This is the view from my living room window. As you can see, I’m high up. The trees still have a few leaves, making it hard to see the tidal river in the distance. The nifty antique shop across the street is owned by my landlord. I like the autumn light against the yellow grass in the marsh beyond.

Cheap and Easy Party Favorite*

I’m off to a party this evening, a little affair to celebrate my sister’s twenty-ninth birthday with friends. Since this is the semi-kickoff for the holiday season, I thought that I would share a cheap and easy party recipe.**

The Stuff (Otherwise Known as Artichoke-Spinach Dip)

If Yetta reads this, she’s going to laugh her ass off. The Stuff was first introduced to us by a former coworker who spent the better part of the afternoon after we had devoured it creating cute little recipe cards for us. They had clip art and everything.

I’ll spare you that, but I can tell you that The Stuff kicks ass. I’ve brought this tasty dip to many an affair, and there’s never any left at the end. Chefs have asked me for my secret, and I love seeing their faces when I tell them. When I’m invited to potluck dinners, my friends say, “Oh yeah, bring The Stuff.” When I oblige, people exclaim, “Oh, yeah! You brought The Stuff!” while piling their plates high. My mother, one of the best cooks in the land, always buys the ingredients for me to make The Stuff as an appetizer on Thanksgiving AND Christmas Day.

I imagine some suburban housewife created The Stuff upon discovering artichoke hearts and not having the faintest idea what to do with them. The thing about suburban housewives is that, laugh at them all you want, they know comfort food. If you don’t trust them, trust me—this is the best artichoke-spinach dip you’ll ever eat.

You’ll need:
1 can artichoke hearts, in water, drained
1 package frozen chopped spinach, thawed (don’t try fresh, and for the love of all that is holy, do not try canned)
1 small can diced green chilies (found in the faux-Mexican section, alongside the “taco” seasoning)
1 cup mayonnaise (don’t use salad dressing)
1 cup parmesan cheese (the recipe calls for the powdery stuff, but you can used fresh grated, and it will still be yummy)

To assemble:
Preheat oven to 375 degrees (Alas, I don’t know my conversions very well).
Squeeze all the water out of the chopped spinach. Do this thoroughly, or the dip will be runny.
Chop the ends off the artichoke hearts, and discard (make sure you get the choke). Chop the rest into decent-sized pieces.
Dump the squeezed spinach and the chopped artichoke hearts in a bowl.
Dump in the small can of diced green chilies.
Dump in the cup of mayonnaise.
Dump in the cup of parmesan cheese.
Mix thoroughly.
Dump the mixture into small, ungreased casserole dish (I use a Le Creuset small oval baker).

To bake:
Bake at 375 degrees for 15–20 minutes or until top is slightly brown and the mixture is bubbly.

To serve:
Serve hot. This dip goes with pretty much everything, and I’ve seen people eat it with a fork. I tend to bring nice crackers (try to spruce up the suburban housewifey thing a bit, you know). Watch as people devour and laugh when you tell them that your secret is mayonnaise.

Fluff and the Stuff at Thanksgiving at Mom & Dad's

* And you thought I was going to be vulgar

**I really can cook. I’ve slaved hours for dinner parties before, pulling fresh, homemade bread out of the oven as I put the finishing touches on the soup, appetizer ready, wine at hand, and main course under control. When time is short, and party time is upon me, however, this is the one thing I count on to please.

The Shining Drunken Rodents

Rodents, Mean and Drunken

Somehow the comments on my post about the demise of the pink flamingo turned to squirrels and rodents in general (oh, and politics, but I suppose that falls under the “rodents in general” category). Well it just so happens that squirrels (well, specifically one squirrel) and rodents (specifically, mice) have made the news lately. I thought I’d share.

I am from the devil and I will attack anyone
who dares deliver mail on my turf

Mean Squirrel Attacks Pennsylvania Letter Carrier
My favorite quote from this story, “We not issuing a squirrel alert…” What, exactly, is a squirrel alert, and how would one issue it? “Mayday, Mayday, squirrel spotted in Mr. Jones’s yard…Wait, nope, now it’s up the tree… Now it’s down the tree… Oh, damn, it’s just crossed the street and is eating an acorn in Mrs. Smith’s shrubbery. Will someone please get down here ready to run the critter over then next time it makes a break for it?”

Wine Keeps Fat Mice Happy, Healthy
In a new study, fat mice were given extraordinarily high doses of a chemical found in wine. Apparently this allowed the obese mice to stave off the health effects of fat micehood, and doctors think that this might be the magic bullet for fat Americans. Just what we need, super-sized plonk served at McDonalds. In any event, I guess that if all else fails in my life, I’ll just drink massive quantities of wine and take to my snacks. I’ll live to be 150 and laugh wickedly at all you poor saps who died young and svelte.

The Shining

Come type with us

Robyn waxed nostalgic for typewriters in her latest post. While commenting on her blog, I looked over and saw an example of my own typing. Last fall, the Brattle Theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts, showed a revival of The Shining during a Stanley Kubrick retrospective. It was a grand good time, and apparently I was impressed enough by the “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” exercise that I tried one of my own on the office typewriter (which, by the way, is only used for the occasional out-of-date form and doesn’t work terribly well). I think you’ll see why I’m grateful for modern technology (although the soothing bell and clickety-clack are beautiful things).

The Road Less Traveled, As Told by My Refrigerator

Robyn, Robyn, the giver of tasks. In her latest assignment she asked us to think about what we would do if we took the other fork in the road, just this one time. Where would we go? Right now I have enough “what ifs” in my life that entertaining them doesn't seem like a healthy idea. In lieu of completing the assignment in writing, I thought that I would share my thoughts via my refrigerator.

Here is my fridge

(the cactus card is a breakup card from a

dear friend—inside it says “Love Hurts”—how true)

Here is a close-up of one magnet
That's where I'm at

RIP, Plastic Pink Flamingo

As a lover of all things kitsch, I thought that I would take a moment to mark the passing of the plastic pink flamingo, made by Union Plastics right here in Massachusetts. Union Plastics has announced its intention to cease manufacture of the tacky birds.

I have a special connection to the pink flamingo. Someone in my hometown started the Society for the Preservation of Artificial Wildlife, and pink flamingo nesting sites were found in various areas in the region. These were reported in the local newspaper, to great fanfare. One time, I saw a pink flamingo nesting high up in a tree in wintertime. My heart was glad, and I was proud that our little area was a sanctuary for Artificial Wildlife. Soon, the little critters will be extinct, and the world will be just a little less wonderful than it was before.

*I did not take this photo.

Happy Halloween

I took this photograph while on a walk
in Meredith, New Hampshire, in 1995.

I didn't look inside.

I have the stuff to make magnets out of it. One of these days, I'm going to sell them.

Wonders

Robyn gave us an assignment. I didn’t want to do it; I don’t like assignments. I haven’t done it exactly, but these are some photos that are home to me.

This is on the bridge on the way to my favorite beach.

Leaves turning—I used to climb this tree when I was little.
I couldn’t climb very high.

Winter came early one year.
I snapped this outside my current apartment.

I occupied this chair for a summer.
I hated the job, but I love the way the sky looks against
the water and the trees.

White Mountains, New Hampshire.

I snapped this photo in the North End of Boston one summer day when I was feeling sad.
It made me feel better.

El Greco

An important art discovery was made this past weekend. At long last, the painting by El Greco, “Christ Healing the Bling,” has been shown in Massachusetts. Apparently Christ didn’t just heal the blind. He healed that which blinded the blind to begin with.

Blogger Be Damned

I have no idea what is causing the meltdown on my blog, but I am not pleased. Nope. Not pleased a bit. I thought switching over to beta would help, but I think it made matters worse. Sorry for the troubles.

Travels with Fluff: Vacation Photos Starring a Tub of Fluff (Part IV: Fluffy in Memphis)

Welcome Back to Travels with Fluff!

New to Travels with Fluff? Check out the previous posts.
Introduction
London and the Opal Coast of France (for one day, to get some wine)
Dispatch from the What the Fluff? Festival in Union Square, Somerville
New York City

Don’t forget to take the Fluff Quiz at the bottom of this post. Answers to the previous Fluff Quiz posted too!

One of my oldest and dearest friends lives in Memphis, Tennessee. She works at St. Jude’s Hospital, the world’s best hospital for pediatric oncology (yes, one of my best friends is a saint). For ten years, she nagged me to come and visit her, and until last winter, I never did. The good Yankee I am, I assumed that any non-coastal state was a backwater and kept trying to convince her to meet me someplace else for a mini-break. She finally wore me down.

I am happy to say that I was wrong. In one liver-straining weekend, I took in the sights and vibe of Memphis, and I have to say that Midtown Memphis is actually a very funky little enclave in what is otherwise a backwater (I did go to Mississippi and Arkansas for about five minutes apiece, and I wasn’t impressed).

Sadly, we didn’t go to Graceland. I’m not a big Elvis fan (except Fat Elvis—some of that stuff slays me), and the cheapest tour was somewhere around $50. Plus, it was out of the way of all the drinking establishments we needed to hit.

Please note that any and all daylight pictures were taken by someone with a mind-bending hangover and that the evening shots were taken by someone who should not have been operating a camera (traumatic photos have been edited out).

Fluff at Boscos, a regional brewery

Fluff at Joe’s Liquors, aka Sputnik

Fluff on Beale Street

Bad photo of the lights on Beale Street

This place used to be a brothel

Fluff at Sun Studio

Fluff on the side of the Sun Studio building

Fluffernutter

Fluff and the Memphis Trolley

Fuzzy picture of Fluff and Elvis on velvet

Fluff found true love

Fluff on a bench along the banks of the mighty Mississippi

Fluff Quiz the Third!
Oh dear, I know so very little about Memphis. This one might be a bit short.

Remember, if you cheat, you are only cheating yourself. Not knowing squat about Fluff is nothing to be ashamed of.

1. What is the shelf life of Fluff?
2. Dusty Springfield is best known for “Son of a Preacher Man,” recorded with the Memphis Sound. The song, however, was originally written for someone else. Who turned “Preacher Man” down? Huge-ass hint: She later recorded it.
3. Name two people who recorded at Sun Studio. I don’t want anyone telling me that my quizzes are too hard.
4. Fluffy fell in love with Aqua Net in Memphis and has been heartbroken ever since. Have you ever felt this way? Discuss.

Answers to Fluff Quiz the Second!
Dive wins this round, however, because Dive also disrespected baseball, James gets to share billing. Kudos for creativity go to Super C, whose answer to the OMFUG extra credit nearly made me wee.

1. Is Fluff kosher?
Yes, Fluff is kosher. I don’t understand this, as I don’t believe it’s really food, but according to the Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations, it fits the bill.
2. Is Fluff a Boston Red Sox fan or a New York Yankees fan? Why?
Fluff is a Red Sox fan because Fluff is from Massachusetts (it’s made in Lynn, Lynn, the city of sin and was invented in Somerville). Fluff is therefore constinutionally incapable of having anything but disgust for all things New York Yankees.
3. Which Monty Python member is responsible for Spamalot?
Eric Idle, bless his twisted heart.
4. Ian McDiarmid played Teddy in the Broadway revival of Brian Friel’s Faith Healer. Who did he play in Return of the Jedi?
He played the Emperor. This was a bit of a trick question, as he was also Palpatine in the newer movies. But those movies were crap, and so I am sticking to the original three.
5. Alas, it appears as though the legendary rock club CBGB’s really is headed for memory lane this time. What does CBGB stand for?
Ironically enough, CBGB stands for Country Bluegrass, and Blues. the club closed earlier this month.
Extra Credit: What does OMFUG stand for? Hint: It ain’t dirty.
OMFUG stands for Other Music For Uplifting Gormandizers. Music as food, I like that. RIP, CBGB OMFUG.

In the next installment, Fluff goes to Italia.

Previous Posts
Introduction
London and the Opal Coast of France (for one day, to get some wine
Dispatch from the What the Fluff? Festival in Union Square, Somerville
New York City

My Life Is a Country Song

Shit. Double Shit.

The front pipe on my car just fell off. It’s been going for months, so this is no big shock, but, still, SHIT! It’s going to cost something to the tune of $1,000 to fix. Do I have this kind of scratch lying around? Nope. I mean, I can do it, but it’s going to be hard. Really, really hard.

Damn.

At least it fell off at home, so I wasn’t left stranded on the road. And I have a good mechanic, who will only do that which is necessary to fix it. But damnit, I really didn’t need this right now.

Just exactly how did my life become a country song?

On Idealism and Compromise

The comments to my last post and Dr. James’s excellent post on Keith Olbermann’s blistering indictment of the Bush Administration’s assault on democracy and freedom have inspired me to finally get this down. While James and I are coming from different perspectives where faith is concerned (and I suspect we disagree on a few issues), I couldn’t agree with him more about the importance of this election. I encourage you to check out his post and to watch the video link.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about idealism and compromise. I’m an idealist struggling not to succumb to the cynicism that plagues so many of us as we grow older and learn that the world is not easily changed. Unfortunately for idealists, we cannot get everything that we hope for. This is hard to accept, but I have learned that we must be very careful not to use this disappointment as an excuse to abandon the good fight altogether.

Like many American liberals, I believe that the Democratic Party has abandoned its ideals in the name of winning elections. They seem unwilling to come right out and say that they support social services, that they support the rights of the poor, that they support the rich paying their fair share, that they support workers’ rights, that they support environmental protections, that they support women’s rights (including abortion), that they support equal rights for gay people. This unwillingness to take such stands, unpopular as some of them might be, have left the party with nothing real to say.

In 2000 I looked at Al Gore, and because he appeared to have turned his back on the principles I held dear, I didn’t vote for him. I lived in New Hampshire, a state heartbreakingly close to going blue that year, and I voted for Ralph Nader because Gore didn’t live up to my ideals. While the Green vote was not enough to have tipped the state blue (therefore rendering the debacle in Florida unnecessary), the general dissatisfaction with the Democratic party by lefties like me certainly did influence the outcome. I will regret my vote for the rest of my life.

Yes, the Democrats are the wishy-washy party, as Dive so aptly puts it. No matter how wishy-washy they are, however, they are not the Republicans. Make no mistake about who this party is and who it represents. This is not the Party of Lincoln. It isn’t even the party of Eisenhower. Sensing an opportunity to seize the votes of southerners who traditionally voted Democratic but who opposed the civil rights movement, the Republicans made a cold, calculated alliance with racists. Ronald Reagan did not kick of his campaign in Philadelphia, Mississippi, the site of the brutal murder of civil rights workers, because the weather was nice there that time of year. He sent a clear signal that the Party of Lincoln had undergone a fundamental shift. Don’t like civil rights? Vote Republican.

And, speaking of fundamentals, the Republicans also got into bed with the Christian fundamentalists, inviting the likes of Jerry Fawell and his Moral Majority into the fold (Southern Baptist Convention? Founded to defend slavery). The Gospel according to Fawell is that Jesus hates uppity women, science, and gay people, and that until these forces are eradicated from this nation that God will turn his back on it. He preached that America was founded by Christians as a Christian nation, despite all evidence to the contrary. And Christians, especially southern Christians, heeded the call of Fawell and those who followed him, and flocked to the Republican party in droves. As we saw in 2004, this powerful Values block delivered for the Republicans in a way that I hope woke the rest of the country up.

We can see the fruits of this unholy union. An illegal war of choice that many on the religious right see as a religious crusade. The destruction of the ideals upon which this country was founded. A movement to fight equal rights instead of advancing them. A culture of corruption and hate.

The Democrats, afraid to be who they are, have backed away from some of their ideals. They’ve gotten into bed with business interests in order to get money to be in politics. They are a tremendous disappointment on so many levels. But they did not get into bed with racists and religious fundamentalists. They would not have brought our country to the brink of losing everything we hold dear as a free and democratic people.

Even if the only difference between the two parties is that the Democrats are not the Republicans, that’s good enough for me this time. The Democrats do not live up to my expectations, but I now know that a Gore administration would not have been the same as the Bush regime.

I can’t take back my idealistic vote six years ago. But I can cast a better, wiser compromise vote this time. I’m voting for the Democrats.

Update

Well, shockingly enough, all is nice and quiet here this evening. I don’t know what my landlord said to those people, but I haven’t heard boo from them since I got home. I’m sitting here, listening (quietly, of course) to the early BBC recordings of Jacqueline du Pré, having just finished Jennifer Egan’s The Keep (can’t recommend it—had some promise, but crossed the International Cheese Line). I made some delicious soup earlier this evening while listening to Nick Drake’s first album (also quietly). My floor didn’t shake; no one yelled. In short, I am feeling much, much better. If I can get through tomorrow morning without having my bed go all Exorcist on me, I’ll consider the problem dealt with.

Also, I am once again a citizen of the wonderful world of online dating. One site I was on hadn't deleted my profile when I cancelled my account, so that was easy enough to do. The other required me to fill out another questionnaire. That activity, alas, took up my writing juices for this evening.

Because I’m feeling guilty for all this self-absorbed drivel I’ve been writing lately, I’ll leave you all with this. In two weeks’ time, we should know if this country is worth the effort to try to save it or not. Oh please, oh please, oh please.

Rant: On the Neighbors from HELL!

Hate is a strong word. It’s a word I don’t like to use with regards to people, but I have to say it: I hate my neighbors. Hate them. Hate them. HATE THEM!

A little background is in order. I live in a nice, quiet town. In fact, sometimes I think this place is too sleepy. When I moved to the top floor of this old house, it was a nice, quiet house. There was no one on the second floor, and a quiet (if a little rough around the edges) family living on the first floor. My landlord promised me that when the second floor apartment was renovated that he would rent to a single person or a professional couple, as he wanted to keep the building nice and quiet. That apartment is fairly small—really more like a one bedroom with an office and no common space to speak of—so I thought that I was all set.

Well, I wasn’t. For the last two years, I have lived above the family from the bad place. It started with cat shit in the hallway and loud, drunken domestic disputes, and it hasn’t let up since. Here’s a little litany:

• Last Christmas, the husband broke into my apartment and stole my liquor (something he denies, and I can’t officially accuse him of, as I have no hard evidence other than that the nice people who used to live below me [before second floor demons got to them enough that they moved] said that they saw a bottle that matched my description by the guy’s truck).
  
• When I was getting my cable internet connection fixed a few months ago (necessitated by the fact that they were stealing my cable), the wife screamed her bloody head off at me and the workmen before slamming the door so hard that it left a crack.
  
• The cops have been here several times for domestic disputes.
  
• The wife didn’t like the woman who moved in on the first floor after the nice people left, so she called social services on her, saying that she was an abusive parent. Of course, they lost their own kids for a few months after a lovely little drunken dispute.
  
• When they had a problem with the way I disposed of the occasional pizza box (next to the dumpster, as everyone has done, because they don’t fit into the garbage bags), they shoved it under my car instead of using their fucking words to say that they’d like a change.
  
• The hallway now sports the tackiest “décor” of all time. I’m embarrassed to bring people home.
  
• The apartment comes with one parking spot. They have two regular vehicles, a super-sized truck that hasn’t run for months, and, up until two months ago, the world’s biggest station wagon. They also have ATVs for the kids and motorcycles. At least the station wagon shat the bed and their second car is now a compact car. Of course, the woman also brings home the work truck sometimes as well.
  
• Their kids use the driveway like it’s their own personal playground, leaving bikes and jumps all over the place. Not to mention that they play kickball and such next to my car (which has a few dings in it that no one has ever fessed up to). Sometimes I come home to an ATV fest.

All of this, however unpleasant it was, I could take. I can’t take their fucking stereo system a moment longer. The guy got new speakers, speakers with kickass bass. Speakers that make my apartment shake (remember the bit about this being an old house?). Speakers that I have asked them to turn down countless times, including just two days ago, after my coffee cup nearly fell off the table. Speakers that woke me up at 6:30 this morning.

Unlike the way they deal with their problems, I actually use my words. I went down there this morning and knocked on their door. They didn’t answer. I knocked harder, informing them that they had woken me up and to PLEASE stop it. They acted as though I’d crossed the line. I was asking too much not to have my bed shake like the bloody Exorcist, apparently. This afternoon I came home to a note telling me that I had no right to ask them to turn down their stereo, as their day begins at 6:00. They have a right to live, they told me.

I just called my powerless landlord who hates them too (they haven’t exactly been all that great with the rent payments). Honestly, I’m a little bit worried about my safety. Part of the reason why I’m writing this little rant is because if anything happens to me in the next couple of days, I want someone to know that I was concerned.

I have to get out of here. I love this apartment (charming does not begin to cover it). This is my home, the first place that has been all mine in my adult life. But I just can’t take it anymore.

Fucking skankball neighbors from hell. I hate them.

Portsmouth

It had been nearly a year since I’d been there, long enough to be surprised by the changes and surprised by what I had never noticed. On my way to the parking lot, I saw a hulking new building made to look old on the hill next to the Blue Mermaid. Surprised, I drove on to the lot, pulled into a spot, cut the engine, and got out of the car.

Walking down Congress Street on this beautiful fall Sunday, I noticed just how dingy Portsmouth still is, despite all the cutesy renovations. The buildings on the end are depressing flat and cheerless, like shopping centers from the seventies. That’s what they were; I guess I had just grown used to them. I walked toward the Friendly Toast, the best greasy spoon in the universe. On my way, I noticed that Bailey Works was gone. So too apparently was Stuart Shane’s and with it, the displays of horrid women's eveningwear (the bad men's suits were still in the window). I’d never set foot in Stuart Shane’s, still, the thought of its no longer being there made me sad.

Second Time Around, a small chain of upscale resale shops in Boston, had opened a shop where Tonic had been. Nahcotta, a newish art gallery/living space shop, was still there. I spotted the owner inside, a woman I had known rather well, but I decided not to go in and say hello. Punk kids were huddled in the doorway of Stuart Shane’s. Some things don’t change, though I had no idea who these punk kids were. They look young enough to possibly be the children of punk rockers. Passing them, I stepped inside the Toast. Oh yes, the smell. Sweet grease. It sounds disgusting, and it is, but having gone without this breakfast for so long, I felt like I was home.

Funny how I’d wanted to be alone with my thoughts and my book, and I’d gone to the one place where I know more people than in the town where I grew up. The hostess smiled at me, and I smiled back. I knew her vaguely but didn’t feel like engaging in small talk, so I just sat down at the table in the window. I looked around the red room with an exposed ceiling, decorated with some of the worst art and kitsch ever produced. I was happy to be there. Glancing over at the kitchen, I saw that a waiter I’d known still works here. His beard is gray now. He didn’t see me. I didn’t wave.

A svelte young lad bearing a strong resemblance to David Bowie (though he dressed to try to hide it) brought me water and asked me what I’d like in a voice so quiet I had to ask him to repeat himself. I ordered the Basic Breakfast with cinnamon toast, even though it was well past one. The best thing about the Toast is that breakfast is always being served, and the breakfast is always good. After I’d ordered, I took out my book and read half-heartedly. I looked out the window at the building across the street, up to the window where my office had once been. Looking back down at the street, I saw a friend’s ex walking by with their daughter. She’s grown. She’s probably in the first grade.

True to horrendous service form at the Toast, my breakfast arrived a long time after I’d ordered. It was, alas, not as good as it had always been. The huge slab of homemade cinnamon toast was overdone, and the homefries underdone. Normally there’s more food on the plate than anyone could eat in a year, but this time the portion was something approaching normal. However, the food was still greasy, and still a hell of a lot better than anything I’d had in the past year. I ate. The waiter I know walked by and said hello, and we chatted before he had to go to another table. David Bowie brought me more coffee, I drank it, paid the bill, and left.

More building shockers. I knew they’d taken down the decrepit camera store, the one with a vintage sign that somehow defined the square. What I didn’t know was that it was replaced by yet another fake-old complex. The local bookshop, RiverRun, had reopened there, and there was also a new bakery. The church was being renovated. Ganesh Imports had left. I was really hoping that Choozy Shoes was still there, because that shop was what led me to Portsmouth to begin with. It was. Oh hurrah. Some of the best shoes I’ve ever bought, the kind of shoes people stop me in the street to admire, came from there. Unfortunately I didn’t see anything that caught my fancy. I looked at everything again, just to be sure that it wasn’t my mood that was keeping me from festive shoes. It wasn’t. Sigh…

I left and continued toward the square, noticing everything that wasn’t there anymore. No Atlantic Video (it had been long gone since before I left town), though I saw the old manager walking down the street. The parking lot behind Eagle Camera was also gone, and I could see the condo complex in the background. The Starbucks still was there. I knew that, but it still surprised me that it could continue to limp along, despite the competition from Breaking New Grounds, now located in the old Brioche spot. Breaking New Grounds had customers galore sitting around the tables, enjoying the sunshine. Starbucks had a couple of tourists. I kept going. The tacky Hallmark place is still there, for some reason that comforted me. Lovell, where I had worked part-time was still there, but I didn’t know the woman keeping the shop.

I rounded the corner and noticed that Ganesh had moved into the old Breaking New Grounds spot. That surprised me. The location is prime real estate, one of the quaint, truly older buildings in town, but it seemed as though the place should have been reserved for food. One of the stores across the street had changed hands. The RiverRun bookstore sign was still where the old store had been, tucked in the back of an old building. The move to the fake-old location must have been recent. Most of the rest of the street was still the same.

I kept walking, crossed the street and went into Macro Polo, local purveyors of new kitsch. I wandered around there for a while, noticing that nothing really new was there. That also made me feel better. I left and went into Odd, a little shop featuring handmade crochet items and vintage tackiness. I don’t know the woman who runs it personally, but I had read that she knew Eliot Smith back before he was famous and before he was a drug addict. Was she still sad, I wondered. She was on the phone to her uncle (I wasn’t listening, but I caught the Uncle ___ at the end of the call). Wandering past the counter, I noticed some puffy Michael Jackson stickers from the Thriller era. I have the same ones in my dusty sticker collection tucked away in my parents’ attic. I touched them. Still puffy. There was a pair of funky old dance shoes that caught my eye. Cheap enough to be worth getting, but alas, also too big. Some older punk kids walked in, one of them was pregnant. They started talking rather loudly, so I left.

I crossed, giving the tourist who was blocking the sidewalk with his car a dirty look, and took the little side street. The Thai place was still there, and the décor could still really use some help. The depressing federal building loomed over me as I passed the fabric store and the horrid Mexican place (frequented by preppy drunken college students).

As I neared the intersection, I took a deep breath, yes, the Press Room, the best bar in town, was still there. I thought about getting a pint, but decided that I didn’t want to be stuck in town for an hour. Wait, is Kilim, the funky coffee house run by the pervy Turkish guy, gone? Yes. It was gone, the space newly painted. I didn’t go there all that often (the guy really was pervy—he’d look down your shirt in the mirror behind the counter while he fixed your drink—and he wasn’t all that pleasant either), but I couldn’t believe that it hadn’t survived the latest stage in the yuppification of downtown Portsmouth. So the yuppies can’t have any funk?

I had to get out of there, so I walked the rest of the way down Ceres Street in a huff. Wait, Lucky 7s miraculously still existed. The very hip older woman who runs the place was listening to Prince and crafting away when I stepped inside the shop. Oh, joy. I wanted to buy something just to say good for you for living through this, but alas, some of it is just too pricey (probably how she stays in business—if the stuff was cheap, the yuppies wouldn’t have it). So I chatted with her (the only person I really talked to that day) before I left to wander back to my car.

On my way, I went into RiverRun to see if they had the latest George Saunders book (they didn’t). I picked up a copy of the Wire there and noticed that the lead article was on architecture—I wondered what it would say. One last stop in Bull Moose Music. ITunes must be doing a number on this place, I thought, but I admired the fact that they were trying to get rarities in there. I just didn’t have the heart to flip through them, however, and it was time to go. I made my way back to my car and left the back way through town.

The Friday Song and Other Nonsense

The Friday Song

It’s a gray day here in New England, the kind of day made for blankets, reading, movies, and hot chocolate. Alas, I’m here in the office, attempting to engage in productive labor. Not going so well, that, so I thought that I would teach you my “Friday Song.” I am going to sing the “Friday Song” despite the weather and my general state of mind. Please join me.

The “Friday Song” does not have a proper tune (I have many talents—singing is not one of them), but it is a catchy little sing-song-y ditty that goes like this:

To-day is Fri-day
I am so hap-py
It is the week-end
I get to go play

[Now you list your plans for the weekend. Here are mine:
I’m on the look-out
For sex-y shoes
I’ll spend the rest
The way I choose]

I hope you sing along!

Other Nonsense

On Spam
Like everyone else, I get tons of spam these days. I feel like writing these spammers and telling them that since I don’t have the body part they are offering to enhance that they could at least tempt me with something useful. Some spam, however, is memorable. I thought I'd share.

Best Subject Line Ever: Wary Knitting Needle
I picture the spammy message saying something like this: Slipping past the previous stitch, the needle paused. Just stop the clicking for a moment so I can think! What happens next? Knit? Purl? What to do, what to do, what to do? Think fast! The wary knitting needle sized up the next stitch. It could be the last.

Best Overall Messages: Stock tips from Jesus
I get a lot of these.

Strange News
Best Article Title I've Seen in Ages: Vicar's Knicker Run Rescues Town
I picture this vicar rather like the vicar in the film version of A Room with a View. He has a knowing wink, and you know that he’s had a few pervy thoughts, but he’s still a loveable geezer, and he means well. And saying vicar and knicker together is just fun.

Will the Republicans Lose Control of Congress? (Oh please, oh please, oh please)

Enough about me and my boring life already! Let’s talk about something even more messed up: Congress.

The burning question: Will the Republicans lose control of Congress in three weeks' time? I used the phrase Republicans lose because I don’t think that the Democrats will actually win control of Congress, as winning generally implies having a strategy and principles and such.

As much as I would like the Democrats to come up with something to say, to embrace ideals of the party instead of trying to distance themselves from them in the name of winning elections, their current inaction just might pay off. Barring electoral shenanigans (certainly possible) or some kind of last-minute Karl Rove dirty trick, I think the Republicans have shown themselves for who they really are, and the American people just might decide that they’ve had enough.

In 1994 the Republicans took the House in the name of morality (ultimate enemies: Roe v. Wade and gay people) and fiscal responsibility (ultimate enemies: poor women and school children). Less government!

Well, after twelve years, we’ve seen Republican morality in the form of bribes, a sex scandal of their own, and racism. We’ve seen Republican fiscal responsibility in the form of a record-breaking deficit, tax breaks for the energy industry (do these companies seriously need tax breaks when the CEOs make more money in a week than most people will see in their lifetime?), and favors to the pharmaceutical companies in the name of prescriptions for seniors. And less government? Ha! We have a sprawling intelligence bureaucracy. In the name of security, Congress voted to inspect your library record.

Not to mention that mess we made in the Middle East and its implications for our reputation abroad. This Congress just voted on a bill that sanctioned torture and the suspension of Habeas Corpus. The Geneva Conventions? Not really necessary, Republicans said. We need to win the War on Terror. Thing is, even W. said that the violence over there looks a wee bit like Vietnam. It looks as though the guy who got W. installed in office, James Baker, thinks that victory in Iraq is impossible.

With your friends saying stuff like that, who needs Democratic strategy to lose elections?

Oh, and this little thing in North Korea.

Gay marriage! the Republicans cry. Don’t forget the gay marriage!

Here’s to hoping that Americans have finally realized that there are real enemies to freedom and democracy—Republicans.

After the Cyber-Bleeding

I don’t intend to turn this forum into a chronicle of my breakup, but I figured that since I pretty much bled all over cyberspace, I’d post an update as to how I’m doing.

First, a word of thanks. In going through this, I've learned just how much people care about me. Even people I’ve never met expressed empathy and support. I believe that positive thoughts have the power to heal, and I am grateful for all of the good energy sent my way.

I accept that our relationship is over. I don’t want him back. I haven’t maniacally checked my e-mail, and I’m not waiting for the phone to ring (ha!). Most of the time, accepting that a relationship is over is the hardest thing for me. Perhaps the one positive thing that I can say for my ex-boyfriend’s appalling method of breaking up with me is that it killed the love I had for him. It’s done.

I’m satisfied that I did my best to be open, loving, and supportive. From the moment I met him, I knew that I was taking a big chance in loving someone so different from me. Still I loved him deeply, and I know that in his way he loved me too. I gave him a really big chance after he begged me not to leave him when he really let me down once. Part of me is kicking myself, but I’m glad that I was forgiving. I was open and unguarded, and I think that is a beautiful thing to be able to say.

Here's a rambling list of my life since last Wednesday at three pm.

I went to a party and didn’t bring down the room.

I put the things that remind me of him in a drawer to look at another day.

I deleted his phone number.

I’ve smoked too many cigarettes.

I went to Vermont with my family and had a good time. I took pictures of ridiculous toys and thought about nostalgia. I don’t want to go back.

The phrase “to cry as if your heart would break” has new meaning for me. My heart is broken. Something in me has died, and I’m grieving. It hurts. Bad.

I drank too much wine last night and listened to sad music. That’s the first time I did that since the breakup, and I do not feel compelled to do it again. Most of the time, I do this for a long time.

I got caught reading cheesy self-help at a bookstore.

I was pleased to learn that I have already been doing most of the things that the cheesy self-help book recommended.

He’s back online dating. Seeing that really hurt.

I wrote a closure letter that I’ll never send.

I’m looking for a drop-dead sexy pair of heels.

I’m still interested in my friend’s lives.

I checked out a hot guy in the supermarket yesterday.

I had a deliciously lazy Sunday morning of the variety that would have driven Ex-Boyfriend nuts.

I stayed out of the mall and chain stores (exception: the bookstore, but only because the local place doesn’t carry such crap). Ex-Boyfriend loves to shop. I don’t.

I loaded up the iPod he gave me last month for my birthday with Led Zeppelin songs. He hates Led Zeppelin.

I’m no longer with someone who said that Edward Abbey was a phony before ever reading him. Ex-Boyfriend is a member of the Green Party, and he’s never heard of Edward Abbey.

I thought about going back online to get a date, but decided that even if it was just casual that it would be better for me to get myself back together before inflicting myself on the world.

I don’t like Richard Ashcroft, and I think that the Verve was a third-rate band with one decent song. Now I don’t have to feel guilty about it.

I have cracked up saying that I know people on two continents who would kick Ex-Boyfriend’s ass. That won’t be necessary, but thank you anyway.

I’ve learned the phases “wedgie list,” “ass-hat,” and “Futhermucker.”

I made a hilarious Freudian slip (banana flambé—see story below, if you’d like).

I know what I’m going to be talking about in therapy on Thursday. My therapist is worth her weight in gold for all the help she’s given me in becoming a stronger person.

I’m not kicking myself trying to figure out what I did wrong.

I don’t feel a need for revenge, hilarious Freudian slips aside. The consequences of his actions in the world will be his own reward. For his sake, I hope that he gets some help. He’s hurt, and he hurt me terribly, but he is also a beautiful and unique person.

This isn’t about him anymore. This is about me.

I am going to be OK.

Banana Flambé

So, earlier today my boss sent me a blank e-mail message by mistake. Upon realizing her booboo, she sent an actual message. Feeling a bit punchy, I replied, “Dang. I was using all of my psychic powers, and I thought you had sent a recipe for banana flambé.”

My boss came out of her office and asked pointedly, “Is there any particular reason why you are thinking about bananas and fire these days?” Given my recent breakup woes, I didn’t see what she meant for a beat longer than normal. Oh dear. Hysterical laughter ensued. I’ve been singing “Bananas on FIRE!” to the tune of Morrissey’s “Hairdresser on Fire” in my head ever since.

Nostalgia: Do You Really Want to Go Back?

Nostalgia
Function: noun
1. the state of being homesick
2. a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition; also :something that evokes nostalgia
—Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary

Americans seem to be obsessed with nostalgia, with getting back to some mythical time where things just worked. Those of a rightwing persuasion want to get back to a time when Americans had values. Women were women and men were men, right? Children were the center of the universe, and they respected their elders. Those of the left often lionize the sixties, a time when everything mattered, when change was possible.

Whether from the right or the left, many adults say that things were better when they were kids, that things were different then. I can see reasons for why we hold the past in such misty regard. Things do suck right now. We do seem lost, and it is comforting to think that there was a time when we knew what to do.

I ask you, though, do you really want to go back? Here are some photos from my family’s annual trip to Weston, Vermont, a town that survives on nostalgia. I think you’ll agree that while the past is an amusing place to visit, you don’t want to live there.

This was considered food

Mmm… So was this “Vermont-Style” dish

These popular toys alone explain why so many Americans are in therapy

Children may have known their place in the past,
but they also bowled over bunnies for fun

Do you really want to inhabit the past?
Doesn't it look just a little spooky?

Top photo: The ruins of an old convenience store. Every year, I look forward to seeing how the decay’s advanced. Here’s a photo of the whole building.