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!

BMOC: Big Moron on Campus

Part of the whirlwind craziness of the past week or so has been my general anxiety at returning to college. Not in a big way -- it's not as if the Michigan MFA program took one look at its current crop of incoming students and decided they'd made a big, big mistake to leave me hanging on the waitlist. Rather, I was fortunate enough to be granted permission by Nick Delbanco to take his fiction seminar in the Rackham Grad school English Department this fall. In truth, I was not entirely sure what I was getting into with the class -- the description in the course catalog seemed a tad vague and maybe suggested that it was better suited for those making a transition between poetry and prose. But the professor was kind enough to offer me a spot and I am determined enough to get better at writing, so I jumped at the chance -- stupidly underestimating the web of academic virtual paperwork it takes to officially do such a thing.

It doesn't help that everything happens online these days and I come from the handwritten-paper-slip approach to signing up for courses. Then there was the matter of applying as a non-degree-seeking student to the Rackham Grad School and getting immediately rejected because I was supposed to apply as a different kind of non-degree-seeking student. Then there the matter of obtaining an "override" -- or official department permission -- to sign up for the class. And then there was the absolutely terrifying matter of signing up for the class online in a complex system that is no doubt completely intuitive to anyone born after 1980.

But all of that is in the past. I finally figured it out -- with an IMMENSE amount of hand-holding, guidance and encouragement from the Rackham English Department. (I'd name names, but I don't want anyone to get a reputation for being the go-to gal for the completely confused.) Class started last Wednesday and while it is a small group -- so far just six of us -- it looks to be an interesting endeavor.

Since a couple in the class are poets in the MFA program, we will be looking at the poetry-to-prose journey a bit, but we'll also have plenty of time for workshopping each other's pieces and getting individual guidance from Nick. To be honest, I'm not even sure at this point what I want to accomplish with the class. Of course I want to emerge with a stronger piece for re-applying to the MFA school in the Fall, but I don't know if that means reworking an existing story or embarking on something new. So many decisions!

Montreal, Part The Rest

This always happens. I scribble notes here and there, but then I get back from a trip and get caught up in catching up and then it's forever since I was in whatever place I was in and it all seems too daunting (plus, minimally interesting) to go back and give a blow by blow account of said trip, which now seems so far in the past. Thus, I present to you some highlights of the remainder of our trip to Montreal, in photo form. (I also went back and added some photos to the previous Montreal entries, for posterity.)

Saturday was possibly my favorite day in Montreal, as we hit the famed Jean-Talon Marche, an outdoor farmer's market near Little Italy that runs week-long but hits its stride on the weekends. Especially on a crisp, sunny Saturday morning.

The abundance of fruits (or, as the French say, fruits) was amazing, especially the giant baskets of "bleuets." Chris especially loved the signs for "bleuets sauvages" from Quebec. While it actually means "wild bleuberries," I'd guess he had a more violent mental image going.

Our favorite part was that many of the stands offered up generous samples of their various produce, so we lined our tummies with bites of juicy peaches, pears, apple, mango and chunks of (thoughtfully) lightly salted tomatoes. We also tried some fresh figs (below), which have a strange, watery sweetness something like the consistency of watermelon. Not quite what I was expecting.

Other beautiful images included aubergine (eggplant) in every gorgeous shade of purple imaginable, from the palest lavender to the deepest, well, eggplant:

Giant clusters of garlic still on the stalk:

Baskets spilling over with ripe tomatoes:

And Chris was in heaven when we found a vendor selling fresh cooked cobs of "maize sucre," complete with a pot of butter you could paint on with a brush and a sprinkling of salt. I don't know if it was the fact that we were outdoors on a gorgeous day and surrounded by all the most amazing colors of nature but it was, without question, the best corn I've ever eaten. (Chris said it came close to rivaling fresh corn picked from the Iowa fields of his homeland, which is a pretty high compliment.)

We had what was probably our best meal in Montreal at the market. We picked up a baguette, some local goats cheese (flavored with garlic and olive oil), a little tub of stuffed olives and some organic cherry tomatoes and squeezed into a picnic bench in the crowded eating area for an impromptu picnic. It's something we've done on several trips -- picked up a few locally made goods for a simple lunch and it always winds up being one of our favorite memories.

It turned out that in addition to walking too far the day before, I'd also pulled or twisted something strange in my left foot -- badly enough that, the night before, it had been excruciatingly painful to hobble to the bathroom and I barely made it down the block to dinner without tears. On Saturday, my foot was feeling a little better but I made a real strategic error in wandering for too long around the market before heading out on what I had thought would be the main attraction of my entire trip to Montreal: the fabric shopping district on St. Hubert.

Here in Ann Arbor, there are a few fabric and craft stores and my new sewing jones has me familiar with a couple of great online retailers, but I'd read much about the dozens of fabric shops located just North of a busy pedestrian thoroughfare. I even made room in a suitcase for all the fabric I anticipated finding and bringing back.

However, it turned out that the combo of foot pain and sheer volume of options -- shop after shop with bolt after bolt of fabric to choose from -- had me quickly overwhelmed. I didn't have any particular projects in mind and I quickly got the same feeling I get at thrift stores -- a little bit of claustrophobia and instant exhaustion at the thought of having to pick my way through so many bolts, squeeze my way down tiny aisles, in the hopes I might find something I liked.

I spent maybe 45 minutes going into four or five different shops, but at that point the fabric were all blurring together. I couldn't remember what I'd seen where or even think of what I would use the fabric for. There were too many possibilities and not enough specifics. Bargain sections held remnant bolts stacked floor to ceiling. I couldn't handle it.

In the end, I bought...nothing. Well, I did pick up a little ribbon trim at one shop, mostly because it was pretty and it seemed like a small and easy, manageable purchase. But all that extra suitcase room was for naught. If I return, it'll definitely be with some projects in mind and at the beginning of the day.

Overwhelmed and ready for a refreshment, we ducked into a Nickels restaurant on St. Hubert. Nickels is a pretty cheesy local chain designed in a fifties-American-throwback sort of way. And it was here we decided to try one of the great Montreal culinary traditions: poutine. Although there are many fancy variations, the basic gist to this beloved snack/meal involves french fries covered in cheese curds and gravy. No, really.

Granted, in its most basic form, it looks like a plate of vomit. It took a little getting used to -- it helped when the cheese curds melted -- but the truth is, the taste grows on you. Enough that we polished our poutine plate clean. Not so much that we went actively seeking more.

Sunday, my feet feeling a bit better, we spent some more time on Rue St. Denis, which offers up block after block of boutiques, cafes and restaurants. The weather couldn't have been more lovely and there are plenty of gorgeous buildings -- mostly commercial on the ground floor and flat up above -- to gaze at. To wit:

Reminded me a bit of Amsterdam in some ways...

You can spend hours ducking into one little shop or another but -- from an aesthetic standpoint -- Au Festin de Babette is perhaps my favorite. It's a tea house, chocolatier and ice cream shop that's just so charmingly set up in what was likely once a residential house.

And inside...so pretty, no?

Monday, we drove out into the Laurentian mountains, which takes about an hour from Montreal. It's not as rustic as we'd hoped. A lot of ski resorts and golfing developments breaking up walls of stick-straight pines reaching skyward. We stopped for lunch in the charming little town of Tremblant and wandered its few blocks of touristy shops, then headed for Lake Tremblant, which was completely developed and difficult to access if you weren't staying at one of the resorts on its shores.

And Tuesday, we headed home. End of trip. (If you're a real glutton for punishment, there are a few more photos from our trip on my Flickr page.) I have to say that, while I enjoyed our trip to Montreal -- and probably would have moreso if my foot hadn't gone all wonky -- it wasn't one of those places that grabbed me (the way San Francisco or London or, even, Puerto Rico have) and made me long to return even after I'd left. I'm glad I went, though, and who knows -- maybe Montreal and I will meet again and maybe next time, she'll understand what I'm saying.

Montreal, Part Trois: I found the fat people!

Inside Cafeo, our favorite cafe-et-wifi stop on Rue St. Denis.

Phew. Milling among the trendies on Ste. Catherine and Rue St. Denis had me a bit worried, but they DO have fatties here. Repeat: there are chunky folk in Montreal. Of course, they may all be American tourists, but still. It brings one some degree of comfort.

The kids have some crazy fashions rolling here. I feel qualified to judge not because I have a natural flair for fashion but because I have absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever. You could put me in an $8,000 designer gown and within minutes I'd somehow look like I tumbled out of the drier. My hair would be bendy, my skirt wrinkled. My purse wouldn't match and it'd be less than five minutes before I spilled something down the front. Thus, I feel that I'm particularly well-qualified to recognize fellow fashion disasters when I see them. And there have been many. I have no pictures to show you because I don't want people to hit me. You'll just have to trust me.

Non sequiter: Chris thinks there should be a midnight half-price tart shop where all the pies at day's end go on sale. He's worried about all the pastries going to waste when they could be in his belly, preferably at rock-bottom prices. (He really, really likes saying "tarte tatin" over and over again in a French accent.)

Guess which one's old and which is new? Hint: the old one is Christ Church Cathedral on Ste. Catherine.

Okay...where am I? Where have I been? Ah, yes, Montreal. So...if you happen to like gorgeous old buildings, then Montreal's the place for you. I do indeed, and there are some stunners -- particularly from the Victorian era -- just about everywhere you look.

Today we played touristes and checked out Vieux Montreal, the Old Port area down by the, well, port. It's pretty touristy fare. We started out from our hotel on Rue Sherbrooke, headed back down Ste. Catherine to St. Laurent which took us, essentially, right into the heart of Old Montreal. Along the way, we passed from high street shopping to a slightly seedy few blocks of sex shops through the gates of Chinatown (or Quartier Chinois, as they say here.)

The weather has been unbelievably gorgeous, perfect for strolling the lovely cobblestone streets of Vieux Montreal, dodging schlocky gift shops and overpriced restaurants aimed at tourists.

We grabbed a bite to eat then wandered to the main square, at the top of which the stunning old Hotel de Ville sits.

Chris had to dash off for a business meeting, but I stuck around and wandered down by the waterfront, snapping a few shots along the way.

The Old Port waterfront area (more familiar to Blades of Glory fans when completely covered in ice):

Place Jacques-Cartiers, the heart of Vieux-Montreal, complete with wacky street performers and tons of tourists buying overpriced schlock.

This street performer, apparently out to lunch. Tragic for all those needing hugged. In two languages, no less!

The rather daunting silhouette of Notre Dame de Bonsecours, overlooking the waterfront:

The famed Bonsecours Marche where, I suppose, one can buy stuff:

Then I headed through the less-trafficked streets west of Old Montreal's main square and gazed in the windows of art galleries. Were it not for the cars, there are moments when you could feel completely lost in time. After a while, I wound my way back in the general direction of our hotel, past the mini-Parthenon exterior of the former stock exchange (now a theater), and emerging at the Plaza des Armes and the Notre Dame cathedral. You can't spit without hitting a fantastic cathedral here. And you probably shouldn't be spitting anyway, what with Americans' bad image over here.

My very favorite way to experience a new place is to wander around the streets, watching people and taking photographs. Montreal's the ideal place for it -- it's relatively safe and somewhat compact, plus there's something truly lovely to look at at every turn, whether it's an old church or a Victorian building now housing boutiques or studio flats. And unlike many American cities, there are people everywhere, going about their business, but also just sitting and enjoying their environs. Outside one of the churches, people spent their lunch hour sitting on the steps or curled up in a corner reading. Locals grab a coffee and hang out on street benches, chatting or reading the paper. Montreal is a city that feels cared for, belonged to.

I'd been debating trying to find my way around the other Montreal, the underground city. Below the streets of Montreal, a series of tunnels connect Metro stations and shopping centers -- in the harsh days of winter, you can access miles of commerce and much of downtown without ever stepping outside. I knew it was down there. I knew it was massive. I just didn't know how to get to it.

Place des Artes

So I stayed above ground and made my way back to the Place des Artes, where the Montreal Film Festival is taking place. Like a local, I took a place on the steps outside the Contemporary Art Museum and just hung out for a bit. Then, of all things, my phone rang. It was Chris, calling from a payphone to say that his meeting had been canceled and so he was hoping to catch me somewhere in town. Turned out he was right across the street. Too cute, eh?

Okay, so on with the show...even though my feet were killing me (I ALWAYS walk too far the first day), we decided to brave the underworld. Man, is that a trip. There were a ton of people snaking their way through the netherworld of Montreal, moving from mall to mall, Metro station to Metro station, eating at giant underground food courts. Now it makes sense how Montreal's sidewalks are pleasantly busy but not overcrowded. The unruly youth are underground eating frites!

Perhaps tomorrow we shall discover something equally new and fascinating. If my feet don't hurt too much to move, that is!

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...

Montreal, Part Un: A rocky start

Chris found the place on Craig's List. We're savvy travelers, not lodging rubes. It sounded lovely: an apartment in a trendy neighborhood of Montreal, owned and decorated by an interior designer, filled with antiques, cozy, close to shops, and with a clawfoot tub. And, of course, wireless internet. Chris, as you may know, cannot work without reliable internet access. (He may not, in fact, be able to breathe without it, although it's a theory we've never tested.) There were photos; nice pictures. It all sounded so much better than an impersonal Price-Line'd hotel.

You know where this tale is going. You know that when we arrived, the neighborhood didn't seem particularly lively and was considerably further from shopping than we'd anticipated. The place didn't exactly ooze charm from the outside but, still, we'd been up since six, we were thrilled to have arrived in Montreal. And then we went inside.

You know how there are times when you should just trust your first instinct...but then you get worried that maybe you're being too fussy, too judgmental. An ingrate. An...American. We looked around. The antiques mentioned turned out to be a mish mosh of mid-century furniture in passable condition. The kitchen was...fine. The towels were a mismatched pile. The living room was dingy, with a couch that couldn't remember when it saw better days.

The area as being perfect for doing business was an old desk with a ripped leather desk chair. However, the wireless internet signal was weak, so the owner suggested we sit on the bed in the front bedroom with the laptop by the window in order to use our computers.

I can't explain it. We were trying to be optimistic. Trying to be grateful. Trying to make the best... The owner was odd and hovering, so we felt his expectations and didn't have a chance to discuss it. So we handed over the balance of the money we owed -- in cash -- and decided to stay.

For about five minutes.

Then we changed our minds. It was all just too odd, too weird. Neither of us could get a decent internet connection. I had hoped for somewhere simple but maybe bright and sunny where I could read and write while Chris was dashing around investigating...whatever he investigates. I couldn't even sit on the couch here without worrying about its previous occupants. There were orphaned hairs in the bathtub.

So we went upstairs and told the owner that we weren't going to stay. It wasn't what we expected, it wasn't what was advertised. He was welcome to keep the deposit -- that seemed fair -- but we wanted the bulk of our money back. No dice. He wasn't having it. We were putting him in a position, leaving him hanging. He seemed not to agree with my argument that this was the cost of doing business for him, the risk he takes on -- no different than my risk as a freelancer when a client decides not to use the work I've done.

It got ugly. Not fisticuffs ugly, but verrrrry uncomfortable ugly. He'd give us our money IF he could find someone to stay there instead of us.

Uh, no. We were the consumers. We were unhappy and we wanted our money back.

He couldn't give it to us. It wasn't fair. Besides, he'd have to talk to his wife first.

Fine, we'd wait while he called her.

He couldn't call her at work. She wasn't reachable by phone. We were being unreasonable and refusing to work with him -- he had a wireless range booster he could offer us.

The lack of reliable internet access was only one problem. He could have the deposit, but we had the right to our money back.

Why should we get our money back? That wasn't fair to him. He would lose money on our booking.

It's our right. As consumers. (Perhaps we were making it up at this point, but it SOUNDED reasonable to us.) Unless he had a cancellation policy that stated otherwise, he was welcome only to our deposit. But he had absolutely nothing in writing; a cash-only operation with no paperwork.

Could we show him paperwork that stated we DID have the right to our money back?

And then I said it. I thought about it first and decided if I was going to say it, I'd better mean it. I'd better be willing to follow through. I was. I said: "If you don't give us our money back immediately, my next call will be to the police and we'll let them settle the matter."

He disappeared for a moment behind the open door. I heard him mumbling quietly to someone. His dog? His wife? He was gone for a few long minutes. I worried that he was loading his gun and would return to shoot us and THEN would it have been worth it, Miss Smarty Pants? Then I remembered we were in Canada. There are no guns. He was probably just off getting some socialized medicine or thinking in French.

He returned. We got our money back. We went off in search of a wi-fi cafe and a Priceline hotel. Montreal, you are kicking my ass so far. I hope we get along better tomorrow.

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'.

Shelfari with me?

Sharp readers of this blog may notice a new addition to the sidebar on the right. It's a little widget that links you to my Shelfari page. What is Shelfari, you may ask? I'm not sure. I just joined recently, after being invited by a friend and I'm still trying to figure it out. You know that function of Netflix where you can list your friends and see what they're watching, what they rated things and what they recommend? Well, it seems to be something like that for books. It's a neat way to list what you're reading, rate books (and review them if you feel up to it) and see what other people are reading.

I can't decide if it's a lot of work to create your "shelf" or if it's the sort of thing friends would love to do to kill time at work. Take a look and if you think you might like to join, let me know and maybe we can be buddies and stare at each others' shelves. Here's a link to mine. There's not much on it yet, just the past few books I've read.

Bald Head Island

From my sickbed, where a million tiny daggers stab my lungs every time I cough, I bring you some pics of a gentler time, not so long ago from our vacation on Bald Head Island. We spent four days there with the Carey clan. It's a crazy little place, a sort of manufactured version of someone's utopia, a little island accessible only by ferry. No cars are allowed on the island so everyone motors around on golf carts.

The pic at top was taken from the balcony of the house in which we stayed, which was only a few hundred yards from the beach. A quick jaunt down the zig-zag boardwalk and there you have it.

The island feels a bit like a giant subdivision in the sense that all the houses sort of look the same -- different shades of grey and tan, porches wrapping around this way and that.

The real attraction of this trip for the Carey clan was getting to fuss over the family's newest member, my niece Genevieve, who's 15 months old and took to the ocean like a...well, you know. Fish, water.

The above is not an actual member of the Carey family, although he/she was so amazing we probably would have let him/her in. We spotted this bird from a distance at a nature reserve on the island. I have no idea what it is -- heron? crane? -- but it stood so still in this pose for so long we thought at first it was a statue. God bless the zoom lens. What a magnificent creature, eh?

Speaking of magnificent creatures, here's the whole Carey crew, hanging on the beach. We harangued a nice fisherman to take a few snaps for posterity. A few more shots...

The core Careys...Joel, Julie, Mama Jean, Amy and Chris (who was so sick that day, poor thing.)

Mama Jean and her grandkids, Lee, 17, holding Baby G., and Kate, 14. (The older two belong to Chris's sister Julie and her husband Mike.)

Genevieve agrees to sit still just long enough for a family photo with her parents, Kathleen and Joel.

Amy's husband (and my fellow Scot), Hamish, holdin' down the beach.

My brother-in-law Mike (Julie's husband, Lee & Kate's dad), relaxin' in a styling hat borrowed from Baby G.

And if you're a big fan of Bald Head Island or the Carey clan, or both, you can find even more snaps on my Flickr page. Enjoy!

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.

Where I've been, or What Will I Make Next?

When I'm not working or taking care of business (which sounds either a) more official or b) more dirty than I mean it to), I've been not blogging also. Instead, I've been either hunched over my sewing machine or spending hours upon hours browsing the forums at Craftster.org. If you haven't been and you're even remotely craftsy -- or remotely OCD -- be warned...it will suck you in. And pretty soon, it'll be one in the morning and you'll be scrolling through the new projects section and thinking, "I absolutely MUST start making my own coasters out of magazine clippings and resin."

For all those haters of knitting and sewing and all that, may I just tell you that while you were sniping, the cool chics of the world have been turning your XXL men's tees into adorable, sexy little dresses; stenciling amazing original designs on anything that doesn't move; re-painting, re-upholstering and re-imagining just about everything in their path; knitting hats, gloves and sweaters to warm their punk hairdos and tattoos; and sewing the most amazing outfits out of $2 thrift store finds.

Rock and roll chicks have taken over crafting and it's not for the dweebs anymore. Okay, well it's not just for us dweebs anymore. (Or should that be "we dweebs"?) It's uber-cool to get creative and to make things with your hands and literally hundreds of thousands of us are doing it. (There are also quite a few dudes on there too, but acknowledging that previously would have interrupted my rant...)

I've also finally sewn a skirt I might actually wear after wrestling unsuccessfully with a number of major name patterns. My saving grace came in the free-form DIY-style instructions in a terrific book called Sew What! Skirts. Really took some of the mystery out of it for me and helped me fit my generous curves.

Also, I bought and love Lotte Jansdotter's book, Simple Sewing. Her fabric designs are really gorgeous and earthy and I've already successfully produced her lovely apron (see above.) It's reversible. Which is funny, because the odds of my getting one side of an apron dirty let alone two are just so slim...

I also treated myself to a subscription to Craft Magazine, for the folks who make Make Magazine and there are some very cool artists and crafters doing some very funky stuff out there. (There are also some freaky folk doing some weird shit, but that's what makes the world spin, eh?)

Similary, the mag Adorn is a great pub for stepping beyond the comfort zone of your knitting mags -- there aren't always a whole lot of projects I'd try in there but I'm amazed at what people are up to crafts-wise and there's usually at least a couple of technical articles that are informative and easy-to-read.

And just as there are hip yarn designers whose wares have been known to send me ga-ga, I'm discovering the tempting and equally wallet-punishing world of fabric designers. At the top of my list (and everyone else's right now) is Amy Butler, whose designs manage to be both retro and contemporary at the same time. I'm also digging fun stuff from Heather Ross and Prints Charming, to name but a few.

If you want to check out some of the kitschy prints out there, mosey on over to j and o fabrics, repro depot or Fabric Depot. Yeah, you laugh now, but pretty soon you'll be sewing potholders out of sock monkey fabric and who'll be laughing then?

It hasn't left much time for blogging, I'm afraid -- which, considering the content of this post, is probably a good thing. And tomorrow we head off for four days on Bald Head Island, NC* with the Carey clan. It'll give me a chance to work on my deep, dark tropical tan. Think there's somewhere to plug in my sewing machine on the beach?

*Warning: following this link will take you to a site where a scary lady's voice tries to hypnotize you into relaxation while simultaneously convincing you that Bald Head is the greatest place on earth. Until I heard her voice, I thought the fact that there were no cars on the island was a cool eco-stance. Now I'm wondering if it's to stop people from escaping... If I'm not back in five days, come rescue me.

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.