Wanna see my Zingaro?

A few months ago -- March 30, for those who prefer to be exact about these things -- I posted about our delightful afternoon in New Madrid, NM. I wrote:

At a small gallery just a few paces away, Color & Light, I fall in love with these amazing enamel/metallic/tile pieces by a Santa Fe artist named Zingaro. Yes, he goes by the one name. I like his stuff anyway. I’m still not clear on the process, but the result are these mosaic-slash-montages of coppery enamel tiles, some with silk-screen imprints of flowers rendered in powdered metal. They’re like rich, deep quilts of tremendous hues. The piece I like best is the largest one featuring lots of burnt orange, yellow and red. It costs $3,200. And for one, brief moment, I seriously consider the credit line on my Visa and the freelance projects looming on the horizon. At that moment, $3,200 seems a perfectly reasonable amount to spend on a piece of art that was, after all, so clearly made for me.

Fast forward to Wednesday afternoon, when Chris presents me with a large box. In the past few months, both of us have celebrated certain milestones -- the kind that aren't of much interest to others, but that mean a great deal to us. We'd agreed not to buy presents for each other. This, Chris said, was a present for both of us.

Under layers of bubble wrap and foam board was...a Zingaro. Not the giant Mama from New Madrid, but one of his sunflower series nonetheless. An 11x17 piece of magic.

It's our first "real" piece of art and the surprise nearly rendered me speechless. For a very brief period, of course. I think this was one of those times when only a Scottish word will aptly describe my reaction: I was gobsmacked.

The work is a little hard to describe, so I'll quote the materials that came with the piece:

"The vitreous enamel piece begins as a series of thin waves of metal, usually copper or brass, over which silk-screened images are dusted in finely ground glass. As the wafer-thin layers encounter their first kiln firing, they begin to take on a glimpse of shimmering radiance, an inner light that sustains the almost three-dimensional imagery to come.

Layer upon layer of powdered glass is then delicately introduced and fired to the metal tile, each one bonding and blending its own rhythm and vybrancy to the one before. Like a fingerprint, each tile takes on a unique gradiation in its deep and textured refraction of light."

Like I said, a super-cool light-y tile blanket. Another detail shot, although it's hard to capture the luminosity:

Is my husband a rock star or what?

The time, she flies

Two weeks from today, Chris and I will be en route to Glasgow for our annual pilgrimage to see my Granny P. and my Uncle Douglas. We made the plans for this trip months ago, bought the tickets when it was still all imaginary and yet, here we are, days away from going. It takes me by surprise every time. This year, we'll be taking my niece Rebecca, 8-almost-9, with us. It's her first international trip, first time away from Mom and Dad for that long. She's just about the coolest kid around, so we can't wait to experience the ol' homeland through her insatiably curious eyes.

Last week I had the fabulous experience of calling Granny P. and telling her that we were bringing Rebecca with us. My grandma hasn't been stateside for over a decade and while she's spry and quick-witted, still climbing the steps up to her third-floor flat every day, the trip is likely too much for her. I got to hear her gasp of delight, transmitted across the wires, at the thought of meeting her great granddaughter for the first time.

And while Rebecca may wind up less enchanted with why some old lady's crying about meeting her than with the double-decker buses and funny accents, this is essentially an opportunity to make a dream come true for my grandma.

Take that, reality TV with your scripted tear-filled family reunion moments!

Montreal, Part Deux: A few simple observations

Downtown Montreal

(Note: I actually went back and did a pretty extensive rewrite on that last entry when I realized it was poorly written and not very entertaining. Then my internet connection dropped and I lost it all. So you'll just have to take my word for it --it was really, really awesome. Probably my best writing ever.)

Now...thus far, I have concluded:

1. Montrealites (Montrealers? Montrealians?) really know how to make a good vinaigrette. None of that sweet American-style crap poured over hunks of iceberg. Happy-making!

2. The manpri thrives in Montreal. It's like being on Fire Island, except many of the men sporting them appear to be straight. No, really.

3. Years of practicing my high-school French in the tub ("Ou est la biblotheque?") have done me absolutely no good because when you ask a question in French, they ANSWER you in French. And I seriously have NO idea what they're saying. (Fortunately, I haven’t had to worry about it too much, as every time I say something in French, they say, “What?”)

4. There are no fat people in Montreal. They are all young, thin and attractive. I suspect that, much like middle-aged women in Buenos Aires, fat Quebecois are hidden away in hot closets wearing suits made of mylar until they sweat it off. Overall, these Canadians are a damn good-looking bunch.

5. Not to be paranoid, but it’s possible that the Quebecois may not love Americans or, frankly, English-speakers. The jury’s still out, as we haven’t been spit on yet, but we're not always the first to get our lattes, either.

Stay tuned for more...

What intentions count for

I've been meaning to blog for days. Days, I tell you. And yet...I haven't. Chris and I are still doing the one step forward, three steps backward sinusitis dance, although he seems to be feeling the closest to fine I've seen in a month. Symptoms are waning, but exhaustion is the overriding theme of the past week or so. Simple tasks make one weary and naps are requisite. I meant to write over the weekend, when we had the most glorious (to me, anyway) weather -- dipping into the high fifties at night and barely reaching high sixties during the day, necessitating a scramble to the back of the closets for some toasty fleece to wear on a walk into town for lattes. It felt like a teaser of fall, my favorite season. Odd that as everything is dying and changing, I feel the most alive and alert.

Saturday we made our most energetic foray in weeks, walking the mile or so to the farmer's market, where we browsed the sea of perfect yellow and green squash, plump tomatoes, freshly dug new potatoes, bushels of fuzzy peaches with fantastic names like "flaming fury." We picked up some late-season raspberries, peaches, free range eggs and a number of other goodies and Sunday morning I made us a leek and zucchini frittata which, admittedly, both sounded and looked better than it actually tasted. I could have taken a heavier hand with the seasoning.

There is a conventional wisdom out there that I can't cook -- I know; I started it. The truth is, I can cook. I just don't generally like to. Plus, I'm not a good recipe follower...I'm the sort of cook who's always substituting this or that or putting more of this in because I feel like it. It usually results in a fine dish that can't be truly replicated -- I'm famous for soups and stews that are tasty but always slightly different.

The farmer's market trip put me in the mood to become one with the food and after whipping up the frittata, I set about making ropa vieja on Sunday afternoon. It's a terrific Cuban dish perfectly suited to my tastes of throwing things together. We dined well Sunday night, big bowls of brown rice, black beans and tasty ropa.

Now it's Thursday again and I'm not entirely sure where the week has gone. I slept for part of it -- paying for Sunday's burst of energy with an absolutely drained Monday. Just getting work done, taking care of business (as they say) and resting.

Oh! And I really, really did want to write a lengthy and adoring blog about how fantastic the Crowded House concert was at The Michigan Theater last week. Suffice it to say that they sounded really, really good and no matter how hoakey it sounds, when you can lead a packed theater of people off mike to sing your ENTIRE song ("Four Seasons in One Day") for you, it must be an amazing feeling. I will say, though, the crowd did look a bit like they were shipped in from an early bird buffet -- when did everyone get so OLD? (Chris did note that it's been about 30 years since Split Enz hit the scene...might explain all the groovin' grampas out there...)

Tonight, we're heading to The Ark to see Raul Malo, the lead singer from The Mavericks. I don't really know much of his stuff, but Chris is a big fan and, really, any concert at The Ark is a delight. Plus, we get to have dinner with our good friend Birgit before hand and that is always, always a treat.

Devil in the details indeed

Sometimes I wonder if it's possible to be just slightly OCD. I just finished reading Jennifer Traig's memoir "Devil in the Details" about her childhood battle with obsessive-compulsive disorder long before they had a name for it. It's a breezy read, laugh out loud in places, and tracks Traig's experiences, largely involving scrupulosity, a form of OCD that often presents as religious obsession. In Traig's case, it's extreme Orthodox Judaism, which while no doubt truly difficult at the time, makes for some pretty hilarious copy in retrospect. One of the things Traig writes about in the book is having obsessive destructive urges and how she was unsure she coudl resist voices inside her telling her to hurt others. (She did.) That's the part that hit home for me. Not that I have urges to stab my family members -- other than the normal ones, of course. But I have this thing with heights. I call it a fear of heights and, I suppose, it is. But what I have a real problem with is heights that are open -- not staring below from a window of the John Hancock Tower, but bridges or cliff edges or tall balconies.

Ever since I was in my twenties, when I get towards an edge like that, I get this really strong urge to jump. It's not that I want to die. It's just that there is this...thing...in the pit of my stomach that rises up, that sends the nerves of my legs on fire, that tells me in the space of a split second, I could give in to a completely insane inspiration and hurl myself over the edge.

Now you think I'm insane. Or insane-er. But there you have it.

When we were in Istanbul, I teetered out on the edge of the Galata Tower, which is a very narrow, ancient ledge with a very small, ancient, skimpy rail around it. It's narrow enough that if you encounter someone, one of you has to hug against the building as you go past. My legs practically buckled. Sure, it offers a breathtaking 360 degree view of Istanbul but that doesn't matter much if some part of you is looking at the railing, whispering, "Do it. Jump." In that split second, it all seems very possible, abandoning yourself to complete impulse. It makes me feel insane. I don't want to die. No part of me wants to end it. It's not rational. It's pure, terrifying impulse. And where the hell it comes from, I have no idea.

So that's why I'll likely turn you down if you invite me to teeter on the edge of the Grand Canyon with you, or stand on the side of a bridge looking down. I'm not afraid of the height. I'm afraid I'll go. Poof. Jump. Vanish.

On another, perhaps less-disturbing note, I'm also given to obsessive thinking, although that's not exactly unknown for those in recovery. I have trouble falling asleep at night because of all the thoughts (of everything that's ever happened in all time) racing through my head. I sometimes have to literally stop myself in my tracks to refocus on doing One Thing before moving onto the next 80. I have the greatest of intentions but often accomplish very little I'm so easily sidetracked.

Traig writes about how her mother used to keep she and her sister busy during the summer by forcing them to learn a variety of crafts -- everything from knitting to sewing to macrame. In a passage that hit me very close to home, Traig describes the relationship she has developed with the process of making things:

For me, crafting is the ritual. It's as comforting as reciting psalms, a meditative practice akin to prayer. It controls my tics and hushes my ruminations. It's secular and spiritual. I never feel as peaceful as I do when I'm elbow-deep in a project.

I realized, in reading that passage, that it's exactly how I feel when I'm knitting or sewing or making cards or whatever. I'm rarely terribly pleased with the outcome and I thought my pleasure was largely in the process of learning how to do things. But I think Traig has it right: what I really like is the fact that my mind is focused and quiet when I'm making something. I'm concentrating on one thing. I'm not obsessing about problems or worrying about work. I'm just in the moment, creating something, moving yarn across needles, guiding stitches across fabric. If meditation is stillness of the mind then, yes, making things is probably the closest I come these days.

Cipro a-no-no

After a couple of days on Cipro for my sinusitis, I decided to call it quits -- the insomnia, the stomach cramps, all too much for me. In addition, the prescription-strength antihistimine I have dried out my eyes so badly I actually scratched my cornea. In my sleep. With my eyelid. So it's back to the ol' Alka Seltzer Cold meds for me. I'd rather have cold symptoms than any of that nonsense. Totally unrelated, don't know if any of you caught Slate Mag's feature yesterday on "Crafting the Vote," which offered up a selection of party-specific crafts to help political candidates capture the very important craft vote. My favorite RepubliCrafts were the homeland security blanket and the gun cozy. For the DemoCrafts, I favored the hand-stitched RU-486 carrying case and the macaroni portrait of the third-party spoiler. Excellent.

Tonight Chris and I are going to see Crowded House at the Michigan Theater. Any chance to see a concert -- or, heck, even a movie -- there, is a grand one and these guys are one of my all-time favorite bands. I just hope we're not sitting in the balcony, since it sways unsettlingly when fans get to their feet. Hard to enjoy a concert when you're worried about your impending death in a balcony-collapse disaster...

Because I suppose "Urgent Care" is catchier than "Urgent Couldn't Care Less"

I'm sorry if I keep whining about my illness here, but there's not much else going on and, honestly, I haven't been this sick in years. So much so that as of yesterday afternoon, my chest was tight and heavy and I was laboring to get a deep breath. Chris decided it was time to get me checked out and since my doctor's office was closed we headed for the Urgent Care center less than a mile away. Even if I had been feeling well, it would have been a ridiculous experience. As it was, I felt like bottom, so I was initially relieved that there were only three other people in the waiting room -- and was encouraged, even, by the fact that my name was called within 15 minutes of arrival. I was ushered into a back room, vitals checked, told to change into a gown and then I sat and waited. And waited. And waited.

For an hour and a half.

I understand that there may well have been people there with emergent needs that needed attention more promptly than me, but after an hour and a half of sitting under the flourescent lights, gown flapping open at the back, head aching, lungs hacking, I was sure I was being forgotten.

Just as I was about to throw my clothes back on and ditch the whole thing, a doctor came scurrying in and my patience was rewarded with perhaps a total of three minutes of his rushed attention. He came in with a checklist, asked me a few rapid-fire questions. His manner was so hurried, the way he moved his pen across the papers in front of him, checking this and that. Then there was a quick check in the ears, a glance down my throat. He moved his stethoscope across my back and asked me to breath repeatedly, in such quick succession, I couldn't physically fill my lungs fast enough to follow his orders.

We all know this manner. You enter a store during a busy time and the sales associate is so rushed you feel brushed off and dismissed. Or you arrive at a restaurant before closing time and the staff can't wait to feed you and get you the hell out of there and go home. It's a disconcerting feeling and even moreso when you're not well.

Out came the prescription pad and the doctor started scribbling -- throwing a med at each of my symptoms. An antibiotic, a decongestant, a cough medicine. I had to interrupt him to explain that I was worried about my dis-ease at breathing.

"Are you worried about pneumonia?" he asked, briskly. (He was Indian and while I mean to offend no one, his accent was quite deep and he spoke so fast and my ears were so clogged I had difficulty following him.) "Do you think you might have it?"

Now, I'm a smart woman but I don't actually have a medical degree. I sort of thought that was his job to figure out. "No," I stammered. "I don't know. I just wondered..."

"Do you want a chest X-ray?" he asked.

What kind of question is that? Who wants a chest X-ray? I stammered some more and shrugged. I think I shook my head. He was already scribbling on the pad again. "This is an inhaler," he said. "Two puffs at a time. Two puffs."

"What is it for...?"

He was already heading for the door. "I'll do a chest x-ray," he announced, on his way out. "For pneumonia or walking pneumonia."

Something happens to girls when they are feeling very poorly and very tired. It may happen to men too, but I cannot speak from experience. We cry. We don't want to. We just feel little and sad and sick and the tears bubble up. I was fighting this, feeling rushed and confused, and my voice was cracking as I asked him. "Well, why? Do you think it might be pneumonia?"

He shook his head. "No, but we'll just check." He started to leave.

"What do you think it is, then?" I asked, just wanting a name for my crappiness. He told me it was probably sinusitis and that he'd be back in a bit.

Ten minutes later, my chest X-ray taken, I was fighting back tears and perched on the edge of the exam table again. The doctor came back in. He told me the X-rays looked fine to him, that it was probably just sinusitis and that I should take the slew of prescriptions, get them filled and see my doctor the next day.

Why on earth would I see my own doctor the next day if I came to the Urgent Care center that day? Especially considering our medical insurance doesn't cover doctor's visits. We were paying $160 out of pocket for the Urgent Care partly because it would be cheaper than my doctor's out of pocket fee. I didn't want to pay BOTH.

I got out of there just over two hours after I went in, with a fistful of prescriptions and a diagnosis and I was barely in the car before I burst into tears. My poor husband didn't know what to do with me. Yes, I had a diagnosis -- one I wasn't sure I had complete confidence in, given how little time I was given to explain myself to the doctor. I had a ton of prescriptions, which matched various symptoms, but which I wasn't sure I needed. (An inhaler? Really? I turned down the cough medicine with codeine because frankly the codeine was sounding WAY too appealing to me at the time.)

It was, all in all, a really dehumanizing experience. I didn't feel like I got any personal level of attention, just that I was a set of symptoms the doctor couldn't wait to treat-and-street (learned that one from ER) by scribbling out a bunch of prescriptions. Sure, now I know I have sinusitis. The symptoms all make sense, but I left there feeling distinctly un-cared for. What if I had been much sicker? Would my treatment have been any better? Would I have felt listened to? Would something potentially important have been overlooked in the interest of speed?

And, really, if the doctor spent that little time with all the patients, what the HELL was he doing for the bulk of the two hours I was there?

I'm not breaking news here with my story of how screwed up the healthcare system is. Today, I'm oddly saddened by the whole thing. I'm grateful for the fact that I have the money to pay for my visit; for a lot of people choosing to seek out healthcare can cause them real financial distress. So I'm one of the lucky ones.

Yes, I'm feeling a little better today. I'm on Cipro, so if you were thinking of sending me anthrax in the mail, I'm guessing now's a good time. I'm taking the decongestant, but passing on the inhaler, which just seems a bit...odd to me. I'm breathing better today anyway, if not about the state of the urgent care facility then at least about the fact that I don't have to go there again.

Notes from the couch

You know you're sick -- really and truly sick -- when you can't even craft. When knitting takes too much energy and concentration and the very idea of cutting out fabric or sitting in front of the sewing machine exhausts you. Never mind that it's too hard to concentrate on a book or anything more mentally taxing than US Magazine. It's a sad day when you're too sick to make a tote bag. Word. As a result, I've been getting to know our Ikea couch better than ever and I must say it's pretty darn comfy. From this vantage point, I have been filling time between involuntary naps with much TV watching. Or, in my case, watching of TV and movies on my laptop, thanks to the wonderful world of downloads.

I embarked upon a Nip/Tuck marathon of past seasons and have witnessed its spiral from a moderately clever and entertaining dark comedy in season one to flat-out soap-opera melodrama in season three. (Not all in the past few days, mind you...)

I also watched Flight of the Conchords' Texan Odyssey , a largely entertaining documentary made by the duo for New Zealand TV, chronicling their attendance at the South by Southwest music conference in 2006. It's a bit spotty and disjointed but, heck, so am I this week. So if you like FOTC -- and we all know I do -- then you'll enjoy this. (It's available for viewing on You Tube, broken down into four or five parts.)

In addition, I've been taking advantage of Netflix's Watch Now section. For some reason, I've been wanting to see Neil LaBute's "In The Company of Men" again ever since enjoying Aaron Eckhart's performance in "Thank You for Smoking." Man, is that flick (the former) a tough ride. I saw it in the theaters when it came out, but I must have been REALLY newly sober because I didn't remember much of it. The rawness of the production values just underscore the relentless cruelty and unapologetic misogynism of Eckhart's character Chad. Not sure I'm glad I watched it again.

However, I did enjoy watching "Man in the Sand," the 1999 documentary that's sort of about Woody Guthrie and sort of about Norah Guthrie and Billy Bragg's project to record some of his unknown lyrics as songs and sort of about Billy Bragg and Jeff Tweedy not getting along so well creatively. Obviously, I'm not saying it's a great movie; it doesn't seem to know what it wants to be about. It gives you a very brief and somewhat candy-coated overview of Guthrie, moving you only a tad beyond the typical legend line by touching briefly on his abandonement of his first family in pursuit of a second and even third.

Guthrie left behind about a thousand songs he'd written lyrics for. Since he didn't read or write music, there's no record of what he planned for melodies. So his daughter -- feeling Bragg was a kindred spirit to her father, both politically and musically -- contacted him to write music for and record some of the songs. Ultimately, Bragg brings in Wilco to collaborate and the result was the Mermaid Sessions CDs.

If it's a film about Guthrie, then it's incomplete. If it's a film about Bragg's journey, then it's also unsatisfying. The film's best bits come at the very end when there's obvious tension -- hinted at before -- between Wilco's frontman Jeff Tweedy and Bragg, who have very different ideas about which songs and which mixes of songs should make the final cut. Weird thing is, it's never clear why Bragg brought Wilco on board in the first place, so it's tough to know what the plan was.

It's also hard to tell where the tension stems from -- is Tweedy being difficult or Bragg or both? St. Louis music fans will appreciate Tweedy's biting comment towards the very end of the film. I'm paraphrasing here, but when asked about collaborating with Bragg, he says something like, "Uncle Tupelo had two songwriters and this worked out just about as well as that." (Bear in mind, Wilco fans, that this documentary was made prior to the documentary "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart" which chronicled the band's meltdown and Tweedy's own downward spiral into drug addiction during the recording of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.)

And now my head hurts again from all that thinkin'.

You win, rotten cold, you win.

Chris started it. When he went to Montreal last week on a sleuthing trip, coasting on very little sleep and a ton of stress, he succumbed to it. A nasty flu-like cold that has now been coursing through his system for more than a week. The entire time we were at the beach in NC, he was sick. He's not a man who slows down for much and when he was taking three-hour naps in the middle of the day and was still unable to keep his eyes open, I knew he was pretty ill. Then he gave it to me. Just the night before, I was loud-mouthin' to his sisters about how I usually pick up his illnesses within a couple of days, but this time I was in the clear.

Don't I know anything?

So on our day of departure, I woke up feeling hit by a truck, with a headache that was indescribable and a near-inability to swallow without tears coming to my eyes. There's nothing better than a long day of travel when you're feeling crappy. The human capacity for self-pity comes into full swing. Everyone who's not moving fast enough or slow enough or who doesn't know how to check their baggage, their ignorance is a personal insult, aimed directly at you because they know you're sick and feel like you're walking through jello and they just want to make your life that much harder.

And so I endured -- with much complaining -- the ferry ride from Bald Head Island to Southport, the drive from Southport to Myrtle Beach, the flight from Myrtle Beach to Detroit and the seemingly endless drive from the Detroit airport home to Ann Arbor. (In reality, the whole thing took about seven hours, with the drive home accounting for a total of about 20 minutes. I was just kind of done at that point...)

What could make the day better? Arriving home in the middle of a heat wave to a house with no A/C. Trying to collapse and nap sweaty on a bed with two fans aimed at you pushing hot air across your angry body.

Oh, my life is so hard!

Today promises to be just a few degrees cooler, but I still can't swallow without wincing. Enough whining. Maybe I'll do something useful today like upload some photos from our trip. Just don't hold your breath.

A day in Detroit

My posts are a little out of order these days, largely because I haven't been very good about blogging lately. I've been too busy getting my Real Work done so that I can spend hours on end obsessively learning how to sew things. So I'm only now posting some photos of a brief trip we took last week into Detroit while our good pal Thomas Crone was in town for a visit.

It's about a 45 minute drive from Ann Arbor to Detroit and just a handful more on to Canada, a trip we thought momentarily of making but passed on since we didn't have our passports. Instead, we kind of winged our way around downtown, hoping for some signs of life. We started by checking out Comerica Park, which has something to do with tigers and baseball. I didn't ask specifics.

Comerica Park is located, of all things, in the Detroit Theater District, across the street from the Fox Theatre, with its beautifully faded neon signs. It's the nation's second largest theater. What's the first? No idea. I'm just copying what the websites say.

Next door is the Fillmore Detroit, in the Palms Building. Previously (and better) known as The State Theater, a movie theater dating back to 1925. It has clearly come a long way, as the marquee was advertising an upcoming GWAR show.

Right next to Comerica Park, crowded by the buildings around it, is the Elwood Bar & Grill, an art deco gem that dates back to the 1930s. Turns out that's not its original location, however, as it was moved to make way for the beheamoth ballpark next door. Apparently the inside has been beautifully restored to its originally deco splendor but, like most of Detroit, it's closed on Sundays so I didn't get a chance to look inside.

With a little hunger gnawing at us, we hopped in the car thinking we could find our way to one of the many imaginatively-named ethnic enclaves I'd read about -- Greektown, Mexicantown, Thai Town. But Detroit is laid out a tad wonky and our instincts were getting us nowhere. One map and about 20 minutes later, we'd circled around downtown and drawn several conclusions, not the least of which is the fact that desolate downtown Detroit makes St. Louis look HOPPIN'.

Nevertheless, we did find our way to Greektown, which would probably be more accurately dubbed as Greekblock. While I imagine the technical boundaries of Greektown extend a ways, the "scene," as it were, all takes place on about a block of Monroe Street. There's a block of restaurants, some of which back up to the obscenity that is the Greektown Casino. Greek music was piped into the street from sights unseen and strings of little US flags hung across the road flitting in the breeze.

We took our pick of restaurants and totally misfired, deciding that any place named Olympia couldn't be that bad. It was the logic of people so hungry no blood was being delivered to their brain. There I had what may be the worst Greek Salad I've ever had, and that's coming from someone who's eaten a lot of bad Greek salads in her day. Fortunately, the pita was warm and pillowy, the hummus perfectly fine and the waitress loud 'n friendly. Almost made it worthwhile.

Next, we wandered across the street and allowed ourselves to be lured in by the trays of sweet promises in the window of the Astoria Pastry shop. It's one of those magnificent bakeries that you could spend ages in just looking at everything from the chocolate covered marshmallow mice to the cakes piled with whipped cream and strawberries to the traditional greek pastries which, compared with their neighbors, looked more like punishment than dessert. Fun!

Chris and I split a goodie and Thomas had some ice cream which clearly made him very, very happy.

Also, I have a deep and abiding love for tin-type ceiling tiles and the copper ones at the bakery were a thing of great beauty.

We finished our afternoon -- which was a stunner, I tell you -- by driving out of Detroit on Jefferson into the Grosse Pointe neighborhoods to see how the fancy pants live. I'd been told by friends that it's an absolutely stunning and sudden transition -- in the space of an intersection you go from desolate Detroit 'hood to the verdant mansion-dotted streets of Grosse Pointe. I assumed, however, this was a bit of an exaggeration. It's not. You literally cross from one block into the next and the rotted out storefronts and patched up homes are replaced with some of the most ostentatious gated homes you've ever seen, interspersed with private yacht clubs. It's like being transported from one world to the next in the blink of an eye. How does that happen?

I have no answers. And I have no more to add. Thus, this concludes this blog posting.

The return of jick on a stick: The A2 Art Fair

It's that time of year again. Dreaded by townies and adored by tens of thousands of middle-aged women seeking yard art, it's the Ann Arbor Art Fair. Downtown streets are blocked off and lined with white tents as far as the eye can see. I think an accurate artistic summary would be: blech. I'm sure there are some lovely things for sale, some of which likely even qualifies as art. But it's the miles of crap on a stick -- which you may remember my whining about last year -- that really puts a damper on my spirits. Old candlesticks? Put 'em on a stick. Silver mint julep cups? A stick! Porcelain angels? Copper frogs? Ancient cutlery? Stick! Stick! Stick!

How did I manage to plan to be in Iowa last week and North Carolina week from next yet stay in town for the invasion, during which a trip to the local bean house for a nice skim latte means tussling with crowds of gawkers in unwise shorts?

Speaking of Iowa, I have returned and am in the process of getting my life back in order. It feels like I was gone for months and I think it'll be the full length of my stay away before I'm back up to speed with work, projects and coaxing the house back from its current disaster status.

Did I learn anything in Iowa this year? Sure. Is it worth imparting? I'm not certain yet, but maybe I'll get around to blogging about it sooner or later, although I've been bad in that vein lately. Who knows? If I survive Art Fair, anything's possible.

Everything hurts

Turns out I held my own at Thursday's spinning class, although my ass was killing me by about 10 minutes in. I seemed to be the only person having rear discomfort as no one else was shifting and wiggling around in their seat quite as much as I was -- which seems strange because I have, by far, the most padding in that area and you'd think it would make life easier. It does not. It's a good thing I survived it so that Chris and I could attend a Stretch & Tone class on Friday that completely kicked my ass and all the other parts of me. Definitely more toning than stretching. I worked out parts of me that I hadn't moved since last doing the Jane Fonda workout circa 1988 (which is reponsible for the fact that any time I hear REO Speedwagon's "Keep the Fire Burning," I compulsively take my arms for wide circles).

Looking on the bright side, it turns out I do have ab muscles somewhere in there. I know, because they ache.

I've been running around like the proverbial chicken today as Fara and I are leaving for Iowa City tomorrow morning. We're each taking a week-long workshop at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. I had hoped to be organized and send in my short story in advance of the class, but then I remembered I was me, waited until the last minute to do a final edit/polish and got it printed and copied late this afternoon.

Also in there, I worked frantically on my second stab at sewing a summer top for myself (not counting "recons" of too-big tees, etc.). Turns out I'm just not getting it. Clothing is so finicky and so difficult to fit properly. A smart person would give up now and realize she could have just bought several tops for the amount she's spent on unwearable disasters thus far (other attempts include a disastrous sundress that wound up being a too-small, lopsided skirt). But I am not a smart person. I am frustrated and confused and challenged and plan to keep on throwing away money in the pursuit of getting just one damn wearable item out of all of this.

It's either that or every single person I know gets a tote bag for Christmas this year. And none of us wants that.

Anyway, the new shirt will not be accompanying me to Iowa...or anywhere outside of the house. But that's okay, because it's always damn hot in Iowa City, so who needs shirts anyway? Woo hoo! Actually, it's supposed to be 96 degrees here tomorrow and I'm abandoning Chris to a hot house while I bask in the cool A/C of the lovely Brown Street Inn, where Fara and I are booked.

Speaking of the lovely husband, Chris tucked a few surprises inside the Kinko's box containing the copies of my story for handing out to my classmates. In addition to a couple of trashy mags and a chocolate bar (does the man know me or what?), he bought me a lovely book called How I Write: The Secret Lives of Authors. I haven't had a chance to do much more than glance through it, but it's a collection of pragmatic advice from a range of writers (including Athony Bourdain, Douglas Coupland, Jonathan Franzen, A.M. Homes and Rick Moody) about how they write -- where, when they go about the most difficult part of this writer's life, the actual act of writing.

Isn't that the most thoughtful gift? "Go write," my husband said as he gave it to me. "Go do what you're meant to do." I'm the luckiest woman alive. I swear, I am.

Speaking of said husband, I meant to mention last week that he was interviewed by a lovely reporter for Wired Magazine who flew into town for the occasion. Don't know when the piece is coming out, but it may be the first Sharesleuth.com article that actually focuses on Chris' work and the journalism rather than bickering about the business model. About time, I say.

Anyway, I've still to finish packing -- as tossing things on an armchair doesn't quite do it -- so I'll dash off. I'm trying to keep my expectations in check. This is my third year in a row going to Iowa for a week and I always set such high expectations for myself -- that I'll write a novel, have an epiphany, lose 30 pounds. This time I'm going to try to focus on being in the present, doing what's in front of me, enjoying the time without pressure. That should be a piece of cake, no?

Random thoughts from a week of not-blogging

1. Saw Michael Moore's Sicko last weekend at the beautiful Michigan Theater in lovely downtown Ann Arbor. Not everyone's a fan of the portly Mr. Moore and his equally large opinions, but if there's a film of his to watch, it's probably this one. It's surprisingly opinion-free and with good reason; the state of health care in this country is such a big-business racket, there's little commentary needed. He pushes the envelope with a segment involving taking 9-11 rescue workers to Cuba for healthcare, but it's probably a smart strategic move to help silence the critics who love to accuse Moore of being un-American. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cry, you'll cry. 2. I signed up for a Beginner Spinning class at the Y a couple of weeks ago. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But it starts tonight and it no longer seems like a good idea. My knees hurt just thinking about it. I'll let you know if I survive it.

3. I leave for Iowa on Sunday for the Summer Writing Festival and finally decided which story I'll use for the advanced short story workshop I'm taking. I was going to whip up something new, but the inspiration didn't hit and I've a couple of pieces that I wanted to work on. It's a relief to have that selected and not worry about coming up with something new.

4. Finally watched The Last King of Scotland last night. Apologies to all the people with Netflix who had to wait 800 weeks to get it since it's been sitting on top of my DVD player for ages. Thought it was pretty good, especially since Glaswegian James McAvoy holds his own as a young Scottish physician against Forest Whitaker as Idi Amin. I was warned about it being dark and brutal and it certainly was, especially towards the end. I watched the "behind the scenes" bits on the DVD after and was really surprised to learn that perhaps the most graphic images the filmmakers employed (involving a woman's mutilated body) was actually a debunked myth. I still can't wrap my mind around why, as storytellers -- albeit telling a fictionalized account involving a real man -- you'd choose to perpetuate a myth when there are plenty of real Amin-related horrors you could rely on.

5. I've been driving myself crazy lately, grammatically speaking, using the unnecessary "have got" combo. At some point, I realized I say, "I've got to do this or that" a lot when it's far tidier to say "I have to do this or that." Now I'm driving myself to the point of distraction with it. It's everywhere! ("America's Got Talent." Try, "America Has Talent -- and Bad Grammar." ) Ack. I can get slightly obsessive about these things. Also, everyone needs to stop using "myself" as a substitute for "me." It's also driving me crazy. ("My wife and myself went to dinner last night..." "You can talk to Sheila or myself about your STD...") Me! It's just plain ol' "me," people! Quit trying to be fancy.

6. Back to time-wasters...due to lack of cable, I'm usually a couple of seasons behind on cable shows (though not always, as I have "my ways.") Thus, I've only recently watched entire back seasons of Entourage, the much-ballyhooed HBO series. I'd avoided it this long because of my deep-seeded aversion to Jeremy Piven. But damn if he isn't funny as hell as the loathable agent Ari Gold. I don't know what it is about that show, but it's sort of perfect summer fare -- eminently watchable. Put me on the bandwagon, folks, which I know has been full for ages.

7. The one thing I haven't been doing much of lately is reading, which is unusual for me. Since I've been spending much of my free time sewing, I've been listening to podcasts or watching old TV (see above post) while I stitch away. But with Iowa looming, I've picked up Eggers' "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" which I set aside about halfway through a couple of months ago. Not sure why. But I'm back at it and when you've been away from reading for a while, you forget how meaningful and rewarding it is. Lately I've had the attention span of a fly and can barely get through magazine articles in one sitting. One hopes that this too shall pass.

Catching up

I haven't been a very good blogger lately. Were there a High Commission of Bloggers -- no doubt headed by teenage girls and boy-geeks -- I would have been put on warning for sure. And that means you've been missing out on all the fabulously entertaining moments of my life. Or something.

The most notable (and enjoyable) event of the past couple of weeks was a three-day visit from my sister and my two youngest nieces, Olivia, 5, and Rebecca, 8. That's them above with the campus clock tower growing out of their heads. We had a really terrific visit ambling about town. (Olivia below.)

Among the cool things we did was hit the Ann Arbor Summer Festival called Top of the Park, which is a little confusing since it's not currently held in a park but, rather, on campus. (Turns out it used to be held on top of a parking lot which, while certainly less scenic, makes more sense in a titular vein.) Chris and I were in St. Louis last June, so I had no idea that this event takes place. Every night in June, they have bands playing outside for free and most weeknights they're followed at 10 by an outdoor movie. Pretty cool, no?

Last week, we went to local fave Stucchi's for some ice cream (the girls are devoted to their lemon sorbet) and wandered over to check out Strange Fruit. This Australian performance art troupe does a very cool thang that sort of combines acrobatics, dance, theater...a little hard to explain. They sort of sway back and forth at the top of these long poles, performing out silent storylines of love unrequited to an operatic soundtrack. The only drawback was that length of the show -- just 20 minutes or so, but the girls (and I) thought it was pretty riveting.

We also managed to kill three-and-a-half hours at Ikea while they were here. The girls had a blast wandering around all their room mock-ups and picking out "their" kitchens. (If you haven't been to Ikea, the showroom contains entire rooms set up to demonstrate different ways to use their products, as well as a couple of tiny "apartments" to show how their stuff works in small spaces.)

Since they left last weekend, we've just been trucking along with life as usual. Nothing too exciting, hence the lack of posts. Both of us have been really busy with our jobs, which generally get in the way of having non-stop fun, but what are you gonna do?

Buy local, eat local, eat lettuce, etc.

Since moving to Ann Arbor, Chris and I have found ourselves making some changes in the way we live our lives. Neither of us had a big discussion about how we wanted to "buy local" wherever possible, but it has become a matter of some importance to us. Perhaps it's the fact that when you live in a smaller community like this, you get a greater sense of the impact of spending your dollar wisely. Perhaps it's the fact that we walk into and around town frequently, which means we know the local business better and are more in touch with what's available. And it's all certainly helped by the fact that Ann Arbor is a sworn enemy of the big box retailers, reluctantly allowing them to crop up only on the outskirts of town.

It means that sometimes we spend a little more money than we might otherwise -- buying running shoes from a local shop at $10 or so more than at Sports Authority -- because we know our money goes to support the local economy and not, say, world domination. Not everyone can afford to make those decisions, and we certainly spend our fair share of dough at Target and other national chains, but it's nice to be able to from time to time.

One of my favorite spring and summer traditions is our Saturday stroll into town for the Farmer's Market. Now, compared to the fantabulous Soulard Market in St. Louis, the Ann Arbor Farmer's Market is teeny tiny and, it seems to me, far more expensive. But it's within walking distance of our house and it allows us to pick up whatever's in season at fair prices while supporting local community farms, eating semi-organically, and (at least we like to imagine) taking a smaller chunk out of the environment (considering fuel costs and emissions for our produce to travel from California or further).

My friend Margaret in St. Louis inspired me to look into buying a produce share here. Although we're too late to get on board for this year, I think we'll get in on it next year. There are several organic farmers in the area who sell shares. The way it works is that you become a member or a share-holder in a local farm and, in return, you get a box full of their produce every week or so. (If you don't know about community supported agriculture or want to find a CSA farm near you, go here.)

Today we picked up the bounty pictured at the beginning of this post -- absolutely gorgeous sweet red strawberries, organic leafy green lettuce, organic orange and red tomatoes, snow peas, organic green onions and broccoli. The only thing that set us back more than I care to admit were the organic orange and red tomatoes, which were $3.95 a pound. The sticker price for four was shocking but I couldn't bring myself to argue with the Amish girl who sold then to me. Despite her bonnet, she looked like she might be able to take me.

Now we're planning dinner tonight based around our purchases, which is kind of a fun way to do things. I'll make a salad of the tomatoes with fresh basil and balsamic vinaigrette. We'll pick up some mahi at the grocery store and grill it, with a mango-lime-avocado salsa we've only just invented in our head. Toss the snow peas with a little olive oil and garlic and grill them in a basket and voila! A largely local dinner. Aren't we something?

I found my keys

In my purse. Seriously. Don't laugh. Let me clarify: they were in the lining of my purse. Having snuck through a hole in the seam, they hugged up against a corner, making nary a sound except for some stifled giggling as I rifled through again and again in their pursuit. Yesterday, riding in the car with my purse on my knees, I felt the shape of them through the bottom of the purse and assumed I was hallucinating. I was not.

Let that be a lesson to you. What lesson? I don't know. But let it be one.

Lessons are important, after all. I've learned tons of them in the last week. Like, when you're buying cording to make piping for cushions don't just assume that the 99-cents-per-yard stuff they have up front is the right stuff. If you ask the expert lady, she might direct you to the back of the store where the right cording is just 29 cents per yard. Of course, you probably knew that. You probably didn't have to buy 11 yards of the expensive kind, then run out and then discover the right way to do things.

You probably already knew that whoever coined the phrase "measure twice, cut once" didn't realize what a dunce I am and should have said, "measure five times, cut once." So far, I'm averaging "measuring three times, cut twice, never quite understanding what the hell went wrong the first two."

These are expensive lessons, my friends.

But I am learning, and I think that was my point. I have to say I'm a fan of the whole learning process, mostly in theory. Take sewing, however, (which I realize you've no interest in, but bear with me nonetheless) which I have been doing for about two weeks now. I was struck this afternoon by how comfortable I am already with little things -- winding a bobbin, threading the needle, changing stitches, switching the foot on the machine -- that were completely alien to me a fortnight ago. For lack of a better phrase, I dig that.

I must note also that the knitter in me is both baffled by the intense precision involved in sewing and dazzled by what seems like instant gratification of small sewing projects. Knit a cushion cover and it might take you all weekend, sew it and you're finished in a couple of hours, max. I'm not abandoning knitting, however. You can't sit and watch TV with your sewing machine on your lap, nor do you get the same reward of tactile, soothing, repetitive motion from pressing the pedal as you do from slipping yarn in and around your needles.

The common thread (HA! Unintentional sewing pun!) in all of it is that there is probably little I love more on this earth than making things with my hands. With writing, I rarely enjoy the process, but I love the outcome. When I'm making things it's nearly all about the process itself, the challenge, the frustration and ultimate triumph of figuring out a new technique. It's definitely not about the outcome, since half the time it's lousy.

I've had to pull myself away from sewing the past week to tend to writing work that must be done -- articles for a freelance client, selecting and finishing a short story for my upcoming Iowa workshop. It seems that I should just be allowed to putter around all day, doing what I like, making things and being creative. Why isn't that a job -- covering the occasional throw pillow, slowly knitting a summer sweater? It just seems so unfair, having to work to survive, don't you think?

A few additional random thoughts from the weekend

1. Knocked Up is good. Not great, but the good news is that Paul Rudd is hot again. 2. Ocean's Thirteen is better than Twelve but, frankly, I could watch Pitt and Clooney picking their teeth in well-tailored suits and I'd be perfectly entertained.

3. Keys still missing. I've never done this before. I've misplaced keys for a day or so, only to find them in the fridge or the bathroom closet. But we've searched high and low and said keys are gone. VANISHED!

4. I am becoming quite the expert at covering throw pillows. Chris is becoming quite concerned. Soon, our throw pillows will have throw pillows on them. I can't sew anything else yet.

5. If you are at all craftsy, do check out the publication Adorn. It's filled with crazy projects you'll probably never make but flipping the pages makes you feel like you're in good company. (Also, check out the crazy vintage reproduction fabrics at ReproDepot -- supercrazycool and kitschy to the extreme.)

6. I love Eddie Izzard. I do. He's hilarious and brilliant and even though I had difficulty getting through the first few episodes of The Riches because of his spotty American accent, I'm hooked. Sad to see that season end. (Props too to Minnie Driver who does ignorant-Southern-American better than any native.)