Hula Girl

As if my life wasn’t already the height of ridiculousness, I’ve taken up hula-hooping. It just seemed like the kind of thing a retired person in her thirties should spend hours doing, so I decided to give it a shot.

And now I’m addicted. See, I sway back and forth when I stand for more than a minute or so anyway. Add a hula-hoop and I just look amusing (rather than, say, disturbed or mentally disabled). Honestly, I feel like I was born to hula-hoop. I can’t believe no one mentioned it earlier. In fact, when I told my mother I had started hula-hooping, she said “I used to do that for HOURS.” Good to know, since that’s where I got the swaying from to start off with. I’m having one made for Mom so we can swap tricks on Skype.

Not that I’ve got more than one trick, that is, unless dropping the hoop on the floor counts. For a girl who spends hours a day hooping, I’m not particularly good at it. And I’m OK with that, as it’s the first time I’ve had fun doing any kind of exercise. I’m not in a hurry to be an expert – what if it gets boring? How will I spend my time?

They say you can learn to hoop in 10 minutes (and by “they” I mean internet sites that promote hoops and hooping). I believe that most people can and do. Not me, though: it took me a determined few hours and a surprising amount of bruising considering this isn’t a contact sport. Physical intelligence has never been my strong suit. I’ve worked so hard to get every movement right, though, that I can teach people tricks in minutes that take me hours to learn. I considered thinking less of myself for this, but decided instead that I have a future in Hooping for Dummies books, CDs and videos – you know, in a few years when I know what I’m doing.

For me, learning new hooping skills is the kind of action adventure other people need to go bungee jumping to achieve. First of all, I bruise easily, so learning to hoop around the knees results in looks of horror and pity at the supermarket. Some concerned neighbor is going to send the police to rescue me from domestic violence. Alas, they will find only Gus the cat.

Or maybe they won’t. Early in my hooping history, Curiosity smacked Gus in the snout with a hoop, and he’s been skeptical ever since. For weeks he would skitter off upstairs whenever I started moving furniture or produced my hoop. That turned out to be more time upstairs than he was hoping for. Now he sits on the landing of the stairs and watches, which is smart of him as I don’t think a runaway hoop could reach him there.

And run away they do, often when you least expect it. I hoop in the house, because I prefer to listen to music while I do. The risk to appliances, windows and breakable décor just adds a frisson of danger to the undertaking. In an act of clear solidarity, the metal stick-figure cat in the living room lost a toe during a particularly violent hooping episode – on the same paw as MY broke-ass toe. The rule is, now, that all liquids must be around a corner or otherwise hidden / protected from flying hula-hoops. I made that rule after the first major liquid spill. When the second one happened, I hadn’t even started hooping yet; I have a talent even for leaning the hoop in the wrong place. The wording of the rule is under review to prevent further carpet stains.

I’d spend more time hooping if it didn’t get in the way of other activities. I can’t reach my computer keyboard while hooping, for example. I’m also no good at walking while hooping, which really puts a dent in one’s productivity. I’ll read on occasion, but this is not recommended for people prone to motion sickness. Hooping while watching television makes me feel simultaneously better about watching television and worse about hula hooping, neither of which is a welcome development. Instead, hooping is more like meditation – or an opportunity to think through a thorny problem from beginning to end.

I know I’ve got it bad. I’m sure eventually someone will need to take me aside and give me a stern talking to. When the time comes, I’ll try to listen. I know I’m not ready yet, because I was pretty disappointed when my friend suggested it was time for an intervention.

Already? But I only just started…

Telling Tales

I called my father early this week (about topics unrelated to flatulence, I assure you) and he told me this story:

“I was at this new pizza place having lunch, and I had gas. The music there was pretty loud, so I figured I could get away with it. Half an hour later, I’m feeling much better but, when I look around, everyone is staring at me. Then I realized I had my iPod on.”

“You did not!” I replied, giggling.

“No. I didn’t,” he confessed. “But it’s a good story.”

We Bramhalls adore a good story – the best kind being those we can tell on ourselves or our loved ones. And while we appreciate veracity, precise accuracy is optional; humor is king. One time my uncle tried to correct his mother’s telling of a well-worn family tale, and my grandmother waved him off, saying “don’t bother me with the facts; I’m telling a story!” This was an idea the whole family could get behind, because there isn’t a single member of Dad’s family who doesn’t have some ripping yarn about a bear at a campsite, a dog named Lancelot, or the car they called “Leaping Lena”. My father still laughs ‘til he cries telling the story about Uncle Din buying him a $500 surfboard because he thought it cost $5 – and he’s been telling that one since the 1960s.

The characters in these tales become part of a permanent pantheon I’ve been relating to most of my life – take Flossie, for example. When my parents were on their honeymoon, the legend goes, there was a waitress named Flossie at the diner. She was… friendly – my guess is she flirted with Dad. And so it became a running joke that Flossie was my father’s other girl – the woman he’d wind up with if my mother died or left him. (You’ve got to appreciate a family that has honeymoon stories – there’s another one about my father water skiing, then waking up the next day convinced he had Polio.)

So Flossie’s been around longer than I have. I’m rather fond of her, in fact, though it’s true to say she’s a grabby little bitch; my mother has no time for her. “I’m leaving my jewelry to you,” she would say. “For God’s sake don’t let Flossie get it!” On the other hand, I never met my father’s Marine Corps sergeant, but I’ve thought poorly of him ever since I learned he took Dad’s watch off his dislocated arm. Admittedly, some family anecdotes need polishing to bring out the Funny.

The family folklore masterpiece comes from Uncle George’s visit to Bramhall Hall in England. His knock on the door of the stately home was answered by a butler. Uncle George explained that his surname was Bramhall, and he wanted to explore the land from which his ancestors had come. “Yes,” replied a bored and snooty butler as he closed the door on my uncle “many of the serfs took the family name when emigrating to America.”

I once told this tale to an Englishman with a plummy sort of accent and an attitude to match, but I’m not convinced he appreciated it properly. He seemed embarrassed for me, as if I’d told him some great confidence. Mostly, I was patting myself on the back for working the word “serf” into normal conversation. Let this be a lesson in knowing one’s audience. Here’s another:

My father and Ron, a friend from his office, were dropping me off at college. The campus was dotted with charming streetlamps – old-style black poles with a base that rose above knee height and a cross-arm just below the light. As a fire precaution, the lights were built to go off for 5 minutes if the bulb came in contact with the panes surrounding it. As we parked in front of one of these lamps, I was regaling Dad and his colleague with tales of drunken escapades, most of which involve head-butting the lamps.

“Head-butting?” they asked.

“Yes,” I explained. “The base is the perfect height to stand on and grab the cross arm, using it as a handle to propel one’s head into the lamp, knocking the light out temporarily. Here, I’ll show you.”

I got out to demonstrate. Watching me through the windshield, Ron says gravely, “you must be very proud.” As I climb back into the car, he adds “I’m gonna let you tell this one at the office.”

This one's for you, Daddy.

I'm a Big Fan

I used to think being a fan was a bad thing.

Oh, who am I kidding? Part of me still does. I don’t have much patience for glittery signs or women crying “I wanna have your baby!!” I can’t think of a good use for autographs, and I don’t take pictures. Despite being a promising screamer in my youth, I have lost my zeal for high-pitched keening. I considered being tongue-tied around the object of my affection, but my mother informs me he puts his pants on one leg at a time. (I’m meant to fear acrobats, apparently, and to be unafraid of people who don’t leap into their pants. I couldn’t tell you why; I just do as I’m told.)

Being a fan can be embarrassing, really. People think you’re just a little bit crazy – like you’re not entirely in control of yourself. This turns out to be true even if you don't paint your face or cry when your team loses. On the other hand, I know plenty of people who can’t control themselves when they’re angry, and they’re less fun to be around. If you’re going to let go, do it in joy.

Despite the protestations above, though, I qualify for the role of fan better than most. While I don’t have the fearless self-confidence required for genuine stalking, I do specialize in showing up – time after time after time – which makes a splash in its own way. I also know all the words and do all the dances; it’s true. But mostly my brand of fandom is about attention and attendance.

See, showing up is the kind of thing I take seriously. Attention is the most important gift we have to give to others. Where I come from, presence *is* love. If we vote with our dollars every time we buy something, then we also vote with our time when we choose what we will attend, to whom we will listen, and where we’ll be present.

And here’s the thing: after I’m done being defensive, I still believe that being a fan of other people is a natural state. It’s being a fan of ONLY famous people that’s worth being embarrassed about. I have a friend named Mo with a smile as big as the sun who can make anyone she admires feel like a rock star. She admires a lot of rock stars, come to think of it, but some of us normal civilians as well. She’s an unabashed fan of people she loves, and I admire that about her. You could say I’m a fan of her fandom…

Shouldn’t we root at least as hard for our friends and family as we do for the Yankees? Shouldn’t we celebrate their victories with at least as much fanfare? Being a fan is about enthusiasm. And if you don’t have that for the people in your life there’s a good chance you need new people in it.

Fiddle, Fiddle

I spent a lot of my early 20s (as I remember it anyway) piling too many friends into some Pontiac P-O-S of considerable vintage, or similar rickety transport. My friend Todd had the prime example: none of the locks worked. None! How does that happen? Shouldn’t one forced entry point be enough? And if this is my ride, what are the chances there’s something you want to steal inside? This ugly brown automobile also sported a non-working heater. And if we, crammed two-people deep in the back seat, forgot and asked Todd to turn up the heat, Todd would do his best to oblige:

“Fiddle, fiddle!” he would sing optimistically, waggling his fingers in the direction of the heater. And then once more, with a bit of doubt in his voice: “fiddle…?” It was more a concerted aspiration to produce heat than any physical attempt to restore the heater to working order. It also had a welcome bit of Gone With the Wind “fiddle-dee-dee” in it.

I loved it then, and still do. I particularly like the sheer cheerfulness in the face of grievous obstacles – as if Todd lives in a world where the heat may in fact respond. (You don’t know; it could happen.) It suggests all the complexity of playing a nimble violin. Still, “fiddle fiddle” is a playful opportunity to do one’s best – it says “I’m game” or, in the words of one of my favorite songs “better to be a rotten egg than to skip the race.” This is an important attitude to maintain if I’m going to participate in the world. The likelihood of failure is high in my life (I put this down to being talentless), but it turns out that’s where the fun is.

Though I’ve since graduated from the era of ramshackle, unheated transport, I continue to find “fiddle, fiddle” the best response to many a daunting challenge. It’s what I do at work when I don’t know what I’m doing – and more often than not it works. It’s even fitting for a bad hair day.

I don’t have a temperament suited to an infinite amount of fiddling, though. If pressed, I will eventually yield a bored sounding “futz, futz,” and this is not the direction in which one hopes to be headed. Futzing lacks the patient hopefulness of fiddling. Futzing may be serious and can lead to annoyance.

Nobody wants that.

Use Your Head

Dateline: 5:15 p.m., Shuttle Train, Track 1, Grand Central Terminal.

I don’t usually go home this early, and the trains are packed full to bursting. The kind of full that means you’re all up in the grille of your New York neighbor – the kind where you’ve already tucked some guy’s shoulder under your armpit in an effort to find something to hang on to.

Here they come – not one but two women who believe they’re exactly what is needed at door 2 of this subway car. And yet there’s no way in. There’s not enough room to push past. There are already people needing to hug their briefcases close as the doors shut. The next train has arrived across the platform. Do they shove off for an empty car, our intrepid pair? No. Instead, without any discussion, they simultaneously turn around to face the platform and try to push their way into the car butt-first. Why? Why, Lord, why?!

They do not succeed. Butt pushing is not the kind of thing New Yorkers succumb to.

If you're bored during your subway ride there's poetry to read, or bunion removal to contemplate. But for a real rival to people-watching, you need the MTA itself -- hands down the best producer of transit signage in the land. To wit,

here’s a tiny placard informing riders that assaulting an MTA employee can result in seven years in prison. Emphasis on the (big, red) seven. But why? How does this prison term compare with the penalty for assaulting a run-of-the-mill straphanger? Or a member of the above-ground NYPD rather than the Transit Police? Is there a lower number of years served that would cause assaults on subway personnel to skyrocket? (See, for four years I woulda kicked yer ass, but SEVEN?? That’s just crazy talk.) Exactly how offensive are the folks at the MTA, if the rest of us need to be reminded regularly not to beat them? I have a lot of questions, and precious few answers.

As if to clarify, the conductor of the 1 train tries to shut the doors at 59th street while there are folks still getting off the train, much to the dismay of those hoping to board. (Those considering retribution are visibly deterred by the 7 year sentence.) As we push on toward 66th street, he makes this announcement:

"Ladies and gentlemen, USE your HEADS! Don't stick your arms, legs, bags or what have you in between the subway doors when they are closing."

Perhaps this is where the butt-pushers went wrong -- they should have used their heads.

Spain: A Gypsy, My Cousin, A Mugger, And Me

Giving the mugger my purse simply wasn’t an option: I was the only one with a wallet.

My travel companion lost her money and credit cards early in our trip to a gypsy woman with a newspaper, a kissy face and some quick hands. In fact she lost everything in her bag, seeing as it was upside down and empty when she checked it next. I escaped with my possessions thanks only to compulsive behavior. Whenever someone bumps into me I open my bag, find my wallet, and close my bag again – this the result of years of up-close subway riding. That’s what I did the first time the woman touched me; Suzanne saw me do it but thought I was going to give the woman money. It didn’t even occur to me to warn her – I was just doing what I always do.

Being moneyless in a foreign country is debilitating, but the wallet was just the first sign that things weren’t going smoothly in Barcelona. I never did get the late nights and siesta schedule working properly for me. We’d be up until dawn, then sleep in. By the time we were fed and showered and ready for the day, the whole country was preparing for a nap. Someone threw water balloons at us one evening as we headed out. It seemed there was nothing on the radio except Cher's comeback hit "Believe." And we were constantly lost, notwithstanding the map of Barcelona clearly marked with an 'X' at the drippy church.

Also, unbeknownst to us, one flies from Barcelona to Madrid; the train is simply not the done thing. On the contrary, it is a long, slow, cigarette-saturated mistake. Madrid itself was an oasis, and my memory of it hazy. I remember a Christmas fair, churros y chocolat at a coffee shop, and dinner with my cousin, in Madrid for a semester abroad. We were rested and refreshed from our stay in the MTV-meets-brothel hotel. We were ready for our next adventure.

On the way back there was a train strike – something to do with political separatism, I think, but then again I don’t speak Spanish. They put us on a bus for the remainder of the route and, while I worried that I’d take an accidental trip to Toledo, we rode through puddles so deep they seeped into the luggage compartment and soaked our clothes. This is why it doesn’t pay to worry; I so rarely get it right.

We weren’t even meant to be in Barcelona the night of the mugging, but the bus arrived too late for us to get the train to Sitges, so we returned to the same hotel in Barcelona. And then we set out to find a bar, tottering down an alley so quiet and poorly lit the people in the movie audience have to be screaming “Don’t go down there, fool!” If I’d had any sense, I would have left my passport, a bit of cash and an ATM card in the hotel room. Sadly, I had no sense.

Honestly, the only scary part was hearing stones crunch and turning to see someone lunge at me. I didn’t know if he had a knife. When I discovered he only intended to snatch my purse, I set about beating him. I called him all walks of names, too. I remember being glad I called him a bastard, as I was confident it translated. Eventually he had enough of being hit, and ran off. (Don’t you wonder how HE tells this story?)

We were probably 50 yards from our destination at the time, and my friend suggested we go in and have a drink. But I had to go back to the hotel immediately, where I could hyperventilate and cry in peace. There, reliving our vacation on our final night, my friend and I came to the conclusion: Spain can eat me.

I’m going to Amsterdam where I can smoke things my mother won’t approve of, and no one will mug me. Then I’m going home to Manhattan, where I don’t have to worry about crime.

Nothing to Wear

I generally don’t wear words. When I did time in the Preppy Handbook hell they call an all-girls academy, this was largely in opposition to the initial-ridden handbags that had just become popular, as well as Benetton sweaters knit with a giant ‘B’. Ah, the ‘80s. Why would I want a wallet with someone else’s initials stamped all over it? Reluctantly, I put away my “I’d rather be watching General Hospital” baseball shirt with the lavender sleeves and matching, braided headband.

In young adulthood, I took to heart the words of Fran Lebowitz: “If people don’t want to listen to you, what makes you think they want to hear from your sweater?” A worthy question, I think. By now the ban is mostly left over habit, though I can’t think what I would have the urge to say to each and every passerby, nor am I likely to find such a communiqué printed on a T-shirt.

I’m also allergic to animal prints. I grew up prejudiced against them the same way I was against tattoos. It simply isn’t done, insists the voice in my head snottily. My friend Scarlett is the first person I ever saw who made an animal print look classy and fabulous, in a Jackie O sort of way. I still admire her for it. There’s no chance I could pull it off; I just look like trailer trash, and the cheetah-print leggings are not helping.

These days there are more quotes, sayings and words as tattoos than ever before, which triggers an exaggerated form of my dissatisfaction with T-shirt slogans. Tattoos are for truck drivers and tramps, my mother told me. And Popeye. That’s clearly no longer the case. Still, I don’t have the courage for that kind of commitment. I imagine, though, if forced to choose I’d have “DNR” tattooed over my heart. It seems like the right mix of practical and amusing.

I don’t wear socks (except with sneakers and snow boots), and haven’t for decades. I know this because I’ve had the same five or six pairs of socks in all that time. Let’s chalk that one up to an affinity for Miami Vice. Plus my feet like to breathe. Worse, I can’t wear hats, though I very much wish I could. I have a preternaturally large head. I also have friends who take me to hat stores purposely to perch the things on my prodigious pate and giggle at the result.

With all these rules and prohibitions related to clothing, you’d think what I have left to wear wouldn’t be all that complicated. Indeed I thought of myself as having a low-risk wardrobe – right up until the day I picked up the keys to my new apartment. There I was, chatting among new neighbors and other blameless bystanders, when an important safety pin gave up the ghost and my skirt fell to the floor.

If you’re going to drop trou’ in public, I say shoot for Manhattan during rush hour: go big or go home. The leasing office for Stuyvesant Town / Peter Cooper Village is housed in one of the few strip-malls in the city, complete with wide, sunny plate glass windows which maximize the opportunity for public humiliation in a swirl of fabric and spring fashion colors.

What does one say in such circumstances? There must be proper etiquette when one’s trousers are suddenly, unexpectedly, publicly around one’s ankles. I never got that far. I panicked and was in little control of what came out of my mouth. And what came out of my mouth, as I crouched down to pick up the bottom half of my suit, was:

Goodness GRACIOUS!

Telling, isn’t it? If I’m honest, it’s not what I expected. I’d figured myself for a swearer. But there you have it – in the heat of a stressful moment I sound just like Nonnie, my grandmother.

I’ve decided that’s not such a bad thing. It’s also clear to me now that one cannot, in reality, die of embarrassment. More’s the pity, really, as I expect my tattoo would come in handy in the event.

Confessions of a Little Sister

My first memory of my brother is of him breaking me out of jail. (When you’re old enough to walk, cribs count as prison.) Having dropped the side of the crib to the floor, he would hug me and fall backwards; I tumbled out of the crib on top of him and we went off to eat M&M and Smartie sandwiches and then to pit my Snoopy-on-wheels against his latest wind-up racecar.

It’s always been Moose’s job to look after me. Perhaps shockingly, he has lived up to the responsibility with earnestness and hard work so long and so well I sometimes forget to be scared of life. THAT’s how much I take him for granted.

For example, in the early years I wasn’t allowed to cross the street alone, but that’s where our cousins lived. He’d be over there playing and I would scream and scream for him until he came to get me. (That’s how I first learned to be loud.) He responded well to “Moosie, draw me an angoo” in the time before I could draw my own triangle. I made him rescue me when my car ran out of gas late at night, and he had to get out of bed to do it. In college I once drunkenly picked a fight with a hotel manager, and left Moose to finish it. (His parting shot was “one day, buddy, you’re gonna mow my lawn,” which I find riotously funny even today.) He’s still the person most likely to change the oil in my car.

It can’t be easy to be an older sibling, what with all the learning-to-share required. As a toddler, I wanted whatever Moose had and to do whatever he did. He was, after all, the coolest thing moving – capable of feats of magic like riding a Big Wheels or crossing the road without holding a big person’s hand. I could throw a fit and my mother would make him give me whatever toy of his I coveted.

Such generosity was true punishment – when I was eight I drove his brand new go-cart into the stone wall of our house only days after Christmas. I also toppled his prized possession – his moped – on more than one occasion (once when it wasn’t even moving). I don’t usually drive his cars, but with my track record who could blame him? The first time I visited his fantastic new house, he said he could hardly believe it was his: “I keep expecting Dad to say, ‘OK, give your sister a turn.’” How’s that for deep-seated psychological trauma?

Moose received this sisterly abuse with equanimity. I used to throw everything in my playpen at him – including the mattress. He would calmly roll out of the way, then roll back to continue watching his TV show. Indeed, unflappable tolerance is one of my brother’s defining characteristics. He’s got a live and let live policy some say stems from not giving a shit about others. He is a self-styled “fastidious prick,” which does an admirable job of encompassing in one tidy package his nearly compulsive distaste for messes and his tendency to make smart-ass remarks.

Despite its usefulness, I’m not a fan of the term. To me it just seems like a mean way to describe both his skill in ironing a perfect shirt and the promise that he can make me giggle at the most inappropriate times. More importantly it does no good at all at exposing him as an excellent caretaker (not just of me but of pools, lawns, guests, etc.) and a sucker for family.

I believe my brother would respond to even the most heart-rending personal confession with something along the lines of “OK… Want a beer?” This not because he wasn’t listening but because you’re still the same person, and if he were you in this situation he’d want a beer. It’s his own brand of sympathy, surely, but it works (unless, presumably, you’re telling him you’re an alcoholic).

And although he occasionally ran me over with his bike or threw me on the floor so hard I got a rug burn on my face, I was usually allowed to tag along to whatever fun was being had. When he left me behind to start school I had no idea what to do with myself; eventually I started doing his homework. I followed him from school to school – even to boarding school and college. And everywhere I went people were thrilled to have another Bramhall around, though I was never quite what they expected.

Growing up, we split responsibilities. In theory, I was the smart one and he the funny one. In truth, not only could he sucker his baby sister into giving him half my candy, he went on to graduate from Princeton without breaking a sweat and built an amphibious vehicle while he was at it. He was the outgoing one everyone on campus knew and loved; I was… an above average speller.

I believed my big brother could do anything (except, perhaps, grasp that what you do to one side of an algebraic equation you have to do to the other). At various points in his youth he played football, baseball, lacrosse, and rowed on a crew team. He played the saxophone and designed lights for the theater. At boarding school he was president of his class, editor of the yearbook, and head of the largest organization on campus. In his spare time he could whistle, golf, or wax a car within an inch of its life. He’s the best driver I’ve ever been in a car with. He even sorted out algebra and wound up an engineer.

Despite the ridiculous name he was saddled with before birth, Moose is refreshingly normal – married to his college sweetheart with two delightful children. He’s close to both his family and his wife’s, is still friends with buddies from high school and college. He has the right job, and the right house, and the right tie, and the right hair. I, of course, have the wrong hair. Together we are a John Hughes movie (He’s more Judd Nelson in St. Elmo’s Fire; I’m more Ducky from Pretty in Pink).

He’s intimidatingly successful in just about every way you can measure such things. I haven't the slightest idea how he does it. I suppose I should be jealous if I weren’t so busy cheering for his team.

I was an adult before I realized that not everyone got as lucky as I did in the big brother sweepstakes. In fact, I’m still pretty jazzed for boys who are expecting a little sister in the family. I tell them this: “Your mother or your wife may love you more, but no one will EVER think you’re as cool as your little sister thinks you are – until you have a daughter of your own.”

Happy Birthday, Moose. Sorry about pulling your hair all those times.

I'm Just Sayin'

Most people won’t tell you the awful truth. And to be honest, I’m OK with this. Chances are I have a firmer grasp on my myriad faults than you have, and your reminder doesn’t help me go on living in spite of them, which is my chief struggle. If you don’t have anything nice to say, our mothers taught us, say it out of earshot. (What. Is that not how that goes?)

But doesn’t that practice make every qualitative statement suspect? If you weed out all the bad stuff, what am I to make of your compliment? You say you like my hair; is it safe to assume that everything else about me is an unspeakable eyesore? Because that, for the record, is what I’m assuming.

See, there’s a difference between taking compliments and believing them. I learned how to accept a compliment from a gay guy as uncomfortable in his own skin as I am. He taught me just to say “thank you.” Protesting makes it worse. Downplaying looks like you’re fishing for more. Disagreeing suggests this kind soul doesn’t have any taste. “Thank you” will do. There’s plenty of time later to review the reasons why I still suck.

So now I say “thank you”. But I suspect you may be lying – y’know, just to be polite.

Seated to the right of the purveyors of compliments are those who believe that being honest is more important than being polite. Indeed, they’re right about that in some instances. And yet they seem to conflate the two, and are astounded to discover – usually by making someone cry – the maxim: just because you’re right, doesn’t make you nice. That is, telling someone the facts may do them a favor, if only I can manage to stop there. Judgment of the merit of those facts is merely opinion.

And my opinion is that most people’s greatest strengths are also their greatest weaknesses. Pretending they’re one and not the other is just that: pretending – whether for the sake of argument or in defense of one’s self-esteem hardly matters. Or maybe we simply lack the imagination to recognize our faults. Logically though, the presence of an upside suggests there must be a downside around here somewhere (and if you’re at a loss, I’m just the girl to find it for you). If I’m known for snappy answers, you shouldn’t have to look far for someone who finds me either snide or patronizing. It’s the other side of the same coin, and I’d be naïve to think otherwise.

It’s right about here in my thinking that I resolve never to opine again, about anything ever. I’m going to be a kinder, gentler me. Somewhere on the web is a t-shirt that reads “Ask me about my vow of silence.” I’m going to need one of them. I have a lot of opinions, and some of them don’t fit on a bumper sticker.

But if there’s a drawback, aren’t I due a silver lining as well? Sure thing, and the answer is in the eye of the beholder. If your tolerance for routine is low, you’re likely to find me boring. But it’s a straight line from dull through predictable to reliable, and you’re free to think of me that way instead (c’mon; it’ll be fun!). There’s as straight a line from irresponsible to spontaneous, from interfering to insightful, or from any unfortunate extreme to a more palatable norm.

From there it’s just a matter of setting the levels where you can tolerate them, like mixing on a soundboard. For my part, I’m trying to dial down the opinions and turn up the gentleness. I’m also shooting for less nervous laughter and more lacerating self-exposure.

At least I don’t have to worry about my hair.

Larger Than Life

A few of my friends are enamored of oversized everyday objects – six foot tall pencils, or chairs in which you can swing your legs while seated. I, too, find such things amusing when I encounter them; I just never meant to buy any.

These days I shop online for just about everything – clothes, house wares, jewelry, even food that time I blew out my ankle and couldn’t walk without a cane. I’ve probably been to a mall fewer than ten times in the last ten years. (This, from a Jersey girl!) And much as I miss visiting Orange Julius and the Piercing Pagoda, online shopping suits my style. I get to browse in peace, and compare prices among stores obsessively.

The only drawback is my lack of attention to visual detail, by which I mean I am occasionally bewildered by what arrives at my doorstep. I am quite a capable reader, I assure you, yet crucial details of online item descriptions sometimes escape me. I ordered a wooden activity cube for my niece, who was nearing two at the time. I pictured her toddling around with it, distracting herself on car rides and such. When it arrived, though, it was roughly the same size as my niece and, thus, not so portable as I had imagined.

It took two attempts to purchase a suitable wooden vase. The first arrived as a standing urn large enough for that same niece to use to rout the competition at hide-and-seek.

The moment an unexpectedly oversized purchase arrives can be a puzzling one. The doormen roll their eyes and get out the luggage cart. “What the heck did I order?” I ask myself, dragging a wardrobe-sized box into the apartment. I renew my vow to check the dimensions of things before I buy them.

For a while I’m extra careful, but then things start to slip. One Christmas I thought to gift-wrap earrings in a candy cane-striped container I saw online. In reality it serves better as a hat box. I should have saved it for the ludicrously large pair of earrings I ordered the following season -- an African tribal thing, it turned out. We live, we learn. I ordered a few little tchotchke boxes for my dresser, in which I keep buttons and pins and stray coins. Admittedly, I have an abundance of loose change in a startling array of currencies. Still, I did not intend for one of the boxes to be 7 times the size of the others. The overgrown goon now resides in the living room.

The real mystery is how, in all this unmindful online ordering, the reverse has never happened. At this writing, there have been no miniature armchairs or undersized hand tools delivered here. I have instigated other foul-ups – booking a plane flight for PM instead of AM (which got fixed quite easily), or for the wrong day altogether (which was, in the end, an expensive sort of error). Generally, though, it seems I specialize in super-sizing.

My trusty orange colander was melted in a freakish oven pre-heating incident, so I went online to replace it. A woman living alone, I am the not-so-proud owner of a shiny, 16-quart colander, suitable for an institutional kitchen. Not my kitchen anyway, as it doesn’t fit into the sink, which puts a significant dent in its usability. It’s a good thing I don’t cook.

At work, the training team wrote a case study about Gucci, and the participant with the best solution to the case won a keychain – about the only Gucci thing our prize budget could afford. You might assume I’d be safe buying from luxury retailers; that, say, the G-shaped keychain on a cord I order won’t be larger than a hood ornament, strung on rope as thick as a Twizzler. Alas, even here I’m not immune. When I resigned from the executive search firm, I was still looking for the right gangsta/consultant to reward with The Big G.

In the days before Gus the Cat and I met at New York City Animal Control, I was browsing pictures of rescued animals on shelter websites. It occurred to me that I had better show up there, or risk adopting a mountain lion.

See? I can learn.

Get Your Shoes On

Near the top of the list of things that make me bad at being a girl: I hate shoes. I don’t enjoy shopping for them and I’d just as soon not wear them. In fact I grew up in one of those houses where everyone takes her shoes off at the door. When I was a child “Kids, get your shoes on!” hollered by adults into stairwells, was synonymous with “it’s time to go.” That made it unpopular, signaling as it did the end of whatever fun was being had unshod, and the start of, more often than not, car rides and bedtime.

During my adult life, people stopped saying “get your shoes on” to me – more because I lived alone than because I was wearing shoes. It was my cousin Leigh who reminded me how much fun it could be. We were reminiscing about the first cars we owned, and his was one that refused to start in the rain. He planned to be out late in Manhattan and the forecast called for heavy rain at night, so he asked to swap cars with his dad. My uncle said no – for no good reason we can remember, but likely because his son woke him out of a sound sleep. When Leigh protested that he would have trouble with his car my uncle insisted, “no you won’t. If you do, just call me.” Fast-forward to 2:30am, when Leigh, wet and mad at the local train station, wakes his father up again – this time with no greeting save “get your shoes on!”

There’s danger in not wearing shoes, especially if you were born without an ounce of Graceful in your body. One evening when I was meant to be waiting by the phone, I had toddled off to the kitchen when my cell phone sang, and went running full speed to answer the call. Full speed into the corner of the couch, it turns out, with enough force to leave my fourth toe pointing to the right (rather than forward, which I much prefer). That day I discovered I can carry on a normal conversation only seconds after breaking a toe, and the caller will be none the wiser. This is not the type of talent one hopes to show off repeatedly.

Normal people go to the doctor – or perhaps the emergency room – under similar circumstances. I have an aversion to doctors, by which I mean the last time I went to one was 1994. After a bit of painful dragging of my toe into a forward facing position, I taped it to my middle toe and went on with my life. Nonetheless, this unfortunate incident halved my shoe-wearing capacity, at least for the period the swelling lasted.

I brought two shoes on my brief trip to Norway that weekend – one on my good foot and one in my suitcase, with an orthopedic boot on what I had come to call “my broke-ass toe.” In fact, my broke-ass toe did not appreciate gassing and braking around central Norway in my rental car, but I was having too much fun driving in the taxi lane and flying over Bergen’s imitation of a speed bump to worry about it. I find driving in countries where you don’t understand the signs to be liberating. I doubt I can say the same for my passengers.

Giddy at the prospect of reuniting with good friends, I wore two shoes to the evening’s entertainment, and left The Boot in the boot, as the English say. Sadly, the short walk from car to concert venue left me near tears, so when a friend went back for an umbrella, I asked her to bring me The Boot, so I could enjoy the show in comfort. I considered dropping off my extra shoe at the coat check, but rejected the idea as too ridiculous even for me.

Some time after the show I realized I was no longer carrying around a single shoe. It remains unclear when and where the footwear went astray. I like to think it has since led a full and interesting life in Norway. My friends insist it was simply too scared to get back in the car with me.

Late that evening, I could be found ensconced in a hotel room, putting the world to rights – or at least American politics. It was early 2008 and Obama had just started to galvanize liberal thinkers and tell the Bush regime to get its shoes on; the Democratic primary had yet to be decided. I told my friends I believed Obama would be President but, if it weren’t for the groundswell of support he was gaining, I would have told you it wasn’t his time yet. I had him pegged for 2012 or 2016, as I feared we weren’t quite ready for his brand of change. “But if everybody’s ready, count me in. I’m ready right now. I’ve got my shoe on.”

Fabulous, As Usual

I was born and bred a cynic, but I’ve been hanging with the up-with-people crowd for a number of years now. You know the ones. They have great big smiles and wear clothing that declares themselves optimists in love with love. They engage in daily affirmations, and believe that most arguments can be resolved with a hug. I was raised in what I thought of as the “real world” to think these happy folks were aliens from another land (most likely California).

That called for a visit.

The truth is I got in the door on fake credentials, because my standard answer to the formality of “how are you” is “fabulous, as usual.” I had been looking for a snappy answer since I heard George Carlin profess to be “moderately neato;” it’s merely coincidence I didn’t wind up stealing Steven Wright’s answer “medium”, which surely would have unearthed me as (at best) a realist. I am, of course, feeling conspicuous here in the Optimists’ Oasis. But once you’re inside, most people are far too hopeful about your potential to ask you to leave.

People – especially delightful ones – rub off on me, as they do most people. Before you know it everything is “excellent” and “fantastic”. I swear less and say “I love you” more. I’ve never been much of a high-fiver, but I get a ton more hugs than I used to. I’ve taken to telling people what it is I like about them, and to saying “Yay!” in conversation without irony. There might have been some skipping. Things are out of control.

Worse, once immersed in the cult of Shiny Happy People, you’re unfit for the rest of society. I visited my parents for a few days between packing up life in New York and moving to (shiny, happy) Colorado and was shocked to realize how much of our habitual conversation falls under the category of “bitching and moaning.” Somehow, I’m losing my taste for it. These days I spend my emotional energy finding the best in people and putting aside all but the most offensive wrongs. Folks in these parts find me refreshingly up-tempo. When did I become such a pansy? Have I strayed so far from my fellow Ironics as to have traded sarcasm for earnestness?

Defensive, I hasten to shore up my reputation as a hard-eyed misanthrope. Do years spent in deep depression qualify? Shall I ply you with Dorothy Parker and Fran Lebowitz? I have references available – friends and family who will tell you I don’t really like people. I am a first class grudge-holder, with a history of culled friends to show for it. Perhaps if I just return to making trenchant remarks or hating myself out loud…

Not only am I a pessimist by brain chemistry, I’m part of Generation X, who inherited the lemons of negativity from Baby Boomers and made nihilism our lemonade. We grew up in an era where no institution was respected, much less sacred, so we ignored them. Children in the ‘70s watched adults sledgehammer the corroded walls of 1950s establishment and came of age amid the rubble. Existing rules and laws were for suckers, and we were too busy surviving post-disillusionment to be institution-builders ourselves.

As if that wasn’t enough, I was groomed at private academies, boarding school and an ivy-league college to be a hole-poker – trained in dissection, analysis and criticism. I evaluate things by their difference from some Platonic ideal. Does this result in unrelenting negativity? Sure thing! On the other hand, having counted every molecule that’s missing, I can assert with confidence that the glass is 96.2% full. See, now, how it just seems negative? We’re nearly there!

I’m not the only poser in The Land of Peace and Love, I’ve realized. I found another one (during a routine but thorough study of Bravo TV’s primetime programming) on The Real Housewives of New York City. Cast member Kelly says she lives purposely with rose-colored glasses on (and does cartwheels!); indeed she seems both shiny and happy. But faced with the disdain of her cast mates, she finally gives in and tells them off. I sympathize, Kelly. It’s not easy to maintain a sunny disposition around the negativity crowd; we revert to form and join right in the title fight. Perhaps a move to LA-LA land is in order.

So we’re not all experts. Some of us are just beginners, and gratitude and forgiveness are seeds you plant in patience and water with practice. I like that about this community, and I might as well. Whenever I find something I truly hate about someone else, it turns out I’m guilty of the same crime. (This enables a vicarious self-loathing – my superego’s guilty pleasure.)

As time goes on, I’m feeling more at home with these fine folks, and I think I might stay awhile. I’m working on fixing those things in myself – the ones I dislike in others. In the meantime, can’t we all just try to find them charming?

That would be fabulous.

Rebel Without a Clause

“What’s another word for ‘thesaurus’?” – Steven Wright

Why would someone buy me a book only to laugh at me for reading it?

Once upon a Christmas, my parents gave me a paperback thesaurus. Truth is, they gave me a gigantic pile of toys, clothes and whatever else a girl aged in single digits could ask for. What I remember best is the thesaurus, its companion dictionary – and an illustrated book of Aesop’s fables.

I thought the thesaurus was the coolest thing I’d ever seen – even the word was thrillingly Paleozoic, and sported one of those extravagant Latin plurals. I suspect I’d only recently learned about synonyms and antonyms in English class. I carried my new treasure everywhere in the days after Christmas, wandering purposefully from “spend” to “squander” to “waste” to “lavish”, getting lost among shades of meaning.

Until I got caught, that is.

I didn’t know that reading the thesaurus was a source of shame and ridicule. It seemed perfectly normal to me, and there was no warning on the cover – I checked. Still, my family found it riotously funny – the kind of story with which you regale your friends at the country club. I resolved never to embarrass myself that way again.

But I loved it so! What would I do without access to words like autochthonous (aw-TOCK-thin-us), which is both fun to say and fancy for “indigenous”, which in turn is fiddly for “from around here”? How else will I discover the most hidebound, prim word for “stuffy”, or select the synonym for “silly” with the right balance of juvenile and inane? And why am I the only one who finds this fun?

I know: I’ll pretend to read Aesop’s fables whenever someone comes in the room…

It’s probably best this happened well before personal computing took root. I can still lose an afternoon to the online thesaurus in Microsoft Word, and using it still feels forbidden and daring after all this time. Years ago a friend gave me a Random House dictionary on CD-ROM that pronounces words for you. I was in nerd heaven. For about a week, an official-sounding pronounceticator hailed innocent visitors to my office as “DUNDERHEAD!”

Now that’s a good time.

I Got You That

Does every family have that super-crafty cousin? The one who presents you with a beautiful handmade fill-in-the-blank (quilt, scrapbook, needlepoint pillow, cookie assortment, etc.) perfect for the occasion and reports “I made it myself.” This shy declaration is followed by 3-4 minutes of utter disbelief and flabbergastion. (In my family this period also involves a lot of swearing, of the getthefookouttahere variety). That kind of person is always a hit at holiday parties, isn’t she?

And, in her well-deserved glory, the craftswoman makes the rest of us feel inadequate. Or maybe that’s just me, for I have no talent for physical labor of any sort, unless sleeping qualifies. I am neither artsy nor crafty, when it comes right down to it. I’m reduced to taking credit for slice-and-bake cookies, or showing off a particularly compelling stick figure doodle.

In my family, Cousin Barbara was the crafty one, and Tom her husband. Even when the gift was store-bought Tom didn’t do the shopping. But, not to be one-upped by his wife, he began telling people “I made that” – the more improbable the gift, the better. One holiday season he “made” a windshield-mounted compass and at least one batch of Jack Daniels. I like his style. I aspire to a similar flair for talentless generosity.

And then there’s my brother’s art of giving. The scene: a graduation party. When the camera comes on he is holding someone’s jacket, at least one purse and an umbrella, and he abhors holding things. Behind the congratulatory main event he wanders silently, handing off an item at a time – mostly to his wife and other mothers. (Mothers engaged in conversation will, in my experience, distractedly accept anything extended insistently at them. I urge you to test this theory with the maternal types in your life; the less hygienic the gift, the higher the point value). Then, like Santa Claus divested of his toys, my brother strikes out in search of sustenance and returns shortly with cookies. End of scene.

Thus with role models in mind, I decided to make the most of a nervous habit. I peel the labels off of bottles. And when the bottles in question were once filled with alcohol and their number is quite large, one is left with an abundant supply of damp paper and an inflated regard for one’s own humor. I took to handing the labels to friends (and in some particularly dire cases, strangers) with the advisement “I got you that.” Who wouldn’t want such an impromptu gift? Even the most useless trash is more fun when recycled as presents. “Here; I got you that” has been extended to almost anything you can give to someone else – the ketchup, a quarter found on the ground, gum wrappers, a hard time. It’s the thought that counts, right?

I am not merely artless and poorly crafted. I am, to add insult to injury, also talentless in the performance department. That means no song and dance, no athletics, no magic tricks, nothing. I know a knock-knock joke or two, and that’s about it. I have one friend who can sing with her mouth closed – she sounds like she has a tiny Ethel Merman sitting on her tongue – and another who can talk like a duck. I know yo-yo-ers and jugglers and people who can do shocking things with a hula-hoop. I count opera singers, flautists, and dancers – not to mention karaoke aficionados, semi-professional whistlers and brilliant storytellers – among my friends and family. Mostly I just sit there, amused but inert.

This is a shame when you hang with musicians, actors, comedians and the like. (Or the Irish, actually; just about all the Irish in my life can perform, and do so with great gusto.) These well-meaning folks are always trying to uncover your hidden talent. It’s a kind of generosity, really, that performers assume you must have something going for you. Having checked the between the couch cushions and in back of the fridge, though, I am forced to admit I have nothing to offer in this regard. Stubbornly waiting it out isn’t going to change that, though it could result in your hearing me recite poetry from 6^th grade or pantomime the extended remix of “The Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly”.

I like to think my true gifts lie elsewhere, though it’s still possible I lack them altogether. I’m also working on a killer lip synch routine, complete with hairbrush and dramatic air-grabbing. In the meantime, I have declared my talent to be audience member. It’s a venerable role and in high demand, though rarely associated with any hard-won skill. In the hip-hop world, I’m known as a witness. But I’m an above-average listener.

And here; I got you this round of applause.

Almost France

I didn’t expect to be back so soon.

The day I flew to France, I spent the morning in my office with two colleagues, shooting screenshots for a software training video. It was crowded with camera equipment, door shut, lit only by the screen. I was dressed in my traveling clothes, and eagerly anticipating my first trip to Paris. At 3:00pm, I left my colleagues in my office to continue their work and rolled my suitcase out to the waiting car.

I am chronically early to airports. In fact, I’m a bit of a nervous traveler about every part of an airplane trip except the actual flying. I worry the car service won’t pick me up; I worry about traffic to the airport, about missing my connection or losing my luggage, about arriving without local currency and being unable to use my ATM card, about not having hotel reservations. I simply don’t travel well; like a poorly packed suitcase, I usually arrive where I’m headed, albeit a bit rattled and somewhat disheveled.

One of my travel rituals comes from the Marrakesh episode of Absolutely Fabulous. On her way out the door, Edwina’s daughter asks whether Edwina has everything she needs. “Yes… Got everything,” she answers, pulling the door shut behind her.

A beat.

Then she scurries in chanting, “Tickets! Money! Passport! Tickets, money, passport.”

I made “tickets, money, passport” my travel mantra. Before leaving my apartment, I check my briefcase: tickets, money, passport – good to go. In the car on the way to the airport: tickets, money, passport – OK. On the way out of the airline lounge – tickets, money, passport. I do this with the same compulsion that causes me to open my purse and touch my wallet any time a person bumps into me or my bag.

And so you are right to ask: how is it you arrived in Paris without your passport?

I wish I knew. This was 1998, a more innocent time, when checking ID at the gate was not part of the routine of U.S. air travel. I know I had it when I left the lounge. Perhaps it fell out of my bag going through security. More likely I left it at the gate; I ran into a friend and colleague I didn’t realize was on the same flight, and was busy chatting. It’s possible someone stole it from me, either at the airport or on the plane. I was in a bulkhead seat, so my briefcase had to be stowed in an overhead compartment; maybe someone saw that as an opportunity. On the other hand, I was up all night giggling with my friend rather than getting some rest, so you’d think I might have noticed someone rifling through my bag. All I know is it was not in my possession when I got to France, nor was it ever seen again.

The plane arrives at the gate in Paris at about 7:30 am, and I stand, stretch, and fetch my briefcase from the overhead bin: tickets, money, … uh oh.

Again: tickets… money… uh oh. I have a sinking feeling. I report the loss to my colleague. I take everything out of my briefcase and put it back – twice. I clear the seatback pocket of barf bags and airline magazines. I get fresh with the seat cushions and feel up the overhead compartment. I peer behind footrests while the plane empties around us.

A flight attendant asks what the trouble is, and sets about helping. I had NO idea it was possible to fully denude and dismantle an airplane seat. Alas, still no joy. We are joined by one of the airline ground crew as the last of the passengers exit. She is French and intimidatingly fabulous, plus has the advantage of not having been up all night. A flight attendant informs her “elle a perdu son passport.”

She sucks her teeth and rolls her Rs in my direction, “Oh, you must find your passporrrt, or it will be verrry bad.”

Really. Very bad, you say? Not just regular ol’ bad? Well, then stand by while I pluck the passport out of my ass and get on with my business trip…

Nope. Nothing. Let’s proceed with the Very Bad, as I’m fresh out of alternatives.

Very Bad seems to consist of a detour to the airline lounge, while my colleague continues on to Paris to report my misfortune and do what we came to do. I am not allowed to have my suitcase, for it has arrived in France successfully and I have not. I am informed that I must remain in airport limbo while the U.S. embassy and the French government decide my fate. On the plus side, I’m welcome to all the airline pretzels I’d like while I wait.

In the hour or two that follow, rumor has it my recovered passport could be delivered by the next flight from New York – but the document never turns up. There is some talk about my going to a French jail while the embassy gets me a new passport. I reflect on what little I know of the French prison system and consider making a run for it. Ultimately I’m put on the phone with a French official, who informs me that I am being deported on the next plane to New York, “because that is what the American government does to French citizens who arrive without a passport.” She seems eager for me to understand this tit-for-tat; I’m just relieved I’m not going to jail. I promise to give the U.S. the finger on France’s behalf, and they agree to send me home.

In fact, lucky me! The airline sends me home first class, seated on the aisle with an empty seat next to me. As we take off, it is just past 5am in New York, some 11 hours after I left. I have been awake for 22 hours and am nodding off by the time we’re airborne. It’s a midday flight, though, and I seem to be the only person intent on drooling on a pillow for most of the journey. The passengers are chatty and the purser is solicitous. Would I like some warm nuts? Perhaps a beverage? Have I made a selection from the lunch menu? Do I want a personal movie player?

I would not. I have not. I do not. I will not be dining – will not be appreciating first class at all, really – as I am barely conscious. Having explained this, I am left in peace. Not long after, I am awakened by a shower of wee VCR tapes from the overhead bin; I can report that these have sharp corners and a tendency to dig into the scalp, but bounce off the bridge of the nose. The purser is terribly sorry, but wonders, since I’m up, if I’d like dessert from the sundae cart. I give up on sleeping.

We land at JFK shortly after 1pm, and I am nearly delirious. Surprisingly, I skate through immigration despite my documentlessness; someone warned them I was coming. I am joyfully reunited with my luggage. I am tortured by the wait for a cab and, for reasons that pass understanding, direct the driver back to my office, instead of toward home.

At 3pm – exactly 24 hours after I left – I open the door to my office, wearing the same clothes and pulling the same suitcase. My colleagues are inside, filming screen shots in the dark. I ask, “what’d I miss?”

Hungry Like the Wolf

(Dateline: Moscow, U.S.S.R.)

We are like villagers with pitchforks and torches, and she answers our knock holding an open tin of tuna and a fork. Eyes wide, I am suddenly a Seinfeld impression:

“What are you EATING? I mean WHAT are you eating? I mean… what are YOU eating? Because WE? We are not eating.”

My fellow exchange students nod hungrily, “we found some bread.”

“It took three days!”

“It’s been a week. We can’t just eat bread.”

“There’s a open-air market,” says our program head, fork still poised over tuna, “every Saturday out near the ring road.” There’s a brief discussion of subway stops, and the semi-legal nature of the market. A villager good at directions nods in understanding, and thus satisfied we stow our pitchforks and trek back to our dorm rooms, optimistic enough to double the ration of Chunky Skippy allotted for tonight’s bread.

In the Soviet Union in 1991, whether shopping for souvenirs or for lunch, the American student bought in bulk. The exchange rate (roughly 35 rubles to the dollar that summer) meant that money was never an issue. We joked that everything was “free if you can find it.” (sung to the tune of Madonna’s “Vogue” – often while hunting from store to store for food.)

The problem, of course, was finding it. Sure, we’d heard about long lines, empty store shelves and widespread stealing from state-run businesses (though perhaps we imagined the Capitalists exaggerated). We’d packed toilet paper and peanut butter as instructed, and came prepared for hardships. We carried rope or canvas bags suitable for carting home rare finds. But I walked into a store labeled “supermarket” to find little more than a dozen eggs (some of them bloody inside) and some sad jarred tomatoes. The real food – the real economy – was elsewhere.

Apparently shortages make me a panic shopper – a habit I retain even today, despite the obvious truth that buying in bulk is not a viable strategy for Manhattan apartment dwellers. The day we first encountered a Moscow bakery actually selling bread, I bought three large loaves and rode the subway home hugging them (note: this behavior will make the natives stare). We discovered bottled Pepsi at a tiny stall at the back of Gorkii Park and I bought as many as I could fit in my bag – about 30 clinking glass flagons of tooth-rot, it turns out, if you carry them VERY slowly. I bought toilet paper wherever I found it, though it was the one staple we ran into regularly and it was less effective at its purpose than the writing paper. I also bought 3 copies of Dostoevsky’s The Idiot from a street vendor – I’m still not sure why; let’s imagine the answer is “affinity with the title.”

Real shortage also creates instant community. We were all in this food search together, including the Russian university students who gave us some of their hard-won butter. A great find was cause for a dinner party, and friends arrived bearing whatever they could offer to the cause. It takes a village to make a meal. Perhaps this is Communism’s greatest lesson, because I found this kind of collective spirit rare back home – about as rare as butter in Moscow, which is to say it required a fair bit of luck and a reliable circle of friends.

The Saturday market was horrific and wonderful at the same time. Seeing food in some quantity was such a relief! But I’m a suburban girl, and this market was awfully close to nature for me. The carrots looked like roots, for example, the mushrooms still smelled like shit, and the dead animals were not yet meat. These were, to make things more challenging – my vegetarian years. Veggie students would warn each other about the gruesomeness hanging in stalls ahead, “dead antlered thing around the corner; don’t look left!”

The market was doing a brisk business, as the city’s primary food supply outside of restaurants might expect to do. Being college students, my cohorts and I had been drunk the night before and woke late on Saturday. Being American, we underestimated the lines. It was mid-afternoon by the time we arrived at the outskirts of town. There was a lot of ground to cover and little time left. We split up.

My first errand, for carrots, was a success, even if it left me in awe of the American equivalent – all the same size, free of dirt and covered in plastic. Feeling exuberant, I did the truly Soviet thing: I waited in line for potatoes. They were offered for sale piled high in a recycled sandbox filled with loose soil.

I waited and waited.

But they sold the last potatoes and most of the truly convincing potato-shaped balls of dirt to a kerchief-wearing housewife about five people in front of me. I had to report this failure to my classmates, who had mixed results of their own. Nevertheless, we would cobble a few meals together from our haul. Plus, potatoes are good motivation to get out of bed early next Saturday.

Now if only we could find something to cook in…

A Mind Is a Terrible Thing

Want to guess what percentage of cells in your body are you, rather than bacteria or other life forms? Give it some thought; we’ll come back to this.

Meanwhile, I’m obsessed with TED Talks.

The thinkers of great progressive thoughts about technology, education, and design get together at TED conferences; TED Talks is all that nerdy goodness packed into free, 18-minute videos. I’m ceaselessly fascinated. The shameful truth is I don’t even know who many of these people are – only that they say shocking and compelling things which, taken together, are the most hopeful and marvelous ideas I’ve ever had nightmares about. For example, the percentage of cells in your body that have your DNA:

About 9%. No, I’m not kidding. Bonnie Bessler says – in passing, mind you, on her way to the revelation that bacteria can coordinate a light show, “At best you’re 10% human. I think of you as 90-99% bacterial.” I’m still not over it – and not just because it’s gross to contemplate. Suddenly all that “baggage” I’m carrying around is alive. No wonder we’re meant to feel at one with the world. I’m starting to be philosophical about my identity crisis: “The I…” wrote Emmanuel Levinas “is the being whose existing consists in identifying itself, in recovering its identity throughout all that happens to it.” Yes, but who knew it would be a full-time job?

I’ve taken to watching the talks alphabetically by title, which is a thrilling way to get a series of unrelated but jaw-dropping ideas into one’s brain in short order, as the topics range from oceanography to architecture to particle physics to the source of happiness. Together, the TED Talks are a mile wide and an inch deep, which is a cross-section of science I love. Don’t bother me with details; I’m working on a grand unified theory…

The astounding facts that float by in this inch-deep world are one of its great joys. Deep-sea oceanographer Robert Ballard reminds us we went to the moon and played golf there before we went to the largest feature on the face of the earth – the mid-Atlantic ridge, which covers 23% of the planet. Really? We’d better get down there and look around. Meanwhile, Burt Rutan is urging entrepreneurs into the world of commercial space flight, including a cruise around the moon. David Keith warns us that science is going to deliver climate and weather control whether we want it or not. Remind me to worry about that, would you?

Back on earth, Susan Savage-Rumbaugh argues that many differences between humans and the bonobos she studies are cultural rather than biological. “We are sharing tools, technology and language with another species,” she reports. Indeed, her bonobo companions start a fire, write symbols, and drive a golf cart (albeit poorly). They also play Pac-Man, and some of them are better at it than me.

The world of biotechnology has been up to awe-inspiring things since I last paid attention, which is good because we’re in need of a new economy. Futurist Juan Enriquez talks about “reprogramming” life – a concept so far-reaching he has only a moment to mention it will cure cancer. Scientists in Japan and the US have “rebooted” skin cells to behave like stem cells, which in turn can be reprogrammed to express bone, stomach, pancreas. “We’re likely to be wandering around with re-grown body parts in a reasonable period of time,” he predicts, a bit like lizards that can re-grow a tail. This freaks me out a little.

Aimee Mullins, a pioneer in prosthetic limb design, shows off her coolest sets of legs, including ones that look like jelly fish. “A prosthetic limb doesn’t represent the need to replace loss anymore,” she says. Even better, Enriquez reports that a man who set several world records in the Paralympic games came within a second of qualifying for the regular Olympics. “Two or three Olympics from now they’ll be unbeatable,” he promises. Just as Mullins decides how tall she wants to be today, the deaf won’t merely hear – they will hear whales sing and focus their hearing directionally. The blind will see in infrared and micro-focus. How cool is that?!

Jeff Hawkins studies the nature of intelligence, and talks about progress storing memories in non-biological systems. “Attach memories to sensors and they will experience live data and they will learn about their environment,” he assures us. There is also now a Registry of Standard Biological Parts – a sort of biological Lego set. Non-biologic systems can teach themselves to move, can replicate. We’re about to cozy right up to the line between technology and life.

Kevin Kelly argues that technology evolves according to the same rules as life – that in fact it could be classified as a seventh kingdom, evolved from the animal kingdom. The difference is that technology doesn’t go extinct; it’s possible for a new technology to evolve from “dead” technology. Even this distinction won’t hold up if the Australians manage to make a wolf give birth to the currently extinct Tasmanian tiger; the current problem is not the science, but a lack of DNA samples.

And now I’m scared, and not just of wooly mammoths romping the earth and the mass production of buffalo with wings.

See, I’ve been counting on dying as a chance to catch up on my sleep, and I’m afraid scientists plan to rob me of this solace. Let’s put aside the complete inadequacy of my retirement plan to cope with such a possibility. I may not be ready to kick off today, but immortality seems so… interminable; like hell without as many fiery pits or opportunities to chat up medieval plague victims and murderers of old.

No. Instead I’m going to be part prosthetic, part robot and mostly re-grown – a bionic woman whose memories have been backed up onto a hard drive of bacteria and stored on The Hive Mind, which we used to call the Internet. My best friend will be a bonobo whose day job is flying a space saucer to hot springs on one of Saturn’s moons; I will look after his amphibious pet owlcat while he’s away.

People who study these things think there’s at LEAST a 20% chance humanity won’t make it past the 21^st century. Half the estimates give us a 50/50 chance.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.