Which should teach him not to ignore my texts.

Why my house looks so splendid

2009-12-09T07:52:00.002-05:00

We had our annual Trout Towers Christmas Sing last night. It rocked. Friends came and played guitar, piano and saxophone. Choirs of angels did their thing. Chef/caterer friends took pity on my guests, saving them from my Cheez Whiz Surprise.

You are probably wondering how I got my house looking so terrific when all I do is sit around and Tweet. Wonder no more, I'm reposting my tips for party preparation. Et voila.

Since I am obviously so adept at this, I thought I'd share some of my tips so you too can enjoy your home during the holidays and beyond. Many of my tips won't apply to you because you may not have a house like mine. The magazines I read often have lovely ideas for things like organizing one's 45 square foot pantry, so I don't see how usefulness factors in to good, quality writing.

I have titled it "Tidying Up" because it has nothing to do with actual cleaning. The cleaning part is really the least of one's worries and may be considered optional.

I will go room by room. I read a lot of magazines and that is the way it's done.

Bathroom. This is a bad place to start because people will insist on using it after you've tidied and completely destroy the ambiance you've created. We will revisit this room later.

Pantry. Pantry shelves with no doors in the middle of your kitchen/dining/living area pose the first problem. Resist the urge to take everything out, clean the shelves and put everything back by color, size and nutritional value. Save that for another day or for someone else to do.

Dig around in the back and find those jars of things that looked delicious but you can't figure out how to use. Dust them off and set them aside. Push everything else to the back of the shelf and line delicious-looking things neatly in front. Make sure things like Artificially Flavored Banana Pudding are stashed behind the matching jars of lentils, black beans and wheat berries. Repeat for each shelf.

Livingroom: Bookshelves are decorative - but such breeding ground for clutter! Go through all the shelves and remove socks, coffee mugs and the dog's brush from on top of the books. Many of these items will fit behind the books if you are careful. Also, moving books to the front of the shelf and keeping the spines in an even row gives the illusion of order. If you want to really go all out, organize books by subject - especially if you have lots of books on a particularly high brow subject. This makes it easier for guests to see what interesting people we are. I say "people" even if we are single because we always refer to ourselves in the plural when we are interesting, no?

Bathroom, a: If you have a powder room which is specifically for guests and does not have personal items on counters or in cupboards, skip to Bathroom, b. If you do not have a powder room, it's important to leave some personal items on the bathroom counter. This makes it look as though someone actually lives in the house and you are not squating in a model home with fake matresses. It may also satisfy the guests who are curious about your toiletries and ensure that you will not walk in to find someone sitting on your bathroom floor surrounded by the 16 rolls of toilet paper they had to remove in order to access your secret stash of 1970's cleaning products.

We once knew a general contractor who intentionally left things amiss for the building inspector to find. That way the building inspector didn't have to go looking for problems, potentially settling on a much bigger issue (like pulling up the foundation). Preparing your home for guests is no different.

While it is important to leave some things on your counter, it is acceptable to put away things like deodorant, lice combs and any secret products used to create your all-natural look which no one needs to know took 2 hours and 7 products to achieve. Organizing cupboard items is similar to arranging your pantry. Chose several products you don't use but would if you had time. Set aside. Push everything else farther to the back of the cupboard. Let's not kid ourselves here. It's already a jumbled mess in there, so just push. Place items removed from counter in as many gallon-sized ziplock bags as it takes and mingle bags with items in back for easy retrieval later. Place the items you've never used in front of everything else. Finally, set a time limit for how long people are allowed to stay in the bathroom.

Bathroom, b: If you have a powder room, lock the doors to all other bathrooms in the house.

General: Once you've hit the big trouble spots, consider your guest list. If there are any tall people coming, climb up on a stool and see if there's anything you don't want them noticing and reporting on later. Just last night I cleaned off the top of my refrigerator and believe me I slept better knowing that my extra smoke detector, last year's calender and pile of expired coupons would not be discussed on the car ride home. If there are toddlers coming, call the parents and tell them you have just fumigated for flying rats. There is just no way to trouble shoot effectively for a toddler, and they will probably pull a sock out from behind your books.

Finally, keep the lights low and you may be able to dispense with the cleaning part completely.

Good luck and happy entertaining!

I believe

2009-12-07T07:26:00.003-05:00

I've been preparing myself for the time when Sugarplum and Studley ask me point blank if there's a Santa Claus.

I've prepared for this eventuality by treading lightly along the way. I am not (usually) the one who reminds them that Santa is watching and they will be SO HOSED on Christmas morning if they don't shape up. I don't tend to talk about Santa at all, really. I don't want to be called out for a big lie, no matter how goodwilled.

I try to neither deceive, nor undeceive. Especially the latter. Let it be known that I am not a spoil sport.

Still, there are questions.

Last year, our friend played Santa at a Christmas party. Someone spilled the beans, and the kids knew it was their friend behind the beard. Interestingly, it made Santa much more approachable. It was the first Christmas eve they didn't spend screaming their fool heads off while buried in my armpits.

That night, Studley explained to me that Santa needs helpers. Lots of helpers. This explains why one year, TWO Santas appeared at the same party. (One was drunk.)

This year, Sugarplum asked if she could give some of her toys to Santa, so kids who don't have much could get some extras. When my heart finished bursting with pride (that's a lie, it hasn't), I told her we could help Santa by dropping off the toys at one of our community outreach offices. Parents could pick up the toys and give them right to their kids. This would make us elves. And it would save us some shipping.

Sugarplum then began fretting about what happens to people who can't afford a Christmas tree. How will Santa know where to leave the presents?

I told her if Santa knows us well enough to give us a gift, he certainly knows where we'll go looking for it.

How does he do all this? Santa is legion. He starts as a whisper, and works his way into the loneliest places. He finds the forgotten. He doesn't need a tree, or plastic candy canes that blink or the fanciest lights on the block. He finds and cheers us, whatever state we're in. He does, however, like cookies.

This Christmas some friends of mine joined forces with We Can, and hosted Handmade for the Holidays. People were encouraged to knit mittens, hats, blankets, etc. for women and children in need. Did you know that there are over 20,000 single moms living under the poverty line on Cape Cod? Santa's got his work cut out for him.

It's a good thing he has lots of helpers - helpers who know about generosity and grace and joy and warmth.

Without them, Santa is nothing.

With them, Santa is the manifestation of kind-heartedness.

And you better believe I'm going to tell my kids that's real.

Ginger Lace Cookies

2009-12-05T12:09:00.005-05:00

I'm feeling gifty. And cheap.

So I'm giving you my grandmother's recipe for Ginger Lace Cookies. If I can't fit in my clothes, nor should you.

Ready?

Hazel's Ginger Lace Cookies

3/4 cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar, plus more for rolling
1 egg
4T molasses
2 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. cinnamon
2 cups flour
2 tsp. baking soda

Beat together the butter and sugar, add the egg and the molasses. In a separate* bowl, mix the dry ingredients. Add them to the butter mixture.

Roll dough into small balls (about a tablespoon, aka superball-sized) and roll balls in sugar. Do not press down.

Bake at 375 for 10 minutes.

I'm taking a batch of these to Studley's Winter Festival at school, where he will sing Jingle Bells with eight of his short compatriots. If you are wondering what Christmas is all about, I'm pretty sure ginger cookies and singing 4 year olds factor in heavily.

*I can't write the word "separate" without thinking of A Separate Peace, on which I wrote a brilliant book report in high school. I did not receive an A+++ because I spelled "separate" wrong 40 quajillion times. Stupid word.

I can spell it now because of The Offspring: "you gotta keep 'em sep-a-rated."

I should teach English.

an extra freebie post you'll wish you hadn't read

2009-12-03T22:46:00.003-05:00

Whenever I have to change my clothes in the middle of the day, I envision my upstairs neighbor (the male one) coming around that end of the house and, feeling pranky, jumping up to scare the daylights out of me.

I can picture his face as he does this: All happy and funny and then all horrified and staggering.

He would either a) die himself dead or b) poke himself in both eyes with the nearest branch, screaming "gah! my retinas!"

I've taken to changing in the bathroom.

in which I am all that

2009-12-02T23:12:00.004-05:00

Chris went to a cd release party last night and I did not.

I did garner this quote, though:
"Chris, who only mastered the CD, was there ... and Susan, who is pretty much the embodiment of all that is musical and good on Cape Cod, was not. What the ???" -Bill O'Neill

Bill is a music writer who's been published in the Boston Globe, the London Sunday Times, CMJ New Music Monthly, the Harvard Independent and the National Enquirer. I am ripping up my resume and having that quote printed on a beer koozie.

He brings up a good point. What makes actually being INVOLVED in a project more important than sitting on one's couch thinking about how great the project is? That's like saying TURKEY is more important than GRAVY.

Which is totally us because, if I may be honest, I wouldn't be involved in the music community nearly so much if it weren't for Chris. I've had to roast him for YEARS to get to the gravy.

Although I didn't get to go to the party, I did make the coveted liner note cut. For which I am grateful. And a little boasty.

I have some thoughts on liner notes.

Young people who are credited in liner notes should be credited in a very small font so they and their peers can bask in the glory amongst themselves. The rest of us should be in 14 point.

Finding myself in the liner notes reminded me of scouring albums for mention of myself as a teenager. There were all these random names in the Special Thanks section, so it seemed reasonable that eventually mine had to show up. Besides, you never know when you'll discover, via liner notes, that Trent Reznor has a secret crush on you.

Which is probably going to happen once he gets ahold of one of my beer koozies.

how many people can you cram in your kitchen?

2009-12-01T09:38:00.004-05:00

I just read a Lifehacker thingy on figuring out how many people you can fit in your home for a party.

I was curious about it because we have this annual Christmas sing and I'm never sure how many people to invite. Our house is not big. The first year I invited twice as many people as I had chairs because, hello, it's about the dorkiest party ever and I was pretty sure no one would come. I was right.

But! The people who did come were freakishly enthusiastic because guess what? We have dorky friends. Who like to sing. So they asked us to have the party again the next year. They campaigned, actually. Because apparently no one else is dorky enough to host this particular sort of party.

I know this because I've been trying to get someone else to do it for years.

A woman I babysat for in high school had a Christmas sing at her house and it was the best part of the holiday. Cookies, decorations, music - what's not to like? I can't even sing. I've been angling for an invitation to a similar party ever since. Invitations have not been forthcoming.

Anyway. It's been going on a few years now and it seems I'm totally blowing the lifehacker calculation. I invited 75 people and then asked Chris to invite the people I forgot.

So... 5 feet times 75 guests equals... how big is 375 square feet? I can't picture it, but I think we'll have people sitting in the tub. Good thing Chris can rig speakers throughout the house.

The calculation should be altered for Christmas parties, I think, because there are so blasted many of them. Weirdly, people feel they should show up for their own office parties before they come to my singy thingy. WHATEVER.

It's okay. I'm not afraid.

It's December and our lives are full of eggnog and open houses and music music music (the noise noise noise noise).

Which is a lifehacker calculation all of its own.

if only we could giftwrap kindness

2009-11-30T10:14:00.002-05:00

I'm cross-posting because my life and my work overlap kind of a lot. I wrote this for Left Bank Gallery this morning:

This is the time of year when we are not sure if we're heroes or villains.

Everything around us says "buy! buy! buy!" and if we are honest, we are saying it, too. It's the time of year when we are best able to get these beautiful things off the shelves and into homes. And pay the mortgage. We are idealistic and pragmatic. So in some ways, we are part of the Holiday Consumer Machine. The "show your love with stuff" machine.

We like to think of ourselves as more than just a cog, though. Or rather, we are a cog in a different kind of machine.

Last year we proudly supported the Handmade Pledge. It echoed much of our own reasoning - and gave good incentive for shopping at places like Left Bank. What's not to like?

To some extent, we also supported the No Buy campaign. Which might be considered self-defeating.

We say "no" to commercial gifts that an advertising mechanism says we need to buy. We say "no" to the "more is more" mentality and the culture of waste. We say "no" to being sold a bill of goods that benefits no one in the long term.

That said, we have no desire to shut down the whole gift-giving culture. Not only would we be shooting ourselves in the foot, but we like getting and giving presents just as much as the next guy. Giving makes us feel good. Helping other people give makes us feel good, too. We love finding the perfect gift instead of the panic gift.

Intentionally or unintentionally, we are all voting with our dollars this season. When you buy from a store that supports American craft, you are giving your money to people all over the country who spend their lives making things just a little more human. The medium AND the message are completely different from what we're being sold commercially.

It's probably obvious where our votes are being cast. And judging from the fact that you've read this far, we're probably preaching to the choir. (You sing beautifully, btw.)

Let's work together this year to bring joy, generosity and good will back into the spotlight. It's been overshadowed by profit for too long.

Let's be heroes.

---

(I write the Left Bank Gallery blog.)

a deadline of one's own

2009-11-29T21:37:00.003-05:00

Chris has been in overdrive lately. Which is good.

I have been left to take care of the kids and mother-in-law on my own. Which is bad.

It's not all bad, of course. We're in a groove mostly. But the kids had all last week off and oh my lord. It turns out I go a little nutty when I don't get a break.

So I stopped in for about 12 seconds to change my clothes between kid gigs today and in those 12 seconds I cataloged all the reasons I was going out of my mind and how not down with being a single mom I was. And then I went to a kid's birthday party before he could respond. Which may have worked out for him.

My phone rings while I'm at the party. It's Chris. He's gotten the kids a sitter so I can go to the gig he's working tonight. A gig I didn't know about.

That sitter may have saved his life.

So! I show up at the restaurant and the first 3 people I see are people I know and like and they all smile and wave and I think "OH NO! Did Chris plan a 'I'm sorry Susan's life is so stinky' flash mob?" Okay, there were only three people but Chris doesn't know how to use his phone very well.

It was not a flash moblette, as it turns out.

We had a nice evening gazing into each other's eyes and wondering what adults do on dates. He apologized for pushing me to the edge of sanity, saying "sometime you'll have a deadline and I'll be stuck with the kids for a week."

"Like when I go on my book tour?" I asked.

"Exactly."

So now I have to write a book.

visions of Sugarplum(s)

2009-11-28T22:22:00.002-05:00

Sugarplum pushed a laundry basket out of her room, loaded with toys and games she had outgrown. "Can we send these to Santa," she asked, "so he can give extras to kids who don't have much?"

I told her we could take them right to Lower Cape Outreach or MassAppeal, and then kids who didn't have much could have them. It would be like we were being Santa's helpers. We would technically be elves.

I like being an elf.

Later that day....

Sugarplum: I know what I want for Christmas! I want an American Girl doll!

me: Really? And what will you do with your American Girl doll?

Sugarplum: I'll dress her and then change her clothes and....

(discarded doll appears in thought bubble over her head)

Sugarplum: Maybe I just want craft supplies.

thanks

2009-11-25T09:23:00.004-05:00

My MiL wants to make Blancmange (cornstarch pudding) with wine jelly (orange jello made with wine) for dessert. I don't mean to be rude, but OH HORK.

She's not making us eat wine jello tomorrow, for which I am grateful. As a result, "gratitude for invisible friends" has been ousted from the top position of the thankful hit parade.

But you're a close second.

On Thanksgiving, be sure to save room for pie. And know that I dig you a whole lot.

above:
"When Good Things Happen to Bad Turkeys"
marker, tempera and feathers on paper
Studley Dooright, American
2009
(shown courtesy of the Dooright estate)

second star to the right

2009-11-24T20:44:00.005-05:00

This is a sun oven.

It's for "camping" which I think we all know is code for "Armageddon." I can't help but look at something like this and think how handy it would be in the End of Days. I'm not that skilled at cooking over an open fire, but I could do brownies in this.

I think we should get one, just to be on the safe side. Also a desalinization thingy, a biodiesel still and some solar chargers for our cell phones. We could store them next to the 5 gallon drums of rice and beans. We will be prepared. We will be ready. We will be....well honestly, we'll still be the gigantic sissies we are now and will probably have to hand over all our stuff to the first 12 year old hoodlum who comes our way when civilization hits the skids.

I don't know the first thing about the Rapture, but I suspect it was thought up by someone who was about to buy a sun oven. Someone who didn't like the idea of protecting it with a sawed-off shotgun. Someone who knew she probably wouldn't make it if she had to plant land mines around her chicken coop.

I didn't think about things like this before Sugarplum was born. Within months of her birth, however, I was figuring out how we'd survive once the grid crashed. I thought about how I'd have to break into the library to steal a book about cleaning fish. I made elaborate plans for moving into an underground house like Peter Pan. It all got very complicated.

It would be so much easier if we could just be sucked up into heaven like a Polly Pocket in a shop vac.

Assuming the kids haven't sent Polly Pocket to the "spa" and melted her in the sun oven.

--

I've added a couple of the comments left on my facebook page. They made me laugh.

so la di da

2009-11-19T21:50:00.005-05:00

I hesitate to mention this, lest you think less of us or are in the position of having us axed, but we had our Yacht Club interview today.

Bwahahahahaha! No really. We did.

No one has summed up the whole concept of us joining a yacht club better than Brighton. She said.... well, she didn't actually say anything because she was doing that laugh where no sound comes out and you wonder if you should call 911 because she appears unable to breathe.

We are clearly cut out for this yachting thing.

Chris showed up for the interview in jeans and a t-shirt. I was wearing a really cute shirt somewhere under my Old Navy fleece. We are a power couple from way back.

Note: whenever I try to type "power couple" I end up typing "poser couple." Hello, Freud.

Also, Chris started to park in the Commodore's parking spot because if there is a sign that says "this is not for you. Go away" that's where he'll go. I pitched a total "gah! you are going to get us kicked out before we've even had a chance to steal all the toilet paper" fit and he relented.

They're going to have a super-secret meeting before they decide whether we're in or not. We're hoping they do it soon because we're planning to get everyone on our Christmas list windbreakers with the club insignia. I don't think we have time to apply to a back-up club.

I'll let you know how it goes. Or you'll notice my avatar wearing a polo shirt. Either way, it's a sure sign that Armageddon is closer than we thought.

(why are we doing this? Because we met a bunch of the people over the summer and liked them tremendously. Because by "yachts" they mean "tugboats." Because it has a splendid view. Because it's lonely here in the winter. Because we secretly want to be Mary Ann and the Professor.)

lies lies lies

2009-11-18T11:27:00.004-05:00

Dear girl from 7th grade,

I still feel terrible about your rings.

You gave them to me in art class because I had pockets and you didn't and you didn't want to wear them when we were doing that something or other with clay. You forgot to ask me for them after class, and I forgot I had them.

After art, I went to gym and had to change into the 100% polyester, electric blue gym suit that snapped at the shoulder, itched, gave tall people wedgies and was the biggest reason I hated gym and junior high. Moreover, I had to negotiate getting out of the undershirt my mom made me wear, without anyone seeing. I didn't notice when your rings fell out of my pocket.

You are meaner than me, so when you asked me for your rings the next day, I lied. I told you I had forgotten them at home.

You know in Demian (not Damian, that's the Omen), when the protagonist tells a lie at the very beginning and it ruins his whole life? Where he's pretty much OWNED by the lie? Yeah. Hermann Hesse stole that idea from me and junior high.

Here's the thing. You had a turquoise ring and a mood ring. Turquoise rings and mood rings were sold at the souvenir shop on Main Street. I figured if I could get my family to stop in there some time, I could buy you new rings on the sly. I did not take into consideration what I would do when you said, "er, these are not my rings" and beat me up anyway.

Of course, I didn't tell my family about the dilemma I was in, so they never took me there, so I had to keep putting you off.

It's amazing I didn't flunk out of school right there. I skipped, I feigned illness, I hid in my locker.

When I finally did get to the store, there were no rings left. Or maybe the rings they had didn't look like the rings I thought you had. After all, I had seen them for about 6 seconds - between the time you handed them to me and when I put them in my pocket, so how would I know? At any rate, I finally figured I had to tell you the truth.

You said I was a jerk and that I owed you $10 so you could get new rings.

That $10? Best money I've ever spent. I just wish I could stop feeling like hiding in a locker whenever I see a mood ring.

the luxury of angst

2009-11-16T10:10:00.003-05:00

First of all, THANK YOU. I wrote that last post feeling like I was ruining Sugarplum's childhood. Now I feel like I wrote something so common as "I am afraid of running out of coffee." Thank you for the solidarity. The internet, as it turns out, is very good at inter-netting.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, some irony.

In the midst of my hand-wringing, Chris is still working on recording an audio book. The book is Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States. Howard's son, Jeff, is doing the reading.

For those of you unfamiliar with the book, let me just open it arbitrarily and share a passage:

"The law said the doors could not be locked during working hours, but at the Triangle Company doors were usually locked so the company could keep track of the employees. And so, trapped, the young women were burned to death at their worktables, or jammed against the locked exit door, or leaped to their deaths down the elevator shafts." p. 326

Well now there's some existential angst for you.

I imagine one of those women fretting about being taken for granted or another woman complaining about the food and it kind of makes me laugh. Sort of. These issues we have, they are a luxury.

It's a beautiful day. The kids are at school. My daughter, even though she's a girl, is allowed to learn to read. She can do anything she wants with her life. Anything. My son will eventually learn how to put on his own pants and then can also do anything he wants with his life.

I, too, am doing what I want with my life. I am here on purpose. And I'm awfully grateful.

the fear of her becoming me

2009-11-15T20:30:00.003-05:00

I have caught Sugarplum trying to keep me from breaking.

I don't know why I'm so fragile right now. I miss my solitude. I am tired of doing everything for everyone. I'm tired of people complaining. I'm tired of being taken for granted. I'm tired of not being able to work on my own projects. I miss being able to disappear for an afternoon without asking someone. I resent that Chris can disappear for a day without asking someone. I miss and resent and envy and mourn.

I love love love Sugarplum and Studley. I wouldn't trade them for the world.

I don't know what I want.

I want to not feel sad when my MiL won't eat what I've made for dinner.

I want to not feel taken for granted when I find myself alone with the kids, again.

I want more hours in the day so I can have some solitude without giving up my family time.

I want more hours in the day so I can make some progress on my own career alongside my full time job of keeping the family alive and well.

You're imagining how difficult it must be to deal with me, but really, it's not. What you hear now? It doesn't come out. It just sits there, inside. Where Sugarplum sees it.

And she does her best to keep me from breaking.

Turandot

2009-11-14T09:17:00.002-05:00

I have a new post over at Opera Betty because I will get you to like opera yet, people. It's about Turandot, which is almost exactly the same plot as the Penguin and the Pebble if Marina had a tendency to have the penguins with unsuitable pebbles beheaded.

And the Puccini score is almost exactly like the Barry Manilow songs, if by "almost exactly like" you mean "exactly like except you can listen to it."

Enjoy.

this is my world

2009-11-13T21:19:00.004-05:00

It was movie night here at the Towers.

Movie #1: The Penguin & the Pebble.
Synopsis by Sugarplum: Mommy mommy mommy I don't want to watch this why do they have to be so mean it's scaaaaary the seal is going to eat him no no no no I want to go sleep in your bed and you come with me please can't we pick another movie is the scary part over aaaauuuuuughhhhh.....! Oh, they made it?
Synopsis by Chris: are we seriously watching a movie with music by Barry Manilow?

Movie #2: a documentary on Les Paul (I missed the title, sorry).
Synopsis by Chris: Neumann U47, Lake Audio monitors, Tannoys, Neve console, Yamaha NS10, Ampeg tape recorders....

wag more, slink less

2009-11-12T10:46:00.005-05:00

Yesterday a friend of mine was telling me about a rescued dog who had been so abused, his tail was perpetually pasted to his belly.

One of the ways they worked with the dog was to pet the length of his back, straightening out his tail as they went: top of the head to the tip of the tail. From what I understand, the petting, plus the physiological placement of a happy tail, helped convince the dog that he was safe.

Which is awesome.

The shame is, you can't go around petting people from the top of their heads to the tip of their tails and get away with it.

Yesterday morning I went for coffee and the woman who sold it to me made me feel like I was ruining her entire day by asking her for something. She was like "here, let me tape your tail to your belly for you."

I don't mean to be a "hey everybody, be a little nicer to each other" Pollyanna Happypants kind of person, but WOULD IT KILL YOU?

This is my chicken wisdom du jour: don't let anyone push your tail down. And for extra credit, try making someone feel safe. Top of head, tip of tail.

That is all.

molting

2009-11-10T10:08:00.004-05:00

Our chicken? The naked one? She now has blue quills poking out of the naked parts of her body. I assume these will be feathers. Or the kids have been practicing chicken voodoo. Or she's seeing an acupuncturist.

Frankly, this is more than I ever needed to know about chickens.

The other chickens are not making fun of her (they're leaving that to us). They don't laugh at her, or ostracize her at the water bowl. They don't talk behind her back or chat amongst themselves about how well/poorly she's doing. They do not discuss her situation and arrive at their own conclusions regarding her lifestyle, diet and relationship status.

They are not bringing her non-chicken noodle soup and then praising God that it's HER and not THEM who is naked and quilly.

They are just letting her grow her feathers.

As much as I've learned about chickens, it seems I could learn a few things from them.

the mommy wars, internal version

2009-11-09T09:02:00.005-05:00

This one's a little ranty. You may want to skip it.

It's about how fun it is to be a stay at home mom. Sorry, work from/stay at home mom. I know, it's hard to remember that I work from home, especially with my MiL apologizing for waking me up every time she walks through the livingroom. Where I work. Or sleep, apparently, after I've collapsed in a puddle of Fabio-inspired truffle drool. Because that's what stay at home mom's do, don't you know.

Don't get me wrong, it really is fun. I mean, on Saturday I went with the kids to a fair where I got to eat hot dogs, stand around by myself while the kids did crafts and threw chickens (stuffed, PETA) and watch battery-operated pigs race to the finish line.

Battery operated pigs are admittedly hilarious. But if it were you, would that be YOUR first choice for a Saturday afternoon?

Activities with kids have their own, built-in charm. Top of the list is the look of absolute rapture on your kids' faces. Second is the unintentional humor. I'm a sucker for unintentional humor.

But when that's your down time? We have a problem.

The fairs and festivals and parties and celebrations happen on weekends and evenings, which would normally be time off. So you get your "time off" at these Screamingly Fun activities and because you are a Happy and Friendly person, you make it seem Screamingly Fun (remember look of delight on cherubic faces) and the people around you say "oh! how Screamingly Fun your life must be!"

To which I say, "are you effing kidding me?"

So you line up things to do. You make plans. With adults. And then you hope you're not tackled with resentment and an overstuffed inbox.

Which you are.

But it's okay because today is the day you get to go to work like a normal person. And then make dinner and play with the kids and put them to bed. There will be a semblance of order. There will be routine. All will be right with the world.

And maybe the kids will both sleep through the night without losing their pillows or having nightmares about scary dogs.

And you'll wake up anyway, sit on the edge of their beds, and just watch them sleep.

Which is more fun than pig races.

music appreciation, by me

2009-11-08T22:23:00.005-05:00

We had an emergency back up pianist at symphony today. He played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. No lie. (it had some variations that Sugarplum hasn't learned yet.)

The regularly scheduled pianist canceled last week and our artistic director (who is infinitely hipper than your artistic director, admit it) found the new one via some recommendations and YouTube.

The audience was all "what is this YouTube of which he speaks?"

The emergency back up was Frederic Lacroix. He came from Ottawa. With his piano.

I picture it like that Clare and the Reasons line:

"we were driving to a gig in toronto and olivier forgot his green card so we had to leave him at the border and then the steering wheel caught on fire. Can your car do that? No, I don't think so."

And since he had to bring his piano (it's a fortepiano), I pictured him driving along with it strapped to the top of his car with its little legs sticking up like a trophy kill.

Which is funny only because even I know "fortepiano" is an oxymoron.

The other thing I find funny is that the last time I searched for a guest artist on YouTube, I came up with a video of her all drunk and smudgey at a nightclub. It is maybe not her audition tape.

Lacroix (who was not all drunk and smudgey) played Mozart's Concerto No. 19 in F major for Piano and Orchestra, K. 459. I think. It's off the top of my head, you know.

After the intermission, the rest of the orchestra played Mozart's Symphony No. 40 in G minor, K. 550 without him.

There's this lovely little moment in the k. 550 where it's a minuet but instead of 8 measures it's THREE MEASURES. I know! I couldn't believe it either.

And then I thought about how much I will miss Steven Tyler.

The end.

wicked classy

2009-11-06T21:48:00.004-05:00

Thanks to the nature of Chris' work, we have famous and quasi-famous people dropping by the house from time to time. Thanks to the nature of my nature, I am often caught vacuuming off the dining room table, sporting prom eyes.

I need to learn where the mirrors are in this house. And use them.

In other news, the chickens are molting.

One of them is experiencing Severe Feather Loss. When she fluffs herself, it looks like an invisible predator is shaking the stuffing out of her. Is there a product on the market to help this? An "I'm not just the president, I'm a client" kind of product? Because if this goes on much longer, I'll be carting her to the salon for some feather extensions.

I have totally blown the chickens' salon budget for the month.

And now that I've described my morning mascara debacle AND chicken plummage, I suppose it's time to admit that we've applied for membership at the yacht club.

(pauses to admire puzzled looks)

I know.

Let's put this in perspective, shall we? Just last week, Chris was heard singing "Morning Has Broken" on the radio. It was truly awful. We are an embarrassment to society. And yet? We made it through the "if anyone objects, speak now or be forever miserable" phase.

I have no idea how this is going to go. There's an interview. There's maybe a secret handshake to learn. There are penny loafers to make Chris wear.

My question to you is, what does one wear to a yacht club interview? I thought I might get us some matching sweatshirts, with a three wolf moon motif. Except with chickens.

Yes?

I wrote Jet Blue a song but it made the dog howl

2009-11-04T09:21:00.007-05:00

Do you know how much fun it is to run into an acquaintance at the airport and when he asks where you're going, say "to have tea in D.C."? If not, you'll have to trust me. It's fun.

Things I spent more money on than my airfare to Baltimore:
bus fare to the airport
a sandwich at the airport

To which you say, "dang, that's an expensive sandwich." And I'd agree. I'd also admit I got a $9 fare from Jet Blue.

Bahahahaha! Nine dollars! To the city closest to where my very best friend in all the world lives! WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

I flew in yesterday, she took me to tea, I head home today. But not until I've trashed her house and eaten all her food. Old habits die hard.

A quick pantry scan this morning, while she's out being responsible, turns up a jar of Nutella, bags of chips and cheesey popcorn (which she says the dog got into but I think that's a ploy) and a big bag of Halloween candy. I made myself some frozen waffles and eyed the ice cream sandwiches while rooting around in the freezer.

In the words of my brother in law, our pantry contains Cup-o-Miso and Soy Ahoy.

So for $9, I get tea at the Mayflower, some serious Friend Time, and all the cheesey puffs I can eat before she gets home.

For $9 more, I can go home.

Thank you, Jet Blue, for both trips. Just don't ever leave me alone in your house.

Smashing Pumpkins

2009-10-31T16:34:00.004-04:00

Sugarplum wanted to be a pumpkin this year. I was all set to spray paint her orange when Cotuit Center for the Arts came through with a costume. Yet another reason to support the arts.

pharmers

2009-10-29T09:27:00.008-04:00

This is not a post about health care reform. It's a post about why I wasn't on the debate team.

Last night I crashed a biotech company's dinner party. This could have been awkward, considering my stance on the pharmaceutical industry. An industry I have traditionally considered evil.

These are my pet peeves:

Peeve 1: Advertising. Makes me crazy.

Peeve 2: I can see no ethical value in giving doctors a kickback for prescribing a certain drug. Seriously, how is this practice okay? I want to know I'm getting what's best for me, not best for someone's bank account.*

Both of these relate to the big business aspect of the pharmaceutical industry. I find that aspect annoying.

Anyway.

Last night I picked up a friend at the airport and scurried her to her hotel for the conference she was attending. We only had a couple hours to chat before her welcome dinner and, wouldn't you know, her flight was delayed an hour and a half (snow! rain! acts of God!). The hosting company was kind enough to let me tag along at dinner, so I could at least see my friend while she did her thing. I'm letting the company go unnamed because, well, would YOU want to find yourself named in one of my posts? I thought not. Also, I can't spell it.

My friend works for a non-profit organization that builds awareness of Hep C, and helps people get treatment. She's in town to get funding from Unnamed Company.

I hadn't thought about biotech companies funding things like her non-profit. I thought they mostly funded penthouse apartments overlooking the park. See? My debate points are starting to slip. I'm sitting on my side of the table going, "hmm, good point."

We were introduced to one of the scientists working on the drug they are testing. His heart is in the right place, wouldn't you think?

And then I met my professional counterpart, the person who does for them what I do for art and live music. Know what? He's just as passionate about working for his client as I am about mine. He's also friends with the guy who did the book signing last night, which is just plain weird.

The world, it is small.

It is so small, in fact, that if we all used our powers for good, not evil, we'd really get somewhere. And that, my friends, would be some fine health care.

*Most doctors are admirable people and can be trusted to do the right thing. Really, the rest of us should be taking Hippocratic oaths, too.

Chris Brogan and Geek Girl

2009-10-27T22:15:00.002-04:00

You know when you buy your ticket, you get your sitter, you drive your car, and you arrive without getting lost only to remember, as you walk in the door, that you hate these things?

Right.

Geek Girl had a fundraiser book signing thing tonight and I was all "yay! I have no idea what this is! Let's go!" I use the plural in the schizophrenic sense, not the more than one person sense. Which means that I went to a social networking thing by myself. Which I hate.

Honestly, if I were good in social situations would I be spending all this time on my couch in the dark?

I had never heard of Geek Girl, but with a name like that, who needs to know what it is? Also, I'm sorry, Chris Brogan, but I don't get out much and I had not heard of you either. I have remedied that, stat.

Usually I go to these things for the cheese platters because oh my lord the actual content never NEVER applies to me. Ever. I don't even totally know what I do for a living, so how can what they say apply to my job?

That said, if Chris Brogan is ever doing any kind of anything within a 100 mile radius of you, get off your couch and go. Seriously. He was funny and smart and everyone in that room was all "dooooode, why didn't anyone ever TELL ME THAT?"

And? Wonder of wonders, it applied to my job. I cannot wait to get back to work. Coffee is brewing as I type. Clients will not know what hit them. Hopefully in a good way.

Geek Girl, thank you so very much.

Chris Brogan, I would kiss you except you specifically asked us not to.

Everybody else, get Trust Agents if you want to be as smart as I'll be once I read it.

Oh look, it' been a NYT bestseller. Ahem. (I knew that.)

Where is my trumpet fanfare?

2009-10-25T20:49:00.008-04:00

The first thing I heard as we approached the gates of King Richard's Faire was a bagpiper, playing the theme to Star Wars. I had a vision of the piper's home life.

Piper's mom: honey, your father and I can't send you to D&D camp and Trekkie camp this year. You'll have to pick one.
Piper: (looks baleful and goes to basement)
Piper's mom, yelling: You are 23 years old and critically vitamin D deficient. Come out of the basement, now.

If you were feeling some sort of solidarity, some kind of like-minded kindredness to humanity, I suggest you take a trip to a renaissance festival. It will wobble your mind in wonderful ways. And I speak not only of the mead.

There are some PEOPLE out there, people.

The minute we walked in, Sugarplum and Studley's jaws went slack. They looked just like the kids in the Disney World commercial. Starry eyes and all.

They did not dig the jousting. I did. Not as much as a demolition derby, mind you, but as entertainment goes, jousting is quite passable. It made me think I was living in one of Sugarplum's puzzles. I wished, in fact, that all the people around me had been more conscienscious about dressing to period. As it was, about 70% of them were renaissance-compliant.

What we mostly did was walk around and oggle people. The costumes! Some people obviously worked at the fair, but most I'd say did not. They came, they costumed, they caroused. There were orks and Mongolian ninjas and merry maids a milking. There was one woman dressed (quite convincingly) as a fairy. She moved like a bird and made cooing, chirping noises. There was a man on stilts who had his legs camouflaged and instead had small, puppet arms and legs, to make himself look like a baby sitting in a very tall chair. A baby with a grossly large head and a nightmare-inducing smile. The kids loved him. I said "anyone need the loo?" and rushed them off.

There was a ladder thing that you could climb for $3. If you made it to the top, you won $10. As we walked by, the man running the ladder thing was saying to someone, "congratulations! you have the grace and agility of a falling rock!"

There were knife throwers! There were drummers! There were pasty-faced teenagers in black leather!

King Richard's Faire is set in a pine grove. Half-timber buildings house the candlemakers and cloakmakers and horseshoe clangers. It is very much like walking into a medieval market. Which, it occurs to me, is the point.

I have read enough historical fiction to know that I don't want to hang out in a medieval market. You get thieved and bullied and you never get a fair price for your wool. But I would like to be a fly on the wall long enough to see the juggling and piping and rabble-rousing. Also the dude with horns.

King Richard's Faire let's you do that. People are pleasant and say charming things to the kids. None of the orks threaten to eat them. This is because there are turkey legs and "pigge sandwiches" so the orks aren't hungry.

So now I just have to ask, do you hang out at renaissance festivals wearing a serving wench costume? Or are you more the king's court sort?

Either way, we had no idea how much we dig you.

(This post inadvertantly brought to you by the Cape Cod Chronicle. Thank you for a lovely day, Chronicle peeps.)

in the tall grass with the big dogs

2009-10-22T20:28:00.001-04:00

When I first moved back to Cape Cod, I was invited to join a group of fiction writers. We met once a month and handed out copies of our recent work so our fellow writers could flay us. It was fun.

I was, shall we say, the odd man out. I was working two jobs and was not a professional writer. The others, ALL the others, were retired. They all had published work under their belts. I think I was invited to join them for my baking skills.

They were very, very professional. I learned how to format my work for submission because that's the way they wanted it printed out. It was not okay to skip a week because you had been out too late the night before.

I lasted about a year.

I've been thinking about that group a lot lately, because yet another writing group has made the mistake of inviting me to join them. Its been 10 years, so the last one must not be on my record anymore. This one is exactly nothing like the last one. This one is like that one, on steroids.

I've been following Polite Fictions since it started last summer. Some of my favorite writers on the internet are participating. It's a "write your bit and pass it on" kind of thing. I would be lying if I didn't admit to secretly wishing I had been invited. Kind of like how when I was 12 I thought it would be fun to be a guest child star on Charlie's Angels.

Except the producers of Charlie's Angels never sent me an email invitation.

I think that would have been easier. Frankly, I am terrified. It's a story I'd never attempt myself and I'm suddenly running with the big dogs. I have never felt more like a papillon.

On the plus side, I can't spend my week thinking about what to write next. It's a pretty safe bet that if you think of some great lines for someone, that character will be dead by the time it's your turn again.

Also, I've gotten really spoiled with this blog. I can write in my own voice all day long. If you haven't noticed, my voice isn't particularly gangstery.

To say the least, it's a stretch.

And I've never been happier.

p.s. If you're here finding shelter from all the swearing on the internet, do yourself a favor and don't click the link. Trust me. I mean you, mom.

p.p.s. A big fat thank you to everyone at Polite Fictions. It was a horrible mistake inviting me and I'm really glad you made it.

Tracy Chapman

2009-10-22T10:12:00.004-04:00

There was a group of women at the coffee shop today, mostly all strangers. One heard a Miami Sound Machine song and said "they were the band at a wedding I went to ages ago."

And another woman said, "we almost didn't sign up Tracy Chapman at a talent show."

She described being at the Pied Piper in the '80s, surrounded by flashy drag queens. Tracy showed up in jeans, looking "like a tiny refugee," according to this woman. "Yeah, yeah," they said. "We'll get you signed up. There's the line." She barely made it in.

When she sang, the room went silent.

You just never know when you're in a room with something golden. Until the gold shines.

I'm awfully glad I was out of coffee at home this morning.

duck season... rabbit season...duck season... rabbit season...

2009-10-20T09:55:00.005-04:00

I love this little town so much I want to lie on the sidewalk, all stretched out like a starfish, and smile.

But I can't do that because people around here are hip to their sea life and would be all "SEA STAR, please."

On the other hand, I could do that because no one would step on me. Because there is no one here.

This is what happens to super cute seaside towns after Columbus Day weekend. Or in this case, after OysterFest weekend. One week you're having to consult your magic 8 ball to decide what snack to eat from which restaurant. The next week you're looking at empty buildings and wondering if the people in the house next door made coffee.

I was all set for coffee and a scone from the Wicked Oyster this morning, but was not totally awake and came into town the wrong way. Doubling back, I ran into a detour. They've been fixing the water system (I have no idea what they mean by this) and have been closing bits of town, one bit at a time. This morning it's the bit in front of Wicked Oyster.

Wellfleet is like Peter Cottontail's dear old briar patch. What? You don't know about Thornton Burgess? You weren't raised in the Rocky Mountains by a mother who was in total denial and raised you on New England children's stories? I'm so sorry.

Anyway, Wellfleet has about a thousand and one ways in and out. Want to get somewhere? There are six ways to go. Wellfleetians like their options. Options such as going somewhere else for coffee.

So I turned around and headed for the Flying Fish (don't you love these names?).

Flying Fish is closed.

Since the nor'easter had ended, I walked through town to the Marketplace. A car stopped right in the middle of the cross walk in front of me. She said "oh, I'm sorry!" It was no big deal because it was a Prius and I could have stepped over it. That's another marvelous generalization about Wellfleet: vehicles either get 102 mpg or are work trucks.

A landscaping truck stopped in front of the bank. Settie stepped out and said "good morning!"

Flo Hoops was also in search of coffee, and said nice things about Sugarplum's mad hooping skills while we poured.

A man I didn't recognize came out of the Lighthouse and said "what a beautiful day!"

It's kind of like that time when Danny Meadow Mouse escaped from Hooty the Owl and fell from the sky into the middle of the Dear Old Briar Patch. Danny Meadow Mouse probably needed a cup of coffee and Peter Cottontail was all "here! wrap up in my Snuggi!"

The restaurants and galleries may have closed their doors, but the people have reopened their own.

OysterFest 2009

2009-10-18T21:53:00.004-04:00

I live in a place that has an oyster festival, replete with shucking contest.

There is, no lie, a $1,000 first prize. The dude who won it this year was the World Champion oyster shucker two years ago. You can call him Chopper. Everyone does.

Wellfleet is a teeny, tiny, two-street town. Over the course of two days, tens of thousands of people come to OysterFest. In other words, it is a walking anxiety attack.

anxiety issue 1
Parking! There's no parking. But there are buses to take you from the beach lots and into town. Also, if you work in town you might be able to park at your work and then get parked in but the people who park you in are friendly and leave their cell numbers on their windshields. They will not, however, return your calls when it's time to leave. You will get out anyway.

anxiety issue 2
Tens! of Thousands! of People!
There are people you know, and people you don't know, and people you know but you don't know how you know them and it's probably best that way. There are lines for everything. If you are smart and have done this before, you will arrive bright and early and get your oyster fritters before the lines form. And then you will go hide in the tent with your husband.

anxiety issue 3
Why is your husband in a tent? Because he is the sound engineer and the tent is keeping his sound board dry despite a nor'easter. At one point, they will need to tie the tent to a parked car so it won't blow away. The walls of the tent are blowing in on all four sides at once. Good times. I'm not so worried about anxiety issue #3, but I fully expect Chris to wake up in the middle of the night, screaming.

I didn't go on Sunday, when the storm hit. This means I missed the shucking finals.

Shucking finals? Are hilarious. You should see them sometime. I know this because
I listened to live coverage on the radio (thank you, WOMR), which was almost like being there. But dryer.

I don't remember putting "live in a place that has oyster shucking contests and community radio" on my list of things to do, but I'm glad it ended up there.

This was last year. It looked like this, but wetter.

bff stands for all sorts of things

2009-10-15T22:42:00.006-04:00

Dear Sugarplum,

Up until this year, we drove you to a school far, far away, in a place where no one knew you. Now you go to school in our town and you think that's absolutely great.

You have no idea how wrong you are.

You think it's great because you are allowed to have friends now. Before it was just too far to drive for playdates. But now? Friends live right around the corner. You have a friend coming over tomorrow in fact! Which gives me just enough time to lecture some sense into you.

Rule number one.
Tell her nothing. And by nothing, I mean nothing. Everything you say, think, do or wear will be held against you for the next 12 years. Oh sure, she's your friend THIS WEEK but eternity (or the road to senior year) is a long time, my friend, and alliances change like Studley's underpants.

Do not tell her you like Justin. Justin is a year younger than you and that will get you a reputation as a...as a... I have no idea. But even as you step up to accept your valedictorian thingamajig, you'll hear a wave of sniggling and it will all be Justin's fault.

(Aside to the internet: Sugarplum does not have a thing for Justin. She thinks he's a silly little boy who sometimes tries to impress girls by catching dragonflies - girls like dragonflies! - and then inadvertently torturing them so the girls have to watch as the dragonfly writhes and DIES IN HIS SWEATY LITTLE HANDS. Oh, the humanity.)

If something dreadful happens, we cannot just up and move. First of all, what if we move to a house that is not named Trout Towers? What if it's The Snoggery? Will people find me on the internet? Will I have to pay yet another $24.95 to register a domain?

Furthermore, we can't physically move because we have too many books. The last time we moved, the movers said "we're sorry, we didn't know about all the books. Please don't ever call us again. Also, you have a pottery problem."

So we'll just have to stick it out and you'll have to hide in your locker, same as your father.

Rule number two.
You might want to jump a little higher when I ask you for help around the house. Otherwise, I might let it slip that you still sleep in your My Little Pony pajamas.

Love you,
Mom

Giselle, and why she should have done an online background check

2009-10-11T20:52:00.004-04:00

I saved my program so I could tell you who was magnificent in Boston Ballet's Giselle, but then I left it in the car and there are coyotes out there, people. My love for you (and name dropping) ends at coyotes.

There were no coyotes in Giselle. Not in the original story, at least. The story's about a girl who's in love with a nobleman but she doesn't know he's a nobleman and then the hunter-dude who digs her exposes him (not literally) and she goes a little crazy and then dies. Because she died with her love unrequited, she becomes a willi in act two. Willis are spirits who live in the woods and kill men by making them dance themselves to death. Or, they are the girls from town DRESSED as spirits, who randomly kill passers-by who anger them. It didn't say this in the program, but I recognized pretty much everyone from the the first act so it must be true.

The hunter-dude is the first to die. And then the nobleman shows up and Giselle saves him by... I don't know, doing the dancing for him? Don't quote me on any of this because my program has been eaten by coyotes and I read the story a very long time ago.

I think it's a little risky for the men to show up in the woods at night, knowing about the willis and all, don't you? It's like Travis thinking his love for Old Yeller will make the foaming stop.

Boston Ballet's willis were particularly dead-looking and a little ghoulish (though lovely! please don't show up at my house and eat the cat!). There is something especially stunning about a scene that is at once beautiful and eerie (a theme which pervades our decorating sensibilities here at the Towers). Melissa Hough danced the part of Giselle and was outstanding - both dead and alive. Jaime Diaz was the scoundrel who broke her heart. Nicely done, Diaz. I don't remember who danced the Queen of the Willis, but she was splendid. The Queen of the Willis is like the Sugarplum Fairy, if the Sugarplum Fairy ever ordered her minions to kill people.

This was the first ballet we attended in the Opera House instead of the Wang (not counting the Nutrcracker, because it doesn't count). We didn't think we'd like it because change, as you know, is bad. But then we noticed the opera house is like someone left the Wang in the dryer and we think we'll be okay with it. It's kind of cute. Also, the restrooms are more conveniently located and it's a block away from Penang.

And that, I believe, wraps up my ballet review for this evening. Goodnight, and for the love of all things holy, don't walk in the woods at night.

the facade

2009-10-08T12:27:00.004-04:00

This morning I told Chris I had been emailing Joey Mars. Chris (like you) said, "who's Joey Mars?" So I reminded him that Joey Mars is the artist who painted the front of Provincetown's Shop Therapy:

He's a cool dude.

"What were you emailing him about?" he asks.
"To see if he'd paint the front of Trout Towers," I answer.

One of the things I like about Chris is the look on his face when he's not sure if I'm kidding or not. If he's not careful, though, his face will freeze like that.

(I emailed Joey pictures I had of Evan Dando wearing his shirt. If there were pictures of Evan Dando wearing my shirt..... well maybe I wouldn't want it. Nevermind.)

the critics rave

2009-10-07T08:15:00.000-04:00

The Midnight Gardener came by on Sunday for "Studley's Birthday Party."

Stop twitching. I used the quotes properly. It was his party in name only, as I think I only remembered to invite two of his friends and 75 of ours.

The Midnight Gardener devoted a post to us this morning and we are very flattered. He covers the whole "yeah, right, it's a party for Studley" thing. Also, "the party invitation encouraged us each to bring a dish to share…and confessed that the party had only been organized because they were out of good snacks at Trout Towers."

I'm glad people are paying attention.

But really, my favorite part was this:

"Her Troutship is smart and funny and full of clever observations on all sorts of fun things in life from the local music scene and parenting to gardening and chicken farming and hula hooping. You never know what you’ll find at Trout Towers...."

I'm smart! and funny! and full of it!

He posted some fab pictures of the bits of garden I haven't killed off yet. Really, you should march over there now and see. That's the caterer, btw, not me. I'm taller and thinner and remembered to brush my hair.

Ahem.

And if you are here visiting from the Midnight Garden, the first thing you should know is that he has a longer attention span than I do.

The end.

operatic comments

2009-10-05T23:11:00.005-04:00

Over at Opera Betty (where I have a new post, btw), I get lots of comments. They're mostly in Russian, so if anyone can help me translate I'd sure appreciate it.

And yes, chickens find rubber humans hilarious. Don't ask me how I know this.

The other comments crack me up. Valuable post? Really? I TOTALLY fell for that one, and now have a lifetime supply of something unmentionable and a pair of his and hers bathtubs.

--

This week I wrote about The Rake's Progress, first performed in 1951, on 9/11. The libretto would be way more hilarious if it weren't hitting so close to home, world-wise. I'll live up to those comments yet, darn it.

(I still don't know what makes the swishing sound between my ears.)

just, ew.

2009-10-04T21:19:00.012-04:00

This one may get me into trouble. It's sort of like taking pictures of Chris' underpants and posting them. Which I promised not to do.

But I was looking through some old photos and was reminded of the crack house bathroom we moved into last year.

I will not dwell on this.

Chris has been working away - ripping out the medicine cabinet, fixing sheetrock, installing new lights. We are a reality t.v. show, minus the billions of onlookers. And budget. We also like to think we are cuter and funnier.*

But I digress.

Anyway, this was our sink:

When the plumber came to put in our new sink yesterday, I said something like "man, you should have seen the old sink" and he said "lady, I have SEEN YOUR SINK." I don't know what he meant by that, but it didn't sound flattering.

For my very fancy birthday, I asked my sister for a new bathroom sink. She said "not a manicure?" and I said "I want a sink or I will tell mom."

So she gave me a sink. And now we live in a Swedish crack house.

That's the robot vacuum, peeking around the corner in the hall, btw.

As long as I'm posting pictures of underpants, here's one I took of the corner of our dining room last year.

The entire room was that blue, with maps from National Geographic as wallpaper. May I back up a moment? This house has a rich and vibrant history, and there are probably some people out there who are all "but those maps were THE AWESOMEST." To which I say, no, they were not. They were also impossible to get off. Literally. Chris had to rip out the sheet rock.

Same corner, one year later:

I took pictures today because we were all squeaky clean for Studley's birthday party and the light was so gorgeous it made everything look like... I don't know... somebody else's house?

It doesn't look like this now because it's dark and also, we had a party. There are bottles and mostly-eaten snacks everywhere. Gift wrap is scattered all over the floor. Someone peed in a chair.**

Wild times, I tell you.

In non-underpants related news, the sun came out for our party. This was good because, as you can see, not so much room in the rooms. Although I suggested we have the entire party in the bathroom and that would have been awesome. I mean, if people can't talk about Trout Towers' parties in the old what-happens-in-Vegas sort of way, we can at least give them SOMETHING to talk about.

The other good news is the playlist we had going for the (mostly adult) kid's birthday party did not randomly choose to play Fun Lovin' Criminals' "Scooby Snacks," which opens with a delightful little clip from Reservoir Dogs.

No really, send your kids over! We can totally be trusted. See our sink?

*I don't honestly know if we're cuter and funnier because I can't remember watching a reality show all the way through. No offense to real life reality families. I am sure you are cute and funny.

** Studley's friends can't hold their apple juice.

girls' night out (or, a public apology)

2009-10-02T08:33:00.008-04:00

The problem with girls' nights out is that the girls in question tend to congregate in lovely little wine bars, featuring jazz guitarists and owners who bring you dishes of olives that have nothing at all in common with bar mix.

If you have ever been privy to these nights out, you know the ensuing conversation has quite a lot in common with bar mix. The conversation, if it had control of its own car keys, would obviously rather be at a sports bar, if not a strip club.

As the night progresses, the conversation becomes more aggressive in its search for rowdier company. It offends. It regales. The women in question sometimes notice it rooting around in their purses, looking for phones to call cabs, and are briefly aware that the conversation is totally inappropriate. Its behavior is atrocious, frankly. But the goat cheese and walnut crostini beckons and another round is ordered.

Women are complicated creatures. We like artisan cheeses and olive tapenade. We like places that hire acoustic guitarists for our entertainment. We like chairs with hooks on them to hold our purses. We like beautiful spaces with art on the walls. We like lengthy conversations about Capt'n Frosty's Clam Balls.

We are women with lives that spiral in all directions. We have careers, babies, heartbreaks and crushes on men ten years our junior. Our worlds so rarely collide. But when they do? Please try not to be offended. It's the olives talking.

the official, non-muffin-top related, anniversary post

2009-09-29T19:58:00.006-04:00

A little over eight years ago, I remarked to a friend that I was getting married on the autumnal equinox. I don't know squat about seasonal celebrations, but I figure anything with a name like "equinox" has to be good. Right? A day when you can balance an egg on its end seems to me like a good day to get married. It's an omen.

"Ah," said my friend, "the downward spiral into darkness."

Which was not the metaphor for marriage I was looking for.

Fortunately, I can rationalize anything. I figured if we were going to spiral into darkness, it was a good idea to do it together. After all, who wants to be all alone in the dark? I have plenty of my own dark, and quite frankly I'm glad to have someone to hold on to.

More recently, a friend observed that the equinox is an "apex for change." This, if you're wondering, is why you should talk to the friends who are recently engaged when you're getting married, and not so much the ones who are recently divorced.

Our marriage has definitely been more "apex for change" than "downward spiral." And for this I am truly grateful.

I admit it, I take much for granted. We just live our lives, right? We squabble over who left the kitchen the bigger mess. We go to work. We figure out who's doing what with the kids. We spiral through the darkness. But in the process of living our lives, it seems we've been growing up. Not all the way, but more than I realized and in ways I didn't think applied to us. We are a different version of ourselves than we were eight years ago. And it's way more okay than I thought it would be.

I have always been proud of Chris. First I was proud of how smart he is. Then I was proud of what a good dad he became. And now I'm proud of the adult he's turned into. I could not, would not, ask for a better partner to spiral anywhere with - into change, or darkness or the bright light of a new day.

If you're there, honey, I'm going too.

Here's to many, many more years of balancing eggs.

stringed

2009-09-27T22:44:00.004-04:00

I was raised on classical music. I converted to punk rock at some point in high school. I get confused sometimes.

I was at symphony this weekend and I couldn't help but wonder what happens when a violinist breaks a string. Where are the roadies and guitar techs? Does some dude in a black concert t-shirt and a laminate scurry on stage, grab the violin and whisk it into the wings for restringing? And if so, why have I never seen it? Maybe at symphony they use kabuki puppets so we don't notice all the scurrying?

Or! Maybe the idea of having so many stringed instruments is that if one blows out, the others can cover for it. Violinists are like the extra wheels on a tractor trailer truck.

I played in a student orchestra in high school and honestly don't remember what happens if you break a string. I was mostly afraid I'd lose an eye when a violin string broke. I remember breaking them when I was tuning, so maybe violinists don't break strings while performing. Or they just break them on the hard core pieces, for which they have spare violins lined up on little violin stands. They need the spares because sometimes? violins get thrown.

I don't seem to ever get tickets to those performances.

So! Cultural weekend! I was mistaken for an artist, which was fun. I was told I looked like Juliette Binoche, which is always very welcome (the resemblance is strikingly...dissimilar). I met a very creative and thinky person whose work I admire - and found him worthy of all accolades. And I went to symphony and compared the first and second violin sections to semi trucks.

Time for bed. My work here is done.

Sugarplum

2009-09-27T06:47:00.002-04:00

You blow my mind every. single. day.

I forget you are little and wonder why you act like a child sometimes. You are so capable, it's confusing. You are some of the best company I could wish for.

Seven years ago today, I was walking the hospital halls, waiting to meet you. Daddy was asleep in the (very uncomfortable) reclining chair, PERL programming book at his feet.

When you were born, just in time for lunch, you looked right at us as if you had known us all along. You are the part of us that makes us US. We have no idea what we did before you.

This year, you want grown up things for your birthday. Tea with friends. Symphony tickets. I'm on my way out now to buy you flowers. You will take out all my vases and arrange them yourself.

You started a new school this year, where you didn't know anyone. Now you have a pile of friends, and eenie-meenie-meinie-moe to decide who to sit with on the bus. Who is this couragous and confident girl, who stands where the deer in headlights once stood?

I am so proud of you. So proud to know you. We are all truly, truly blessed.

Happy birthday, Sugarplum.

Bloom

2009-09-24T10:20:00.007-04:00

Bloom was a good chicken. She ate all her food, played well with others and laid the cutest little eggs you ever did see. Her hobbies included eating slugs, taking dirt baths and digging up plants.

Bloom is survived by countless siblings, living all across the continental US and anywhere else the hatchery ships. Her friends, Mourning Glory, Despondent, Bereaved, Forlorn and Woebegone will have a private memorial service at their home this afternoon.

We'll miss you, Bloom, and hope there is a heaven for chickens.

Pictured by the Japanese footbridge in the garden of her home on Cape Cod, before she accidentally invited a hawk to come for tea.