Piggy and Nureyev

My friend Vitali sent this to me and it made me GIGGLE. I remember seeing this as a kid and not knowing who Nureyev was and *KINDA* getting the humor of it and now seeing it a again and seeing the humor for what IT IS just tickles me. Also, I knew Nureyev was hot, but not in such a GROOVY 70's way. We always knew Piggy had a thing for unattainable men, but can you blame her?

The Pen I Love

Today the last PMOP black pen I loved died it's blue-gray death and now I am faced with a PMOP-less world--oh what will become of me?

It took literally YEARS to find my most perfect pen I loved to draw with. It was felt tip, but sharp and the ink was juicy. I found it purely by accident, grabbing a pen to write with in the mail room at my old job. You should have seen my face once I discovered it's easy and delicious glide. If it was a cartoon, there would have been hearts radiating above my head. I drew all of my flier stories with them and my entire 'zine. I had a good supply going at work too, but then I was changing jobs and would have to get more of my own. Luckily, I had a connection in the mail room and he bought me a couple of boxes, but when he went to order more there wasn't any. They had replaced it with a different model, who's tip is sharper, but doesn't last as long. The nib dries out faster than the old one. OH NO!

I don't know if any of you all can understand how much a dreamy pen can mean to someone, but I had been in search of a pen like that for some time. As a kid I was a marker officianato--knowing which ones were the best. Eve then I dreamed of a pen that had that quality of both strength and cheapness that I searched for. I have tried to find a black fine point felt tip marker with a depth of black that has an underbelly of blue so it won't turn brown with time or fade after it's dried. I also wanted something that didn't stink to high heaven or bleed through the paper easily. Don't get me wrong, the Sharpie and I are strong pals, but it bleeds like crazy and non-toxic or not, I can TASTE its fumes in the back of my THROAT.

I scavenged my last box of PMOPs, keeping it in a dark cool place as to not dry out the stash, and I went around to every stationary store and art store asking about this pen. I looked on-line and even wrote an e-mail to Paper Mate, but alas, NO! The PMOP is gone! Today it went the way with the dodo and I'll be using its less satisfying substitute until I find something better. At least I had 2 good years. Dear PMOP, thank you for your great effort.

A Country Woman' s Journal

Another beautiful book I received for my birthday is A Country Woman’s Journal by Margaret Shaw. Margaret Shaw was an upper class English woman who had a wonderful eye and appetite for the natural world, recording almost daily for two years her observations of nature. Not only is this a gorgeous book on its own, but it was a surprise discovery of my stepmother Pam, and her family---Margaret Shaw was “Auntie Maggie” to them, and they had NO IDEA that she had any artistic inkling whatsoever.

The journals were discovered stuffed in a drawer after Margaret’s death, some 70 years after their creation. Reg, who was Maragret’s business partner and friend sent a copy of the book to Pam’s aunt Nancy, who didn’t think much of the book, but mentioned it to Pam. When Pam saw it she was blown away by the delicate and beautiful watercolors and the exclusively natural observations that she found. It’s funny because without knowing any of the history of this book, the art reminded me of Pam. Pam adores nature and is a closeted artist. She would never call herself one, but she can do beautiful renderings of just about anything. The animals and flowers really reminded me of Pam’s own creations on every birthday or holiday card I’ve ever received from her. When I found out that the author of this book was Pam’s Great Aunt, it made so much sense. I told Pam this and she said, “You know, when I saw this, for the first time I felt a resemblance and a connection to my family.”

Can you imagine discovering such a treasure?

The art is so delicate and intricate. It reminds me a lot of Beatrix Potter. As someone who keeps an illustrated journal, I am completely blown away at her natural instinct for lay out, design and illustration. The amount of time it must have take just to start a day’s entry with a wooded letter! I don’t have that kind of focus or patience, but this woman did—even when she was traveling—to begin her tiny observations with this illustrated detail.

I haven’t read all of it, but I love how when Margaret goes to Italy, her only observations she makes are of the roses climbing up the wall of the hotel and the Chafinches she sees chattering in a cage. Occasionally, she’ll mention her parents, but only by their initials and in proximity to some event that occurred with an insect or animal. It was a very FOCUSED diary. For something so involved that required practice, constant observation, research, and an attention to detail, I don’t understand why she ever stopped keeping the journal or stopped creating all together. Regardless, what a legacy she left behind for Pam and her family! What a treasure to get for my own birthday. And as an added delight, there was a bookmark hidden in its pages for me from the previous owner. It said: Happy reading dear Trudie! Lots of love, Gladys.

The Newspaper Inside My Brain

Last night I was in a relatively okay mood until the list of things I had to do started to pile up and all I really wanted to do was sit down at my desk and do some creating. You know how it is--you come home and suddenly there is dinner to be made and a quick run to the store to get that missing ingredient and then there was a clean up and phone call to be returned and...and...and...! I was starting to feel frantic and then I looked down and saw that the skirt I was wearing--my FAVORITE skirt--was completely RUINED because unbeknownst to me I had leaned against a puddle of spilled olive oil and ran it down the side. It would have been bad enough, but it was the second favorite item that had been ruined recently and despite my best efforts, I DID NOT DO WELL with it. I know people who don't get devastated when a favorite item of clothing gets ruined, but for me who has a hard time finding clothes I love, much less clothes I love that I actually will buy, it totally GETS ME.

By the time I got to my desk I was in a ditch of some magnitude. It wasn't just the skirt, of course, it was the skirt that broke the camel's back. I sat like a little kid in the dirt muttering "stupid stupid stupid" to no one in particular. Of course, what I needed was a five minute complaint session, which Graham granted me, and to do some creating.

I haven't been doing much in the creation department--it's been all business and errands and I have been feeling a bit DRAWN IN. So today I got up early and made the newspaper you see here and lordy do I feel better. It's the newspaper inside my brain and it feels so good to see it for what it is--a funny & exaggerated piece of pulp.

A Dumb Idea

My brother Josh came on Saturday for an afternoon of walking along the Chelsea docks and an evening of Ethiopian food and more walking. Then he spent the night and we woke up to talking and pancake eating and then he was gone back to the West Coast. As we said good-bye we both agreed what a dumb idea it is for us all to live so far away from each other and then I watched him go and felt my heart was going to break.

I don't do well with good-byes. They suck in my opinion. Especially if they are with someone you don't see that often and who you care deeply for. In a perfect world I would live within 50 miles of all those dear to me, but the way I've lived my life so far is to never be less than 3000 miles away from most of the people I love. When I was in my twenties, this seemed like a perfectly normal and exciting way to live life. Now I see it as limiting as well as financially and emotionally consuming. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I am not happy in New York. I am happy here and so glad we came and have made some wonderful friends and contacts, and am normally pretty okay, but when someone like Josh or Meg comes to visit it sends it all into a tailspin. It is a reminder of what I am missing and craving and hungry for. I am jealous of people who grew up in places like Buffalo and Jersey, only because they can go home for the weekend and then come back. They don't have to spend a minimum of $300 to go see anyone and they don't have to collect their vacation time for family and friends. They can go other places for their vacations and spend the rest of the time in the whirl of their lives.

If we had our druthers we'd move back to the Bay Area sooner rather than later, but Graham has obligations here for the next 2 years and so do I. So, here we stay and continue to thrive in our way until we don't.

Still, I love the ease that comes with hanging out with your intimates and talking about family in only the way siblings can talk and laugh and be with each other. It was like a little bit of home--that BIG sense of home--in my living room on Sunday morning.

Cute Overload Hits New York!

On Tuesday morning I got an e-mail from Meg saying: "I am going to be in New York for 24 hours on Tuesday to give Cute Overload Calendars away on Martha Stewart--are you free for dinner?" To which, I said: COME ON OVER!

This is one of those times when you realize that you could do worse than New York if you choose to live far away from those nearest and dearest--because they all end up here at some point anyway! If you're Meg, you might blow into town to give away your incredibly hilarious and yes, CUTE calendars on a National Television show. If you're my brother Josh, you'll kick off the academic year this weekend by flying to New York from Oregon for a conference in forensic anthropology! It really is ALL HERE folks! Good news is so are Graham and me, so we get to see people.

I have to tell you that this was pure serendipitous delivery. I'd spoken to Meg only a week ago admitting that I'd been having pangs of missing her and wishing so much we had some time to HANG OUT and just relax. Well, as improbable as it seems, the heavens conspired in both our favors. Meg got to hang out with Martha Stewart and I got some wonderful one on one time over sushi and drinks.

We toasted the excitement that was Meg appearing with Martha Stewart the next morning. Meg brought up what my family now calls the Great Cake Disaster of Mother's Day 1992, asking if I had moved on to like Martha again. She was referring to an incident where, heavily inspired by Martha, I decided I was going to make a cake for my step mom for mother's day from an issue of Martha Stewart Living. Little did I know, I was embarking on a TWO DAY odyssey. 27 eggs, a pound of butter and 6 layers later the cake weeped and separated and looked more like Richard Dreyfus' sculpture of mashed potatoes from Close Encounters of the Third Kind than anything in the magazine. This was dismaying enough, but not a month later an article appeared in the San Jose Chronicle exposing the magazine for not TESTING many of the recipes. I felt better about my cake, but it took SIXTEEN years for me to say SCREW IT and start reading MS Living again. I told Meg the healing had taken place and Graham and I had both benefited from many of MS's recipes this summer.

There's not many people I would venture into the heart of Times Square after work for, and LIKE IT. Meg is deffenitely worth it. Actually, once seeing her puffy hotel bed and turning on a Reality TV show I almost didn't go home that night. It was SO FUN to see her and celebrate her latest move in taking over the world with adorable humor. You can see some pictures from her experience here. I am very proud of her! GO MEG!

Fire Patriot Palin

That's my name, don't wear it out.

Go find yours.

Ignore the Noise

It probably is not a shock to any of you that I am an Obama supporter and have been since the early days of Iowa and before. I have been inspired, moved, and encouraged by this man. I have also been skeptical, disappointed, and unsure of him. It comes with the territory. Nobody is perfect—especially in this period of our country where there are more pressing issues than secondary issues.

I hit a wall a few days ago with the current presidential race, which, as we all know, is in such a TIZZY since Sarah Palin’s entrance. I feel like I hear more about her than anything else on this campaign trail. I feel like every time I see McCain slip in there my first reaction is: “Oh is he still here? Isn’t it Palin and Palin in ’08 now?” If she’s challenged, I hear the outcry that the Liberal Press is being unfair or sexist or bullying. If she’s cooed and pawed over, I should remember that the Conservatives own the polls and the newspapers. I have found everyone and their MOTHER discussing every strategy there could be: The Republicans’ strategy in nominating her, the strategy she had in Alaska, the strategy that she is running now, the strategy in planning her strategy. I have gotten caught up in it and FLIPPED OUT every time I hear yet ANOTHER story about her that just makes me SQUEAMISH. Finally it hit me:

NONE OF THIS MEANS A DANG THING.

It’s like the drama in the office when everyone is flipped out about what someone might or might not have said or done and throughout the day, everyone is talking about it and milking it and the steam gets bigger and bigger until the event has taken on LARGE PROPORTIONS and rides on waves of OUTRAGE and DISMAY. But it’s only drama and drama is never the real issue. The real issue is that people in the office feel under-appreciated and put upon and gossiping and regurgitating moments over and over again is how they deal with it. Drama is the smoke not the fire.

The truth is we are all flipped out, Republicans and Democrats. Republicans are flipped out that they are going to lose their hold on things. Democrats are flipped out that we will have to deal with MORE of the same. The good news for the Republicans is that nobody is focusing on Obama and Biden. Not even the Democrats. We’re all so focused on what Palin represents, that who cares about the ACTUAL race. Fear is very powerful and the Republicans are doing very well by it right now. The focus is on them and a bright and shiny face.

I am a strong believer that we create what we believe. Whatever we focus on comes true. The more I focus on the Republicans and their antics, the less my party and all its beliefs gets attention focus and energy. The more afraid I am, being caught up in this presidential player and what she is and isn't about, the less hope I feel for what I believe is the best future.

Well, I am done.

I have decided to stop trying to convince people that Palin is no Obama. I have decided to stop arguing that it’s just not responsible for a party to nominate a person that just got their first passport a few years ago, when we are in the midst of one of the largest International relational messes in recent memory. I have decided to stop reading about why she won’t work and why she will. I am going to focus on Obama and what he is saying and the very REAL ISSUES at hand. As my friend Vitali once said to me, “Ignore the noise, ignore the noise!” Enough of the drama. It’s time to get some work done.

Thank You David Foster Wallace For Your Great Effort

You are already missed.

I Think I'm Gonna Like it Here

Good news my people--I got a biopsy this week from a fabulous doctor and it came out CLEAN as a WHISTLE. I have to get another one in a couple of weeks just to make sure, but oh, my friends I am one RELIEVED woman.

I have to tell you that I felt that every horrible or frustrating experience I've had throughout this 6 week ordeal seemed to have led me to this doctor's office. I found him randomly, which has been par for the course. My insurance directory seems to be made up of people who, while they are indeed doctors, they don't seem to have ANY affiliation with my own insurance. I learned this when I was trying to get a girl-part doctor and I went through THIRTEEN names, and NONE of them carried my insurance and over half of them said they'd never even heard of it. I found my current doctor through a co-worker. So you can imagine the wonderful feeling I had when my doctor told me, "Go find breast surgeon." It was like throwing me into the ABYSS. Fortunately, while the first doctor I called didn't take my insurance someone in their office did--and that's how I ended up into the sweet offices of this particular office.

I should have known I was in the right place when I found the waiting room adorned with original Annie Leibovitz photographs. (Aesthetically pleasing? Oh, I think I am going to like it here.) Then Wendy, the Physician's Assistant immediately did the unthinkable...she cracked a joke. A joke! I laughed! I felt better! We talked about migraines and the beauty of zomieg and how it has SAVED OUR LIVES. I actually BONDED with a medical professional. Then she continued on and announced to me that the radiology hospital had given me SOMEBODY ELSE'S films and medical records! The last name was Pierre, but it weren't me and this was not only a totally big pain in the ass, but highly problematic for both the radiology department and Jane Doe Pierre. Her medical records were in the hand's of STRANGERS. Wendy called the radiology hospital and they proceeded to try to blame me, as if I was the one who packaged the information and then handed it to myself, the wrong Pierre. Luckily, my new best friend stood up for me and told them to SUCK IT and fax the records over.

Then, as if they just wanted to totally BLOW MY MIND, they sent Graham into the medical room to wait with me while they got my records. When Wendy returned, she then proceeded to EXPLAIN IN DETAIL everything in the records TO ME, the patient (what are they? WHACK JOBS?). She also said that my initial sonogram said that it was cyst, and that there was no reason for an MRI whatsoever. She believed that the MRI was purely for their own financial gain, which is something I had been suspecting.

My doctor looked like Garrison Keillor and while he didn't have the soft smoky voice of Keillor, was so kind and helpful, I wanted to EASE into his voice like a BIG COMFY chair. We did another sonogram, where again the crazy hijinks continued when they SHOWED me the sonogram and pointed out to both me and Graham what my actual cyst looked like. Graham and I kept looking over at each other with these crazy faces that said, "Look! These people are medical professionals and they're actually helpful, nice and informative! Is this just CRAZY TOWN?"

I got a biopsy that I closed my eyes for, but Graham has yet to recover from the image of the needle and me. It hardly hurt at all for me, but he still looks GREEN when he mentions it and keeps asking, "Have you RECOVERED? Are you OKAY down there?" I respond to him by saying, "I'm fine--what about YOU?"

When we were done they continued to floor me by telling me that they would have results by tomorrow and they would call me IMMEDIATELY. And then to prove that they obviously had not been hanging around the usual crowds of doctors, they did call me.

So here I am, about 80% done with this and I am so happy and relieved and feel free and light in a way that I haven't felt in two months. Thank you all for your notes and cards and stories. They have kept me afloat. And to my amazing friends and family, who rose up to the occasion: My hands, my hands, my hands to you.

Another Week, Another Need to Excuse Myself

Hi friends, I had BIG PLANS for blogging this week, but I am still without Internet at home, still dealing with doctors and other appointments, and also dealing with some bigger fish. So I am going to beg off blogging AGAIN for the next week.

Here's some activities you might like to do:

• whenever you are waiting somewhere, take out a notebook and draw the area you are waiting
• buy a box of pencils and sharpen them all. Place them in a cup on your desk. The smell will drive you wild with ideas.
• Take a picture of your co-worker jumping up in the air OR have your co-worker take a picture of YOU jumping in the air.
• Watch the sunrise--this time of year has the BEST sunrises.
• Get a tattoo.
• Color your hair.
• Plan something that delights you.
• Rollerskate.
• Create a work of art in collaboration with an unlikely partner: weather, your pet, or your neighbors.
• Read a poem by Thomas Lux. He rules. Here's one.
• Do one of the following: cartwheel, summersalt, or handstand.
• Play blind--walk through a neighborhood with your eyes closed and a friend guiding you for at least 15-20 minutes. Switch off.
  

That is all. See you soon.

Frida Fashionista!

One of my favorite birthday presents was a book from Graham called Self Portrait in a Velvet Dress. It consists of photographs of the newly unearthed treasure trove of the artist Frida Kahlo's wardrobe. I have long loved both the work and image of Frida Kahlo. I thought there was nothing more to be learned about this well charted artist--man, was I wrong.

It's obvious from the many photographs and self-portrait paintings that she had a unique and artistic sense of style, born from both a deep political love of her country Mexico and an artistic flair. Although I'd seen some color photographs of her (like the one above) I was NOT prepared for the glimpse of her that all these GORGEOUS garments create. Holy crap! She was an artist of paint and in fashion.

Look at these TOTALLY PUNK ROCK Chinese boots she wore :
Graham saw them and refused to believe for a moment that someone hadn't punked them up for her after the fact. As much as I love punk rock, my response was, "Honey, they didn't start the fire--maybe Frida did." I want a pair of these more than I can say.

All of these garments were discovered after a room in her house was unsealed on the 50th anniversary of her death. Her husband Diego Rivera had asked this room be sealed for 50 years and nobody knew what lay in wait. As it turns out, mountains and mountains of SKIRTS:
She wore long skirts to cover her ill matched legs from her childhood bout with polio. She MORE than worked the skirt. These pictured above are only a FEW pictured in this gorgeous book.

Her collection of silk Mexican blouses of red and blue and green and gold are mouth watering. The curators of the book did a wonderful job placing specific garments with specific paintings she made of herself and photographs. She had magnificent taste in color and style.
She often wore humongous flowers in her hair and I can only imagine now--seeing the real garments themselves--how utterly STRIKING she must have been in any room. She must have stopped people in their tracks.

I can only imagine what such a wardrobe would cost now, but this book inspires me so much in its color and history and sense that fashion is an expression of artistry and the self. She is iconic for a reason--no one created Frida. Frida always created herself.

She Wore Red Velvet (Again)

This is my birthday cake. Red Velvet, which I know is all hip now and all, but I got the recipe about 15 years ago from my great aunt Clara, who got the recipe from her mother, my great grandmother, Anna Eliza, who I guess got it from the Waldorf Astoria Hotel somehow. This is funny, because my great grandmother was a farm wife, come lady-be-good, and how this recipe made it from the gilded archways of the Waldorf Astoria to her table either in Salem, Indiana or outside Seattle, Washington is a mystery. Yet, from what I've heard, the Red Velvet cake has a mysterious grassroots history. I guess the fact that I have it some 60 years later back in Brooklyn, proves that. Besides it's probably the most beautiful cake I've ever seen.

Here's how I make it:

Cake Ingredients:
1 c. of vegetable shortening*
1 1/2 c. of sugar
2 Tbs. of unsweetened cocoa
2 oz. of red food coloring
1 tsp. of salt
3 eggs
1 tsp. of vanilla
1 c. of buttermilk
2 1/2 c. of sifted cake flour
1 1/2 tsp. of baking soda
1 Tbsp. of white vinegar

Directions:

• Preheat oven at 350. Butter and flour two 9" cake pans. Cream sugar and shortening until fluffy.
• Add eggs and beat well.
• In a separate bowl make a paste of the cocoa and food coloring and then add it to the first mixture.
• In a separate bowl mix salt, vanilla, & buttermilk. Alternating with the flour, add it into the first mixture and beat well.
• In a small bowl mix together soda & vinegar & fold it into the batter.
• Pour into the 2 pans and bake for 30 minutes.

Frosting Ingredients:
5 Tbsp. of flour
1 c. of milk
1 c. of sugar
1 c. of margarine*
1 tsp. of vanilla

Directions:

• Over medium heat, cook flour and milk, stirring constantly until thick. Then let cool completely.
• Cream together margarine, sugar, & vanilla.
• When completely cool add flour and milk mixture to the margarine mixture. Beat until spreadable.
• Spread between layers and cover the cake in frosting.

*Note: I don't use non dairy fats like shortening and margarine. I use butter all the way, baby. The result is a richer flavor, but try it any way you like.

Also, due to the red food coloring, the batter plays for KEEPS! The first time I made this, I stained a few things--so WATCH OUT.

It's the only cake that I would consider not slathering in frosting because it's so beautiful--but let's face it, cake is just merely a platform for which frosting is delivered upon. Also, it's the only cake that when you check to see if it's done, and your knife comes out with batter on it, you look like you just politely STABBED someone:

Down in Boobland

I would just to take a moment to say that boob MRIs are not the most comfortable thing on the planet.

First of all, there's the SURPRISE IV that they spring on you. Shots are one thing, but IVs are pretty much ICKY in my opinion. Actually, if you want to know the truth, just thinking about them makes me turn green, so you can imagine my surprise when the very chipper lady said, "I just want to give you a SHUNT for the IV they are going to stick into you." I was like, WHAAAAAA ---? I immediately started to laugh in that hysterical, oh my body feels like a wet noodle all of sudden, and I might pass out kind of way. The lady said, "Yep, I bet they didn't tell you. They never tell anybody."

So let me be the one to tell you gals: YOU WILL GET AN IV!

After I had my ICKY creepy SHUNT jabbed into my arm I was led to the MRI room where I had to change into one of those fabulous seersucker robes without knocking out my SHUNT or PASSING OUT at the feeling of my shirt being pulled over my SHUNT. All this and it turns out that the guys who run the MRI are like young frat boys, who joke around and listen to Guns N' Roses. Actually, the guy who helped me was nice. His name was Paul. Paul was there for me. Paul stuck the IV into my shunt and handed me a showercap and told me not to bend my arm because I might knock out the IV. Paul gave me a blanket. When I discovered that I had to lie on my stomach in a position that should be reserved for flying superheroes, with my girls in a copper lined cup, I said to Paul, "Oh, the DIGNITY continues, Paul." Paul didn't even crack a smile.

I thought the problem would be claustrophobia, and while it was a problem, it was just a piece of the picture. Imaginebeing in this position, with your forehead propped on a forhead pillow and being told not to move for 20 minutes and then imagine the loudest and WORST fusion concert you could ever hear in your life. About halfway through Paul's voice came over the speaker and he said, "Okay, now the dye is going to be put into your IV." and a weird, cold pallor leaked into my arm. It creeped the hell out of me. That's when the panic attack started to set in. There was something about the new, cold physical sensation of something leaking into me, and without the ability to move in reaction that made me panic. I kept thinking it would be the physical space of the MRI that would freak me out, but it was the physical strangeness of it all and the sound that radiated through me. I felt like I was in a bad, black space, like in some dream where you can't move. Afterwards Paul said, "You did great." Like usual, I wished that I could have seen whatever images were collecting while I was in superhero mode, but I was quickly ferried out.

Like I suspected, my doctor told me today that they didn't find anything--ANYTHING. So I needed to find a surgeon to get a biopsy. I hate being 36 and feeling like I am a BABE in the WOODS and saying to myself, "You're a big girl, now go and find yourself a surgeon." Yeah, whatever. I guess if I can handle the SHUNT, I can handle finding a surgeon. Still, this REAL LIFE stuff is hard. It's much harder than all the EXISTENTIAL crap I usually worry about. Somehow the worry of my PURPOSE and DREAMS seem like a funny thing to worry about, and yet, like a true neurotic I STILL worry about it. Ah well, maybe it's the one thing I have to make me feel like I am still me as I am wandering a very un-me sort of landscape. Maybe it's my brain's way of saying, business as usual. Thanks, brain. I knew I could count on you.

The Long Delayed (and oh so exciting) Vermont Post

WHO are these people? They look at HAPPY, RELAXED, and they are in such a BEAUTIFUL SETTING! Oh, I wish that was ME! Oh, wait it IS me. That's right, it all comes back to me now...we went on vacation. Man, that was a LONG TIME AGO.

I feel like every time I go to Vermont I find NEW and CHARMING tidbits about the place that makes me fall in love with it all over again. I mean, it's MORE than just a liberal state where you can eat maple creamees while barefoot and staring out at a pasture wall eyed goats. It's more than just the GREENEST place this Californian has ever been to. I say, it's MORE than just a place where I have wonderful friends, who feed us well, and give us shelter from the storm. I knew this, but I did not know that Vermont is a place where you can go to a community farmer's market and see three UTTERLY SERIOUS 8-year-old girls sing the hits from the likes of Avril Lavigne, Hillary Duff, and Gwen Stefani:
I mean, they were PROFESSIONALS. They not only did all their own make-up, choreography, and something along the lines of harmony, but they carted their own equipment. As a former female performer myself, I can vouch for the sexist music industry who often believed that as a girl, I wouldn't and COULDN'T carry my own equipment. Dare I say it that these girls made me PROUD when I saw them hauling off their pink karaoke machine after such a set? Also, I would like to point out that the girl rocking out in the front, hair ablaze, was a FANTASTIC fly girl. They should consider taking her on the road with them.
Another surprise of the trip was discovering my husband's flare with a hoolahoop. A year later he STILL surprises me. What will the next 49 years bring? Trapeze riding? Flame throwing? The mystery of marriage continues to unfold!
And just in case you were ever BORED in Vermont (perish the thought!), you might want to go out and take a calf for a walk--or at least go visit somebody who is. This calf belongs to Steve and Susannah, who also have two other cows, a blueberry patch of some renown, goats, chickens, and many other creatures I am forgetting. Susannah and Steve are big practitioners of local economy. After we came home with Diane, with a pallet of blueberries and fresh milk thoughts of the crappy C-Town down our street made me QUAKE in my flip-flops. I think they may have something on that whole grow-it-yourself thing.

I have never eaten so much sweet dairy desserts in my life. It might have gone up to three times a day, but I'd rather not know. What happens on vacation, stays on vacation. Now, if you'll excuse me I need to make myself a cup of coffee sweetened with the maple syrup we bought from Diane and Lucian's friends. It's the only way I can taste Vermont now.