Employee Motivation Tip #1,734

Make every Tuesday Pirate Tuesday!

 Aaaarrrr, mateys! I'm bein' right productive!

 

Make sure all departments feel included.

 

 Meee-ahrrrr!

They breed 'em meaner in Iowa

The best thing about being married? You get a whole 'nother family to love and support you. For example, this morning I got this thoughtful email from my dear mother-in-law Jean, in response to my last email about the weather here:

Sissy! Try -12 degrees with wind chill of -25!!!!!! A trip to the mailbox is numbing. This used to be routine weather for this time of year but no doubt global warming has changed things some.  We're not used to it anymore.  Sissies!! Love, Jean

Warms the heart, doesn't it? Hell. Now I can't even complain that it's one degree out. Jean's probably out sowing corn, tilling fields with a teaspoon and birthing a calf with her spare hand -- all in negative 50 degrees. In a t-shirt and sandals. Perspective's everything, eh?

(Love ya, Mama Jean!)

I forgot to wear red yesterday

Which is just as well, really, since I only left the house for about seven minutes, so even if I'd participated in yesterday's National Wear Red Day to raise awareness about heart disease in women, I would only have been spreading a message around a household already painfully aware. Part of me thinks it must be terribly tiresome for my readers to hear over and over again about my mother's death from heart disease. And the other part of me figures that until the issue heart disease in women has the same level of awareness and visibility of breast cancer then I'm going to keep belly-aching about it. To help me with that mission, here's a link to an article from today's CNN.com. It's not news, exactly. The headline reads, "Heart disease often misdiagnosed in women." That much I knew. Heart disease in general -- and heart attacks in particular -- present very differently in women than they do in men. So too often women -- and medical professionals -- fail to recognize what's going on. In addition, women often aren't taken as seriously as men with any medical complaint, whatever that's about.

 As a result, women are more likely than men to die from a heart attack. I don't know if my mother would be alive today if she'd known that the nausea, vomiting and pain in her back meant something terrible was happening with her heart. No one can say. But I do know I'm continually shocked by the lack of awareness people have about heart disease in women. So here are a few little facts to annoy you:

• Heart disease is the leading cause of death for women in the US, accounting for 32% of all deaths annually. It kills more women each year than breast cancer, lung cancer and ALL THE OTHER cancers combined.
• Women who smoke risk having a heart attack 19 years earlier than women who don't smoke.
• More women than men die of heart disease each year, yet women receive only:
  • 33% of angioplasties, stents and bypass surgeries
  • 28% of inplantable defibrillators and
  • 36% of open-heart surgeries
• Women comprise only 25% of participants in all heart-related research studies.

That last one kills me, if you'll pardon the poor turn of phrase. If women are dying more from this disease than men, why on EARTH are they such a small percent of the research study groups? I don't get it. I really just don't get it.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

It's eight. Eight! Degrees! And it's supposed to get colder. I guess this is the Michigan cold we managed to avoid last year during our trips to Argentina and Turkey. Even this afternoon, when it was a balmy 19, I went numb walking from the Y to our car a block away. My ears froze. My nose froze. My ears froze. I couldn't even feel my emotions. (Except self-pity...that one was clearly intact.)

Still, I'll take it. I'll take it over weeks of 100 degree summer weather with thick humidity. I'll accept that thermal underwear is a fact of daily dressing and that I need to wear thick sweaters even in the house. I'll accept that the tea kettle's working overtime and that everything sounds better in soup form. I'll accept that even the logs have to defrost before they'll light up in the fireplace.

Cold like this is the reason socks go on sale, the reason I stockpile wooly yarn from which to knit extra caps and scarves. It's the reason we subscribe to so many magazines to curl up and read, the reason they make so many flavors of herbal tea and the reason, thank God, that fleece was invented. It might even be the reason kitties were invented, so you could tuck your toes under them when they curl up at the bottom of your bed.

Just check with me again after Sunday, when we hit the negative digits without benefit of wind chill!

Missing Molly Ivins

I've received a strange number of emails over the past 48 hours about deaths, none of them people I knew directly, but affecting people I know. So my heart was prepped for being heavy when I read the news that Molly Ivins has passed away. There's so much I admired about Ivins, as a woman, a wit, a writer. For wearing the label of "liberal" proudly. For being a terrific smart ass and a thoughtful, fearless, outspoken critic of Bush and a zillion other right wing knuckleheads.

I remember when I first discovered her, my freshman year in college. I was writing a paper for my Law & the Media class. I had to defend flag-burning and I came across a great quote by Ivins. She pointed out that George Bush had recently had a birthday cake decorated like the US flag. "Think about where that flag ended up," she wrote. "Now that's desecration."

Until I encountered Ivins, I had no idea that in this world a woman could be fearless, ballsy, fiercely intelligent, unapologetically and unwaveringly left-wing and successful. What a role model to have when you're trying to find your way in the world.

I'm not sure the world can afford to be short one such brave and, often, hilarious voice. I'm feeling gravity's pull a little stronger tonight.

Take my blood, please

I have mad cow disease. Okay, I probably don't have mad cow disease but just in case I DO have mad cow disease, the American Red Cross will not take my blood. Seriously.

I signed up at my Curves about a month ago to donate blood this past Friday. I marked my little calendar. I polished my platelets, put bows on all my red cells and cute little party hats on the white ones. I was all set. To give blood. For the first time. Ever.

I know. It's something I've felt guilty about for years, the fact that I'm hogging all this perfectly good O-positive blood when real people out there need it. And over the years, I've flirted with donating. But there are a lot of things that interfere with a girl giving blood.

Like tattoos. You can't give blood within a year of getting inked. I've been turned away on that account. Fair enough. And given the arsenal of meds it takes to keep fibromyalgia and its accompanying ailments at bay, I thought for a long time I was probably toxic. It probably would have been fine, it turns out, but the rules change frequently and rapidly.

And, yes, there were years when I had more of an alcohol-blood content than a blood-alcohol content and anything I donated would have done more good at a distillery than a hospital. But those days are gone and now I was ready to give back.

The very nice man who ran the Red Cross blood mobile handed me a book of restrictions and requirements and warnings to read before I gave blood. I was two-and-a-half pages into the thing -- and we're talking small print, people -- when I got to the line that would be my undoing. It seems that if you lived in the UK for more than three months between the years 1980 and 1996, you're disqualified just in case you happened to be infected with mad cow disease.

Certainly there was a joke to made about being called a mad cow, something indignant, but it probably was even less appropriate because, well, we were at a Curves, after all. But I was truly disappointed. I'd guess that if I had mad cow disease, we'd know it by now. Tonight, I asked Chris what the symptoms were and he said, "Craziness. Dementia. Then, coma and death." I said, "So all we're missing is the coma and death part?" Oh, the fun we have! If my life were a sitcom, I think at least six people would watch. Sometimes.

 

 

Pahk your cah in Hahvahd Yahd

Here's another distraction for your very busy day. It's a website that, based on the result of a handful of questions, purports to be able to tell you what kind of American accent you have. I've always thought mine was a pretty generic accent, since I've lived in a fair number of different US cities since coming here from Scotland, the majority of them in the Midwest. It was interesting to note, however, that the results said mine is a Boston accent. Interesting, I think, because Boston was the first city we lived in when we moved from the UK. I suppose it makes sense that my root American accent -- which I confess to trying to acquire deliberately -- would be that one. Or maybe it's a load of malarky.

I know my accent is somewhat flexible. When I'm in Scotland or speaking to my Gran on the phone, it slips back in there. Even when I talk to my Dad on the phone, my accent's probably different. It's kind of funny when my family gets together for Christmas. My Dad has a Scottish accent (removed 30 years), my older brother has a sort of hybrid British accent, my sister has hints of Indiana (money comes in DAH-llers) and my younger brother has some distinct Louisville (the number after four is fahve). It's like a little UN!

Either way, what's yours? Try it at http://gotoquiz.com/what_american_accent_do_you_have

It's bollocking!

A mere 18 degrees this morning. And it's absolutely fine with me. Helps me believe that maybe the world won't end in a horrible ecological disaster quite as soon as I'd feared. It's winter. It's supposed to be cold. We're under a winter storm advisory, which doesn't seem to mean much of anything. There's some frozen substance falling from the sky but I'm not sure how much damage it'll do. We've had an inch or so of snow on the ground for a few days now and I must say, I like the way it looks. Of course it helps that I'm able to curl up on the couch in my pajamas, a warm blanky over me and do my work without ever setting foot outside - although I will have to go out eventually, I suppose. We live four or so blocks from the YMCA and yesterday - when the wind chill made it "feel" 9 degrees out - I nearly froze my face off walking there. That said, our Y is brand-spankin' new and they have these big windows on the cardio floor and on one side of the track that let you gaze out upon Ann Arbor and when the snow is coming down in big, fluffy flakes as it did a few days ago, it's awfully pretty to watch while you get your heart rate up.

Speaking of the Y, I think I'm probably going to quit Curves this week. Since we joined the former, I've been only once or twice to the latter. The Y is closer and less routine to me at this point than Curves and it helps immensely that Chris and I usually go to work out at the same time, so I've extra motivation. Not that I'm slaggin' Curves. I think it's a fantastic idea for a lot of people and it was great for getting me back to exercising regularly. I just think maybe it's served its purpose for me right now and I probably don't need to be paying two gym memberships a month.

I'm not sure I'll make it to any of my many gyms today, though. I'm pretty low energy, as the cats organized a parade this morning. It started at about 5:30 and the route, apparently, consisted of my head and Chris' groin. I don't know what's up with them. Allie was recently diagnosed with diabetes, so we have to give him insulin shots two times a day which, even for someone who liked medical experiments as much as I do, isn't that much fun.

In addition, the vet has switched him to a new kind of soft food which he likes more than his old food. Which I didn't think was actually possible. It's hard to explain to a cat why he can't eat every 15 minutes. Especially when you're busy stuffing your own face with a handful of potato chips. You should see the looks of disgust he gives me. How do cats even know what hypocrisy is?

And Punkin' (I Didn't Name Her) Kitty also got switched to this new kind of lower-carb food which she enjoys well enough, but only in small portions. Of course, we can't leave the bowl down or Allie will scarf it all up. So this becomes a delicately coordinated dance of feed-n-distract, feed-n-distract. It's exhausting and, apparently, depriving me of much-needed beauty-and-serenity sleep.

It'd be much easier if we just killed cats as they got older.

KIDDING! Sort of.

Jesus. I've actually become a person who writes on her blog about her cats. Clearly, if anyone needs to be killed, it's me. Just promise that if I ever blog AS one of my cats, you'll take me to the nearest vet and put me out of my misery.

To Vongo or not to Vongo

For those of us who can't get local television reception (tough to get a good signal from Detroit stations all the way out here) or satellite television (too many trees around our house) and refuse to pay the devil-that-is-Comcast for cable, viewing options are limited. Granted, a handful of TV shows are available for viewing -- either free on the network websites or for purchase through services like iTunes -- but the pickings are pretty slim. And, yes, one could -- hypothetically speaking -- master the complicated world of bit torrents and download illegal copies of network TV shows, arguing (albeit weakly) that the moral breech is justifiable given these shows use the free public airwaves and it's not OUR fault we can't get any reception with said airwaves even after working our way through a frustrating and increasingly expensive series of antennae.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

The plus side is that since there's nothing on the TV to watch but fuzz, I don't just turn it on and waste away a snowy day on the couch. (Well, I waste it away, but not watching TV.) I have a Netflix account, although I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth it and, besides, it doesn't do you much good if you're suddenly in the mood to watch a dumb romantic comedy and you've had a copy of Munich sitting on your coffee table for three weeks.

Enter Vongo, a brand new service that lets you download and watch movies online. I just signed up for the free 14-day period. After that, it's $9.99 a month. Here's how it works -- you peruse their movie supply, click on the one you want to download, schedule a time to download it and it adds it to your library. You can watch it as it downloads, pause it like a DVD, etc. and you can watch it as many times as you like before it expires -- the ones I've looked at expire anywhere from a month to a few months after download.

Sounds like a brilliant idea? Here's the problem I'm running into -- Vongo, which is brought to us by the Starz movie channel, has a relatively limited number of movies available at any given time. They say there are 2200 available but I'd say a small portion of those are of interest to me. I suppose the content will rotate as movies appear to be licensed to Vongo for distribution for limited periods of time. There are a lot of movies on there that seem like real duds and mostly older ones at that.

On the other hand, I'm finding it useful for watching movies I've already seen but haven't watched in years (Wings of the Dove, The English Patient, etc.) which is precisely the kind of viewing I like on said snowy, lazy days, when I just want something lovely to keep me busy. I've already watched five or six movies, including a few indies that I'd been curious about but never rented, and I suppose that's worth the $9.99 price tag alone. (You can also order some "premium" pay-per-view movies for $3.99 each.)

You have to watch the movies on your computer, I suppose, unless you've got an S-cable hookup and can play laptop movies on your TV. I have no problem watching my laptop which, when propped on my coffee table or my lap, is far closer than my TV. You also have to watch your space, since each movie seems to take up a huge amount of space on your hard drive. Fortunately, you can delete them from your library as soon as you're finished watching them.

Obviously, the jury's still out on this Vongo service, although I will go on record saying I think it's a terrible, terrible name. I think I'll keep it for another month or so and keep my eyes peeled for Netflix's coming service that will let you watch their movies online. I'll keep you posted because I know you're as fascinated as I am.

Oh! And speaking of my technological dabblings, I finally got set up with Skype. If you're not familiar with Skype, it's an internet-based phone service that lets you make free calls via your computer to any other Skype user in the world -- all you need is a microphone and/or headset. (You can get a decent one for about $20.) Plus, we're thinking of ditching the long distance service on our landline and paying the $14/year that allows us to make unlimited long distance calls from Skype to any land phone in the US. And their international rate for calling a landline phone is just two cents a minute, which is less than we're paying now. Yay, savings!

I actually got an account a while ago but didn't get the headset set up until this week. Looking forward to chatting for free with other Skype members, especially my friends overseas! So if you're a Skyper, let me know and we'll be new best friends and talk all day, every day.

Charlie Card! Charlie Card!

There! I said it again! After my last post about Boston, my friend Maureen sent me this link: http://www.subwayknitter.com/  . It's a knitting pattern for a pair of mittens with a little pocket for holding your Charlie Card! How cute is that? Answer: very.

Weekend update

It's hard to believe we've been back from Boston for five days and I don't seem to have accomplished much noteworthy. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? That's not hard to believe at all. I've actually been in a bit of a funky mood this past week and it took me a while -- and the aid of several vivid dreams -- to realize that the whole situation with Michael Devlin in St. Louis has affected me more than I realized. I'm not entirely sure why and, without aid of a good therapist, may never quite understand. It's not like I was friends with the guy. We worked together for a couple of years and then, when Imo's Kirkwood became the social center of my drinking life, he was a constant but peripheral character.

Still, I think it's just that having knowing someone at all who kidnapped two boys -- and is under investigation for another boy's disappearance in 1991 -- brings the TV world of horrendous crime far closer than I'd like. It seems silly to say that it makes me feel vulnerable and a little more fearful in general, but it does.

It's been strange, too, to see my old boss -- Imo's Kirkwood owner Mike Prosperi -- in interviews ranging from Larry King to the New York Times. Prosperi was the best boss I ever had, a truly good guy, committed to his community. It kills me to hear that people -- armed with misinformation from initial media reports -- have targeted the restaurant with everything from phone threats to attempts to throw rocks through the windows.

They seem to blame Prosperi for not knowing what Devlin was capable of and I suppose I understand that they need someone to blame. However, although the media initially reported that Devlin was a registered sex offender in Utah, that was not true. They had him confused with another Michael Devlin. And, as Prosperi has pointed out, Devlin has been working for him since he was 16 years old. Even if he had run a background check on applicants, there was nothing on Devlin's record.

In fact, Prosperi -- who has employed Devlin for 25 years -- was the first to tip Kirkwood police off to his suspicions that Devlin might be worth looking into. Knowing Prosperi, I'm sure it was painful and confusing for him to do that. The Kirkwood police were the ones who determined Devlin was a longshot since he didn't have a criminal record. Then it was coincidence that led them to a parking lot where they spotted Devlin's truck.

I guess what I'm saying is that Prosperi did the right thing, even though I'm sure he couldn't believe his own suspicions about an employee he has trusted for a quarter of a century. And now I hear from friends back in the neighborhood that people are staying away from Imo's Kirkwood, "punishing" the place by withdrawing business. I'm sorry for that. In the simplest terms I can offer up, that's just not fair.

Imo's Kirkwood has been a neighborhood and community favorite for decades. Prosperi has bent over backwards to make it a family favorite, an ongoing tradition. I hate that his business is suffering because of Devlin, who apparently hid his secrets so well even his family had no idea he'd had Shawn Hornbeck living with him for four years.

Unfortunately, there's not much I can do about it from here. But if you're in the St. Louis area and you're reading this, next time you're hankering for a St. Louis style pizza, get it from Imo's Kirkwood. There have already been enough victims of Devlin's sickness. The community should be rallying around this business, not shunning it. Grab a square, would ya?

Boston, Part Deux

Yesterday, our Boston extravaganza continued. Despite it being MLK day, Graham and Rainey both had to work. What kind of justice is that? They left Chris and I sleeping as they crept out of the house to start their respective days, and sleep we did. Late. You don’t need to know the details, just know that it was late.When we did get our rears in gear, we ambled about and caught the 1:17 commuter train from Roslindale to Back Bay, then switched to the Orange Line on the subway. What urban travelers are we! I think useful public transit is such a civilized thing and, besides, riding the subway involves use of a Charlie Card and you can’t even imagine how much I like saying Charlie Card over and over again. Just ask Chris! Public transit isn’t necessarily cheap, of course. I think it cost us each $4.25 for a one-way train ticket to Back Bay (as we knew we’d be riding home with Graham at the end of the day) and another $1.70 for our subway ticket. (The latter being theoretical since Graham had kindly provided us each with $5 loaded on our Charlie Cards. Charlie Card! I said it again!) If you’re paying that every day, even with reduced return rates, it adds up. Still, probably not as much as a car payment, plus insurance, plus gas.

We got off the subway at the State Street station which is, quite literally, directly below the Old State House, where Rainey works. It’s kind of odd to come up from below the ground and behold this lovely little brick statehouse – once the tallest building in the area – towered over by great modern skyscrapers. Thank goodness for the historical preservationists who had the foresight to save this little landmark, which is practically the seat of democracy in this nation.

Rainey is the Director of Exhibits for Boston’s Historical Society and, after a delicious and nostalgic Turkish lunch (was that really a year ago?) at Sultan’s Kitchen, she treated us to a quick but delightful tour of the museum. It’s a really special treat to get to see a collection through the eyes of a person so intimately acquainted with it. In addition to having objects and displays come alive because of additional insight, there’s an extra boost from experiencing first-hand the passion that drives those who collect and preserve the things that make up our past.

I don’t know that I’d have experienced goose bumps just looking at the folded Liberty Tree flag myself, but with Rainey telling me how they’re going about authenticating it and how it may be the first flag to use white and red stripes as a symbol of this nation, it really was pretty amazing. I don’t know that I’ll ever look at a small museum quite the same way again, now that I have an inside track on the effort, knowledge and affection that goes into maintaining and displaying it all.

Rainey let us wander about the museum a bit while she finished up her work for the day. Among my favorite objects was a little glass vial of tea from the infamous party of that name in the Boston Harbor. It was gathered by a woman from the boots of her husband and I have to say, thank God for women and their need to hang onto objects or we wouldn’t have such treasures. I also got a kick out of Paul Revere’s red velvet coat. He was not a big man – not tall nor particularly broad-shouldered. So if you’re on the skinny side and thinking of letting it stop you from becoming a Patriot, don’t.

As she showed us a copy of Paul Revere’s famous etching of the Boston Massacre, Rainey provided some fascinating insight. Seems Revere’s artistic account – and the name they dubbed the incident – were all deliberately distorted to rouse up anti-Brit sentiment. A little early-day spin, so to speak. In the etching, Revere shows British red coats firing upon Bostonians a the order of their commander.

In reality, apparently, the whole event took place when a wig-maker’s assistant hassled one of the British soldiers guarding the Customs House. The two got into it, a crowd gathered and the British were soon outnumbered and trying to defend their posts. No one knows who fired the first shot, but someone did, and then the other soldiers followed suit, trying to regain control of the crowd.

When all was said and done, three people lay dead, including Crispus Atticks, a freed slave, who became a martyr for the cause of independence. (Two others died days later.) Rainey says a more appropriate title would probably be the Boston Accident. Isn’t that fascinating? I thought so. She’s so smart! I love that Rainey girl.

After our tour of the museum, we walked less than a block over to Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market. When we lived in Newton, we’d bring out-of-town visitors here and while I have vague recollections of flower carts and other shops, I doubt much remains the same after 30 years. An 8-year-old’s world is pretty small and mine, in particular, pretty culinary. Thus, what I remember most was going downstairs inside Quincy Market to Swensen’s Ice Cream parlor for treats.

Sadly, it’s no longer there. But I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the look on my Grandpa Smillie’s face when he came to visit and we took him there and he was handed an entire menu of ice cream treats. Of course, now that I’m older and understand that he was diabetic I’m not sure what we were doing taking him to Swensen’s but the man had a sweet tooth like nobody’s business.

Fanueil Hall was closed for MLK so we didn’t get to take a gander at the upstairs, but we walked through the inside which is now rather dingy and houses a few small shops. Quincy Market, by contrast, seems beautifully maintained inside and now houses an impressive food court. The North and South Markets the flank Quincy Market house mostly mainstream shops now – Crate & Barrel, Urban Outfitters, Victoria’s Secret, etc. Nothing too exciting.

And did I mention it was raining? It rained almost the entire time we were there and though we never seemed to quite dry out and get warm, I can’t complain, because a few degrees colder and it could’ve been ice. But it was the kind of misty rain that, accompanied by mild wind, gets you from all sides and seeps into your hat, wets your gloves and gets in your eyes. That said, it was kind of cool the way the clouds came down and swallowed the tops of the city’s skyscrapers.

We walked from Quincy Market to the North End, passing Paul Revere's house on the way. The North End is packed with Italian shops and restaurants along charming streets. As we killed time waiting for Graham to join us and find parking (never an easy task in Beantown), Rainey filled us in on the neighborhood’s cannoli war, which has been raging since the 1940s, when Mike's Pastry opened its doors right across the street from Modern Pastry.

We popped into both to get a sense of each. Mike’s is definitely bigger, with a far more impressive display of baked goods, trays of marzipan fruit and their special “lobster claw” cannoli, giant shoe horn shaped pastry stuffed with filling. Modern Pastry is smaller and, according to locals, a little less "attitude-y" as a result of its reputation.  In other words, Mike’s apparently suffers from being too comfortable with its status as cannoli royalty.

We then ate dinner at a little Italian place called Giacomo’s, on main thoroughare Hanover Street. We were welcomed and tended to by loud, no-nonsense friendly Italians who yelled to one another across a small room tightly packed with tables.

Good food followed by a trip back to Modern Pastry, where the cannoli shells are filled to order, and your pastries placed in an old-fashioned pastry box and tied with signature red-and-white string. Where else could you get two cannoli, a slice of chocolate mousse cake, a Neapolitan, and two coffees in such quaint style for about 11 bucks?

It was relatively early to bed most evenings in Boston since Graham’s show tapes early each morning, but that suited us just fine. By the end of a day of misty rain, nothing’s nicer than cuddling under a blanket on the sofa or climbing into bed under a cozy comforter.

Tuesday, we made our final trip out of Roslindale and met Rainey at the Museum where we dumped our bags. The three of us headed for lunch in Quincy Market and then Chris and I strolled a bit downtown, despite plummeting temps. For nostalgia’s sake (and because, apparently, we did nothing but eat in Boston), we stopped into one of the last remaining Brigham’s Ice Cream shops.

Thirty years ago, there were Brigham’s restaurants all over Boston, including one in our neighborhood of Newton. It was a real treat when my mom would take us there and probably the place I had my first hamburger, served up on a nice toasted bun. The waitress at our local Brigham’s took a shine to my little brother David and was always so nice to us. We’d have orange sodas in Coca-Cola glasses filled with crushed ice and, for dessert, raspberry sherbet served in metal dishes and topped with Brigham’s signature chocolate jimmies.

Sadly, the raspberry sherbet is no longer on the menu at Brigham’s, but I settled for rainbow sherbet with jimmies and picked out the raspberry bit – really more a blast-from-the-past photo op for my siblings’ sake than culinary delight. Afterwards, we burned off a few calories digging through the bins and racks at Filene’s Basement. Good thing our luggage was already tightly packed, since there were quite a few steals I could have picked up. But we limited ourselves to a really nice zip-up Calvin Klein sweater for Chris – a veritable bargain at just $29!

A little more walking and a last check-in with Rainey and we were on our way to the airport. It was a breeze to take the Blue Line on the subway from the State Stree station. There, you hop off and get on a shuttle bus to your terminal. All said, it was about a 25 minute trip. Remarkable, considering it inevitably takes 25 minutes for the friggin’ parking shuttle to arrive at the Blue Deck at Detroit Airport. Ridiculous!

We arrived back home early evening to find Ann Arbor encased in glassy ice, although the streets seem well-treated. Our back deck looks like a Christmas display, the tree branches shining silver, icicles hanging from the Adirondack chairs. When the wind blows, the branches of the trees make a clicking sound as they touch each other. Cold, but beautiful. 

My 826 Michigan workshop starts up again tonight for another six-week run, so I’ll spend the afternoon staying warm and prepping for that. It looks like I’ve got six students this time around – ranging in age from 14 to 18 – for the “You’ve Got to Work It!” class. I know that several are repeats from the last round and I’m really looking forward to seeing them, reading their work and getting to know the new students. This class has been especially rewarding for me and very useful in helping me consider the type of teaching I’d like to do in the future. Off to prepare!

(Psst...see more photos of our Boston trip here.)

 

 

 

Greetings from Boston!

Just a quick note to bring those interested up to date on our whereabouts. Chris and I arrived here early yesterday morning to visit our terrific friends Graham & Rainey. So far we've done a load of wandering about and eating good food, which is precisely how one should spend a long weekend away, don't you think? We went straight from the airport yesterday morning to a fantastic breakfast at Centre Street Cafe in Jamaica Plain (JP to the locals, doncha know). Great stuff -- Chris and I split a cuban egg scramble with black beans, corn, plantains and salsa; Graham and Rainey split a sage strata and cornmeal waffles weighed down with gigantic strawberries and whipped cream. Plus mugs of much-needed hot coffee.

Next, we came to G & R's house in Roslindale, followed by a quick jaunt on foot around the nabe. After a brief rest period, we headed to Cambridge and Harvard Square where I dipped into a yarn shop and emerged four skeins of alpaca richer. (There are some crazy purple and green socks or gloves in my future, but I haven't decided which.) After wandering into a few shoe stores and other little shops, we headed to Cafe Algiers, where we met up with my friend Maureen and her boyfriend Tom.

I hadn't seen Maureen in a decade. In fact, we'd only met once in person before, having conducted the vast majority of our friendship as modern age pen pals, via chat rooms, IMs and long, laborious emails over the years. Needless to say, that was such a treat. I'll write more about the restaurant, Z, that Maureen and Tom are opening in New Hampshire once I have a little more time.

On the way back home, Graham gave us an in-depth tour of WBUR, the NPR station where he produces On Point and Rainey and I played in the studio and pretended to have our own talk show. Rest assured we're in no danger of being picked up nationally. Or locally. Or even by our husbands.

We ended the evening with a really terrific dinner at a quaint and cosy neighborhood bistro called Sophia's. It's rare to find an intimate dining space that's warm, friendly and hits the right note with everyone's meal. Lovely stuff. By the time dinner ended, we were all pretty zonked. Chris and I had gotten up at 3:45 in order to catch our early morning flight out of Detroit, so we were all in bed by 11 and slept late this morning.

The weather's been pretty rainy and chilly since we arrived, which is far better than the freezing rain that has plagued some areas. Unfortunately, it's prevented us from walking around as much as we'd probably like. We've been treated to a great car tour of a lot of the neighborhoods, augmented by Rainey, your dream tour guide of a history-rich city like Boston.

Today we got a late start and grabbed a quick lunch at a taqueria called Boca Grande on our way to Newton. When I was 8, my family moved from Glasgow to Newton, right next to Boston College, where we lived for about a year and a half. We found my street and the house we lived in, which looks pretty much the same as it always did. It was so strange standing outside it, in the rain, remembering so many things just looking at it.

I was thrown because I remembered that we lived almost directly across the road from a fire station, which I couldn't see. Upon closer examination, I discovered that it has been renovated and turned into a private home, the repurposed engine doorways now hidden from plain sight by dense, tall trees in the front yard. If it weren't for the cupola on top, I'm not sure I would have realized it was the same building. Must be sensational inside, although the news might sadden my little brother who, as a 3-year-old, loved nothing more than going across the street and being fussed over by the firemen who let him gaze at their great shiny red trucks.

After that, we drove down Commonwealth Avenue gawking out the car window at the stunning homes that line the street. (It should be noted that at almost the exact same moment we spied a giant white poodle pooping in the grassy median and a hare krishna in a toga getting into a Mercedes.) We parked and wandered a bit around the fancy shops, stopping in at Lush to visit all the bath and face products I can't use anymore. And we spent a few minutes inside the main branch of the Boston Public Library, which is a thing of true beauty, with gorgeous architectural detail and beautiful murals throughout.

Next stop, Beacon Hill. A quick drive by John Kerry's street and then we lucked into a parking space and hit a small cafe for hot drinks to warm us up. Then we drove around some more, seeing some of South Boston, before heading for dinner at the Barking Crab, where we met up with Rainey's cousin Reese, his lovely wife Jennifer and G & R's friend Kurt. I'll put up pictures of the giant bowl of crabs the table devoured one of these days.

Now I'm cuddled up in bed, underneath a comforter, the chill of the day finally working its way out of our bones. We've a lazy morning tomorrow before heading in to meet Rainey at work at The Boston Historical Society and another day of mozying about. Sleep now!

Too close for comfort

For some odd reason, earlier this week, I was thinking about a guy I used to work with during my brief collegiate and post-collegiate stints at a St. Louis pizza restaurant. He was a manager, nicknamed Devo, who was, quite frankly, a pain in the ass to work with. He was a loud mouth, a braggart, always claiming to know more than he did. What popped into mind recently was a discussion we had, which went on over several shifts, about the word "tip." Devo kept insisting that it stood for "to insure promptness." I told him he was full of shit. Thus was the level of our discourse. Just a short while ago, I learned that the man arrested today for kidnapping the two boys mentioned in the previous post is Michael Devlin. Or, as we used to call him, Devo.

I can't describe to you the feeling of seeing his face on CNN.com, recognizing him easily, a thousand stupid exchanges and dumb tales coming rushing back...and trying to reconcile it with the type of monster who takes other people's children and holds them for years. And we don't yet know what poor Shawn Hornbeck was subjected to in that time, in a small apartment in quiet Kirkwood, Missouri.

I'm not sure I knew before tonight how pervasive the sensation of one's skin crawling could actually be.  

Good news in St. Louis

In 2002, an 11-year-old boy named Shawn Hornbeck went missing just outside St. Louis. I remember hearing the name on the TV news reports, reading it in the newspaper. Today, Hornbeck and a 13-year-old boy who disappeared Monday, were found alive in an apartment in Kirkwood: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16600139/. While I can't imagine what Hornbeck has been through the past four years, it's rare to find a news story that moves me as much as this one. I suppose we're just not conditioned to expect good outcomes when kids go missing. Pretty amazing stuff.

Wait...you don't look a thing like Robert Redford!

Monday was a rather remarkable day this week, proving once again that the gifts of the Knight-Wallace Fellowship just keep on comin'. (It helps to refuse to leave Ann Arbor.) It was the program's annual public policy seminar and this year the topic was government secrecy with information. Quite a star-studded event, the panel of journalists included the New York Times' managing editor Jill Abramson, NPR's security correspondent Jackie Northam, FOX's Greta Van Susteren and investigative reporting legend Bob Woodward. In his all-too-brief keynote speech, Woodward addressed what he called "the elephant in the room" -- the Iraq war and, more specifically, the business of covering it under the most secretive administration to date. His approach to the topic was interesting as he outlined five points that he said provided us with the context in which the Iraq war is being conducted and reported.

First, he said, the impulse to go to war in Iraq "comes from a lot of idealism on the part of President Bush." He quoted Bush as saying, early on, that Bush believes "we have a duty to free people, to liberate people." Woodward noted that this zeal for liberating people is a crucial element in understanding what's happening.

Next, Woodward said, "In the Bush administration, reality avoidance is a habit." This level of secrecy is not only difficult for the government but "perilous for reporters." We have so much going on in secret, stacks of classified documents that are contradictory to what the administration says publicly.

His third, perhaps most simple, assertion was this: "There is no strategy for war in Iraq." A statement so bold, so certain that Woodward didn't embellish. Fourth, he noted that there is a tremendous amount of disagreement within the powers that be about how to proceed in Iraq. He quoted a secret memo penned by Donald Rumsfeld, in which the then-secretary of defense wrote that the current administration was so messed up in its strategy regarding Iraq that "competence is next to impossible."

Lastly, Woodward pointed out our lack of patience, the pressure from all sides of the political spectrum to produce a solution that will quickly and tidily solve a problem that's going to take years to reconcile.

"Of all the things we have to worry about," Woodward said, "the thing we ought to worry about is secrecy....Democracies die in darkness."

Powerful words indeed, coming from a journalism legend, a force to be reckoned with in the business of both uncovering (and, frankly, keeping) secrets that changed the world. Perhaps most impressive of all, however, was that he comes across as an extremely affable guy, with a good sense of humor.

I was also impressed with Greta Van Susteren. I admit, it may be easy to be both wowed by her high-profile status and cowed by her employment at FOX, but she said a lot of good and sensible things in support of journalists' access to information. She said early in the event that journalists should always be disatisfied with their level of access to government information and fight constantly for a greater level of disclosure. Right on, Greta.

Van Susteren also pointed out that it was only logical that government officials provide greater access to individual reporters and news outlets they feel will preserve their image: "Administrations always want to talk to someone who they think will put them in the best light and not someone who will challenge them....They are not out there to make themselves look bad." That said, she stressed that it is journalists' jobs "to dig deeper" and go beyond the spin they're handed.

 

Notably, Van Susteren was the only panelists to make a plea to the general public to help assist reporters in their efforts to get more information. "If you want more information, if you believe that more information is the bedrock of democracy -- and I do -- then you need to figure out a way to get more protection for journalists."

She noted that fear is an extremely powerful deterrent, that journalists want to live safely as much as anyone else and that reporters want to be able to do their jobs without risking spending 18 months in jail for digging up the truth. Suggesting that the general public press elected officials for legal changes that would protect reporters, she added: "You get us more protection and I think there will be more hard-charging journalists out there...."

My status as editor of the KWF newsletter landed us an invitation to Wallace House for dinner with the crew where the thrill of my evening was getting to meet Woodward and escorting him over to the bar. Sigh. It wasn't much, but there you have it -- I can tell people I once had dinner with Bob Woodward and it wouldn't be a factually incorrect statement. Not a bad way to spend a Monday night.

 

God reads my blog

At least that's what I assume, because I woke up this morning to snow on the ground. Not much, just a thin enough layer to render everything briefly pretty and just enough for me to gleefully pull on my new snow boots.