The Eternal Work In Progress

Bring My Man Back!

2010-06-02T23:20:00.020-08:00

Where have I been? Tonight I spotted a strange, unfamiliar face in a TV ad for Brawny paper towels. I'm not sure how the events leading up to his appearance could have transpired without my knowing, but I know I have never seen this guy before. Who are you, and what the hell are you doing with my paper towels???

Yes, for some reason, Brawny Man has turned into a clean-faced frat boy, with a penchant for crisp button-downs and who isn't scared to wear orange. With no explanation given for his sudden appearance, I started to doubt my own personal memory of the Brawny Man. Had I simply projected some teenage 80s fantasy onto a roll of paper towels? But a quick google confirmed that in fact (1) I'm not crazy, and (2) Brawny Man used to be ... well, brawny. And a real man.

After all, what says MAN and screams TESTOSTERONE more than a bushy overgrown mustache, the historically accepted sign of brute virility in the western world?

Even in the beginning, when he pedaled "designer" towels, Brawny was rough. He had shaggy hair and carried an axe, an actual tool. In case your spills were too much to handle, he apparently was just going to hack his way through the job, like any real man would. Can't you just see him showing up at your house, ringing the doorbell and asking, "Excuse me, ma'am? Can I help you with my axe?" That's right; the original Brawny Man was man enough to star in his own porno.

It's not that Brawny Man couldn't keep up with the times. In fact, he did improve his grooming habits over the years and actually really tried to evolve. Look at him trying so hard -- trimmed his mustache and sideburns, and is that a touch of mousse in his hair? He even learned to be sensitive to our needs, letting us choose whether we were in the mood for six inches or twelve, or god forbid, any greater multiple of six for those really nasty jobs that get way out of control. But still that wasn't enough.

Now Brawny Man has been unjustly replaced by someone who looks like he could be convinced to get a pedicure. Look at him standing proudly with his hands on his waist, like some kind of superhero.

This blow-up unfortunately reveals yet another regrettable fact -- the New Brawny Man wears an UNDERSHIRT? Who is this joker? He probably wears deodorant and waxes his chest, too. And nary a tool in sight. I think he's going to try to mop up your messes with his ridiculous smile. God help us all.

So I guess it's goodbye to the Tom Selleck of Paper Towels. When we were alone, you were there, with your awesome absorptive power. You were all the man we needed, and I know you will be missed.

LA County Faces Budget Problems

2010-04-29T22:03:00.001-08:00

Although I no longer live in LA, I still return often to see the family and am vaguely aware that like much of the country, Los Angeles county has fallen on tough economic times. As explained by one county official earlier this year, "the combination of state budget cuts and falling tax revenues is straining the county's ability to provide public services."

But it's hard to feel too bad for municipal government when you see something like this while waiting for your parents to pick you up from the LAX airport:

Public services may be cut, but canine citizens of Los Angeles passing through on business travel through the LAX airport, fear not for the loss of your services! Your fake fire hydrant and manicured lawn remain protected for your use thanks to your tax dollars... oh wait, DOGS DON'T PAY TAXES.

Important Warranty-Related Information Regarding Your Fake Mustache

2010-04-23T21:55:00.002-08:00

Sometimes you have a bad day. Sometimes you need to go out shopping to make this bad day better. Sometimes you end up buying a set of Mexican-style fake mustaches at a party store while shopping to make your bad day better.

But lest you think happiness comes without a price, be forewarned of this important safety precaution.

It's all fun and games until someone's fake mustache bursts into flames. Kids, do not try this at home.

O Celebrate the Pain

2010-03-17T23:44:00.000-08:00

Today is March 17, 2010, and as I have traditionally done for many of my 34 years, I woke up this morning and forgot to put on green. Many a coworker noticed this missing hue with great shock, to which I answered, "I'm an adult - I'm THIRTY-FOUR. WHO's going to pinch me? I DARE them."

I wasn't always so bold. Always not green but not always so bold. As a little Chinese girl living in Kentucky and who learned English from Mr. Rogers, I didn't have a mother who took it upon herself to teach me the Irish customs of the United States America. And so there was a lot of shame, awkward moments, and a hell of a lot of pinching -- a very rough deal in kindergarten. I mean, who pinches a cute little Chinese girl with pigtails new to the country? You wouldn't let adults do this but somehow, because of a some little green leperchaun, hordes of little kids are allowed to inflict this pain on each other with impunitiy. And this is how I came to regard St. Patrick's Day as the holiday it really is - a day of VIOLENCE.

Fortunately the silly little green holiday is over. And I was right; this year nobody pinched the Chinese girl. Let's hope it stays that way.

Wait a Minute....

2009-10-02T20:55:00.000-08:00

So something's going on at Arby's.

I last reported the improved health of the economy based on Arby's latest marquee, touting its oldie but goodie, the FIVE FOR $5.95. However, there's now reason for pause:

New $501 Combo meals? Is anyone else deeply alarmed? I figure there can be only two explanations for this cryptic message:
* Arby's is now charging over FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a combo meal!
* Arby's cannot afford a simple period for its marquee!

Neither provides much reassurance. In the meantime, it is with much regret that I must report I can no longer afford Arby's.

More Arby's for everyone else, I suppose. Stay tuned.

We're Back!

2009-09-03T09:26:00.003-08:00

For months, friends have listened to me lament about the state of our economy. I know I am among many who wished they had had kept their savings under their mattresses rather than dutifully directing dollars toward mutual funds, never to be seen again. I know the economy has been ailing because you hear about it at work, whenever you turn on the evening news, and whenever you check your online investments (and so you consciously avoid the latter).

But by far the most dramatic indicator of the downturn this past year is when you read the marquee at the midtown Anchorage Arby's. For years, it always held the promise of a good deal -- roast beef at an affordable price. Occasionally the sign would stray from these sound principles (the Two for Four Fish Sandwiches come to mind), but on the whole, the Arby's sign brings me all the comfort you'd expect from a pile of roast beef. I drive past the sign everyday on the way to work, and I never get to the office without checking what the fortuneteller says.

And when things started looking not so good for our great country, Arby's was ON it.

On March 10, the marquee was ominously blank. Not even a word about the Two For Four Fish Sandwiches.

On April 1:

$5 ROAST CHICKEN COMBO MEAL!

Unfortunately, anyone who eats at Arby's knows that the roast chicken combo meal is not Arby's bread and butter. Nevertheless, it was a promising spike during otherwise dismal times.

Sometime in May, however, the economy veered off again, with this confusing message:

COOL OFF WITH A MALT SHAKE!

Yet another curve ball. If you're going to Arby's and you're getting a shake, everybody knows you get the Jamocha shake. How many of us as nine year olds sipped our first taste of coffee in the form of the deliciously oversweet Jamocha shake? "Malt," on the other hand, carries the sad and disturbing suggestion that we were going back to the old days when children had to get their kicks and daily nutritional value from Ovaltine and other tasteless grain-based products. And for anyone who has lived in Anchorage, you know you can wait all summer and never feel the urge to "cool off" with a malt shake.

Mid-summer, the marquee changed again:

ORANGE SWIRL IS BACK!

(Umm... when was Orange Swirl ever here? The consumers of the "Orange Swirl" are way behind the consumers of the Malt Shake who are waaaay waaaay behind the kids drinking Jamocha shakes. This was a sad sad cry for help.)

The Orange Swirl persisted for quite some time, despite TV commercials touting Two Arby-Qs for Four Dollars. Probably a misplaced Seattle ad since it never made the Anchorage marquee but nevertheless, the Arby-Qs seemed to suggest a future beyond eternally haunting orange swirls.

And then, just as I started considering sewing gold coins into underpants as my primary form of investment and financial security, it happened. Like a miracle.

FIVE FOR $5.95!

Yes, ladies and gentleman. I am proud to announce that the Five-For-Five-Ninety-Five (Alaska's version of the Five-For-Five) is BACK! So let the gold coins loose from your pants, dig out your dollars from underneath your mattresses, and go out and get some cheap roast beef!

Puppies, PUPPIES!!

2009-06-09T21:20:00.012-08:00

My mother called me last night because she wanted my advice on "free puppies." She said the puppy on the free puppies site looked a lot like our first family dog. "She has Jeanie's coloring and kind of has her ears. You have to look." She told me to google, "puppies," and click on the first link which purportedly said "free puppies."

I dutifully typed "puppies" into the search window, but no such link appeared. I asked her how she spelled "puppies" in case she was using some kind of unorthodox spelling known only to Chinese mothers. She painstakingly recited the letters P-U-P-P-I-E-S several times, punctuating each attempt with an emphatic "PUPPIES! PUPPIES!" as if that would help. Finally, I just asked her for the url and patiently listened to an even longer spelling from her.

"She looks like Jeanie when Jeanie was a puppy except Jeanie's fur was more golden. Can you see the picture? Her ears are less pointy. The dog's eyes look closed. Oh dear, I hope the little dog isn't not blind."

Despite the adorable squint resembling that of old blind men depicted in Chinese films, I figured the dog was not blind as my mother feared. I did note however that the site was about pedigree puppies who were most certainly not "free puppies." I tried to explain this to my mom, but she was adamant, until she kept reading and realized, "Oh, free advertising for puppies. Not free puppies."

Not free, not blind, but worth googling nonetheless.

When In Latin America Use Thumbs

2009-01-12T06:56:00.002-09:00

All blog entries for the following two weeks will be painstakingly handcrafted with my thumbs. This is because I neglected to bring a laptop but Big Bro was kind enough to loan me his itouch. This has saved me because the place I'm at has three computers, one of which says no funciona which even I know to mean it's SOL. As time prgresses one of two things will happen. I will either get better with my thumbs like all those young people or a vast number of spelling errors will be published over the next few weeks. Stay tuned.

Oh and There WILL Be Doritos....

2009-01-06T00:16:00.002-09:00

It has been many many years since all five members of my immediate family have been able to take a vacation together. But it appears that it is about to finally happen again. After much squabbling, we've decided to embark on a ROAD TRIP - up and down the Californian coast. Never mind that my family has lived in southern California since 1983. For whatever reason, although we regularly traverse snippets of the Pacific Coast Highway, we've never followed its path with much diligence.

Until tomorrow.

Before settling on this trip, we nominated various destinations, all of which seem to be semi-inappropriate given the season. Ironically, our backyard stares right into the Pacific Ocean and thus I imagine our view over the next three days will look much the same as what we see out the window at home. Nevertheless, while scouring the Internet for places to go, I came to realize that my parents (and at what time even I did) live in the American Mediterranean. For the next few days, we'll just be exploring its facets with more thoroughness.

I imagine that this trip will rival the road trip of my teenage years - the Grand Canyon Dorito Van Tour With Grandma. I recall mostly the hot blast of desert heat whenever the minivan door slid open, cramming something like six people into one motel room, and of course, the familial consumption of many many Doritos (although Grandma was personally inclined toward Sun Chips.) Along with Doritos were beef tendons and fried shrimp (still in their shells) - all par for the course, all "traditional" fare for a Madwoman Family car ride. This year's trip will not include the tendons and shrimp, but there will be the Inevitable Consumption Of Hundreds Of Doritos. No doubt.

I am bracing myself. So should you.

The Family That Eats One Hot Dog Together...

2008-12-29T12:55:00.005-09:00

... stays together.

Overheard in the family minivan yesterday:

ME: How much longer until we reach the restaurant?
BIG BROTHER: At least 30 minutes. We need to go to Costco first and get gas.
ME: THIRTY MINUTES? I'll die first. What am I going to do for the thirty minutes?
LITTLE BROTHER: Maybe we should get a Costco hot dog.
BIG BROTHER: I was going to get a Diet Coke anyway because I'm thirsty. We can get the hot dog and soda deal for $1.50.
MOM: But there are five of us. Should we get more?
ME: No, it will spoil our dinner. We just need something to get through. Let's just get the one hot dog and everybody can get one bite.
BIG BROTHER: Little Brother, you get the hot dog when I'm getting the gas.
LITTLE BROTHER: What does everybody want on the hot dog.
BIG BROTHER: Mustard - make sure you get DELI mustard- and sauerkraut. You have to ask for the sauerkraut separately.
LITTLE BROTHER: Mustard? I don't like mustard. And I don't like sauerkraut either. I like onions.
BIG BROTHER: I don't want onions. Deli mustard and sauerkraut.
ME: Just figure out what everybody wants and start from one end and build up the condiments.
LITTLE BROTHER: What does everybody else want? Dad, what do you want?
DAD: You know me, it doesn't matter.
ME: Yeah, Dad will eat anything. Just figure out what Mom wants too. I want ketchup and sauerkraut.
LITTLE BROTHER: Mom, what do you want?
MOM: The little green things.
LITTLE BROTHER: Do you mean sauerkraut?
ME: I think she means relish.
MOM: It's kind of sweet and sour. The little green things.
LITTLE BROTHER: How about sauerkraut?
MOM: What is sauerkraut?
ME: It's like relish.
MOM: Mustard too. I like mustard.
BIG BROTHER: Make sure you get DELI mustard.
LITTLE BROTHER: How am I going to do this?
ME: Just start from one end and get deli mustard and sauerkraut. And then add relish. I don't want any relish. Can I just have ketchup and sauerkraut?
MOM: I don't like the little white strips. What are those? And I don't like onions.
ME: She doesn't want sauerkraut.
LITTLE BROTHER: Dad, what do you want?
DAD: Anything.
ME: I told you! Dad doesn't care. He'll eat whatever is on it.
MOM: I don't like the onions. I like the little green things.
LITTLE BROTHER: I can't fit this all on one hot dog! Dad, what do you want?
DAD: I'm easy. I don't care.
MOM: One hot dog for five people - too hard. We should get at least two.
ME: I don't want a lot of hot dog. I just need something to hold me over until dinner.
LITTLE BROTHER: Two hot dogs would be hard to split five ways.
ME: What are you talking about - just split one of them three ways and the other in half. Don't try to split them evenly!
LITTLE BROTHER: I guess I can do that.
ME: I'll volunteer for one of the thirds.
MOM: Me too. But I don't like the little thin white strips.
ME: Don't give her sauerkraut. She doesn't want the sauerkraut.
LITTLE BROTHER: OK, what is it that everybody wants on the hot dog again?
ME: This is TOO COMPLICATED! Never mind. I'll just skip the hot dog.
MOM: I will skip too. The ladies in the car will skip hot dog. You three eat it.

nuevo huevo ranchero

2008-12-07T15:46:00.004-09:00

It was around 3pm, the afternoon after a Family Breakfast of breakfast burritos. Leftovers included a small amount of peppers and onions, pico de gallo, and a bit of grated cheddar. I wasn't exactly in the mood for a repeat of breakfast, so I sauteed the pico de gallo, re-chopped the sauteed peppers and onions, fried some scallions, and added shredded potatoes. After allowing the potatoes to crisp, I threw in a tortilla to warm up. Also cleared a spot in the potatoes to crack in my last emergency egg. Realizing that all of the ingredients would not fit in a burrito and not in a taco (which was the technique I had to use this morning), I decided to pile it all on the tortilla as a carrier, allowed the cheddar to melt slightly and topped it all off with the fried egg, a few squirts of ketchup. Salsa at this point would be too complicated.

No corona in sight, so I cracked open a Mike's hard lemonade. A glass of water might not be able to handle this Sunday supper.

See me

2008-09-23T10:41:00.006-08:00

I am going to have to interrupt the much neglected Chronicle of the Ever-Expanding Purple Easter Bunny to send a note to my 11th grade English teacher - a note I should have sent a long time ago.

Dear Coach Kelly,

It might surprise you that I live in Alaska now. Of late, our claim to fame has been giving this nation a very questionable VP candidate. I figured that once you learned I live in the Last Frontier, you'd ask me all kinds of questions, like what I really think of our lipsticked pitbull and how many hours of darkness we get in the winter.

But I find out today that you won't be asking me any of those questions. A quick Google search finds you in memoriam. I know I've gotten old in the last fifteen years, but has that much time passed? You were just about the fittest high school teacher I knew. I assumed that leading packs of cross-country teenage runners would lead to some kind of Fountain of Youth and eternal life. But it looks like I am a bit late in sending this letter.

I remember the very first paper I wrote in your class, I got a C+. It was an essay about Herman Melville's "Billy Budd," and as a fifteen year old overachiever who flinched at A minuses, I can tell you that receiving this grade was nothing short of an earth-splitting catastrophe. I am certain I wanted to drop out of school at that very moment and wondered how I was ever let into honors English in the first place. You also had this curious habit of scribbling, "see me," in your dreaded red ink, when your criticism could not be comprehensively communicated in words scribbled in the margin. I had one such "see me" in that Billy Budd paper. So I went and saw you.

I can't remember exactly how you explained why I got a C+ on my paper, but the gist of it was that I didn't seem to have found my own "voice." Many of us in your class had been schooled by the maniacal 10th grade English teacher who spent most of his days yelling poetry at us and telling us kayaking stories. During those yelling sessions, he pounded into us tenets of writing which now seem rather boilerplate. We grew used to what he wanted to hear, and likely, I was trying to mimic that style when I handed in that Billy Budd paper.

Your comment (and that C+) have stayed with me all those years. It was a turning point in my writing efforts. I know that both of us felt great satisfaction when weeks later I turned in my Arthur Dimmesdale - Two Sides of Sin paper. The Beginning of a Voice. And it was that voice that catulpulted me into writing an essay about idealism, one that took me to Japan, which was about as thrilling as a fifteen year old life gets.

And it is that voice that I still use today. My voice, the one you helped me find. Today in my professional capacity, I use this voice to help win cases, to persuade and achieve outcomes. Personally, I use this voice to rant, to experience vegetarianism, and to chronicle Easter Bunnies. At times, this voice has made people laugh, cry, and connect.

So I thank you for that C+. And I wish you could "see me" now.

Sincerely yours,
MOA

Day 3: Irregularities Apparent

2008-09-09T07:37:00.001-08:00

It appears that our Purple Easter Bunny will have special needs. He has finally started to make progress in his growth, but it seems that growth in his left paw is stunted. Although I forgot to put a quarter next to him for comparison, it is clear that everything except for his left paw has puffed out. I do not know how he will reach SIX HUNDRED PERCENT in the promised ten days, but when he does, his small left paw will be more freakish than ever.

Stay tuned. Same Bunny Time, Same Bunny Channel.

Much Ado About Nothing - Day 2 of the Bunny Chronicles

2008-09-08T07:16:00.000-08:00

He hasn't grown at all! I am so bummed that I can even bring myself to take a picture of his sorry purple self. Hopefully tomorrow will bring better news.

The Bunny Chronicles

2008-09-07T15:09:00.001-08:00

Good friend BB recently had a birthday, and for reasons clear to him, I gifted him an Easter Bunny grow toy. One of the motivating factors in the purchase was that the bunny is supposed to grow a whoppin' SIX HUNDRED PERCENT just by adding water.

SIX HUNDRED PERCENT!

The Purple Easter Bunny was ceremoniously placed in a wastebasket of water and in ten days, I imagine he will have outgrown it. Stay tuned.

Sideways Taiko

2008-07-24T23:17:00.002-08:00

This is a test. Check this out.

Joy

2008-07-05T17:37:00.003-08:00

Sometimes a newly trained employee at McDonald's is your worst enemy. But sometimes, she is your best friend. Today I waited a long time for my soft serve cone.

It turns out some things are worth waiting for.

This is probably the largest soft serve I have ever had. (The quarter is there for comparison.) It cost $1.30 which I consider a bargain given the size. I sat down to eat this monster, and after ten minutes of licking, had whittled it down to the size of a normal soft serve cone. At first, I assumed I wouldn't be able to finish it, but somewhere in the middle of those swirls, I found joy, simple pure joy.

But like any joy, it was fleeting - and soon replaced with a brain freeze and dehydration. But I still have the picture - and the memories.

Living the Dream

2008-06-23T15:31:00.008-08:00

My last blog entry was dated in March of this year, when winter in Anchorage was still in full swing. All of the sudden, we're past Solstice. How did this happen? Is it possible that the most noteworthy thing that has happened to me in the last few months is that I broke my OXO garlic press with my own brute strength?

Q: So what have you been doing all this time?

A: I've been living fucking Julia Roberts' dream.

Q: Come again?

A: That's right. I've been living her fucking dream.

A while back, I read this disturbing little piece about Julia Roberts in the paper:

"My dream is to be a highly fulfilled and productive stay-at-home mom and wife," the Oscar-winning actress tells Vanity Fair magazine. "The highest high would be growing our food that I then make, and then composting and growing more -- that kind of circle." Roberts, 40, says that life would involve having "my own creative outlet, even if it's silly needlework and stuff like that."

Anyone examining the activities of my life this past year would have to put his magnifying glass down and exclaim, "By golly! She has been living Julia Roberts' Circle of Life!" (Minus the children, of course.)

Useless needlework, neurotic composting... all par for the course. Not that I am trying to brag, but today I literally brought greens from my yard into work (Chinese cabbage, bok choy, and Japanese mizuna to be precise) which I then steamed in a tupperware full of seafood soup made by... who else but yours truly!

As much as I'd like to credit myself with living the Oscar-winning actress' dream, the more likely story is that I am not living her dream life, but rather, in fact, Julia Roberts is crazy. Joy and fulfillment, like many things, are relative I suppose. Not that I want to be Julia Roberts (perhaps the poor thing has trouble finding jeans that fit her long legs, for example), but I can't say that Ms. Roberts' Circle of Life has left me feeling Ultimate Satisfaction or her "Highest High." I am not so fulfilled that I am ready to meet my maker, for instance. And does Ms. Roberts really think she can find nirvana knee-deep in dandelions? A dreamy ideal of compost is all fine and good in the abstract, but what happens when your carbon-to-nitrogen ratio is off and your pile stops doing its thing??

We're taught to have dreams and to pursue them, but what happens if you actually achieve them and live their reality? In some ways, the rapturous drive toward a dream is more compelling than any experience, especially since Reality has a tendency to disappoint. How many of us have idealized that member of the opposite sex, convinced him to date us, and then been sorely disappointed by how loudly he snores? Julia strives for needlework and composting because (for some ridiculous reason) she is unable to achieve these objectives in her life. Having won the Academy award, she naturally has to set her sights elsewhere among the dirt and pastimes of Victorian ladies.

It's an old but true cliche that we all want what we can't have. And yes, Ms. Roberts, you most certainly cannot have my embroidery and composting worms. I, too, am certainly guilty of occasionally wanting what I can't have, but having not yet achieved international stardom, I fortunately must set my sights on more traditional targets.

Regardless, there is something beautiful in having your dreams but not quite achieving them. Langston Hughes had this to say about a dream deferred:

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

To the Explosion, then, and the wild ride to it.

Bionic Madwoman Destroys Garlic Press

2008-03-31T14:20:00.004-08:00

Well, after years of diligent service, my OXO garlic press (which I would have probably characterized as a Life-Changing Device) recently died in my hands.

Or more precisely, died by my own hands.

Apparently I have acquired the ability to rip metal apart.

I had feared that becoming a bionic madwoman would have unfortunate consequences, and it appears that the garlic press has become the first fatality. On the up side, its destruction provided me with the rare opportunity to acquire another piece of kitchen gadgetry (since I am already glutted with cooking tools), and so stay tuned for reviews of Zyliss garlic press. (Do this Swiss really know what they're doing?)

He's Back!

2008-03-28T15:48:00.009-08:00

He's back! At a mere twenty-five cents more!

Jaja emailed me earlier this week to say she spotted an ad on a city bus for MA's return this spring - Friday, March 28, 2008 (today). In the past, MA has reappeared on the streets of downtown Anchorage around April, but like the rest of us, apparently he's already itching for summer.

(First of all, I have to say you've got to wonder about a hot dog cart proprietor who can afford an ad on the side of an ENTIRE BUS. No doubt the extra quarter increase on every dog is going to help plaster the likes of MA all over town.)

But onto the real business: in last season's cliffhanger, I was on the brink of my free wiener dog. That's right, by being a diligent, Frequent Wiener last summer and by painstakingly consuming approximately eleven dogs (with the help of friends), I was able to earn one entire free dog! I was quite jittery today since I knew the moment had come to claim my prize. As I rifled through MA's rolodex only to find that it was populated with only brand new cards, for a second, I panicked.

But then MA told me to look behind the cooler and that's when I pulled this out:

Notice the smoky edges. That's from the smoke of at least eleven of my reindeer dogs sizzling on MA's grill.

Understandably, I had to make an exception for the occasion. The reindeer dog arguably fits under my "small bits" exception, but as many have pointed out, carried to the extreme, any processed meat would be a "small bit." Luckily for me, I found safe harbor in a more respectable exception -- the "wild game" loophole. (The attorney in me wondered if commercially processed reindeer should really be classified as "wild game," but the hunger in me quickly ended that legal debate.)

So here it is: The Twelfth Wiener, in all its glory:

Thank goodness summer is on its way. Bring on the dogs!

Holy Ham!

2008-03-28T08:44:00.003-08:00

It had been five weeks of Arbitrary Vegetarianism, many days full of challenges and introspection. In these last five weeks, I've looked Salami, and Brats, Lamb Chops in right in the eye and managed to stand firm.

So what happened on Sunday?

On Sunday, the Lord was resurrected.

And maybe I ate a whole lot of Ham.

Although I knew that there would be ham at Easter, my consumption was not premediated. I was helping Jaja out in the kitchen and was tasked with dealing with the glaze. I dutifully juiced some lemon and orange into a bowl of marmalade and then proceeded to heat the mixture until it was nice and thick. Then I went over the ham and drizzled the hot luscious glaze all over that big hunk of wonderful meat.

You can see where this story is going.

After all, am I not human? After getting that close and personal with an Easter Ham, is it reasonable or even possibly fathomable that I would not partake in the proper celebration of the Lord's resurrection? My mind started racing as I tried to squeeze this large hunk of ham into one of my exceptions. Definitely not a broth/juice. Definitely not wild game. Definitely not a Small Bit (my favorite exception)... unless you're an ogre. Unless you're an ogre!

Oh wait, I'm not really an ogre.

As I ran these scenarios in my mind, I wondered why I didn't see it fit to have a religious exception. I mean, Religious Exceptions are some of the most established and widely accepted exceptions out there.

Oh right, I'm not really religious.

Years ago, while hiking to a church at the top of Marseilles, I had an epiphany that the physical hunger of my bottomless tummy was actually symptomatic of a deeper hunger - a sad spiritual emptiness. Suddenly it became all too clear to me that it was my a-religiosity that compelled me to try and fill myself with worldly goods, and yet, I knew that fulfillment could never be truly had this way. At least this was my explanation for why my a-religious self was weeping during church services conducted in a language I couldn't even understand.

This revelation was all fine and good until I left the church and then immediately started wondering what was for lunch. Mu and I ended up eating a large platterful of raw seafood:

Doesn't quite look like spiritual emptiness, does it?

So back to Easter. What better way to fill an empty aching soul than with a huge hunk of ham?

Suffice it to say, my soul was very very full this Easter, so full that I wish I had been wearing elastic pants. But then again, what's a religious holiday without a little commemorative sin?

Same Time, Next Year

2008-03-19T23:06:00.002-08:00

Once a year, I do the tango.

And this year, I chose last Wednesday for the occasion. On most Wednesdays, I spend my evenings at the Sand Lake Elementary School learning how to play taiko drums with middle-aged ladies. But last week was Spring Break for the school district... and thus, also spring break for this drummer. So I took advantage of a rarely open Wednesday to drop in on the local Argentine Tango class at Club Soraya.

I first caught a bit of the Argentine bug many years ago in a dance class in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. My teacher was Pampa, a South-American grandfatherly-looking sort who danced as well as his pot belly was round. He also had the kind of name that one always wanted to exclaim with clasped hands - Pampa!

Pampa does not live in Anchorage, but this city surprisingly does have a thriving Argentine Tango community. Really, it's more a local group of addicts. In my experience, there are two responses to Argentine Tango: (1) you find it perplexing, mysterious, too difficult/frustrating or (2) you become a hard-core addict, want to live/breathe/eat tango, and fly to Buenos Aires to dance until dawn.

Very few fall into (3). That's me - a dabbler. I am actually a former (2), but somewhere along the way, I never made it to Buenos Aires, and I couldn't make enough room in my life to live/breathe/eat tango. So now I just kind of pretend to do it, once a year. More specifically, for the past four years, I've shown up to take one tango class a year and to join the practica afterwards.

It's strange that there is a store of memory that can be built up with only one yearly dance. Many of the faces I saw on Wednesday night looked familiar - but in a very vague way, like someone I've seen once in a dream or people I might have known in a past life or something. Some looked like former newcomers, who had now lapped me in their tango devotion. The 82-year-old man who danced me like an old Buick years ago was also there - still alive! Probably now 86? The redheaded teacher was the same, although I must be getting mellow with age because after four years of resenting the fact that he was not Pampa, I've started noticing that our Anchorage teacher has his own qualities, too.

In addition to people memory, there is also dance memory. My handful of tango classes in San Francisco was hardly enough to build a very proper foundation. But in this one instance, it is fortunate that I am a woman. That is, all I really need to do an enjoyable Argentine tango is to glom onto an unsuspecting but decent lead. In his arms, I can have the dance of my life.

Perhaps more so than other partner dances, the Argentine Tango is highly dependent on the direction provided by the lead. The follower, typically female, spends the entire night walking backwards, not exactly a shining moment for women's lib. And yet, the communication between the leader and follower must also be subtle. Unlike salsa, where there is a lot of active hands-on manipulation of the follower, the finesse of Argentine Tango is spoken through very slight movements. A nudge. A slow soft push. A turn of the shoulders. A change in weight. A little extra pressure in the chest region.

That's right - a little extra pressure in the chest region. For all its subtlety, tango is also quite bold. A dance with a stranger is usually an encounter more intimate than most first dates. The "tango embrace," as it's called, goes way beyond mere hand-holding. Ideally, the chest regions of both dancers touch, leaning slight upon each other, creating a pressure point on which to pivot the entire dance.

This is how the dancers stand across from each other. The teacher often tells us to lean in and then add the arms. This way of holding is aptly named as the "embrace" as it is so much more than just a "position." It is typical to see dancers who do not know each other dance cheek-to-cheek. There's no better way to know what you're partner wants you to do than to be all up in each other's business.

And all up each other's business you definitely are. In addition to the fused chest region, one partner's legs must step in between the other's. In fact, the lead gets the female follower to move simply by walking straight into her body. She has no choice but to move backward. Notes from my 2004 tango read, "take steps measured by the size ofyour partner, no smaller or bigger than where he is."

As much as I love dancing the tango, I sure would be hard pressed to live my life that way.

And perhaps that is why I only do the tango once a year. I like making these "cameo" appearances, incognito, dipping my toe in the brook as it bubbles past me. Others in the class look at me and return that same gaze of vague recognition. Many don't know exactly who I am but end up recognizing me after we've danced. It is that kind of dance memory that is the strongest.

Take Norm, for example. Other than the teacher, I only remembered his name. Why? Norm is the smoothest operator in the Anchorage tango scene. He appears to be a quiet man, somewhat heavy-set, and definitely has a Pampa-like pot-belly. But he dances like velvet, I kid you not. In fact, I should add Norm to the List:

To Norm, for Most Velvety Argentine Tango (Club Soraya, Anchorage 2008).

After Norm and I finished our first silky dance, he looked at me and said, "You've been here before, right? You're the lawyer."

I would have preferred having my identity be marked otherwise, but it was nice that both Norm and I remembered dancing with each other. In Argentine Tango, it is customary to dance an entire "set" with a particular partner. A "set" is usually comprised of three or four songs. So after Norm and I danced once, we also dance three more lovely times.

The down side of this custom, which I always forget, is that if some man with two left feet asks you to dance, you end up dancing with his two left feet four times. That's EIGHT LEFT FEET!

That's also another reason why I only go to tango once a year.

Between Norm and our redheaded tango teacher, however, I managed to capture a few moments worth the annual class. So thanks for my 2008 tango fix.

Here's to 2009....

To All The Men With Whom I've Danced Before....

2008-03-13T11:11:00.004-08:00

After writing my last entry, I realized that as bloggers do, I probably was too extreme in some of my comments, too harsh regarding the quality of "real" men in my dancing past.

Not all have been duds. (Just 98% of All of You.)

So here's a tribute to Some of the Men With Whom I've Danced Before....

to Snoop Dog's Little Brother, for Best Dance-Off Ever With Complete Stranger (Gaslight Lounge, Anchorage 2004);

to Rocket, for Most Charged Dance Between a Man and a Woman (Gaslight Lounge, Anchorage, 2005);

to MR, for Most Fun Dancing Contemporaneous With Dating (Club Soraya, Anchorage 2007);

to BB, for Best Consecutive Four Hours of Dancing at Corporate Event (Company Holiday Party, Seattle, WA 2007);

to Ryan? (what was your name?) for Saying Yes When A Complete Stranger Asked You To Dance (Captain Cook Hotel, Anchorage, AK 2008)

to NYC Photographer, for Best Merengue Ever (LYH Basement, Anchorage, 2008);

to Minty Monty, for Best Dance Costume (LYH Basement, Anchorage, 2008);

to BB, for Best Personal Jam To Selected Song (LYH Basement, Anchorage, 2008).

I can't say every category was highly competitive (or even had data points more than one), but these "bests" are not exaggerations. And yes, it has been a busy start of the year in the LYH basement. Here's to the rest of the year!

Meet My New Dance Partner.

2008-03-13T10:22:00.004-08:00

Well, it has happened. After months of dancing alone in my basement, I have finally secured a dance partner for morning practice.

Over the years, close friends have often heard me utter this Madwoman Adage: "It is easier to find a good husband than a good dance partner." I actually think the former is rather difficult and the latter, nearly impossible. And so I make do by showing up to classes alone, by preferring dance styles that permit me to dance by myself, and by getting creative.

By "getting creative," I mean that a dance partner is really just a counterpoint, and sometimes substitutions are possible. For example, I've done the Argentine Tango with invisible dance partners, practiced spins with the load-bearing support pole in the basement, and on occasion, relied on a broom here or there for balance.

That's right; sometimes I prefer the company of Thin Air, Cold Metal, and Cleaning Supplies to the company of "real" men. Of the "real" men with whom I've had the "pleasure" of dancing, they really run the gamut:

I once tangoed with an 82-year-old man (I remember this clearly because at the time, when I told him I was 28, he remarked that we were the same age, just backwards!) who navigated me across the room like he was driving an old Buick down a dirt road.

I have salsed with Y chromosomes so drenched in cologne that I always had to shower immediately afterwards to rid myself of the "Scent of Man."
Sometimes my dance partners have hailed from foreign countries with clearly different concepts of personal hygiene and B.O.

So for the most part, I prefer dancing alone, as any reasonable person in my position would.

My most recent dance partner came to me when I was at my parents' home watching infommercials on cable TV. Not having cable myself, I was amazed at the extraordinary proliferation of fat-reducing devices being offered through the television. In my hay day, I would have considered myself somewhat of an expert on current hot products as my family is partial to infommercial products, the area of exercise equipment being no exception. My big brother has owned such contraptions as the Gravity Edge and Chuck Norris' famous Total Gym. Here is where I must sheepishly admit that I myself have personally owned the Jackie Chan Cable Flex System and Cheryl Ladd's Body Slide. Of DVDs, I have done Tae Bo with Billy Blanks and marveled at what Pilates has done for Daisy Fuentes.

Suffice it to say, if you look at my family, we're not exactly a group of rock-hard bodies. If there's any living proof that products from TV don't make you lose weight or look better, it would be us. (We do, however, now possess numerous interesting fixtures on which to hang clothes.)

Of the new infommercials I saw during my last visit to the Mothership, the one that I still remember was the Gravity Ball, endorsed by a gymnast Mitch Something. The Gravity Ball looks an awful lot like a medicine ball with the only difference being that it weighs only two pounds. The point is that exercise with this fake wussy medicine ball is supposed to make use of your "core" (a very hot buzz word in fitness) which in turn is supposed to fire up your metabolism. I can't remember the TV promise - something absurd like Three Pounds, Three Inches, In Three Days! As a teenager, I may have fallen for this three-minute BS and its Something-Ninety-Five price tag, but I'm 32 now and wiser (at least in this respect).

It also struck me as fairly idiotic that I would need to buy a special ball to make two pounds. All around the house are things that weigh about two pounds. I pulled a giant tupperware of chicken soup out of the Mothership refrigerator and swung it around in a 360-degree circle to prove this point to my little brother. He agreed.

This morning, I found something in the basement that also fit the bill - a Costco-sized bottle of Liquid Plumber Gel. Not exactly nice and round, but it does have an easy-to-grip handle. So here he is, my new dance partner, who probably falls soundly in the category of Cleaning Supplies (if you look closely at this photo, you can also see the bottom of my other erstwhile dance partner, Cold Metal):

No, he's not much to look at, but the same goes for several of the "real" men with whom I've danced. At least he's going to fire up my "core" and throw my metabolism into light speed! For free! Did I also mention that he "DESTROYS THE CLOG?"

Not that we are on a first-name basis, but if the bottle of Liquid Plumber did have a name, I imagine it would be Bubba.

Bubba, welcome to the Basement.

The Madness Begins

2008-03-12T15:27:00.004-08:00

Yesterday while I was driving home from work, something weird happened. Weird white stuff was dropping from the sky, and I heard myself say out loud (really loudly, for some reason) to an otherwise empty car, "Oh it's snowing."

That's right; after an unseasonably warm spell of false break-up that pretty much vaporized the snow in Anchorage's downtown streets, Mother Nature is now tapping us gently on the shoulder to remind us, um, in case you were getting carried away, Winter is still here. Never mind that for two days, it was so unbelievably warm that I had to suspend wearing my down parka (which I affectionately refer to as my "bear" coat") even though it has been my three-year custom to start wearing it in October and not take it off until May.

So today we are back in the 20s, still very temperate by Anchorage standards. Of all days, today I chose to be the Harbinger of Spring by wearing a decidedly Easter color that has been just hanging out in the back of my closet - a gentle pastel turquoise (think Martha Stewart's robin egg blue). But my spring color is not very noticeable under my black bear coat.

Another sign of confused cues taken from Mother Nature is the proliferation of gardening supplies at local grocery store. This weekend, I bought about ten packets of seeds and eight seedlings growing from bulbs - variegated hostas and bleeding hearts. The seedlings were on sale but suspiciously marked "AS IS." But I can't resist a good bargain (or at least a price that looks like one). After languishing in plastic bags for two days, the seedlings finally got a proper home in the form of a giant planter sitting next to the kitchen's back door, as if the seedlings are waiting for Spring to just open the door and let them play outside. I looked out the back door window this morning at the wintry white and felt a little foolish. The first signs of Spring Madness.

Much of the year in Anchorage is spent looking forward to summer. Much of the year in Anchorage is Winter. So we spend a great deal of time in winter looking forward to summer. Sure, there's a lot of skiing and ice skating to be had and other winter-related activities, but the mind inevitably drifts to thoughts of growing one's own veggies or hauling in one's fish, especially during a month too warm for our usual wintry distractions. At this time of the year, there is a great urge to hold down the fast-forward button and just get to summer already. In our heads, we're already catching so many fish that our vocabulary is starting to include such summer words as "giant smoker," "vacuum-sealing," and my personal favorite, "new chest freezer."

Suffice it to say, the salmon won't even know what hit them.

But until we meet at the river, fortitudine vincimus - I foresee at least eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds until Spring....

Eleven Minutes and Thirty-Two Seconds Per Diem

2008-03-11T10:33:00.013-08:00

Sometime in the late 80s, Robin Williams made a little piece of Latin very famous:
carpe diem.

It's hard to ignore that hairy hyperactive man (I mean he used to be Mork!), especially when he's standing on a desk, trying to inspire a room full of preppy teenagers. And why wouldn't one seize the day -- just grab it by the nuts, so to speak?

(I'm a little less eloquent than Mr. Williams.)

The dilemma is that the phrase is most often used as a hackneyed justification -- a sheepish, self-assured shrug-off of the world's responsibilities. Many view the phrase as a carte blanche to say, I don't have time for this, I am busy seizing the day by the nuts, and this way of living is really deep because it goes way back to the time of the Romans, so leave me alone. In this era of immediate gratification, there's nothing like having a little bit of Latin to back-up one's behavior. I mean, what lends better credence than the ancient language of scholars?

A closer look at the phrase (and by that I mean looking it up on Wikipedia) reveals the following:

Carpe Diem is a phrase from a Latin poem by Horace. It is
popularly translated as "seize the day", although a more literal translation of carpe would be "harvest" ("harvest the day"), as in the harvesting of fruit.

Ay, there's the rub! To harvest, according to the laws of nature as I understand it, one would have to do more than simply seize the day. Fruit to be harvested, after all, does not happen overnight. Somehow, a seed was planted, and a tree matured, and in the modern world, probably there was also a whole lot of fertilizing and pruning before anyone got to see that pretty fruit. For those carpers of the diem out there ready to seize my apples, I am reminded of first grade math problems describing a certain Billy taking away four of Susie's apples, and let it be known, as a gardener and grower of the day, the Madwoman takes great offense.

I can point to one such carper, for example - the moose in my backyard, not exactly creatures enlightened with Roman insight. But they do carp my apples every year just as the fruit gets big enough to be worth looking at -- they take them away, just like that annoying little Billy from first grade.

Thieves, I call them.

To them, and to those other amateur carpers out there, I say, MOVE AWAY AND PUT THOSE APPLES DOWN, BILLY! If you want to harvest the day, you're going to have to grow it first.

It's not that I don't believe in living in the moment. There is something absolutely exquisite about holding each moment up to the light to see its glittering, unique opportunity and to step right into it. But our days are also made up of moments, and our months made up of days. And so on. And sometimes, I even get excited about the moments of the next day. That's right; I live under a foolish supposition that I just might live to see tomorrow and harvest its fruitful offerings.

For one thing, how can I measure the moment or the day if I do not understand how it fits into eternity?

And let's be honest: most of us do live under The Foolish Supposition, even the so-called "free spirit" Billies so fond of the phrase, carpe diem, man. For the most part, we hold down jobs, we pay taxes, we make plans to have dinner later in the week, or get our hair cut at the end of the month. We do this in the face of Adversity, Tragedy, and Death not because we are boring people or take things for granted, but perhaps because we have enough stubborn faith to look forward to tomorrow and don't want to take tomorrow for granted.

Otherwise, we'd all be sky-diving, scaling cliffs, eating beyond our heart's content and drinking ourselves to Oblivion.

... or splattered, obese, and pretty drunk off our asses. ALL THE TIME.

It's not quite Latin, but in the words of Mickey Mantle, famous Drinker-To-Oblivion who assumed that genetics and fate was going to limit him to only a short flash-in-the-pan life, "If I'd known I was gonna live this long, I'd have taken a lot better care of myself."

Mantle had requested that his friend and country singer Roy Clark sing his favorite song "Yesterday, When I Was Young" at Mantle's funeral:
I lived by night
I shunned the light of day
And only now I see how
the years slipped away
I ran so fast time and youth ran out
So many
songs in me won't be sung
I now must pay for yesterday when I was young.
Suffice it to say, this is not the joyful noise of an ebullient skydiver. I doubt that Mantle thought by living like a flash with caution thrown to the wind, he would eventually die with such regrets.

In the end, our Present is full of opportunity costs, Roads Not Taken. But opportunity costs are not just confined to the day. There are long-term opportunity costs, too, as chances to grow a lifetime can be missed if one is too busy thieving in the moments.

To illustrate, today I descended into my basement, as the Madwoman tries to do every morning, to get my daily fix of dancing. I have been doing this off and on since last July, and nowadays, to squeeze it in before work, I can only manage about twenty or so minutes. Typically, I gravitate to my favorite dance songs - a little MJ, a little Madonna, and I'm embarrassed to say, a little Britney. (Have you tried dancing to Me Against the Music?) The songs I use produce immediate response as I have little time to warm up and think about what I'm doing. So I regularly dial right past any song in my extended iPod playlist that is more than the typical four minutes. On most days, the Opportunity Cost of Fourteen Minutes seems too great.

And that's why, for months, I've been scrolling past Guajira Clasica from the mambo CD, "Ahora-Si."

Well, apparently I have truly been missing out. The song is a lengthy fourteen minutes long, and in the past, I never had the time (or more truthfully, the patience) to wade through any of it. For one thing, the intro is misleadingly slow. But after two minutes, the unmistakeable Latin rhythm enters (and by that I do not mean Horace's Latin) setting the listener on a path to an uncertain destination. Because it was by complete chance that I decided to give this track a chance today, the returns were fantastically unexpected.

And then It Happened. At Eleven Minutes And Thirty-Two Seconds into the song, The Groove Set Me Free. Tucked in the last third of the song was Rapture, pure rapture in the form of wailing trumpets calling out in a way that demands an answer. It's the kind of melody that if played in a jungle, I daresay all kinds of interesting creatures would emerge in response. I had to go beyond the Moment to find it, but if I must borrow another hackneyed phrase, it was well worth the wait.

And there are lots of other examples of why it's worth taking that leap of faith to make time:

- slow braising meat
- practicing piano for years
- watching perennials spring back to life in the garden
- making your own mole sauce
- tending to a bonsai tree
- dancing in the basement
- aging a bottle of wine
- taking care of a friendship.

At any given moment, we are living in concentric circles of time. The second is part of a minute, part of an hour, part of a day, part of a year... part of a lifetime. All that we see in nature that is fleeting and ephemeral is apparent to us by the contrast of what remains. Last month, I was in a bar talking to a photographer from NYC (an Anchorage-rite now living in the Big Apple), and he was explaining to me that the lifetime of a rock - from creation to dust - is so long that we humans simply cannot perceive it. It is only by our short-sightedness that we fail to notice that rocks are alive.

Oh boy, rocks are alive!

It made me wonder if I slowed down enough, what else I might see brimming with life.

So to all those Billies out there, carpe diem, but please save eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds for me.

God I Love The Public Library!

2008-03-10T11:02:00.001-08:00

SABS (not to be confused with SADS) is in full force. The light situation is far improved over our January days, but this is the time of year when I start getting a bit restless that winter is still here in Anchorage (obviously). In sharp contrast, the rest of the country is just starting to warm up. Just take a look at the Lowes and Home Depot weekly circulars, and you'll note these franchises are clearly geared toward the pulse of the lower 48.

I mean, what would I do with a lawnmower in March?

To make matters worse, we're experiencing an early and false break-up. "Break-up" is what we residents refer to as the stop-and-go thawing process that occurs before Spring can finally stay. This week has seen temperatures in the high 30s and low 40s, sweltering by Anchorage wintry standards. The erratically warm weather has compromised many of our go-to pastimes for dealing with winter - skiing, ice skating, etc. I've sought out exercise and solace in the dark corners of my basement. (Yes, I'm still cutting up the concrete floor.) But earlier this week I had a dream that I was mowing my green and prolific lawn.

Clearly, I'm starting to lose it.

Yesterday I decided I was overdue for a trip to the public library. If slushy and icy conditions are keeping me from being a winter extrovert, then so be it, I will be a winter introvert and just bookworm my way to Spring! Armed with this goal, I spent almost two glorious hours at the library perusing through its wares.

My take-away included:
- 4 DVDs of diverse genres,
- 2 Brazilian music CDs,
- 1 soundtrack to American in Paris,
- 4 French cookbooks,
- 3 Japanese cookbooks,
- 1 collection of short stories, (Knifethrower) by Steven Millhauser
- 1 piece of non-fiction (American Shaolin: Flying Kicks, Buddhist Monks, and the Legend of Iron Crotch: An Odyssey in the New China).

(As for the last title), who could resist?

It is always interesting to me that my take-away from a library visit is usually a pretty decent barometer of who I am at that moment. The DVDs and short stories suggest that I am restless and craving outside imaginative stimuli. The music shows that I am always on the prowl for new "sounds." The cookbooks betray the fact that I am probably hungry since I am now deep into week three of Almost-Vegetarian-Diet-of-Mostly-Only-Brown-Pellets. The French cookbooks are based in the work of Julia Child and Jacques Pepin - my constants in this everchanging world - and make for pleasant research even though given my present diet, I will not be cooking much of it. The Japanese cookbooks are my attempt to craft a palatable way of living while essentially cutting out meat.

Did I mention that I'm probably somewhat hungry?

And the titles, Knifethrower and American Shaolin? Apparently, I feel like kicking some ass! (... with deadly precision I might add).

And so I am thankful to the public library for making this all possible. Every time I go, I seem to forget just how much I absolutely love the public library. Library visits are an old habit of mine - I love to gather more media than I could possibly digest and pay lots and lots of fines in late fees. But I do it all happily. There's nothing more extraordinary and overwhelming than the vast repository of knowledge housed within the walls of a library. I suppose my efforts to absorb information from my library finds is really some kind of effort to Fatten My Knowledge and to Become Library.

So go forth and Fatten Your Knowledge and Become Library! For anyone looking for something to fill up the winter nights, I highly recommend a visit. The parking lot is a little slushy, but the goods inside can't be beat.

And Thar She Crumbles....

2008-03-07T13:29:00.011-09:00

If you put crumbled bacon on my plate, am I not human?

Many have questioned the thinking behind my vegetarian "exceptions" which include juices, broths, small bits, seafood, and wild game. Obviously my recent efforts are not about saving animals or making a public policy statement. Rather, I am trying to reorder the chaos inherent in a previously wildly omnivorous lifestyle by simplifying my consumption. The Exceptions, hence, are necessary so that I am not a Complete Pain In The Ass to myself or to you - meaning, all of you in the world.

That is, you will not have to invite me over to your house and fret about what to feed me. I will either eat around what I can or bring my own food. You will not have to refrain from using flavorful ingredients just because I'm there because it's probably in the form of broth or small bits. You will not have to see me turn my nose up at the wild game you've slaughtered and offered. I will eat it, out of respect. You will not have to observe me withering away due to malnutrition because I can always resort to seafood protein.

You see, I aim to please. I am a very cooperative "vegetarian."

For the most part, I have been very religious about not exploiting my exceptions. They aren't about trying to sneak a little meat in; after all, this restricted diet is entirely self-imposed, of indefinite duration, and absolutely arbitrary (as all of my friends like to remind me). Today, however, presented a difficult challenge because I intend to go swimming later this evening.

Swimming, for those who do not know me well, is my absolute nemesis. It falls in a category of very eclectic activities which I refer to as Areas In Which I Am Wholly Incompetent. Swimming might even be at the top of the list. I will save the origin of my incompetence for another day, another blog entry, but for now, suffice it to say, I will desperately need my strength to survive tonight's swim. (During my last lap swim, I attracted the attention of a handsome lifeguard and NOT because of a sexy swimsuit.)

Fueled now primarily by Brown Pellets, my energy this week has been flailing. I don't want to provide the daily paper with what would be an unfortunate headline - "Local Attorney Drowns In High School Swimming Pool, Stomach Full Of Mysterious Brown Pellets." I decided I probably needed some kind of real meal today to charge my reserves. A lunch with a friend at Snow City (Cafe) seemed to be the perfect solution. But what to order?

I finally settled on the "Heart Attack On A Plate," described as follows on their online menu:

Heart Attack on a Plate/ or Veggie Bypass
Hash browns, bacon crumbles, onions, mushrooms, Roma tomatoes, cheddar cheese, sour cream (Veggie Bypass has no bacon) Half order 5.95 Full Order 8.50
With two eggs, add 2.00

In the past, the Heart Attack has been my go-to entree, simple, hard to mess up, and filling. Now ordering the "Veggie Bypass" would perhaps have been an option, but I must insist it was not that prominently displayed in the hardcopy menu.

But I have to admit that I saw it. The stupid Veggie Bypass. But I wanted a Heart Attack, not a Bypass! Apples and oranges. Or rather, Bacon or no Bacon.

The saving grace here was the phrase, "bacon crumbles," or more specifically, crumbles. If there is anything that screams SMALL BIT, it is a crumble of bacon.

So I am coming clean, confessing openly to the farthest reaches of the Internet:

I ate some small bits of bacon.

In my defense, I thought that my Heart Attack could retain the bacon flavor without forcing consumption of the bacon itself. After all, I had already so carefully avoided chunks of sausage in a recent breakfast of Biscuits and Gravy by navigating around the Small But Significant Bits. I felt confident I could do so again, but for one unexpected reality:

The bacon bits were stuck in my Heart Attack.

That's right, the bacon crumbles were secured to the dish by a layer of gooey, melted cheese, absolutely inextricable. There was nothing I could do. I could not have plucked those bacony small bits free any more than I could have saved all those woolly mammoths who got stuck in the La Brea Tar Pits thousands of years ago.

It was as it was meant to be. As Fate intended.

So I ate some bacon crumbles. I'm not proud of it, but I've made my peace. Someone else might decide to throw in the towel now, but I am going to persevere. (For one thing, I still have lots of Costco Brown Pellets left in my freezer.) In my further defense, I did order only a half order of the Heart Attack with eggs over easy. As the waiter repeated back to me:

"Half a Heart Attack Over Easy."

Now you tell me that doesn't sound perfectly harmless?

Report From the Mothership

2008-03-04T17:13:00.012-09:00

I spent my fourth year anniversary of living in this sometimes-god-forsaken state by getting onto a plane to LA. It is an inadvertent coincidence that almost precisely four years after I arrived in Anchorage on a midnight flight, I was embarking on yet another midnight flight going in the opposite direction to the lower 48. The plan was not to make an ironic comment upon my residency here; rather, it was time to see the people from which my life sprung forth - my family.

There was a bit of controversy last time when I referred to my stomping grounds as an "insane asylum," so I am hoping that my mother (who is turning out to be a dedicated blog reader) doesn't take offense that this report comes from none other than the Mothership.

Highlights included:

- attending a line-dancing class for senior citizens with my mom. (I almost joined in, but before I knew it, the fast-moving latin line-dancing to Ricky Martin was already over.)

- pitting fish sandwich against fish sandwich. (Apparently many of the franchises are trying to get a proverbial piece of the Filet-O-Fish by offering new fish-related sandwiches. Although I abstained, Little Bro reported that the McD's Filet-O-Fish had a "sweetness" not found in its competitors. I would also note it remains the only fish sandwich to think itself proper to be paired with cheese.)

- eating pie every single day. (This was thanks to the Marie Callendar pie sale - one freshly made pie for $5.99. On mistaken belief that the sale was going to be over "any day now," my mother purchased eight pies in the span of two days. When I questioned why my mom bought a chocolate cream pie since she doesn't even like chocolate desserts, Little Bro speculated, "I think she just panicked.")

- coming out of the closet (as a vegetarian). (My father's disapproving response was, "All I've ever wanted is just for you to be normal." Consensus among the family was that this was yet another Stupid Thing I Do, but when it became apparent that my meat reduction met surplus for them, the drama of this dispute thankfully dissipated.)

Another highlight was finding lupine in the backyard... lupine in February! The purple flowers made me all the more anxious for spring to arrive in Anchorage. Despite recent warm temperatures, we've still got another two months.

Fortitudine Vincimus! We must hold on strong until Mother Nature sees it fit to share with us her purple perennials.

2008-03-01T05:33:00.001-09:00

Four More Years

2008-02-28T17:35:00.004-09:00

Today marks four years in Alaska.

I can't honestly say that I don't know where the four years have gone. Much has happened.

For example, this time has included a long list of firsts:
- camping (yes, I'd never ever been camping even once!)
- getting nearly run over by a train (nearly tragic)
- ice climbing
- kayaking
- fishing
- gutting and cleaning 70 fish in 3 hours (first and hopefully, last time)
- nearly drowning in a river (these things happen when one goes fishing)
- operating a lawnmower
- clamming
- driving my own car (long story)
- owning my own house
- owning and operating my own powerdrill
- having moose in my yard
- picking wild berries
- picking wild mushrooms
- surviving eating said wild berries and mushrooms
- biking 20 miles
- flying in a float plane
- seeing beluga whales
- eating and cooking wild alaskan salmon
- eating elk
- eating and cooking moose
- eating musk ox
- eating and cooking rabbit
- making bread from an Alaskan sourdough starter
- firing a shotgun (first and hopefully last)
- taiko drumming
- playing the banjo
- teaching cooking classes
- barbecuing on my own
- puffing cigars
- drinking whiskey

Like a long Oscar speech, this list can't possibly include everything because I don't remember everything. It's a hefty set of experiences, for which I am entirely grateful (with the exception of near-death experiences, although those were definitely moments for pause, too). But I am going to be honest.

Sometimes this state kicks my ass. For this reason, I've recently started referring to my favorite place as "this-sometimes-god-forsaken-state."

Well, it's true.

Life here is unparalleled, for better or for worse. The mountains in Alaska make me think I had never seen mountains before moving here. Every day, I stare out into the [currently] icy blue Cook Inlet, and it looks like the edge of both nowhere and forever, all at once. On clear days, I can see McKinley from my office. I have eaten the world's finest salmon and stood in awe in some of the most amazing national parks this country has to offer. I live in what I sometimes think is God's Best-Kept-Secret.

In short, this place has given me multiple Once-In-A-Lifetime-Experiences, one after the other.

At the same time, I am mindful of what I've lost - essentially a past life fostered in the lower 48. Childhood, college, law school - friends from yesteryear whose weddings have become too far to attend. Career choices. And family - the only daughter of a traditional Chinese family, the one who should still be living under her parents' roof, somehow found her way to the farthest reaches of the North - to the Last Frontier.

It is in this manner than sometimes Alaska kicks my ass. Nature here is as severe as it is breathtaking. I haven't, of course, even mentioned the long dark days of winter, the multiple-month stretch that is winter, or the nose-hair-freezing cold temperatures. The emotional cost is something deeper that strikes more at one's fundamental core. I suppose this depth also measures its worth.

For whatever reason, I have been unable to leave this place. I renew my residency like many people here - year by year, seeing how things go. Through these little increments, I've seen others build a lifetime, an eternity.

Perhaps another four more years will tell me if I will join them in eternity.

Through the Eyes of Love

2008-02-27T20:04:00.004-09:00

Doesn't everybody want a come-hither head shot of a favorite canine?

Canine Portraiture by the Madwoman! Again, email me for a quote.

But seriously, this month's portrait is of Loki, my secretary's beloved Samoyed who recently went blind in both eyes. The furry buddy is adjusting, as is his family. I am reminded of the lesson of the movie Ice Castles: love doesn't need sight, just a pair of figure skates. At the risk of severe cheese and copyright infringement:

Please don't let this feeling end
It's ev'rything I am
Ev'rything I want to be
I can see what's mine now
Finding out what's true
Since I found you
Looking through the eyes of love
And now I can take the time
I can see my life
As it comes up shining now
Reaching out to touch you
I can feel so much
Since I found you
Looking through the eyes of love
And now I do believe
That even in the storm we'll find some light
Knowing you're beside me I'm allright
Please don't let this feeling end
It might not come again
And I want to remember
How it feels to know you
How I feel so much
Since I found you
Looking through the eyes of love
Please don't let this feelings end
It's ev'rything I am
Ev'rything I want to be
I can see what's mine now
Finding out what's true
Since I found you
Looking through the eyes of love

Mrs. Chao Captured!

2008-02-26T15:21:00.001-09:00

Well, at least for the moment. Just before the holidays, I was at the local hockey rink bar engaged in a conversation when it was revealed that my Beloved Silver Meat Platter had been hanging out with one of the guys after we used it as a base for his birthday pirate cake. Of course, the pirate cake.

Mrs. Chao, however, was gracious enough to pose for the camera.

And yes, she is a little shy.

Song of the Madwoman

2008-02-26T11:26:00.004-09:00

"I.C. Lee. Madwoman. A woman barely alive."

"Gentlemen, we can rebuild her. We have that technology. We have the capability to make the world's first bionic Madwoman. I.C. Lee will be that Madwoman. Better than she was before. Better... stronger.. faster... MADDER."

Civilians, Perpetuators of Evil, Excessively Tall Bullies, beware....

Still Life In Brown Pellets

2008-02-25T16:31:00.010-09:00

Two months and not a peep from the blog. The holidays are a chaotic time and challenging is the push to get through SABS (Silent Angry Bear Syndrome) brought on by long stretches of darkness and nose-hair-freezing temps in Alaska. But it's now February, safely on the Other Side of Winter Solstice -- that time of the year when I will insist, with finger wagging in the air,

Summer is right around the corner!

It's not altogether untrue. A recent spell of warming temperatures has brought on a frustrating period of false break-up, but with these warm sunny days, it is hard not to think of spring, the Harbinger of Summer.

The most recent personal development amidst all of this chaos is that it has happened again.

I've found myself in yet another bout of Vegetarianism.

The old rules apply (seafood ok, broth and juices ok, little bits ok, wild game ok), and although others might insist that this is Unprincipled Vegetarianism, frankly, it feels principled this time around. The news of my renewed vegetarianism struck fear in the eyes of friends who stood by me the first time and watch me mutate rather quickly into a cranky, raving mad bitch.

I'm pleased to report that it is an easier go this time. I suppose practice makes perfect.

The realization that I was going vegetarian again came unexpectedly and hence, I was forced to halt a lot of meat-related projects midstream. One was the excavation of my meat-filled freezer which now remains just as meat-filled as it was a week ago. I had also purchased a Costco rotisserie chicken just days before vegetarianism began. Fortunately, I was able to enlist the services of BB, who doubles as our house's 72-Hour-Eater. (I know of no one who would have responded to my email regarding partially eaten chicken with more zeal and excitement. Thank you, BB.)

So if I haven't been eating 72-hour chicken, you might ask, just what have I been eating?

Fake veggie sausage patties from Costco.

It all happened harmlessly enough. I was taking a weekend stroll through Costco, sampling a veggie sausage patty, and the next thing I know, I have become addicted to these little brown discs made of only-God-knows-what. In consuming these discs, I also made another unexpected discovery - a sure-fire diet plan.

In my 32 years, I've tried various dieting ideas. One was the Every-Other-Day Diet during which I dieted every other day. It never really yielded any results. Another was the Poor Law Student Diet during which I decided I simply couldn't afford that much food on my hourly wages as a summer research assistant. (This is the summer I lost my ability to digest lactose because milk was too expensive.) I've also always wanted to try the Eat-Your-Favorite-Food-Until-Oblivion Diet. My theory is that if you just let go and eat to your heart's desire, your heart will be sated (really disgusted) thereafter. For example, in the last three years, I've seen a drop-off in my own Doritos consumption that I think stems from previous over-consumption. My suspicion is that this would work well for donuts, too.

But the most recent dieting lesson has been in the form of undesirable food. Here's a quick way to eat less: Make Your Food Taste Bad. You can start by buying a fake sausage patty, bound to be limited in pleasure anyway. Then you can give it the least generous kind of cooking treatment by nuking the patty. Go one step further by over-nuking it. What you are left with is a space-age rubbery disc that will take you at least 20 minutes to consume.

As I chewed thoughtfully on my new toy, I wondered if this was why dogs enjoy rawhide and pig ears.

My motivation in becoming a vegetarian again was not to understand the world of dog food, however. It was to reorder my universe - apply a series of finely tuned but seemingly arbitrary rules to entropy so as to make some sense of it. Unlike my most recent attempts at vegetarianism, which brought anger and resentment but no bodhisattva-like insights, I can tell already this round is going to be different.

It is interesting exercise to effectively eliminate desire in one's life, to snip it out of the daily experience like a coupon in the Sunday paper. I see evidence of past obsessions in my refrigerator, and it seems like an eternity ago. I mean, the other day I wasn't even able to finish a whole slice of Kraft cheese.

Could this be nirvana?

Unlikely, but nevertheless, it is a new experience for me to leave a slice of cheese on the counter uneaten. The other day, I had biscuits and gravy for breakfast, and dutifully left the "bigger than permissible small bits" of sausage on my plate. I really had no desire to cheat, to sweep in the larger, prohibited chunks onto my fork.

In each of my recent confrontations with meat, as I watched BB devour my partially eaten Costco chicken, or as I quietly slurped wontonless wonton soup while Jaja ate her normal version, I felt something. It was not hunger, pang, or envy.

It was peace.

Somehow, in my plan to be vegetarian for two weeks, I've discovered a still life in brown pellets. My life now moves in controlled moments - punctuated by the ritual of eating one brown pellet. Nothing is free and chaotic. It's like I'm eating space food, carefully rationed out for my orbit around Earth. One pellet per meal.

I am becoming a rabbit. Almost like a bodhisattva.

On the Seventh Day She Ate a Lot of Pastries

2007-12-10T20:48:00.000-09:00

This weekend my friend BB and I flew down to Seattle for the Annual Company Party. The bash has been held at various venues over the years, and this year, it was a place called The Palace Ballroom, a facility under the direction of chef Tom Douglas (a big whig in Seattle but utterly unknown to the likes of me).

Before the party, some locals had clued us into the crab cake. Apparently Tom's crab cakes were to die for and should be horded. BB and I arrived at the party, in search of the infamous crab cakes.

If there had been any doubt whether the Company had been having a rough year fiscally, the food at the Annual Party pretty much confirmed the state of the union. Although the party began at 6pm, there was no "sit-down" dinner, only appetizer stations with very tiny tiny plates. There was not enough real sitting for everyone attending, so one was forced to consume appetizers standing at high tables or worse, while balancing a drink.

But there was still an open bar, of course. You know things are really bad if the open bar is missing from The Company Holiday Party!

My opinion of the food aside, this year's bash was a decent affair. The venue was nicely decorated and inviting and there was also a respectably sized dance floor. Before the party really got rolling, I told BB that every year, it is the staff, not the attorneys, who monopolize the dance floor. Unlike the attorneys, who, for the most part, seem to prefer toting around cocktails, the staff really likes to cut loose on the floor.

At some point in the evening, it was clear that I had eaten enough food that it was only proper that I try to work it off. I descended upon the dance floor for what I thought would be a dance or two for the evening. But after two glasses of Cabernet and two glasses of whiskey, something happened. And thank goodness I wasn't sitting on the couch.

What happened was the Groove Came and Finally Set Me Free.

Coincidentally, I had spent the past week dutifully dancing every morning in my basement in Anchorage - all five days of the week, perhaps breaking my record. It was as if somewhere deep inside I knew that I needed to stay in motion and be ready for whatever might be out there. And sure enough, on the Sixth Day, an odd intersection of circumstances - the need to burn off the overconsumption of crab cakes, a little bit of alcohol, and a willing partner - made for the best three and a half hour block of dancing in my life.

There's something nice about being from a tiny satellite office and thus enjoying a certain degree of anonymity. My presence at the party was so unexplained that the bartender actually carded me, as if I had stumbled in off the street to crash the Annual Company Party. In similar manner, my presence on the dance floor was not questioned. Or at least no one directly questioned me.

The DJs played many of the same songs you hear at every company holiday party, but for whatever reason, I danced to many of them as if hearing them for the first time. My limbs seemed unhinged at the joints, and apparently no move was too daring to try. At some point in the evening, the only people left on the dance floor were BB and I. He took that moment to lean over and whisper,

"Madwoman, you're staff."

There was no escaping the truth. But I had long passed the point of no return. I felt free as a happy bird, an unusual feeling to have at The Annual Company Party.

Or maybe not.

The next morning, I had a few flashbacks to dancing at the party, and each caused me to hold my forehead. I recalled specifically that sometime in the last hour, I may have danced an entire song standing on one foot. Remarkably, notwithstanding the four drinks in my system, the high heels, and the severe dehydration going on, I did not stumble once at The Company Party.

On the Seventh Day, we rested amd did not dance. Instead, we hit the city to do some last-minute site-seeing before our flight. BB and I took a quick walk through Pike Market to scout a good place for breakfast for our group, which turned out to be an adventure in it of itself. (He and I ended up making two visits to the bakery within twenty minutes, and split seven pastries as part of an ill-advised Eat-To-The-Death Contest.)

We ended the day at the Experience Music Project (EMP) and Science Fiction Museum. There was a great interactive exhibit at the EMP which was a series of stations with instruments and programs teaching you how to play them. I learned the Root 6 power chords to Smells Like Teen Spirit and jammed with the computer. BB learned to play Louie Louie on the bass and also how to do reggae drumbeats. Like a couple of kids, we ran into the soundproof practice rooms to work on our "vocals" (when we left the room, BB said, "I'm really glad nobody heard that) and also to play with effects pedals and mixing boards in the Guitar Room. We tried our hand at DJing - mixing beats (giving me newfound apprecation for the DJ "bozos from the night before") and even scratching (but unfortunately the scratching part of the exhibit was broken).

After a couple of hours of banging on instruments, we headed to the adjoining Science Fiction Museum. I was disappointed that there was not even a single automated door - not even the normal kind you'd find at the airport! Everybody knows that any proper Science Fiction Museum needs at least one super cool self-opening door. The Science Fiction Museum was not interactive at all and at times, a bit boring, except that the first thing I saw upon entering was a set of tunics - a goldish green one worn by James T. Kirk (William Shatner) and a blue one worn by Mr. Spock himself (Leonard Nimoy)! I ran up to the glass and clasped my hands like a little kid. BB was less impressed.

Other highlights included a fine collection of science fiction weapons and armor, including a Klingon bat'leth, various disruptors and phasers. Like a true Trekker nerd, I laughed at the unwieldy size of the tricorders on display until I realized I was laughing at tricorders. Star Trek was not the only thing in the museum, of course. There were various Star Wars knick knacks, but they all looked like recent reproductions (I noted that Yoda looked much smaller in person). No doubt the really good Star Wars stuff has already been acquired by nerdy collectors.

Before exiting, I was treated to two more finds:
- Twiki, Buck Rogers' diminutive but shiny sidekick and
- Muffit, the robot-dog-like creature belonging to the son of Apollo on the original Battlestar Galactica!

I apologize that there are no photos of these treasures, but after all, I was in a museum and certainly didn't want my flash photography to degrade the archival quality of these one-of-a-kind items.

For $15 for both facilities, it was a decent Seattle afternoon. I'd recommend it to all those nerdy types who like making music and spacy stuff.

Have You Seen This Meat Platter??

2007-12-06T20:33:00.000-09:00

LOST:
One shiny meat platter, about two feet long. Meat not included. Sentimental value. Please call if found.

Like people, sometimes food needs an accessory or two. This morning, when I reached for my trusty shiny meat platter to serve as the presentation dish for an office birthday cake, it was not in its normal storage spot in the cabinet. I then proceeded to turn the kitchen upside down looking for my shiny friend.

If I concentrate really hard, I realize that I have no idea whatsoever when was the last time I saw my meat platter. It was often used this summer at barbecues, and occasionally gets trotted out for receptions, but no recent memory of its being comes to mind. At the same time, at two feet, it is hard to misplace.

So my theory is that Mrs. Chao has taken my meat platter. The story of Mrs. Chao started over fifteen years ago, when my mom was running a steamed bun business out of our kitchen. Word got around that she was commercializing and soon, the orders started pouring in. My dad and I did our best to help out, mostly by eating Red Bean Buns that had failed to rise properly. But it soon became clear that my mom needed extra help - real help.

Perhaps tapping her Amway experience, my mom decided to get a friend involved, Mrs. Chao. Mrs. Chao was apparently a horrible cook, but sometimes those who are clueless in the kitchen can be good assistants as they will do exactly as you say. Looking back on this, perhaps my mom enlisted Mrs. Chao because she was less of an espionage risk. Whatever she learned in my mom's kitchen, it seemed doubtful Mrs. Chao could replicate it herself elsewhere.

One day, my mom was doing inventory (which was stored crammed into our family freezer) and noticed that she was short one hundred dumplings. How my mom could so precisely account for her dumplings, I don't know. She turned the kitchen inside and out looking for dumplings. I mean, a bag of one hundred dumplings does not just get up and walk out of the kitchen.

Or does it?

As they day wore on and dumplings remained MIA, my mom settled on a suspect - Mrs. Chao. Mrs. Chao had stolen her dumplings! One hundred of them! An inside embezzlement job -- a shrewdly calculated crime.

I personally wondered why Mrs. Chao would steal one hundred dumplings. I can't remember how my mom paid her for her help but certainly an arrangement could have been struck using dumplings as currency. (They are, after all, modeled after Chinese currency from the old days.) But my mom was sure - Mrs. Chao had stolen the dumplings, betraying her in a way she never thought a friend could. This was not the Amway way.

The next day, my mom found the dumplings. She had miscounted. Mrs. Chao was exonerated, but there must have been some kind of confrontation because I never saw Mrs. Chao after that. Shortly thereafter, the steamed bun business folded, and the kitchen was thankfully returned to ordinary family use.

To this day, the family often jokes about Mrs. Chao when we can't seem to find something.

"Where's the vacuum cleaner?"

"Maybe Mrs. Chao took it."

"Have you seen my favorite jacket?"

"I think Mrs. Chao is wearing it."

"Mrs. Chao has been stealing the socks out of the dryer again!"

Mrs. Chao was and still is everywhere. In fact, she followed me from LA when I moved to Alaska. My first year in the Little Yellow House, when our snow shovel disappeared, I cursed Mrs. Chao, waving my empty hands at the piles of snow.

"MRS. CHAAAOOO!"

I know that Mrs. Chao has my meat platter. Who can blame her given its wonderful size and shiny, mirror-like surface? If there is a platter to be coveted, it would be My Beloved Meat Platter. That Mrs. Chao is no fool.

Regardless, Mrs. Chao, if you're reading this, please give my meat platter back! I'll trade you a bag of dumplings.

Confessions of a Madwoman

2007-12-04T20:46:00.000-09:00

I got a call from my mother the other night, concerned that I've been going around the Internet referring to myself as "the Madwoman."

"You're not really mad, are you?" she asked anxiously. "Won't people think you're crazy?"

Something about the tone in her voice made me think what she really meant was, will eligible bachelors in cyberspace think that you are crazy?

Let's hope so.

When I first started blogging months ago, I told my parents about it, never thinking they'd ever take the time to read any of my blog. Sure, I figured they'd be interested in a couple of the photos (the shot of the reindeer against the fence was actually taken my mom who has a gift for capturing animals at their most absurd), but why would they take the time to wade through all of that English, all of those long tortuous sentences?

I imagine that she has been reading my blog slowly, looking up every other word on her little computerized English-Chinese dictionary, typing in the word, "madwoman," her eyes growing big... she picks up the phone....

So for my mother's sake, I'll say it right now. I'm not crazy. Not really crazy. Not crazy enough for anyone to chase me around my house with a net. Not crazy enough to need rubber walls. At least not nowadays. On occasion, I may carry salsa in my purse, imitate moose by chewing on my apple trees, and sprinkle sugar on my lawn to get rid of dandelions, but let's be honest: I'm not crazy!

Regardless, it appears that my mother is intent on continuing to read my blog. I got yet another call asking me what is up with the photo of myself I posted on my food blog. I recently used Microsoft Paint to draw in a mask over my face, so as to protect my identity. After all, this is the Internet, you know.

"Why did you do that? What are you trying to do - Batman?"

Every once in a while, my English-Chinese-dictionary-toting mom surprises me with her knowledge of pop culture. Personally, I was going more for a Zorro look.

She lamented the loss of the undoctored image - which, if I understood her Chinese correctly - depicted some degree of "gentleness" and "naivete" that my Batman photo lacked and that, I might add, my real self probably lacks.

It was then I understood that perhaps my mother has been directing would-be suitors to my blogs, an ill-advised attempt to get to know her only daughter living in The Great Frigid North. Foolish indeed!

So once again, for my mother's sake, I am not crazy. I am not Batman. Anybody who knows the Madwoman understands that I would much prefer the shimmery purple vinyl of Catwoman.

The Groove Shall Set You Free!

2007-11-30T10:24:00.000-09:00

Whoever made up the phrase, "cut a rug," apparently has never taken her flamenco shoes to a painted concrete floor.

Gordon and I have been dancing in the basement now, off and on, for quite a few months. We've chipped a fair amount of paint off the basement floor. Not every session is remarkable, but sometimes together we find a groove in the music that turns me inside out. Today was one of these days.

Just before Thanksgiving, I decided that I was hitting a creative and kinetic wall and frankly, tired of banging my head on it. It seemed to me the solution would be to add a new stimulus - a wooden floor that would provide a more rewarding percussive sound than my painted concrete basement floor (wholly inappropriate for flamenco dancing). I made a trip to Home Depot with high hopes, but after perusing the infinite number of wood-like products you can use as flooring, decided I did not possess the know-how to decide which would be best. The project would have to be deferred. (Stay tuned.)

So I packed my dancing shoes and flew down south for Thanksgiving. Sadly I did not pull them out of my bag even once. I did, however, eat steadily for six days.

After plumping myself up over the holidays, it was time to get back into the basement in Anchorage. On a whim today, I decided on a costume change during practice.

It turns out that a loud flowery red shirt and black nylons can be the components of an amazing creative defribillation. The slight change in costuming was like a sledgehammer to the wall. As Gordon and I twirled about the basement, finding The Groove That Wasn't Here Yesterday, Dancing Like We've Never Danced Before, I realized that sometimes life is about just going through the motions. The bland dance sessions can be discouraging, but getting into the basement is the key. Every motion we make in our day has a ripple effect - it leads to unexpected delights and curious turns and spins we could not have deliberately designed. I learn something new about myself in those moments simply by keeping myself in motion. And When The Groove Has Finally Arrived, I am poised and ready for it to set me free.

Who wants to be sitting on the couch When The Groove Is Finally Here?

So here's to walls coming down and to cutting up the basement!

Sometimes The Animals See Things We Can't.

2007-11-29T19:57:00.000-09:00

Canine Portraiture By The Madwoman
Email me for a quote. Very furry dogs extra.

Fifty Dollars Worth of Dog

2007-11-13T19:06:00.000-09:00

Sometimes you see something you really want, but you know you have no business buying it. Like a giant over-sized stuffed English sheep dog, now available at Costco for only $49.99.

(To show just how big this big fluffy dog is, I inserted a nickel into the dog's mouth.)

Here is detail from one of the dogs squished in the bin:

If I were about 25 years younger, I'd most definitely ask Santa to bring me a giant shaggy dog for Christmas.

Start Running....

2007-09-12T16:45:00.001-08:00

When the Going gets Tough, the Unemployed go to the Anchorage Job Fair.

Today at the Egan Center, the Anchorage Daily News put on its annual Job Fair for people like myself, those looking for a new way of making a living. It has been years since I've gone to a job fair, but I dutifully brushed my hair, put on my suit, and was then off to the job fair, with a couple copies of my resume tucked under my arm.

There were several booths set up in the convention center, each boasting the promise of a new career. Construction companies were looking for maintenance managers, the municipality was looking for police officers, and even the military was looking for a few good men, as they always do. At a couple of booths, I tried to explain my plight using euphemistic phrases, but what I really wanted to use as my pick-up line was, "Do you have any jobs for a washed-out attorney?"

I tried to appear upbeat and competent, hard to do when you're coming down with a cold. I flirted with the idea of many new career directions - "Why not?" was the operative theme of the day. But it turned out that out of all the booths in that large convention center, only one had a post for which I was qualified.

Meet Special Agent Madwoman of Anchorage.

It's hard to pass by law enforcement booths without being at least slightly intrigued. I took notice of Anchorage's finest standing in the municipality's booth and even lingered in front of the National Guard table, but they didn't bite. The FBI wouldn't have bitten either if I hadn't walked up to the table, spotted a flyer with the following statement in clear type:

THE FBI IS LOOKING FOR SPECIAL AGENTS WITH THE FOLLOWING BACKGROUNDS

Among the laundry list were the magical words that I seldom see for any job posting that is not seeking an attorney:

LAW SCHOOL GRADUATE.

I was overjoyed. I'm one of those! I picked up that pink flyer and pointed out this line to the man behind the table and asked, "What does the FBI need with special agents who are law school graduates?"

After the Special Agent Behind The Table determined that I had graduated from a legit law school and was not just some high schooler looking for a new career, he asked another screening question, "How old are you?"

I smiled, never before happier to be older than I looked. "Thirty-one. I know I don't look it."

He smiled. "Yeah, most people who try out for special agent are 29, 30."

For a minute, I faltered as my normal anxieties about my age came to surface. "Does that mean I'm too old?"

"No, it means you're just right. Do you speak a second language?"

Once again, I had been racially profiled, but if it was going to make me look attractive to the FBI, I could deal with it. "Yes. Mandarin Chinese."

Special Agent Behind The Table then proceeded to encourage me to apply online, telling me that I would be "very competitive" with my language skills and such. I tried to explain that my Mandarin could be described as proficient at best, since my areas of expertise included only basic bodily functions and all things related to food, but he seemed hell-bent on my candidacy.

"What I would suggest is that you start running."

"Beg your pardon?" I asked.

"You look like you're in shape, but we lose a lot of people to the physical fitness tests."

All of the sudden I became somewhat self-conscious of the rather form-fitting top I had chosen for the job fair. And I saw my hopes and dreams for a life as an FBI special agent go quickly down the toilet because if there's one thing I really hate in this world, it's running.

Here I had found the one job that considered the last ten years of my life remotely relevant to the position, but it would mean that I'd have to run. Why? I suppose running is essential to chasing down criminals, and that's the business of the FBI, isn't it? To chase down criminals?

I guess I had been hoping for more of a desk job where I would use my brain and where my runty athletic abilities could remain hidden. It is conceivable that with months of training harder than I have ever trained in my life, I could scrape by as the absolute bottom of the barrel of FBI trainees. The last time I thought about such sacrifice was when I briefly contemplated applying to West Point. And of course, if I should decide to become a bodybuilder.

A closer look at the pink flyer revealed that my dream job was not really all that dreamy. Here, I now noticed the requirement, "Be in excellent physical condition." I have enough flexibility to bend steel, but I bet they are referring to more conventional attributes such as strength and speed. "Able to pass a polygraph regarding truthfulness in all aspects of the application process including FBI's drug policy." Some of my friends have had to take polygraphs as part of gaining security clearance, and the feeling I get from their tight-lipped experiences is that it's a miserable thing to do. "Be willing to be transferred anywhere in the United States." Oddly this is truly non-negotiable. I was at the Anchorage Job Fair, for goodness sake. The point is that I'm trying to find a job in Anchorage. And besides, the only chance I could have being a Big FBI Special Agent Fish was if I was in the Small Pond known as Anchorage.

There was also a bit of interesting fine print at the bottom of the pink flyer:

"Cannot have used marijuana more than 15 times. Cannot have used any other illegal drugs more than 5 times OR during the last 10 years. Cannot have used any illegal drug while in a law enforcement or prosecutorial position."

On Point 1, marijuana: Well, it's good to know that you get 15 freebies. I haven't availed myself of any, but it's nice to know that my potential FBI career is still safe if I should choose to lightly experiment.

On Point 2: I read this as if you used crack, cocaine, meth, heroin no more than 5 times or you gave up that stuff a long time ago, you're now qualified to chase down your fellow users and bring them to justice.

On Point 3, drug use and positions of authority: Let's hope not! That this word of caution was even included begs a sad question.

I bet there are a lot of people out there whose FBI careers have been precluded because of one of these points. In fact, I bet these are the most common reasons why many FBI-hopefuls don't make it.

The rest of my time at the job fair was cut short by my cold, as it had progressed into some kind of liquid nasal drip that would release itself suddenly without warning. Not exactly the kind of first impression I wanted to make.

So I left the booths and hopeful job-seekers, not exactly less confused about the Direction of My Life, but knowing at least, that it was not time to start running, not even for the FBI.

Flush Away!

2007-09-07T15:43:00.000-08:00

Returning home as a thirty-one year old adult is like visiting the insane asylum from which I escaped many years ago, except that all the current residents are clearly related by blood. During my latest recent stay at my parents' home, I was housed in a different ward; my erstwhile bedroom, while still nominally containing a bed, had become a storage facility so crammed of things unrelated to me that I could not have lain horizontally anywhere. So I was asked to sleep instead in the living room and to not complain (which I have not to any significant degree, except for noting these facts in this blog).

It had been months since I had last visited southern California, and it is good, bad, and ugly that things have not changed much. I happened to be there on what turned out to be the hottest days of the year (the local news repeatedly referred to "life-threatening heat"), and heat never agrees with me, particularly since I have learned to adapt to Alaska's chillier clime. In addition to reacquainting myself with lower 48 weather, a visit down South always promises to be a history lesson of some sort - a reminder of where I left my life before coming to Alaska.

Often when I go home, I have in mind that I'd like to bring something back, a memento of my youth that now seems dear enough to keep close, a useful tool I do not wish to purchase new up here, or something I simply can get only in California and not Alaska. Among the list during this trip was a green stuffed toy parrot that used to belong to my little brother. (The need for this item may or may not be disclosed in a later entry.) I had in my mind what I thought was a clear vision of this green parrot sitting on a shelf above my bed in what had become the Public Storage that was once my bedroom, but a quick glance revealed that it was full of books, empty computer boxes, a ukele, a stuffed bear, but alas, no stuffed green little parrot!

I am genetically incapable of really throwing things away, although I do throw away more things than my fellow asylum residents. Certainly, none of the permanent residents would have been able to throw away my green parrot. So I proceeded on a mission to find this parrot, despite the stockpiling that had overtaken my bedroom and despite the sweltering heat.

I began with Under-The-Bed where I had, on a previous visit, stowed away the Most Undesirable Childhood Toys. These included the freakish dolls made of plastic that had since lost their clothes or had lost the ability to fully close their eyes - the stuff horror movies are made of. Why didn't I just throw this junk away, one might ask? Well, frankly, these toys were so scary that I was afraid to throw them away, in fear of what retribution might lie ahead for me by their plasticky arms.

For whatever reason, accidentally stowed away with the Freakish Undesirable Dolls was a stuffed parrot - but it was a small bright orange parrot, not the green parrot I was looking for. For reasons that I may or may not disclose in a future blog entry, I decided to push on in pursuit of my green parrot. I moved boxes, thrust my hand into shelves, opened sealed up bags, opened drawers, but nowhere was the green parrot to be found. In one drawer, however, I did make a remarkable discovery: a set of puffy Star Wars stickers, still in original plastic, no doubt now worth a fortune!

Perhaps it was delirium caused by the heat or perhaps it was because I was back at the insane asylum, but the discovery of a Star Wars treasure did not satisfy my curiosity or make me abandon my ultimate mission: I remained determined to find that green parrot. The sliding doors of my closet, however, were completely blocked off by a table covered with boxes. I managed to slide the boxes over a few millimeters in the necessary direction to pry open the door just enough to let my body in. Once inside, I turned on my flashlight and squeezed past old dresses worn once at piano recitals and now very unfashionable suits worn many times at Model United Nations debates in high school. In this Narnia, I found a large brown Samsonite tucked behind the dresses and thought maybe I had stowed away something important in the suitcase.

With flashlight in my mouth and body flush against the walls of my tiny closet, I snapped the Samonsite open. I found, crammed wall to wall in that brown Samsonite, 20-30 of my Most Desirable Stuffed Animals, namely the ones with white fur which my young self had always tried to keep clean. Opening the suitcase was like opening a Pandora's box of stuffed animal names - Dandee, Brownberry, Shaggy ... names I thought I had forgotten but whose huddled bodies were now staring up at me. Sadly, among these treasures I did not find the holy grail, my little green parrot.

What proved to be a real challenge was getting that Samsonite to close again after 20-30 stuffed animals had been given the opportunity to refluff themselves. The closet was getting claustrophobic, the interior temperature was climbing, my jaw muscles were tired of holding that flashlight in my mouth, and I was quickly depleting what little oxygen was available in that small space.

But the Samsonite in the closet was not the only time capsule I uncovered while home. In the guest bathroom, I noticed several magazines available for perusal (yes, we're that kind of asylum), and on one particular visit, noticed a copy of Newsweek was opened to its entertainment section. What gave me pause were photos of a very pubescent Lee Ann Rimes and a sexy Toni Braxton winning a Grammy. (Braxton has since declared bankruptcy.) Confused, I flipped to the front cover, and lo and behold, I was reading a copy of a 1997 Newsweek in the bathroom.

Others might find it unusual to come across such dated material under such circumstances, but those people have never been in the bathroom of an asylum, of course. Against all common sense, I did not throw away this relic, nor did I even put it down.

I actually read it cover to cover and found it somewhat fascinating.

Cloned sheep Dolly had just made the headlines, with the ethical question, Are Humans Next? The answer ten years later, no. And not much hullaballoo has happened in the genetic world since aside from gene mapping. One article spoke of the likely disappearance of conventional used car dealerships; a chain of dealerships called AutoNation was supposed to revolutionize car buying through computer kiosks, thereby sidestepping haggling with the dealer.

I have never heard of AutoNation.

In 1997, the Internet was just gaining speed. The first online degree programs were being offered. Fundraising by the Democratic Party was under microscopic scrutiny. Toni Braxton was flush with fame and cash. As for Lee Ann Rimes, I think that girl was still wearing braces.

As much as I plead with my parents to throw away old junk, I can't say that finding the 1997 Newsweek time capsule in the bathroom wasn't a unique and worthwhile experience. I suppose there might be both pros and cons to not letting go. My father recently gave a lecture full of philosophical truisms about enjoying life, and among the concepts he tried to impart to his audience was the importance of letting go. His penchant for toilet humor, however, translated this idea into a particularly catchy phrase:

Flush away.

How the brain chooses what to flush away and what to write permanently onto the hard drive, I don't know. The names of my stuffed animals get stored for eternity, but all of physical chemistry from my freshman year of college? Most definitely flushed away. But who is to say that today's junk might not be tomorrow's interesting bathroom read?

Fortunately for my little green parrot, he was a bit too big to flush away. I know that somewhere in the cluttered asylum, he's waiting for me to find him.

The Year of the Klingon

2007-08-21T13:05:00.000-08:00

In today's modern world, there's not a whole lot you can get for a mere five dollars. For example, Arby's Five-For-Five is really five dollars and ninety-five cents in Alaska and rumored to have gone up to a whopping six ninety-five. Even a shrewdly bargained-for Easy Rider at a garage sale goes for no less than six dollars. And so it is a real delight when you can get something quality in exchange for an Abraham Lincoln.

This morning, I took my Abraham Lincoln to my former gym, Pete's City Gym, also known by old-timers as "10th and E," its cross streets. For five dollars, I can get a day pass to use the gym or I can pay $25 for the month. There is no start-up fee, no year membership, no strings, nothing complicated. In fact, if there were anything complicated about the gym, Pete's is not the kind of place that would know what to do with it.

A lot of people, members of Alaska Club or Powerhouse Gym, the so-called normal gyms in town, like to talk smack about Pete's, but much of it is undeserved. There is a cardio room with 2-3 treadmills, 2-3 elliptical machines, maybe a bike or two, and a whole bunch of nautilus machines for the lower body. The other main room is mirrored, well-lit, and clean and has free weights as well as nautilus machines for the upper body. You don't have to travel very far to find a can of Lysol, and there are saunas (albeit small and rather drawer-like) in the locker rooms. In other words, Pete's offers many of the amenities you'd expect from a normal gym.

A while back, there was a lot of talk about "The Fungus" at Pete's. The Fungus was apparently some kind of mold, probably a variant of athlete's foot, that was rumored to be lurking in the showers at Pete's, ready to strike. Those who went barefoot reported contracting The Fungus. But anyone who goes into a public gym without proper flip flops is asking for trouble, and if you ask me, just begging for The Fungus. The management can't be held accountable for individual poor judgment.

Equipment and Fungus aside, it is the people and the attitude that make Pete's my preferred gym. When you walk into Pete's, you are greeted first by a scantily clad Governor Arnold Schwarzenagger. This poster in the front hallway is an homage to hard bodies like his and reminds you why you are there. In fact, throughout the gym, the walls are plastered with posters of bodybuilders, past and present.

There are a few men who seem to run the gym, but the main guy in charge, as far as I can tell, is Pete's Pete Number One. His name isn't actually Pete (and in fact I can't remember what his real name is) but for ease of memory, we've always called him Pete Number One. Pete Number One is timeless; in the four years I've known him, I don't think he has changed a bit. His look is quite literally frozen in time - around the 1950s I'd say. Pete Number One has a handlebar mustache and a head of puffy helmet hair. He wears all black, everyday, and wears his weight belt twenty-four seven, whether he's behind the front desk, lifting weights in the upper body room, or sitting in his truck reading the paper with the engine running (which he often does). If I had to sum it up, Peter Number One looks a bit like a Hulk Hogan wannabe of yesteryear who maybe never gave the dream up.

Peter Number One takes the early morning shift, and hence, he is the Pete I see the most often. There is also Peter Number Two and Peter Junior (the younger man who takes the evening shift), but neither is as crazy nor as interesting as Peter Number One who easily is my favorite Pete by far.

I've had a wide range of exquisite experiences as Pete's, which include having an older Eastern European woman instruct me on how to use free weights to "make my butt hard," getting asked out by Pete Junior (whose suave pick-up line was, "So, you gotta a man?"), and having some of the best workouts ever. But last week, for a mere five dollars, I heard the words that I thought I'd never hear in my life:

"Have you ever thought of entering a bodybuilding contest? I think you should do it."

Let me explain. I am thirty-one years old, five two and three quarters inches tall, and the closest I've ever been to doing a pull-up was that one time I was sleeping and actually had a dream in which I did a pull-up. I play racquetball like Woody Allen, and when I run, people smile out of pity. In middle school, I was a straight A student... except for P.E.. I failed each and every Presidential Fitness test except for flexibility and was always the last to be chosen when it was time to pick teams. So I am not what I'd say a natural candidate for body-building.

Suffice it to say, in fact I am not an athlete of any sort. I play a decent ping pong game, but otherwise lack any sport-like agility. I am, however, strangely agile in other ways. I guess a few years of childhood ballet can really pay off in your thirties. To this day, I remain very flexible and have a good sense of balance ... and secretly think that I was destined to be a kung fu master. But that is another blog entry....

Ironically, I had actually thought about bodybuilding before because I always suspected it would be really neat to go to one of my high school reunions as a bodybuilder. It is the predictable fantasy of someone who has always considered herself always a bit too small and too weak. More than anything, it would surely freak out my former classmates.

I mean, wouldn't it be a riot to be five two and three quarters inches of PURE ROCK-HARD STEEL? I thought so.

But I never got beyond entertaining this idea in the abstract, so when the two hundred fifty pound black man lifting weights told me I should join a bodybuilding contest, my interest was piqued.

One might suspect that his comment was simply a pick-up line, but the man who uttered these words, Chris, is a gentle giant who doesn't seem like the womanizing type. He suffered a stroke a few years ago and while still massive, he has a slow and deliberate way about him that made me think he wasn't just being a jerk or joking around. So either he is a really nice guy, or it's just the stroke talking.

In response to Chris' suggestion, I pointed to places where my muscles should be and said, "Oh I don't think so. I don't have any muscles, and I'm plenty fat."

"Where you fat? On the bottom of your feet? Show me the bottom of your feet."

I patted my belly and thighs. "Here's the fat, really!" Chris seemed unaware of all the clever places I was hiding my fat. My less than perfectly taut back. My stomach rolls. My fatty cutlets right next to where my pecs should be.

Despite these shortcomings, I have to admit I was still intrigued and curious by the prospect of becoming a bona fide bodybuilder. I asked questions about how long it might take to train and how my diet would change. Chris said he thought I could do it, that he knew exactly what I'd need to do to get there, and that he could even train me if it weren't for his frequent medical appointments. According to him, the key was wanting It.

"That thick steak? That milkshake? You've got to WANT IT. You've got to WANT that trophy like you want that steak."

Well, that sounded pretty straightforward. I regularly WANT a thick steak or WANT a milkshake. This bodybuilding was going to be no problem at all.

"You have the look, the right facial features."

What facial features was he seeing? The clenched teeth during my workouts? The biting of my lip when I pushed myself harder? Or was this yet another unfortunate case of the "exotic Asian features?" It is undeniable that being Chinese, I have Asian facial features and for some reason, some people have tagged this as "exotic." Or was Chris saying that I already had man-like facial features, the seemingly inevitable destiny of most female bodybuilders?

Strangely, while chatting about what it would take to become a bodybuilder, what was flying through my mind was not whether or not I could do this (become a bodybuilder at age 31 having failed every physical fitness test ever put to me) but whether or not my bodybuilding would mess up my body in some kind of permanent way. In my youth, I was a bottomless pit and could eat almost anything with little negative effect on my body. It was not until college when I started sporadically working out that my metabolism started slowing down. I've often rued the day I started to exercise as the beginning of the end, the moment I messed with my body's natural balance. Would bodybuilding give my body a confused metabolic message and cause more harm? Did I really want to turn into a short, rippling man-like creature? For example, it would undoubtedly rob me of what little boobs I currently have. Would it all be worth the sacrifice?

Chris would say yes. He later came over and further explained, wholly unsolicited of course, "There's nothing like the sound of the applause. All of those people -- clapping, cheering, appreciating you."

He repeated rather dreamily, with a faraway look, "There's nothing like it."

For a moment, I stood in his dream. I tried to imagine hordes of people cheering me on, clapping wildly for the absence of my boobs, the fakeness of my tan, the grossness of my veins popping out of my muscles. Was it so unheard of? After all, wasn't this what I've always wanted, simply to be appreciated? Perhaps bodybuilding was the path to the Holy Grail I've been looking for all my life.

The truth is I may have attracted attention at Pete's by doing what will likely become my signature moves in future bodybuilding contests. As I mentioned before, the Presidential Fitness test for flexibility was the only one I passed, and boy, did I pass with flying colors. Sometimes in between sets, I like to stretch my legs or do yoga-like squats to loosen up and relax. I like to plug in my headphones, grab my leg until my ankle is close to my ears, and then hold that pose, sometimes striking a flamenco flourish. Perhaps it was this "posing" that caught Chris' attention.

It also caught Al's attention. Al is a trainer who uses Pete's as his facility. More relevantly, he is a former bodybuilder, as I soon found out in listening to his rather long self-introduction. Apparently he has won, as he put it, "Everything," including contests in New York, California, the names of which made my eyes gloss over. He was dressed somewhat fashionably for the gym and was a bit blinged out. He was wearing sunglasses indoors even though it was grey and rainy outside. Al also had very fancy and shiny black and white velcro shoes. (It takes a lot for a grown man to pull off that look.)

Al motioned for me to unplug my headphones and then noted he had not seen me around before. He marveled at my flexibility and guessed that I must be some kind of athlete. He also instantly gave me a new, perhaps unfortunate, nickname.

"Human Rubberband. This here's the Human Rubberband, Tio!"

Tio was his large friend or perhaps client trainee. Standing next to Tio, helping spot him, was Glen, a white-haired man between sixty or seventy or eighty who had skinny pink bird legs. I often see Glen in various positions curling tiny 10-pound weights clutched tightly in his blue-veined hands. The three of them made a rather odd workout group, the only thing weirder would be if I had joined them.

But there is some inexplicable appeal in joining these men in shaping our bodies. I have to admit that when I'm plugged into music and sweating at Pete's, I do feel kind of wonderfully macho. I swagger and strut on the way to the water cooler. I wipe sweat from my brow like a tough guy, and if I have a runny nose, I swear that I even snort a little. Sadly, this is the image I have of what boys do.

And deep down inside, Little People like me have always wanted to be tough more than anything else. We want people to be scared of us, not to treat us like butterflies. I am the person that Big People like to pick up off the ground first. I am the first person who has to sit on someone else's lap when too many people try to cram into the car. Friends who have heard me discuss the prospect of bodybuilding are almost all universally disgusted by the idea of my transformation into a muscled monster. But these friends are Normal-Sized and don't quite understand that it would give me great joy to freak people out finally.

Suffice it to say, if I were a bodybuilder, nobody would put this butterfly on someone else's lap.

Still, becoming a bodybuilder would mean entering a world of fake tans, body oils, and string bikinis, three things that are wholly absent in my current life. As for wanting that trophy as much as wanting that steak, I find it hard to imagine that a Presidential Fitness Test flunkie could win such a contest, unless there are special categories for Most Outstanding Flexibility, Best Runt, or Most Improved.

But one thing is for sure: if this is the year for bodybuilding, this is definitely also the year to finally go to the Las Vegas Star Trek Convention as the don't-fuck-with-me Klingon I've always wanted to be.

Pink Octopus Gets The Blues

2007-08-20T12:48:00.001-08:00

Dear Tito,

I am writing a letter to you to thank you for your readership. As far as I know, you are my sole official reader, so this entry is expressly for you.

Today starts week six of Retirement, and because it is questionable what other readership exists, I am not ashamed to admit to you (because I'm sure you understand) that Retirement, predictably, is not a mere Walk In The Park.

Week Six of Retirement in Anchorage has brought something new in the air. Whether it be the early morning squawkings of birds planning the logistics of a long journey soon to come or the silvery look of the morning dew foreshadowing next month's frost, things here are different. It is now well past the middle of August, and hence, the inevitable studio fade of summer has finally begun. I should not begrudge Anchorage for our current rain or for turning down the volume of our summertime fun; the downpour held off for longer than I could have hoped, and certainly Mother Nature has gifted us a better summer than she allowed last year.

But I awoke this morning to the sound and look of rain and darkness which come hand in hand with bad weather in Anchorage. It is no longer so easy to borrow the sun and jubliance of the skies for my own purposes, and so the time has come (long overdue) to look deeply inward for my own inspiration. Today's Retirement started with the uncomfortable weight of this early morning thought.

But I took one more cue from the skies and decided that today would be a good day to watch a movie I had borrowed from the library last week, a German film called Schultze Gets The Blues. As the back cover describes:

Schultze Gets The Blues is a funny, touching peek into the world of a recently retired miner, who, like his father before him, entertains polka audiences with his accordion. When he discovers the fiery energy of Zydeco music on his radio, the rigid monotony of his daily routine takes a spicy turn.... His newfound fascination ultimately leads him on a life-changing, liberating journey to the Louisiana delta.

I suppose it is not so strange that this description compelled me to pick up this movie a week earlier, given my own recent "retirement," my own "journey," and my own discovery of the joy that lies in the strings of a banjo. The movie is a quaint little narrative, almost more like a short story, accented by carefully chosen visual stills (beautiful still lifes really) which serve as quiet pauses in the telling of the story. The import of the music is more symbolic than anything else. In the film, Schultze plays over and over again really only one Zydeco piece -- something he hears on the radio -- but it is the undeniable change in his face and body every time he squeezes his marvelous accordion to make Louisiana music that moves the film. When you see how Schultze unfolds his awkward accordion as easy as he exhales his own breath, it is clear that in playing Zydeco, he discovers a new emotion previously not known to be possible. I recognized this feeling immediately because it reminds me a bit of the flush of my own internal landscape when I really get going on the banjo.

In the end, in broad strokes, the film is about the power of music as a vehicle in sorting out matters of life. I have experienced no pure Eurekas! since Retirement began five weeks ago, nor did I expect them to happen. What I have actually experienced is far more vague and mysteriously encoded - a strange fleeting feeling of doing the right thing at that particular moment. I have not solved the combination for making this feeling persist, but it is the only thing I've been able to sink my teeth into in these last five hazy weeks. I feel it rise to my skin in the middle of playing the banjo.

Schultze Gets The Blues, like life, is also about sharing. In one scene in a small dirt town in the South, Schultze appeals to a brass band playing outside on a deck of an old house and in a heavy German accent asks for, "Petroleum." The American bandplayers do not fully understand him but guess that he is asking for beer. For a moment, the non-German speaking viewer believes that perhaps "petroleum" is how you say "alcohol" in German. Schultze downs the beer and then repeats, "petroleum," again, this time waving his two empty gas gans. It now becomes clear that he is looking for gasoline for the boat he is taking through the Louisiana bayou country. They finally point him in the direction of the station and before he leaves, wave him into the back of their band van to give him a ride to where he has left his boat. At the end of the scene, they push a case of beer into his arms as libation during his solitary journey, pat him on the shoulder like the good friends they've become and bid him farewell with the English word they've come to share as hello, thank you, and goodbye -- Petroleum.

In another scene, he pulls up with his boat up to a deck of a floating house where a black woman is cooking crabs, and he asks for a glass of water to quench his thirst. She gives him the water and asks him if he likes crabs. In one of the best scenes of the movie, the marshmallowy 300-pound non-English-speaking German man tips his hat and mimes as best as he can that he, indeed, thinks crabs are tasty, and yes, he would like to eat them. The woman invites him in to have dinner with her and her daughter, and later on in the night, takes him to a bar full of Zydeco music, full of old couples with awkward angles who somehow beautifully dance cheek to cheek while shuffling across the dance floor. She shares with Schultze the gift of crab, beer, and whiskey, and also of music, good times, and incredible indelible memories.

This quiet blog started with one principle: sharing is caring. As I watched Schultze share his music, the band share its petroleum, the woman share crab and a way of life, I was reminded of how thankful I am that you shared music during your short time in Anchorage. Thank you, Tito, not only for your readership, but for bringing music to Anchor-town, music to the Little Yellow House, and most of all, bringing it back to a very dusty and crusty music lover.

Make sure to come back and visit, and bring your banjo.

Sincerely,
The Madwoman of Anchorage

A Week In Lake Clark

2007-08-16T23:39:00.000-08:00

Good Day For A Garage Sale

2007-08-11T18:27:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.

Easy Rider Exercise Machine at Garage Sale: $6.

Strapping it to the roof of a Chevy Blazer and having consequent good times: PRICELESS.

Simplify, Simplify, Simplify.

2007-08-09T23:02:00.000-08:00

Back home?

I am seated at my kitchen table in Anchorage. If I listen very carefully, I can hear the hum of my computer and the chirp-chirp of the carbon monoxide detector downstairs in the basement. (Does it want new batteries?) So different from the sounds of Port Alsworth.

The morning was crisp in Port Alsworth with dew on the windows, foreshadowing the coming of the fall. I ferried my things to the shop where the planes are parked, ate a little breakfast, and took a little stroll while I waited for Lee to show up. It was hard to leave on such a beautiful day, perhaps the most glorious bout of weather since my arrival more than a week ago. I consoled myself with the thought of the gorgeous flight that was sure to come.

The flight, like most things in Lake Clark, did not disappoint. I scarcely recognized Lake Clark Pass without all the cloud cover and silvery greyness that greeted me and Leon over a week ago. My ride with Lee was very different. By now, it was my third tiny prop plane ride, and aside from initially putting my safety vest on upside down, I was a real pro. (Thank goodness the zipper gave it away.) I had more time to stare at the instruments in the plane, especially the GPS, and to ask Lee questions. We took the Cessna 206 out (the same one that brought me in). It turns out it was built in the 70s (the font on the instrument panel betrayed its age) but had a new engine with only 100 hours on it. The pilots always think I’m nervous and afraid of flying when I ask them questions.

Lee and I talked about his work for the park and the difficulty of policing such a vast land. Lake Clark has three rangers for an area roughly the size of Connecticut. That the rangers can even figure when a moose has been illegally killed in the Park amazes me. I asked Lee more questions about his history – how he got to Alaska in the first place, how he ended up in Port Alsworth, when he learned to fly, etc., etc. This was how I learned that he, too, used to fly supplies out to Dick Proenekke. Lee did an impersonation of Dick, and although I have nothing on which to judge it, I hope that it’s dead on.

He said that you could tell if Dick was around if the flag was up at his cabin. (Dick was among many other things, a patriot.) When Dick saw the plane, he’d grab his green duffel bag of tools, and Lee would pick him up to fix whatever was ailing Port Alsworth. Dick was able to fix just about anything but was always muttering, “Simplify, simplify, simplify.” I only wish I could have met Dick Proenekke. I am at least very lucky to have met his old friends.

We somehow got to talking about Lee’s commute to and from Anchorage, where he also keeps a place, and he mentioned that his wife no longer likes to fly, having lost too many friends to the skies. He mentioned one friend, a fiery redheaded pilot with killer piano-playing skills, who died right at the opening of the Pass on a beautiful day just like today. His engine had caught on fire, and Lee was the one who found the wreck with the lone survivor inside, a teenage boy in the back who had been traveling with his father.

Lee said he still thinks of this friend every time he flies by there, and I felt our little cockpit fill up with something heavier than air – an old kind of sadness. I thought this ranger might just start tearing up, but soon we were out of the Pass and the bright skies with the sun blinding our eyes seemed to encourage us to look ahead.

As a modern traveler who regards planes as mostly inconvenient long hours spent on business trips, I have little fear for air travel. The big bellies and big engines on those planes make it easy. But it is ignorance, the kind that you get when you don’t spend hours in a tiny plane that sometimes feels like a second skin rattling in whatever Mother Nature has in store for you that day. In Lake Clark, flying is serious business. Legend has it that Leon is in a family feud with his uncle because the man insisted that Leon’s brother fly in bad weather once, and his brother perished in that flight. It is hard to imagine kind and gentle Leon, a man so fond of butter, bearing any kind of grudge, but apparently, he has not forgiven his uncle. I’m not sure if I would either.

As the flight went on, I found myself taking fewer and fewer photos, not for lack of views but due to a desire to fully appreciate Mother Nature’s work. I don’t know if anyone who has flown over these precious parts of Alaska and has gotten a glimpse of these aerial views could possibly ever create anything that would rival Mother Nature’s art. There are so many details she has thought of that would escape even the wildest imagination. On a sunny day like this, Lake Clark Pass is a studded showcase of glaciers with chiseled ice blue features. The mudflats in the Inlet are smooth and glistening, like the surface of a whale’s back or the puckered skin of an elephant wet from rain. The land glows as if pregnant with rich, unthinkable surprises.

And this is why I felt a little drop in my heart when I saw Anchorage in the distance. My, how sophisticated and urban Anchorage looks when you’re flying from Port Alsworth! I don’t know how many times I’ve made the approach to Anchorage and never ever thought it looked like the “big city” it was today. For a moment, I had a pang of regret. I had left today’s quiet cloudless skies of Port Alsworth for this?

Port Alsworth, founded by Leon “Babe” Alsworth (Leon’s grandfather), is a Fundamentalist, born-again Christian town. It is impossible to spend a week there without spotting the church camp in the bay, that unmistakable cross reminding the earth that man, too, lives here. There are numerous references in Dick’s journal entries to Babe’s Bible-thumping ways. Babe hardly ever dropped off supplies to Dick without also dropping a few words from God. Sweeping his hand over the skies and land ahead of us, Lee told me that Babe used to say, “All this here is a dung pile compared to Heaven.”

It’s not surprise that Babe Alsworth chose Lake Clark to be the setting for his missionary work. Flying in these skies, standing before the lakes in the region – it is hard not to feel the presence of something extraordinary, and if you have no particular words for it, you might just think it is God.

Lee told me that at the time he moved to Port Alsworth, he had a dream of living in the bush for a year. (He ended up spending seven years in a cabin that didn’t have running water – until it burned down.) It’s true that it’s hard to spend time out there, whether it be on Babe’s dung pile or in God’s heaven on earth, without wanting to do the same.

In the meantime, far away from the bush, I’m trying to make the transition home. My first stop after dumping my bags at the front door was my garden. Gone for nine nights and I scarcely recognize my children! The nasturtiums are still blooming but are finishing up their work. To my surprise, the gladiolas are already budding. Seeds I snuck into the ground just before leaving have offered up their first tender leaves. And the fava beans, as I predicted, a few of them have toppled over; I arrived not a moment too soon for staking. The late-planted snow peas also turned into gangly teenagers while I was gone; soon I will see the fruits of their growth spurt.

The few fireweed I had accidentally blooming in the yard last year have multiplied into a mini-meadow. The fireweed makes me nostalgic after observing all the lone fireweed in Lake Clark. I cannot help but think of my time there when I see one. I am growing a soft spot.

The compost pile looked almost compacted so before going inside, I gave the leviathan a good turning. It’s hard to say what the weather is like here in town apart from noting it is not what it’s like in Port Alsworth today. Regardless of the weather, my part of Alaska is still beautiful nonetheless. Billowy clouds are hugging the Chugach Mountains at various altitudes today, and perhaps they will part to make my first day home a good one. In the meantime, I am sitting at the kitchen table with my jar of historic starter, a little bit of Lake Clark that I’ve taken home with me.

A Penultimate Day

2007-08-08T21:15:00.000-08:00

Last day at Lake Clark, first solo hike. Better late than never. Finally I have a chance to see things up close, on my own.

Clean new birch bark revealing itself.

Emerging from the trees and getting the first peek at Holy Mountain.

Lower Tanalian Falls. The sound of the falls, while not quiet, is comforting somehow, like a mother’s shush.

Upper Tanalian Falls. Sometimes one begs to be distracted. I am now at the top of the falls. Moments like these, I wonder if there is any color more beautiful than that made by waterfall foam rushing downward.

Patience and fortune. The sun has broken into the sky, now highlighting the mist flying off the falls which rises from the water like breath on a cold day. Is it my imagination or have the falls begun to roar with greater force? Perhaps they are clamoring noisily for the sun. A nice way to end my last day here in the Park.

Distance is so much greater without the Historian’s pace. Dinner seems very very far away, but the lake did not disappoint. It does not have the black and white mystique of the other day but instead has dressed in summer colors – warm greens, blues, and tans. If I sit here and listen carefully, I hear only the falls breathing nearby and the distorted buzz of insects nose-diving for a bite – and the sound of tiny leaves falling from above. Something stirs in the lake! Against the silence, it sounds like a thrashing but disappears as quickly as it came. I must watch more carefully.

9:00pm. The thought of dinner has been a homing beacon. Dinner will be Lake Clark style – what did I pick today and what do I have leftover? The highlights: bolete mushrooms picked during my hike, radishes from my garden, udon noodles from Anchorage, half an onion and a tomato leftover from J. In half an hour, I am eating Lake Clark Minestrone straight out of the pot. I deem it a delicious meal but after the hike, probably would have eaten my own hand.

11:20pm. Accidentally hiked around six miles today. How does such an accident happen? Poor sense of direction and bad math. I had miscalculated the hike to the Lake that I took with the Historian, and on the way back, must have missed the trail that leads directly back to the house. The hike seemed twice as long without the Historian’s pace and conversation. I did stop frequently to inspect mushrooms and take the photos I missed this weekend, such as shots of lone fireweed – fireweed where no other fireweed companion stands. It all reminds me that summer is ending, as usual, a bit too soon.

A Good Day

2007-08-07T23:16:00.000-08:00

It started out as a seemingly ordinary day. Our backhoe soap opera continues: the company that makes the hose had the order sitting on the desk and promised to overnight it. In the meantime, some members of the maintenance crew have temporarily plugged the hole which has apparently made the backhoe marginally functional.

Today was honestly sunny, and so the Chief deemed it a paint day. So once again, I donned on the noisy yellow suit and spent the morning masking and painting green trim on the headquarters building.

It took a long time for the crew to get mobilized. I find in general, time passes twice as slowly in Port Alsworth as in Anchorage, not in a bad way but in a way that has left me feeling as though I’ve lived in this “neighborhood” and known these people for two weeks, not the mere one week I’ve been here.

Around lunchtime, word was out that I’d likely get to join the Park Ranger Lee in dropping someone off at the ranger cabin at Twin Lakes. I tried to keep my expectations low so that if all I ended up doing for the day was getting green paint on me, it wouldn’t matter. But Lee arrived in town and gave me a green light and soon, I was running to the shop to get my backpack and go.

To land at Twin Lakes, you land on the lake, literally, so Lee flew us out in a float plane. Before taking off, I helped pump water out of the skids (floats). We circled in the bay a few times and then started to take off. Sprays of water flew out from underneath the floats. Because of the good weather, everything was blue, turquoise, and green. I could not ask for a better day for my first float plane flight.

It is undeniable when flying from Lake Clark to Twin Lakes that anyone looking out of the plane would declare this is beautiful country. Magnificent country really. That it still exists and has been seen by my eyes makes me feel unbelievably fortunate. Even during the short thirty-minute flight from Lake Clark to Twin Lakes, the landscape is varied. Lush woods. Open tundra. Our great Alaskan mountains. Swampy bogs. Turquoise lakes. Any vista someone might desire can be found along the way.

I was not prepared, however, for how stunning the Twin Lakes would be. Sure, I’d been reading Dick Proenekke’s journal entries these last few nights but thought a lake is a lake is a lake. But the Twin Lakes are truly something else.

I haven’t had a full chance to explore Lake Clark which is so large and stretches so far that sometimes I forget it is a lake. The Twin Lakes are such that you can see where the lakes begin and end. Perhaps it is because you can grasp the full context that it feels so isolated and remote, even deeper into the wilderness.

The flight to Lower Twin (where the ranger cabin is) and seeing the inside of the cabin were real treats, but I did not realize that my day was only going to get better. We took off from Lower Twin and flew toward Upper Twin. On the radio, a friendly woman’s voice crackled, inviting us in. As we landed, a woman and a man in boots were standing in the lake to greet us. I suppose this is what happens when you live at a stunning lake – you greet your visitors by standing at your water “door.”

Kay and Monroe must both be in the 50s or 60s, but I cannot describe them as old. There is a vitality, a steady unbreakable energy in both of them that defies their physical age. Kay quickly ushered me into Spike’s Cabin which is where Dick Proenekke stayed while he build his own, now famous, cabin.

Spike’s Cabin, which has been Kay and Monroe’s abode for the last eight summers, is actually more like Spike’s Room. I would estimate that it is less than 10 X 10. It has bunks, a stove, shelves, and a cold box (a hole dug into the permafrost which serves as storage space for Kay’s eggs and yogurt). What I found most remarkable was the floor of nice cool gravel. Kay did note that she had just “cleaned” the gravel, meaning they had just changed it out for fresh gravel from the shore.

I wasn’t sure how long we had before taking off, but Kay asked Lee if we had time to show me Dick’s cabin (!), and so leaving the men to catch up with news and headed off on a path that passes by Hope’s Cabin (a larger cabin built by Dick and Spike and named after Spike’s wife), and then finally, leads to Dick’s place.

The first thing you see on the path is a chair, Dick’s chair, where he spent his days observing the infinite faces and views at Twin lakes. It is the chair of a solitary soul and in one piece of furniture, sums up the ethos of this man.

Only a few days ago, I had picked up One Man’s Wilderness at the visitor’s center as additional reading during my time at Lake Clark. It was thus a fortuitous happening that no sooner had I finished reading the entries detailing his completion of his cabin by his own two hands that I got to see with my own eyes what Dick was talking about. I’ll admit that one of my first gut responses to Dick’s entries was that he was so self-aware, so self-satisfied … almost smug. But when I saw the cabin, I instantly understood.

Dick’s work, still standing, like the country between Lake Clark and the Twin Lakes and the surrounding area, is undeniably beautiful. I have never seen a log cabin constructed with such detail and grace – it seems to be a home created out of deep affection for its surroundings. Alaska has its fare share of cabins, and they truly run the gamut. Dick’s cabin is nothing short of a work of art at the far end of that spectrum.

I suppose the cabin is what you’d expect from a craftsman trying to build a home of a lifetime, or a home for a lifetime. My single favorite thing about the cabin is Dick’s Dutch door with a top half that swings open independently of the bottom half. Kay pointed out where the porcupines had worn down the door. But the most beautiful feature on the door is its hinge – something out of a Swiss clock! Dick seemed so pleased with himself when he finished this door, and now it makes perfect sense.

There are endless other marvelous details. The wonderful sod roof (watering of which is part of Kay’s official job description, in addition to raking beach). Right now you can even see the purple flowers of monkshood growing on the roof. Even the outhouse, with its crescent-shaped peephole, has a great view. Inside the cabin, you can see the ingenious way this man lived, finding new uses for everything. I was experiencing nothing short of schoolgirl delight in making all of the discoveries.

I signed the visitor’s log, and recognized other items in the cabin from the book. The driftwood sculpture in the window. The hinge made from old gas cans. A birch spoon he made that perfectly measured enough batter for exactly one sourdough hotcake. Kay showed me a map that had pin points for every place Dick had explored (to tell people where to look for the body, as Dick explained). He also scrawled notes onto a calendar with meteorological data, animal sightings, and even records of his daily meals.

Speaking of meals, Kay showed me where she suspects Dick put his sourdough biscuits for rising. This got us onto the subject of sourdough starters, and I got to asking Kay if she and Monroe used one (seeing as how they are out here by themselves). She said in fact they use starter, and in fact, it’s Dick’s starter! There was a long story I didn’t quite catch which explained the chain of custody over the starter, but basically, when Kay and Monroe got it, it had been dormant or virtually dead for several years. Monroe “scraped off the black” as he described it, added some flour to see what would happen, and voila!

The starter was resurrected.

News of the historic starter was quite exciting, and I asked Kay if I could see it. When we got back to Spike’s Cabin, Kay told Monroe that this young lady would like a photo of him holding the starter. Monroe shyly said, well, maybe she’d like some starter. I froze with joy, and in moments, I had a little jar of historic starter, Dick Proenekke’s starter!

Kay also mentioned they picked their first quart of blueberries today, and I sampled a few along the path, the best blueberries of this season so far. All of the talk of starter and blueberries got Lee to thinking about a feast of sourdough blueberry hotcakes he had with Kay and Monroe several years ago. Our hosts, upon revisiting this memory, quickly got up and started making “sourdoughs,” as Monroe calls them.

Monroe’s Sourdoughs:
- bowl of sourdough batter/starter
- some salt
- 1 egg
- some oil
- handpicked blueberries
- maple syrup

Monroe makes a paste of baking soda and water and adds a spoonful to a small bowl that holds enough batter for two hotcakes. He says if he added the baking soda all at once, the last cakes wouldn’t have any rise left in them.

I think Lee ate six, and I ate at least four. We also talked about Bella Hammond’s blueberry pie. A slight revision to the description given by John – Bella used a secret ingredient – fresh blueberries in addition to the cooked ones.

The day had been full of history and memories. Dick’s most frequent visitor during the first year was Leon “Babe” Alsworth who flew in his supplies. In recent years before Dick's death, it had been Babe’s grandson, my pilot Leon, who brought supplies to Dick. My decision to pick up the book the day before magically turned into a visit to Dick’s cabin. And happy memories of a good hike and hotcakes afterwards brought us happy bellies today. After the sourdoughs, I fell into sleepy contentment in the midday warmness of Spike’s Cabin. Lee and I finally said our goodbyes and returned to Lake Clark an hour and half later than expected.

A good day.

It has been one week since my first night at Lake Clark. What has changed? More mosquito bites. Hands and fingers dry and chapped from maintenance work. Fingertips of my fretting hand hardened into callouses thanks to one week of dedicated banjo practice. A lower body stiff and full of lactic acid from trying to keep up with a sixty-year-old man. How did the little Chinese girl whose dad never let her camp outside ever get here anyway?

Smells Like Dirty Diaper

2007-08-06T23:36:00.000-08:00

Update on the backhoe situation: The hose has still not arrived. A new theory is that maybe it was never ordered. Purchasing has no clue what we’re talking about.

I spent most of the day doing some tent inventory. Tents of various shapes, poles of various lengths, all different colors and fabrics. And smells. Part of my task today was to determine whether a tent is Too Smelly To Use Again. I found quite a few Slightly Funky tents, which I dutifully so tagged. But the worst was the one I tagged “Smells Like A Dirty Diaper.” I am assuming (hoping) that I will be eventually asked to dispose of the Dirty Diaper.

Today was my first full day at work without J, my second week on maintenance. It seems that I have settled into the margins. A little less than two weeks is not ideal for integrating oneself into a small community. And so I find my mind drifting to thoughts of departure. I felt the first pang of loneliness – alone in my clean garage, setting up tents I do not know and will never use. Like an arbitrary wind, unexpected and unexplained, I thought about whether I could really live in Alaska forever.

Later in the day, the Historian and I took another hike. We again talked of many things such as China, global warming, blueberry pies, baked beans, and cholesterol.

Bella Hammond's Blueberry Pie:
- graham cracker crust
- boil blueberries, cornstarch to thicken
- pour into crust, refrigerate
- add fresh blueberries, top with 2" layer of whipped cream.

The Historian's Boston Baked Beans:
- 1 ceramic bean pot
- 1 bag of beans from Maine (red or pinto will also do)
- dried ginger
- dried mustard
- molasses
- 1 onion
- Canadian bacon

Soak beans overnight. Boil in soaking water. Take spoonful of beans, blow on them, and if peels move, take off heat. Drain liquid. Put whole onion at bottom of pot. Mix other ingredients into paste. Add paste to beans, add water. Bake for 12 hours at 350F.

In order to keep pace with him, my mind was mostly focused on the roots and mud underfoot, with an occasional pause to admire something unusual or out of place, like a lone fireweed at the top of Beaver Loop or a patch of fiery red moss where all other moss was green. The Historian pointed out a ripe salmonberry and explained that these are different from the ones growing on the other side of the Inlet. Indeed. The berries back home are watery and don’t taste much like anything. These Lake Clark salmonberries are more fragrant, a little pungent. I cannot recall it perfectly as they were tiny jewels that disappeared in a quick swallow.

The end (or return leg) of Beaver Loop was really quite lovely. The dogwood is no longer blooming with its perfect star-like white flowers, but in their place were tight cluster of perfect red berries. I saw some lupine on the hike (first I’ve seen since Anchorage) and wondered what my own lupine looks like right now. But what I think what is quickly becoming my favorite is the forest of birch. With their gentle, leaning order to the landscape, birch glens leave me feeling very calm.

At home, I decided I had fully earned my frozen enchiladas packed from Anchorage and could not resist making some Lazy Man Lake Clark Bread Pudding:
- Sauté chopped white peaches in a pat of butter.
- Add half can of mango juice to thicken into syrup.
- Add chopped bread and vanilla yogurt.
- Dust with cinnamon.

After dessert, it was looking rather beautiful out, so I decided to sneak in an evening stroll in my pajamas since all of my other clothes were in the wash. I had no clear idea of where I was heading, feeling only an urge to see more sky and a little more of the day. I found myself going to my stomping grounds – past the shop – and then to the runway, gravel and sky with trees as minor characters. I walked down the length of the runway to where it meets the bay. The bay was eerily lit by dusk – I wished I had a boat to take on further explorations of the Lake.

But I had no way of getting back onto the water, so I decided to turn back toward the shop. The side garage door was open and the light was on. Two members of the maintenance crew were working on an outboard. Leon (my pilot) was also there, just shooting the breeze in the maintenance shop at 10:45pm.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the late night attendance; after all, I was out on my own evening stroll in my PJs. While I was there, I watched the mechanic refasten the drip pan and also learned what a torque wrench looks like. The men allowed me to hover like a mosquito and thankfully did not swat me away.

Watching the men chat and turn wrenches with their greasy hands, I suddenly became very thirty, maybe hungry, when I remembered that I had a luscious slice of cantaloupe in the shop refrigerator. So I snacked on cantaloupe as the guys finished up and then walked home with fork in one hand, fruit in the other.

As I trudged along the path to the house, I thought about what an odd picture I made, with my evening-stroll fork and cantaloupe. To make matters worse, my evening outfit consisted of:
- my chartreuse slip-on garden clogs
- white socks
- baggy blue sweatpants
- my fuchsia rain jacket
- and my light brown Hike Alaska! cap.

Just as I was thinking about how weird I must look, I bumped into one of my neighbors, clearly dressed for bed, hair still wet from a shower. She was carrying several baking pans and cookie sheets full of frozen blueberries. Apparently her husband had picked them earlier, and she was retrieving them from their auxiliary freezer. Perhaps I'd fit right into Port Alsworth more than I think.

A Man Sleeps Here Alone

2007-08-05T20:51:00.000-08:00

I started with a slow comfortable day (made myself a delightful fried egg sandwich with ingredients painstakingly packed from Anchorage) and spent the morning reading a book. Although it was decently fair the day I arrived at Port Alsworth, each day since then has been grey skies with the looming threat of rain. There has been not so much actual rain aside from the occasional downpour. Now, having spent five nights in Port Alsworth, I’ve noticed that it likes to rain in the Park at night, when everyone is done with their business – a kind of nice studio fade of the day's activities.

The weather improved very slightly as the morning went on, and I decided today was as good as any for a hike in the Park. Since my arrival in Port Alsworth, most of my activities have only been marginally recreational. I’ve done more maintenance than I apply to my own house, and certainly J and I have been occupied with subsistences winter-squirrel-chores up until the moment he left. So today was my first solitary day in Lake Clark.

I stopped at the visitor’s center to pick up a trail map. While there, the Park Historian invited me to go on a walk with him. I hesitated only a little; I had full intentions of going on a hike, but I had already heard of this sixty-year-old Historian's legendary hiking skills. Still, it was not an offer to be refused.

When we met up later as agreed, he was wearing rubber boots, three reflective plastic triangles stuck onto the small of his back with Velcro (if not the sign of a hard-core pedestrian, I don’t know what is), and with his hoodie and sunglasses, looked a bit like a retired Unabomber. It turns out that the legends are true. The Historian turned sixty this year, but believe me, you wouldn’t know it from his hiking. The Historian is a true billy goat. We came up on steep path fairly early in the hike, and as he launched upward, I followed dragging behind, heaving. At some point all you could hear was the sound of my heavy breathing. The Historian was not making a similar noise.

We eventually made our way to the Tanalian Falls and then further to the lake. I had a few breaks during the hike, once to tie my shoelaces, and then a few more times to take photos. While scrambling up rock from the falls to the lake, I noted that not only do the Historian’s speed and stamina outclass me, he also is the most sure-footed person I’ve ever seen. His rubber boots seemed magical as he quickly scampered up crumbling rock. I wondered if this was some kind of divine agility or if he had climbed these rocks so many times so that he knew them like the back of his hand. Regardless, I was ashamed how miserably this 31-year-old body matched to his.

After the falls and the lake, I think fatigue started to take on a tinge of delirium, and I found myself being more relaxed around him. As his detachable hazard signals imply, the Historian walks everywhere. He does not have a truck or an ATV like most people here. Most days, I see him walking home with his backpack. His house has a few rooms, but the main one when you open the door has a bunk bed (in which he sleeps in the bottom bunk), a wood stove, and a plasma TV. The wood stove looks as if it was ordered out of a Sears Roebuck catalog from 1910. The plasma looks like it was purchased from Costco. The bed looks like a man sleeps there alone.

We talked of many things. This Historian said I was idealistic because I am young and had yet to admit that human beings are far from perfect. He has the view that human existence is a difficult time, punctuated with only moments of euphoria. My father, seven years senior to the Historian, regularly refers to life as “misery” with a few moments of happiness.

My standard response to this kind of talk is that the “pursuit of happiness” is written into the Declaration of Independence, but in talking to the Historian, I started to wonder if “pursuit of happiness” (as opposed to plain “happiness”) is actually a euphemism for my father’s frequently cited “misery.” The Historian said that as human beings, we were probably happiest as hunter-gatherers. This statement was particularly interesting to me because many of my happiest moments here in Alaska have been when I’ve been engaged in hunter-gatherer activities. He said hunter-gatherers did not have to worry about destroying the world the way we are in the modern age. (This is where I suggested that we were discussing modern man’s idea of unhappiness.) I told him the hunter-gatherers had their own relative miseries to contend with – starvation, freezing through winter, warfare, dying in childbirth….

It was at this point that I asked him if he were a solitary man because instinctively I knew him to be so, but it was interesting to me that the solitary man appeared to have the angst of the world on his shoulders. I find it interesting that this hermit sits in his cabin eating dinner he cooked on his woodstove, watching baseball on his plasma, thinking about the angst of the world thanks to CNN brought to him by satellite TV.

We hiked up past the Tanalian falls to Kontrashibuna Lake. The weather from town appeared to be foul but up by the lake, the grey mist took on another feeling of quiet soft gentleness. The lake glistened not in the way it would on a sunny day but in a manner far less showy -- a silvery shyness affording us a glimpse intended for us and no one else to see. Mother Nature had manage to turn our full color skies into black and white.

Do Not Eat This Sh** Under Any Circumstances

2007-08-04T21:29:00.000-08:00

Today was my last day hanging out with J before he returns to Anchorage and then on to Sitka for a week. We started our last day in separate corners as Saturday is a work day for J but not for me. When I finally made it to the shop to check on him, we decided to regroup at my house for a breakfast of pancakes.

Since I was going to be in Lake Clark for less than two weeks, I did not think to pack ingredients for pancakes. J had a bag of amaranth flour that had a pancake recipe on the back, but we were missing several ingredients. I made an executive decision that anything missing that had a granular texture would be substituted with multipurpose flour, which J had in his tent cabin. Since we did not have maple syrup, I added a few tablespoons from one of my instant maple-flavored cream-of-wheat packets into the dry ingredients, then chopped up a white peach I had brought from Anchorage, sautéed the fruit in a precious pat of butter, and dumped half a can of mango juice to reduce into a syrup (having not brought sugar). What resulted was a satisfying stack of Lake Clark pancakes.

As I was making this breakfast, it occurred to me how scarcity deeply affects the value of things in our lives. In Anchorage, I frequently buy eggs eighteen at a time at Costco for a couple of dollars, and I think nothing of them. But for my short stay at Lake Clark, I brought only a precious three eggs. J gave me two more, but after today’s breakfast, I am down to only two. These last two eggs will likely be The Most Important Eggs of My Life. Not having what I needed to make pancakes also forced me to be a little bit resourceful. At home, I would have absentmindedly reached for the good Vermont maple syrup I keep on hand and hence would have never wandered into the white peach mango fruit chutney we ultimately had for breakfast.

Scarcity gives every resource here a multifaceted life. Everything used here has to be burned or taken back to a landfill in Anchorage. Everything eaten here has to be hunted, grown locally, or more likely (because the soil is so poor), flown in from Anchorage. In my few days living out of small boxes of food, it has become clear that waste is a luxury and curse of big city life. Port Alsworth, on the other hand, is a place built and constantly fixed with broken parts – odds and ends given second, third lives through the efforts of hardworking people. In this sense, I understand Port Alsworth.

It has also become apparent to me that the people of Port Alsworth have come here to be left alone. While everyone is very friendly and is genuinely happy to see you trudging up the path, there are few invitations into someone’s home or plans to get together. Despite this strange strain of indifference, I feel an overwhelming desire to feed this entire community, to say something in food to replace the silence of words.

J and I ended the day with yet another resourceful dinner in the form of old MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) found stored somewhere in a shop cabinet. As part of reorganizing the shop from floor to ceiling, the MREs had been alphabetized and placed next to the microwave for anyone to eat. J and I had sampled the Fudge Brownie and Pound Cake as fuel while bottling homebrew. I recommend both highly. J is of the opinion that the Pound Cake may be the best MRE ever. For our dinner snack tonight, however, he wanted to try something different. We had Cheese and Crackers, but I didn't have much appetite for dry stale crackers and cheese out of a plastic bag. The really scary MRE we sampled, however, was Omelet With Ham. It should have been more properly labeled as "DO NOT EAT THIS SH__ UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES." The Omelet With Ham tasted something like soggy cardboard. I've never eaten soggy cardboard before, but I think the taste is unmistakable. While I took no more than my initial bite, J polished it off. Boys are funny that way.

Rare Oompa Loompa Spotted in Lake Clark National Park

2007-08-03T23:25:00.000-08:00

This morning, it looked like another drizzly day was ahead, and so I decided to show up for work not wearing the torn-up jeans I had specifically packed for dirty work but rather, probably the “nicest” outfit I’ve worn all week, having gone through most of my older work clothes. Details of today’s attire are relevant only in that wearing my clean jeans got me to where I found myself shortly after our 8am meeting: sitting in the maintenance shop wearing a bright yellow plastic full-body suit (complete with yellow elastic hoodie) which had been described to me as “coveralls.” When someone offered these coveralls, I thought I would be donning on a pair of grimy dark green Park Services coveralls, like the pair the shop mechanic wears. His coveralls make him look like he really knows that he’s doing.

My “coveralls,” however, make me look like the ill-fated love child of Big Bird and a large grocery bag. I had to suffer the further indignity of being an extremely bunched-up, extra-poofy yellow grocery bag because the shop had only one size available: MEN’S 2X LARGE. (I may be a lot of things, but Men’s 2x Large I am not even close.) Furthermore, it was hard not to suspect that my coveralls were actually some form of hazing by the maintenance crew. After all they were suspiciously pulled out of a cabinet labeled “SPILL RESPONSE."

Clad in a color that seemed to scream, TOXIC CLEANUP GOING ON HERE, as the relatively new kid on the block, I was not really able to blend in anywhere today. No tree or shrub provided sufficient cover; you could see me coming miles away. As I passed people, most of them tried to suppress smiles. What could I do? I’m only a Park volunteer.

The bright yellow color was only the beginning of my problems. My coveralls also made a hell of a lot of noise – whenever I walked with anyone and that person tried to talk to me, the rather obnoxious rustling of my voluminous plastic folds made it all but impossible to hear what the other person was saying. (One of the crew said in no uncertain terms that I sounded like a giant diaper.) My sunny garb also gained me a truly unfortunate nickname – Oompa Loompa. (I’d have to re-watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to determine whether this name has any legitimate basis, but my fear is that it does.) When yet another member of the crew called me Oompa Loompa later in the day, I realized that there was a real danger that my moniker could become permanent. This nickname has the benefit of being easier to pronounce than my real name, but if the crew starts singing Oompa-Loompa-Doompa-Dee-Do , I swear I am getting on the first plane back to Anchorage.

Putting on the coveralls was only the first step in a seemingly endless series of steps related to our painting today. First, I had to wait for the other painter to return from bailing boats. Then we had to set up the sprayer. The windows had to be taped. Buckets of paint had to be lugged to various places. After we had sprayed a very small remaining patch of all leftover from yesterday's work, there was much monkey business with moving the scaffolding to reach our next second story wall. We rolled the scaffolding right over a large shrub, and it was then decided that this large shrub should be killed anyway. So then there was further monkey business involving an effort to tear the shrub out with bare hands, despite a request that someone find some clippers. After the scaffolding had been pushed as close as possible to our desired spot, it became apparent it was not going to position us as we needed. Then there was much consulting, chin-stroking, head-scratching, all of which led to us deciding that this area could not be painted without a man-lift. The man-lift, however, was out of the question because the backhoe needed a new hose that had not yet arrived from Anchorage.

The irony of all of this is that although I had donned on my ridiculous yellow coveralls shortly after 8am, and already had some paint smears on me, by lunch break I myself had done no actual painting whatsoever.

Real painting commenced after lunch break, and at some point in the day, I realized that there was moisture building up in my suit. To my alarm, I also realized that the moisture was coming from me. I was sweating up a storm, and the rather impermeable aspect of my suit was keeping it all in there. I worried that by the end of the day, that I, like many things in the maintenance shop, would smell like sweaty man sock.

“Sweaty Man Sock” is a smell I first encountered yesterday while moving some chairs. Someone had put a bucket on a chair that had a seemingly harmless-looking rag in it. The harmless-looking rag, however, was emitting an odor that was truly awful, something that can be only described vaguely as Sweaty Man Sock. Since then, I’ve smelled Sweaty Man Sock in many maintenance-related places. And my greatest fear is that soon, it will happen while I’m sniffing myself.

In addition to smelling Sweaty Man Sock in various places, I’m starting to see some other repeated themes around the maintenance shop, even though today was only the second full day of serving with the general maintenance crew. For example, this week there has been much talk of the broken hose in the backhoe. The backhoe is apparently essential to most of the Port Alsworth construction/maintenance-related projects; it apparently is some kind of Magical Mover Of All Things. Of course, the Park only has one backhoe. Many a task floated up as a possible activity for the day, only to sink back to the bottom as soon as someone remembered, “Oh but we need the backhoe to do that.”

Man-lift for painting?
Backhoe.

Pour concrete forms?
Backhoe first.

We spent a good amount of time today lamenting the defunct backhoe and its very important replacement hose which, although promptly ordered, has yet to arrive. The backhoe has become our Holy Grail, our Achilles’ heel, our fatal Shakespearean flaw. I think if our backhoe hose arrives before I leave Port Alsworth, I may just have to pee my pants which would be a real problem in a yellow plastic suit.

The backhoe is typical of the kinds of challenges we have here. While painting in the shop today, I looked out the garage door to see three members of the crew pushing an old Chevy truck with Government license plates on the gravelly runway. Fifteen minutes later, I spotted the shop mechanic on a four-wheeler facing the front of the truck trying to nudge the truck away.

Today was a Friday, and aside from my Oompa Loompa costume, I did feel as if I was starting to get the hang of things. For one thing, at our 3pm break, to my surprise, I discovered that I, too, wanted to do nothing during our 15-20 minutes off but sit in my chair, say little, and stare blankly out through our open garage door. Today’s silence was broken only by relatives of one member of our crew who had trudged up from the runway into the garage, apparently looking for a bathroom for the little kids. A younger woman lingered at the doorway. The guy on our crew waved at her and in the direction of the older woman chaperoning the children and said, “This is my daughter, and that’s Martha.”

He then waved at all of us in the maintenance crew and said, “This is this and that and that and that.” I’m not sure if I was a “this” or “that,” but decided that as long as it was not Oompa Loompa, I’m OK with either.

"Making of the Sausages"

2007-08-02T23:54:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning to windy rain in Port Alsworth, which had the ultimate effect of stranding our Chief of Maintenance across the bay. The weather, coupled with the Chief’s absence, meant that many of the usual maintenance activities, such as exterior painting, had to be suspended. The sixty-something-year-old woman who is part of the barebone year-round crew, decided that it was high time that we scrubbed the shop.

This is how I came to mop garage floors for most of the day. From my layperson point of view, I might say that a garage is meant to be a dirty place, an area in which grease and grime are expected and even invited. Garage floors should not be judged for their dirt. But the EMT garage was destined for an important Park Services meeting later this month, so it had to be spic and span. In addition to disinfecting all of the counters and cabinets, I was also asked to mop the floor using a heavy duty degreaser and hot water that we had to shuttle in from headquarters (since the maintenance shop ironically has no hot water).

Mopping the floor sounds simple enough but let’s be honest – very few of us mop our dirty garage floors. I found that my loose ropey mop mostly smeared muddy water on the floor but did little to remove dirt, even where I had sprayed degreaser on the worst spots. But there's an interesting learning curve to every process, as well as a perfect soundtrack (in this case, for maniacally mopping floors, I recommend Willie Nelson singing Rainbow Connection).

Not far into my task, I decided I had two choices: (1) get down on my hands and knees and scrub like Cinderella or some scullery maid or (2) turn my maintenance task into a Karate Kid workout. I chose the latter. Mr. Miyagi would have been proud. I put a scouring pad under my foot and worked it in every so direction to simultaneously (1) remove ground-in dirt and (2) perfect deadly leg sweeps that could topple any opponent in a karate tournament. (I’ll note here that aside from perching on a dock like a bird, Mr. Miyagi’s workout offered little in the area of lower-body defense and offense.)

There is no doubt in my mind that after Mop Left Foot, Mop Right Foot, I could have kicked Daniel LaRusso’s ass today. With my eyes closed.

Let it be said that a Type A Personality should never be asked to mop a dirty garage floor. I found myself chasing down every errant spot, realizing that it could disappear if enough effort was applied. But such a pursuit is futile; there is no use in making a garage floor so clean that someone could eat off it. It’s a garage. Nobody eats of a garage floor, nobody you want to know, that is. The other problem with obliterating one spot is that all of the sudden, other not-so-dirty-looking places start to look more grimy than when you started. I soon found myself in an endless feedback loop of fervent foot mopping.

Somewhere in all the dirt and grime, and looking for Willie's rainbows, I hit a strange emotional spot. If there is such a thing as a Runner's High, perhaps this might be described as a Mopper's Low. I thought about how I got here, in the EMT garage room in a national park in Alaska, scrubbing floors with a scouring pad under my feet. I thought about what I really wanted to do when I grow up. I thought of long lost loves. I thought of many things wholly unrelated to grease, grime, and garages. Something about a grown man singing a song first made famous by Kermit the Frog had me in a vise, squeezing both sweat and tears out of me. I held it together enough so that the rest of the crew wouldn’t notice that the strange new kid on the block who was doing odd isometric ninja exercises in the garage was also on the verge of inexplicable bawling.

My coworkers have regarded me with some suspect, for which I don’t blame them. I arrived somewhat unexplained, with a strange difficult-to-pronounce name, and for the first day, appeared to do little except serve as the personal assistant to the outsider on-site engineer (my friend J). The maintenance crew gathers at various times in the day: 8am for our initial meeting, 10am for break, 12pm to leave for lunch, 3pm for break, and 5pm to leave for the day. We have a hodge-podge of chairs seemingly randomly arranged around a long table for meeting. I’ve noticed that these chairs, while appearing to be arbitrary and nondescript, are invisibly designated. Each member of the gang seems to base some of his identity on where his butt comfortably sits during break. Since I am new, I have yet to figure out where is best to park my butt.

I also made a huge faux pas today by arriving at our 10am break late. My first union break, and I was already acting like a scab! Break is something the crew takes very seriously. At first, I thought I would get to know everyone better during these fifteen minute periods, but for whatever reason, very little is actually said during break. People sip coffee, twirl around in the chairs, pick out dirt from under their fingernails with pocket-knives. But few words are exchanged.

After dinner, J and I embarked in yet another series of common Port Alsworth activities: preparing salmon for canning and transformation into jerky. The Park Services historian had agreed to lend us his heavy duty pressure cooker for canning, and we got tips and equipment for the jerky from the maintenance and safety officer. J and I spent much of the evening washing fish, cutting fish, stuffing fish, grinding fish, mixing fish. I have to admit, however, his stash of sockeye reds was truly amazing. J had frozen much of it in solid ice, having run out of vacuum bags, and the soft bright red salmon flesh seemed to be as beautiful as it must have been on the very first day.

To make salmon jerky, you must remove the skin from the filets, thoroughly debone the fish with needlenose pliers, and put it through a grinder. For grinding, we borrowed an old-time contraption stored in an original box happily labeled "Making of the sausages" in four different languages.

At the end of our rainbow, we had a beautiful pot of ground up salmon. Patting the salmon jello was a strangely satisfying thing to do, but our work was not done. After adding jerky seasoning, the mass had to marinate overnight before being stuffed into a tube that looks like a caulk gun and then piped out onto a grate for drying in the oven. Luckily those steps had to be saved for tomorrow.

After being dropped off on my side of the bay, I went home to do a late-night prep of salmon for dinner tomorrow, during which we hoped to woo the Park historian with the massive pressure cooker for canning. I had brought along miso paste, scallions, grapefruit to marinate the fish overnight. It turns out the perfect soundtrack for late-night marinating of salmon is Shania Twain.

More of a Threat Than Her Beret Suggests

2007-08-01T23:35:00.000-08:00

It is hard to believe that it is already the first day of August or as I can’t help but think, the first day of the last month of summer! To ring in the last hurrah, the Pink Octopus decided to leave Anchorage to volunteer at Lake Clark National Park. It is now half an hour before the end of my first full day here at the Park.

My journey began yesterday when I got on a tiny prop plane with Leon Alsworth, one of two pilots who make runs between Anchorage and Port Alsworth (yes, he is one of the Alsworths). Leon is a man of few words. I know not too much about him except that he loves the taste of butter (this came up when I shared some cookies) and that his tiny self fits perfectly into the Cessna 206 that he often flies from Port Alsworth (the gateway town to the Lake Clark region) to Anchorage.

Just before we took off, we had pull the plane over to load up some supplies from a Port Alsworth family visiting Anchorage. In Port Alsworth, there is simply no place to buy anything. It is a town where the physical dollar bill seems to have little place or meaning. Hence, a trip to Anchorage often means an opportunity to bring back essential and more affordable supplies from the “big city.” After carefully putting my belongings under the cargo net, Leon repacked the plane in a manner that seemed to be guided only by one principle: let us not crush the eggs, pizza, and strawberries.

Once the plane was scientifically packed, we were off to the skies. Anyone who has been in a prop plane in Alaska knows that the aerial views are nothing short of spectacular. During this time of year, Mother Nature paints one-of-a-kind landscapes with silty muds, trees of all kinds of green, and splashes of bright fireweed. During the 90-minute flight, the view was constantly changing. Leon pointed out a waterfall which is literally a spout coming out of the middle of a mountain, gushing with such pressure that the spray was visible even from our plane, so forceful that it looked like the water was moving in slow motion.

The first thing you see when you arrive in Port Alsworth is obviously the runway, a long stretch of gravel running from the bay. Port Alsworth was more or less built around the runway, as would be natural for a town founded by a pilot (Babe "Leon" Alsworth, Leon's grandfather). The town now actually boasts two independently operated runways running parallel, less than a mile apart. Legend has it that two Alsworth brothers fell into a rivalry after one insisted on charging the other for the use of the first runway. The second brother solved the problem by building one of his very own.

For my stay in Lake Clark, the deal is that I am to volunteer with the Maintenance Crew in exchange for transportation to the Park and free housing. My only clear pre-designated responsibility was to pack all the food I intend to eat during my volunteer period, a difficult task for a perpetually hungry person.

For my first day with the crew, I was assigned to my friend J, who is the on-site engineer helping the Park finish its construction of new housing. J was in the process of doing surveys of the various existing buildings for purposes of appraising the property and evaluating whether any repairs are needed. And so, I spent most of the day measuring the windows of Park buildings.

As with any task, there is a learning curve. By the end of the day, however, I still had not mastered the art of wielding a tape measure without having it flop impotently off a window ledge. But I did learn that there is a soundtrack for every task, and for measuring windows, folks, nothing beats Dwight Yoakam.

Measuring windows was a funny way of getting to know a new town and its inhabitants before actually meeting anyone. In the process of determining the size of their windows, I learned much about the lives of the residents of Port Alsworth. Art on the walls and photos of family members gave obvious clues. But there were other details, more subtle. Potting soil in the bedroom, house plants cluttered in a living room -- gardener. A fiddle left on a kitchen table, jars and jars of recently salmon in the dining room, lingering yummy smells -- good cook and musician. A loft area that smelled like dog -- dog-lover. It was strange to see these lives inside out. It is often said that eyes are the windows to the soul. By the end of the day, I would have been ready to argue that windows are also the eyes to the soul.

My favorite building during my "survey" was the weight room used by the park rangers because it had only three small windows, all of identical size, very easy to measure. It is also a great building because of its rather unique decor: a motivational poster for target practice which depicts (presumably) a potential perpetrator of crime. Why this strange woman in a blazer and matching beret would be found in a National Park, much less cause trouble in it, is a mystery to me. But she apparently is what gets the Park Rangers to pump more iron and run faster. Upon closer inspection, her strangely large man hands and squarish jaw betray that she may pose more of a threat than her beret suggests.

Standing outside, measuring windows made me inordinately hungry. I now understand why many construction works have pot bellies. It’s probably not all just beer. In order to remain sufficiently fueled for outside work, one must nourish the insides. I blew through a number of my snacks in my first day. Luckily, my stay here is limited.

Summertime is an important period to store up goods for the winter. Among the local pastimes is the art of home brewing. J was ready to bottle his first batch of his first homembrew, and we spent the evening making it happen. Our task for the night was to sanitize the bottles, pump the brew into them, and cap them for storage and additional fermentation. We filled bottles halfway with sanitizing liquid, stuck our thumbs in them to fully agitate the bottle. I held up the bottles to the dim yellow light in the laundry room in order to inspect their cleanliness. For a few of the bottles, I had to pick a few horsetail plants to use as a scrubbing brush.

The rest of the evening was spent trying to find the sweet spot of the cheap-ass bottlecapper we were using. By the end of the night, though, J had two cases of Smoking Rock Porty Ale ready to be sampled in two weeks. And I was ready for bed after my first full day at Lake Clark.

Pink Octopus Seeks Turquoise Pants

2007-07-27T23:29:00.001-08:00

Today is Day Five of Banjo Playing and what better way to commemorate than with a new octopus!

Today is also Exactly Two Weeks from the Big Change. Some have asked me what I've been up to during this time off, and aside from banjo playing, the activities are a blur. In fact, when asked this question yesterday, I realized that I could not recall what happened between the hours of noon and 4pm. The thought of having four unaccounted-for hours was quite alarming; after all, at 31 I am too young to be having blackouts.

So a friend suggested that I log down my activities during the day:

7:42am: Wake up. Do isometric exercises while brushing teeth. Sweep bathroom floor.
8:00am: Do a load of laundry. Water garden.
8:25am: Arrive at gym, discover iPod is out of batteries.
9:00am: Return home. Add gravel to garden bed. Load dishwasher. Play Boil Down Them Cabbage ten times.
10:25am: Go to gym second time.
11:30am: Spray paint branches for wall art.
11:52am: Weedwack, finish mowing front lawn.
12:15pm: Eat lunch. Listen to This American Life.
12:40pm: Mop kitchen and bathroom floors.
1:00pm: Eat peach. Check email.
1:20pm: Finish hanging wall art.
2:00pm: Finish shower. Leave house to visit art galleries.
2:20pm: Pick mushrooms.
2:50pm: Go to Elderberry Park to look at mountains.
3:25pm: Photograph contents of purse.
3:38pm: Finish making marinated cucumber salad.
5:15pm: Upload photos. Finish banjo practice. Call friend on phone.
6:00pm: Eat dinner with friends.
8:20pm: Buy used lawnmower.
8:45pm: Mow half of backyard.
9:30pm: Stop mowing.
10:15pm: Practice banjo.
11:00pm: Read a few pages of Cold Mountain.
11:15pm: Sleep.

The varied directions of the day were consistent with the contents of my purse. If you've ever wondered what lies in a madwoman's purse:
That's right. Yesterday I was carrying around:
- 2 bolete mushrooms of questionable edibility
- 1 mosquito net
- 1 highlighter
- 1 black pen
- 1 mechanical pencil
- 1 tin labeled "MISC MEDS"
- 2 sets of Costco coupons
- 1 ear plug
- 1 unexplained dried kernel of corn
- 2 binder clips
- loose change
- 1 loose dollar bill
- 1 wallet
- 1 set of keys
- a handful of wildflowers
- 1 lens cloth
- mango lip balm
- gardeners' salve

The best thing since embarking in the New Direction is that my mind has been unfolding in unexpected ways. A person with a 9 to 5 job wouldn't be caught dead photographing the contents of her purse! I've decided that there is no better moment than now for a Period of Experimentation during which I will dutifully crawl into any nook or cranny to where my mind wants to wander.

In this State is how I arrived at Today's Experiment which was to peer at Life slowly through The Bottom of a Wine Bottle. I am five-two-and-three-quarters and admittedly of a certain ethnic descent that struggles with the metabolism of alcohol. Alcohol has made various appearances in my life, some planned, some unwanted, but never before had I decided to settle down in the day with a bottle of wine. I chose 12:19pm (when I took lunch) to open the gates.

Six hours later, I had neared the bottom of the bottle thanks to slow, deliberate sips taken over the course of the day. I stayed indoors and did artwork, avoid operating motor vehicles such as my lawnmower, and quite honestly, had a splendid time with myself.

During this Moment of Experimentation, I also decided to try wearing only monochromatic outfits. I chose pumpkin, also known as rust, or in cruder circles as "orange." What normal people who wear multicolor outfits don't know is that confining yourself to one color family is a way of giving immediate, comprehensible purpose to an otherwise insignificant activity: choosing what to wear. Although some women invest much efforts in this task, I am not one of them. Sometimes I look nice but much of the time I look frumpy.

Today, I was simply Orange.

So onward and upward through the colors of the rainbow! The Octopus needs some turquoise pants....

Return To Civilized Life

2007-07-25T08:55:00.000-08:00

It all ended, predictably, with a flash in the pan ... namely, with little bits of bratwurst frying in their own grease.

The truth is that Unprincipled Vegetarianism ended earlier in the week, on Day 17, after trying to make separate noodles for a vegetarian dinner guest. I suddenly remembered that I've spent 31 years believing that eating only vegetables is kind of crazy, and my vegetarianism, however unprincipled, might be giving people the wrong idea - namely that I believe in giving up meat. As my friends have pointed out, normally vegetarians are people who want to give up meat and hence vegetarianism makes them happy.

And so I ate shredded Chicken of Convenience on Night 17. Although I did not turn into Mr. Spock or any kind of bodhisattva, certain discoveries were nonetheless revealed during my brief bout of vegetarianism:
- I probably love meat.
- But I don't need meat.
- There is a special time and place for meat.

In fact, aside from eating out of convenience, even as I threw in the vegetarian towel, I felt no great urge to consume meat, except of course in the middle of a camping trip to Denali when we fried up that AMAZING bratwurst on a picnic bench near the Riley Creek Mercantile. Many a visitor smelled our bear bait dinner and looked wistfully upon our fare. I had a sudden flash of enterprising genius - we could make a tidy profit by selling off our bratwurst to tourists with an outrageous tourist mark-up. This must be how MA got started with his reindeer dogs.

But we did not sell the bratwurst, which was fine with me because on a rainy camping day, very few things taste as good as bits of greasy bratwurst. As I was frying the luscious bits, I observed that bratwurst, being made thoroughly of ground meat, would technically fall under the Small Bits Exception. A friend remarked that the next time I become an unprincipled vegetarian again, I could save everyone a lot of trouble just by eating hamburger. Duly noted.

The bratwurst was a fitting accent to a great weekend beginning in Talkeetna. Talkeetna apparently is the town on which Northern Exposure's Cicely, Alaska was based. I've learned this fact only recently even though for years, when people have asked me if life in Alaska is like Northern Exposure, I've always said, "I bet in Talkeetna it is." "Downtown Talkeetna" is actually a Main Street of a handful of blocks. In fact, if you are nodding off in the car, you might just miss all of Talkeetna. It's a cute little town situated by the Talkeetna River. At the "end" of town, you can get to the riverbank easily and when not overrun with ATVs and snowmachines, it is a great place to just be.

Unlike Anchorage, Talkeetna offers a very decent breakfast at The Roadhouse, which also boasts affordable modest rooms in addition to solid baked goods. For breakfast, I gobbled up some very satisfying biscuits and gravy in addition to the day's special, banana pecan sourdough pancakes. Unless you're a burly lumberjack, however (and often I think I eat like one), order the half-plate. Breakfast also comes with fresh juice and coffee included! You've got a love a policy like that.

Between Talkeetna and Denali is a long stretch of highway on which you can't get a decent cup of coffee regardless of how many times you try or how much you are willing to pay for it. During this time of year, however, the highway is lined with patches of brilliant fireweed, all reminding us that summer is in full swing and will be over before we know it. As is true with any highway in Alaska, during the ride you may also encounter some interesting characters.

And despite the bad coffee, of course the Park itself did not disappoint. You can while away an easy lifetime exploring the Park. As I drove along the road, I thought about the land teeming with all of those animals, the miles over which tourists from all over the world travel to see the Mountain and the creatures. Even at the height of tourist season, with people clogging the gift store and campgrounds, there is so much park out there that you can feel like you're alone, which is of course the nature of this state. Standing on the tundra, it is hard to figure out why anyone would possibly live anywhere else but Alaska. Before the day was over, I did finally manage to spot some wildlife. I think this little fellow may have been thinking the same thoughts.

What Would the Europeans Say?

2007-07-17T23:05:00.000-08:00

Italy: The Italians do not mix seafood with cheese. Although fond of their parmesan, no self-respecting Italian would add it, for example, to a seafood risotto. If you think about it, this prohibition makes a lot of sense. The cow and the fish are not natural neighbors. I had to have this point proven to me the hard way today when I ordered the Asiago Sole (probably an oxymoron) at lunch at Simon and Seafort in downtown. The dish had come recommended, but what I received what basically a chicken-fried sole, covered in crispy cheese, over a bed of mashed potatoes with roasted veggies on the side - standard accoutrements for roast chicken or steak but odd bedfellows for fish. The cheesy fish left me feeling heavy and tired, and I spent the rest of the day recovering from lunch. Yes, fried cheese tastes good, but it doesn't make a dish, and it doesn't go with fish. Those Italians know what they're talking about.

Greece: Summertime in Anchorage has made a real appearance in the last two days with temperatures above 70 degrees (positively scorching by local standards). Last night, we had a desire to dine with Summer, but I wanted to avoid turning on the stove. The solution: a fresh pasta salad with Greek elements: tomatoes, herbs, roasted red bell peppers, cucumbers, red onion, feta and halloumi, lemon juice, olive oil, salt/pepper, and of course, kalamata olives. The kalamata olive turned out to be the necessary accent to each bite and hence, midway through the meal, I decided to add them chopped rather than whole. The result: a summery shower of fresh tastes and flavors.

France: Today's experiment was a Marjolaine, a birthday request from a lover of hazelnuts and described by my cookbook as a "French pastry shop favorite." The Marjolaine is a torte, meaning mostly made of ground nuts (in this case, hazelnuts) folded into egg whites. I think only the French would pick nuts, pulverize them, take the white of the egg, whip it up, fold the everything together, and sell it at a pastry shop.

Although the Marjolaine was well-received, an afternoon of dealing with meringues, buttercream, and ganaches has led me to believe that the point of going to France is to indulge yourself with pastries you cannot make. Why mess with the Order of the Universe? If God intended me to make French pastries, he would have made me French and thin. He did neither.

But it is true that I've always had a personal weakness for French pastries. My most recurring "nightmare" is one in which I come upon a buffet of delicate, exquisite French pastries, but there is never enough time to eat them all. This dream dates back to my childhood. As a little girl, I was rather fond of the Napoleon and frankly knew the pastry before I knew the dictator. I suppose it is this recurring dream that initially drove me to become a baker (that and a gift of baking pans for my sixteenth birthday, courtesy of my mom and a major clearance at J.C. Penney). I wanted to achieve in my real life what I could not have in my dream life - lovely French pastries at the tip of my fingers.

Over the years, however, the only permanent part of my repertoire that is solidly in the French pastry category is the pate a choux, or as we Americans know it, the lovely cream puff. I like this pastry because for all of its delicateness and deliciousness, it is actually very straightforward and simple - the essence of a fine dessert.

In contrast, following the multi-step process of making a Marjolaine made it a little hard to fully appreciate the resulting torte. Sometimes too much knowledge of the background context can muddy the experience of the Exact Moment. In this sense, the guests get the best seat in the house - they sample a thin sliver of cake without closely experiencing the disaster of the kitchen or knowing intimately the calorie count that comes with French proportions of heavy cream and butter. In the end, the Marjolaine is the kind of cake where for the baker, the experience is perhaps the process, not consuming the final dessert. Still, it was lovely to pretend to be French, even if just for a moment in the afternoon.

Still Ticking....

2007-07-11T09:35:00.000-08:00

It has been four days since I nuked the lawn to no avail, ten days since I gave notice at work, eleven days since I became an Unprincipled Vegetarian, and over two weeks since a series of other emotionally trying events. Did I also mention I am also looking for a partridge in a pear tree?

This bundle of ridiculous milestones and efforts is really the kind of stuff that gives the Madwoman her name. But I am still ticking... more or less. Maybe I'm a time bomb?

After eleven days of Unprincipled Vegetarianism, I have learned that I will become extremely FAT if I continue down this path. No longer able to seek comfort in the arms of Meat, I have sought out the loving embrace of Butter, Ice Cream, and Pasta. Even worse, sometimes I find myself forced to fraternize with the likes of All Kinds Of Fried Food.

Take this weekend, for example, Day 8. An ill-planned drive through the butt-hole of Palmer (the Butte area) succeeded mostly in creating a carful of hungry passengers. We tried very hard to find edible food, but the Lonely Planet in my glove compartment had only two suggestions for "dining," and one of them was the neighborhood Carrs. Not encouraged by the prospect of lunching at the grocery store, we decided to take our chances and to look for a local German bar on the Palmer-Wasilla Highway - an octagonal log cabin atop a hill called Schawbenhof.

At the foot of the driveway up to the Schawbenhof bar is a sign boasting a counterfeit St. Pauli's girl. The costume is the same, but if you look closely beyond her steins, you'll notice that she looks more like an elderly version of the famous Frauline - maybe what Fr. St. Pauli might like after twenty-five years of bar fights and serving drinks to mouthy frontiersmen.

After the Old Miss St. Pauli welcomes you, you drive up a steep road that leads to the log-cabin bar. The bar itself has a great vibe. Although mostly empty on a random Sunday at 2pm, it nevertheless had all the marks of a place that has seen some good times. There is a wide open deck with a virtually 360 degree view of the Palmer/Wasilla/Butt area, which my friend from Nebraska said looked a lot like Nebraska (not exactly a direct compliment). But with 16 oz of beer in your hand, even the unobstructed view of Nebraska is spectacular.

Scwabenhof boasts a long list of beers and friends of beers. For a mere six dollars, you can sample four, each served in a cute little mini-stein. It also has the typical German fare for food. Bratwurst. Sauerkraut. And you might have guessed, not so much for the Vegetarian, Unprincipled or not. My friend on the left ordered the "1/2 Bratwurst" which was later explained to be a typo that should have read "1/2 pound Bratwurst." (Her brat was literally twice as long as her bun.) My friend on the left ordered a Pork Tenderloin sandwich. I sat in the middle with a cup of water (I was driving) and an order of "nachos" - i.e., tortilla chips smothered in Velveeta. I knew there was some danger in ordering nachos at a German bar, but this was the only vegetarian option aside from beer and sauerkraut.

I can't say much about how good the food is at Scwabenhof except that the meat options appeared to my hungry eyes to be truly delicious, and both my friends left feeling very satisfied.

Driving away from the German bar having escaped the arms of Meat, I must say I was surprised I survived. A test of will is a funny thing. Some people are impressed with the length of time a person is able to abstain from something desirable. But as time passes, new habits form, and dramatic pledges and vows actually become a matter of status quo. The spirit becomes stubborn even if the flesh is weak. Perhaps the most trying challenge is that initial moment one decides to choose change over The Way Things Are, for better or worse.

Certainly being a Schawbenhof survivor steeled my resolve to continue with the Unprincipled Vegetarianism. Later that day, we headed to Kincaid Park for a summer festival - Natsumatsuri - sponsored by the local Japanese society in Anchorage. The ambient smells of yakitori - skewers of grilled meat - filled the park, and for a while, I sat on the picnic bench tortured and unhappy. I had purchased a meal ticket which my friend exchanged for three skewers. My well-meaning friends tried coaxing me into giving into the yakitori (no doubt they are absolutely sick of my unprincipled vegetarianism), but I did not fold.

At the end of the day, the lure of yakitori was a false challenge. The smell of meat over an open flame is admittedly a call of the wild - an ancestral beacon that glows within us, tying us to our more primitive times and urges. It is true that the smell of grilled meat drives me crazy, much like the smell of fresh fried donuts (no ancestral explanation available here). But I am certain had I thrown it all in for a skewer of mediocre yakitori, I would have deeply regretted it. I did end up eating the meat-juice soaked grilled scallions (which fall under the meat juice exception) and made a joke about licking up the remaining yakitori meat juice, but really it was only a joke.

In the meantime, tick, tick, tick....

Vote Yes On Nasturtiums.

2007-07-09T09:43:00.000-08:00

As we approach mid-July in Anchorage, one might say we are at the peak of the growing season. My dandelion patch is thriving, and my late-planted seedlings are starting to look like at least a bit like adolescents. Weeds lining the sides of my yards are climbing over the chain link fence, forcing me to take to the weedwacker.

It is also the time of year when Mother Nature teaches me some humbling lessons. The Weedwacker is an excellent example of a Foolish Human Tool we use to fight against the Inevitable. I was happily wielding said Weedwacker this weekend to clean up Mother Nature's work when I accidentally nicked one of my precious fava bean adolescents.

The injury was as painful to me as if I cut my own flesh. I fought back tears and like any good Alaskan, got the duct tape out to make it all better.

Some might question this effort, but sometimes it feels better to put a bandaid on a hopeless boo-boo. I had so gently nicked the plant that it was still standing (barely), albeit critically wounded. I guess I was hoping that the duct-tape would encourage my fava bean friend to magically regenerate its xylem, make itself whole, and dutifully resume the transport of water!

I might as well have planted some magic fava beans, climbed up the stalk, and started laying golden eggs.

Mother Nature also threw me a curveball last night when I finally decided that it was time to nuke the lawn. The weed 'n' feed variety I use requires (1) 24 hours of dry weather, and (2) warm temperatures. Sunday demonstrated both, and Yahoo Weather promised no rain for the following day. As Mother Nature would have it, it is pouring today, and the rain is washing away my hard work before it had a chance to take effect. Even worse, the rain will have the effect of not killing the weeds but nevertheless feeding the fertilizer to their roots!

I may have unwittingly just created a Bionic Dandelion Patch.

Under these circumstances, it's hard not to throw in the trowel and just give up. It's as if someone sent Mother Nature a memo letting her know that I'll be gainfully unemployed in a matter of days, and of course, I would enjoy nothing more than spending all of my new free time mowing my dandelions-on-steroids yard! Had I tried not to interfere at all with the natural state of the world, maybe the memo would have slipped past Her desk unnoticed.

In fact, it may be true that the plants that are the most worthwhile in the garden are those which actually persist despite my efforts. It gives me no pride nor comfort to know that I may actually be the Anti-Gardener, but I can't help going back into the garden again and again. Unfortunately, there is no amount of duct-tape that will fix my dandelion lawn, physically or emotionally. Perhaps it would be best if I duct-taped my hands together so that they'll stay out of the garden or maybe I should duct-tape over my eyes so I can't see any dandelions.

I suppose it's some kind of human instinct to strive to feel something more than Inconsequential. I live in Alaska where nature is unparalleled; logic should counsel me to leave natural beauty to professionals like Mother Nature, but my mundane sense of identity as a homeowner motivates me to mimic her finest works (and fail miserably) in hopes of capturing some "beauty" in my own backyard.

But for every ten poor decisions made in the yard, Mother Nature occasionally lets me win one. This week: my first (and so far only) nasturtium bloom. What can I say? It's lovely.

And I'll admit it: well worth the wait.

Save The Date

2007-07-06T11:43:00.001-08:00

So it appears the time has come for me to make the Break With Reality that I've smelled in the air for so long now. I can think of no better way to mark the new era than with an umbrella, a fruit hat, a bowling ball, and a little music.

And let's not forget the importance of a proper disguise. No Big Life Change can be successfully executed without the aid of a good rubber nose and a fake mustache.

After I gave notice to my law firm of the last six years, many have asked me, So What Are You Going To Do Now? I think the hot pink octopus explains things pretty well. I may have to print some hot pink octopus business cards for this purpose.

Some, including myself, have pointed out that I am Too Young For A Mid-Life Crisis. I assure my friends and family that I am not trading in the Prius for a Miata - not yet. (Let's hope that if I do, I at least choose an interesting color.) Among the sophisticated "next steps" contemplated include:

become a momentary vegetarian (see previous blog entries on the "success" of this idea),
get the turquoise highlights I've wanted since I was sixteen,
assert control over dandelion chaos in the garden,
finally learn Spanish so that I can lift my prohibition on travel to Spanish-speaking countries,
"work on my music and art" (e.g., be penniless while picking up a new instrument, working on my cartoon strip),
see more of the Last Frontier.

In the meantime, I am also looking for odd experiences to add to my collection -- nothing is too odd. Try me.

Kaghplut!!!

2007-07-05T10:38:00.000-08:00

It's now Day Five of Unprincipled Vegetarianism, and results are inconclusive. My previous experience in giving up meat - namely, when I gave up my beloved pork in 2005 - provided all sorts of insight into who I am as a person, what I value, and my motivations for doing what I do.

This current abstention from complex muscle protein, however, has yielded no such deep revelations.

In fact, far from the wise and serene little bodhisattva I had hoped to become, I've turned a bit of a rabid dog. Chained like to my Unprincipled Vegetarianism (which because it is unprincipled, has no clear mechanism for coming to an end), I snap and snarl whenever I remember, oh yes, I've turned into an Unprincipled Vegetarian. The thought is quite annoying and has brought me no Eureka! whatsoever except to realize that deep down inside, apparently I am a raging carnivore who enjoys silently brandishing her canines.

Although I thought that eating meat had a causal relationship to being a feral beast, it appears that not eating meat has the same effect, if not worse. I've turned into a caged animal (albeit a vegetarian animal) rattling the bars of my confinement. In fact, more than being an Unprincipled Vegetarian, I do believe I'm transforming into the Most Annoying Vegetarian Ever. My friends are practically begging me to give up giving up meat.

Apparently, Miss Unprincipled Vegetarian is no Miss Congeniality.

There are many possible explanations for this.

I am feeling physically weak, even somewhat starved, because I have not been consuming muscle protein, and people who are starved lash out. (However, I am still eating eggs and some seafood and certainly my portions don't suggest that I am yet in need of United Nations relief.)

When robbed of my carnivorous cloak, I am exposed to the light of day as the true Raving Bitch that I am. (Disturbing, but can't be ruled out.)

There are natural sedatives in animal muscle protein.

I hate being a vegetarian.

Of these explanations, probably the last is the most likely. When I gave up pork, I did not hate myself because I was still a meat-eater who happened to be giving up her favorite meat for a while for personal reasons. But now, I am not a meat-eater (unless you count sauces, broths, seafood, etc., but clearly I don't). I don't suppose I much enjoy being this person; I feel neither virtuous or righteous, nothing like Mr. Spock my favorite Vulcan vegetarian -- just angry and bitter like a Klingon deprived of his blood wine!

Kaghplut!!*

(*Kaghplut is not actually a Klingonese word, but it adequately describes what I'm feeling inside.)

As many will agree, I make a Lousy Vegetarian.

Still, time flies. Day Five of Vegetarianism makes for almost a full work week. And had it not been for two slices of most deeeelicious Prime Rib last Saturday, it would already be Day Seven. Didn't even God rest on Day Seven?

In the meantime, I must continue to perservere... for absolutely no reason whatsoever....

The Spirit Was Somewhat Willing....

2007-07-02T22:46:00.000-08:00

Last week, I consumed a thick, giant hamburger which probably tipped the scales at over a pound of ground meat. It was luscious to behold and was certainly consumed with a great deal of gusto, but the feat of eating the entire thing left me empty inside (emotionally, obviously not physically). Every once in a while, I go through some kind of phase during which I simply feel not emotionally equipped to digest complex animal protein.

Logically, I decided the next step should be to have a brief period of vegetarianism. However, because I have been an avid meat lover since the day my tiny canines popped out of my pink baby gums, I knew that I should set realistic limits.

So I developed the following rubric:

meat flavorings and juices OK (no point in cutting out harmless stuff like chicken broth and sauces)
fish and other seafood OK (they have simple nervous systems)
"Wild Game" exception (never know what kind of once-in-a-lifetime exotic meat might walk in the door).

This scheme is admittedly unprincipled in a moral sense, but in a technical sense, very principled in that it is at least quite rule-oriented. It boils down to a basic prohibition against bite-sized (or larger) chunks of commercial meat. My "vegetarianism" is also rather amorphous in that it lacks definite duration.

Personally I predict it will be a momentary flash-in-the-pan.

Some have asked why I don't just eat less meat.

That's not the point, I answer.

The decision to dabble in vegetarianism was an organic one, borne first out of a natural reluctance to digest meat in the near future and second out of a desire to clean up my life a bit. I once gave up the meat of my people - pork - for a short period of time and found that experience quite interesting. I discovered being a carnivore definitely makes me a feral being, more prone to barbaric tendencies and moods. For this bout of civilized vegetarianism, I declared no clear start date, but last Friday, found myself making veggie quesadillas and a green bean tomato salad for dinner. Saturday morning, in unprecedented fashion, I abstained from our traditional morning mcmuffins, which normally require two slices of Canadian bacon to achieve the necessary meat-to-rest-of-food ratio. The rest of Saturday would have passed without incident if not for a certain Prime Rib at an out-of-town wedding. I was able to resist the other temptations (admittedly, aside from the permissible salmon, the other option was prohibited chicken), but the Prime Rib loomed under the lights, glowing like an object of divine intervention, testing my resolve.

Unfortunately, my "resolve" (which had not been formally instituted) proved to be weak. I noted to my roommate with despair, "Prime rib! But I am supposed to become a vegetarian!"

She had an expedient solution, having earlier decided that my Unprincipled Vegetarianism was pretty much totally lame: "Start tomorrow. You can start tomorrow."

Having already secured two vegetarian meals under my belt, I felt this would be a major setback as well as being intellectually dishonest. "I can't start tomorrow!"

Luckily for me, the waiter shaving the luscious pieces of Prime Rib gave me unsolicited reassurance: "Believe me, you can start tomorrow."

I caved.

"OK!"

So I started "tomorrow." Sunday, the official Day One, passed without incident. At lunch on Day Two (today), I realized that this vegetarianism was not going to result in any health benefits. For one thing, not eating meat makes me psychologically ravenous and I end up grazing on any nearby snack. For lunch, I had:

half a veggie quesadilla,
a couple servings of vegetarian pad thai,
a brownie,
some baked potato snacks, and
a cheese puff.

It seemed that something deep inside in me was determined to nullify my vegetarian efforts by any means necessary. I could have eaten pure bacon for lunch and probably consumed fewer calories.

Tonight's meal, however, proved to be a real challenge. My friends and I had decided to go out, and I was envisioning a plate of hearty pasta with pesto sauce, but our Italian restaurant was closed, forcing us to choose Mexican. The thought of going Mexican without getting some beloved carnitas was more tearfully traumatic than I expected. In fact, I grumbled the whole time I stood in line, upset that this might be the first time ever I was going to get the dreaded "veggie burrito."

I settled upon the enchilada platter which looked like it had more going on, but out of the "beef, chicken, pork, or cheese" selection, I had to choose cheese option. Seeing my Unprincipled Vegetarianism wavering, my friends encouraged me to scrap the whole idea. However, I did experience some regret at the wedding after my second slice of Prime Rib (the first slice was admittedly deliciously perfect), so I stayed the course. I ordered cheese enchiladas.

What I discovered is that cheese is not a replacement for meat. I looked at my friend's chicken enchiladas, all fat and plump with shredded meat - and then my own deflated, impotent enchiladas, lacking the structural integrity inherent in a nice satisfying pile of meat. I shoveled on as much pico de gallo that my entree could handle and made do. All in all, the veggie dish was flavorful but left my heart empty and truth be told, left me rather bitchy.

With the July 4th holiday coming up, otherwise known as National Barbecued Meat Day, I wonder how the bitch is going to make it through the week with Unprincipled Vegetarianism. Stay tuned for Day Three ... if I get that far....

Ode to the Little Brother

2007-07-02T16:29:00.000-08:00

Often when I refer to "my little brother," people think I'm talking about a kid brother in grade school. My little brother, however, is twenty-six-years-old and thankfully finally out of grade school. At various times, I am his stern older sister, a disapproving surrogate parent, and on rare occasion, reluctantly a humbled peer.

My little brother, you see, is a little bit of a genius, but as his older sister, I have to keep that genius stomped down, much like the way I used to sit on him when we were kids. When my mother became pregnant with him at thirty-eight, I thought not much of the whole affair; it was entirely abstract until a rather tactless neighbor asked me, "So how do you feel about no longer being the littlest one?" I realized then, in a sudden moment of terror, that I would have to cede my title of Most Adorable One and Family Brat. There was a little bundle of joy on the way who, despite his complete lack of any sophisticated cognitive skills, was going to seize all of that glory from me.

His arrival was uneventful except that I remember that for whatever unrelated reason, my father's false tooth was missing the morning my little brother was born. There's nothing weirder than being told by your father while he's missing a tooth that you now have a new baby brother! I remember dragging a photo of my little brother's rather swollen newborn self to kindergarten, where I had never in the past participated in Show-And-Tell before. I sat shyly on Mrs. Schneider's lap, holding my puffy-eyed little brother's picture in front of my chest, letting the class put two-and-two together their own, offering only occasional affirmative nods to such probing questions as, "Is that your little brother?!"

After his initial arrival, I recall only other a few other memorable snippets. He was a pee fountain the first time he took a bath (pretty typical). If you put him in the swing and practiced your kindergarten reading skills on him, he would magically fall asleep. He preferred Pampers over Huggies. His favorite baby food was Gerber's Turkey And Rice. My little brother was undeniably cute. Even I could see this plain truth. I did also think that our baby pictures looked awfully alike, so perhaps I was only complimenting myself. To this day, I think my parents could have made millions if they had only exploited him in the media.

As the years went on, however, my little brother became more complex. He developed a penchant for biting - me - as well as his fingernails. I once caught him spooning a tub of margarine that he thought was ice cream. He had this strange habit of making a lot of noise when he breathed, a habit that I proudly forced him to break so that he would someday be a socially acceptable human being. (He still disputes whether I should be "thanked" for this.) I also began to notice that he was not exactly like me. For example, I once found him jumping on my parents' king-sized bed while playing his Fischer-Price recorder to an episode of Star Trek - entirely by ear! He also could draw like nobody's business - rendering pencil drawings of Michelangelo's sculptures at seven and a half. I had some modest talents, but nothing like this.

By the time he reached young adulthood, we were quite different, despite my diligent efforts at early brainwashing. He showed a fondness for snoring (so advanced for his young age!) and for sleeping long uninterrupted hours. He enjoyed laziness and lacked attention to detail. He broke my heart once when I was in college by running away from home. I later learned that he "ran away" in my mom's purple minivan with the family TV in the backseat. He is also the kind of guy who doesn't notice he's wearing two left shoes.

Despite all of this, in recent years, I've come to very much respect my little brother. I tortured him through his youth, forcing him to pretend to be my imaginary dog to whom I fed imaginary doggie kibble. I once reduced him to tears by accusing him of being a Democrat in a family of Republicans when he was too young to realize it was a good thing. But nowadays, I see how much we have in common, beyond our adorable baby pictures.

I think my little brother and I share a similar emotional universe, only mine is diluted, for better or worse. I find it ridiculous that we ever understand each other at all. His mind wraps around the world in a similarly odd fashion. In the end, perhaps I am just relieved that he is around to make me look just a little bit normal. And for this, thank you, Little Brother!

Annuals Are For Pansies.

2007-06-29T14:04:00.000-08:00

Last year, understandably, the only annuals permitted to exist in my garden were the ones I could eat. As it was my first summer with a yard of my own, frankly there was no time to waste my heart and soul on annuals. If they could be eaten, they were acceptable because they paid their way. But otherwise, I suppose I've always regarded annuals with some suspect as perhaps being a little too carpe diem for me.

They say that you can't achieve the same kinds of colors with perennials, and this is slightly true. Annuals are bright, at times brilliant. But, on the other side of the coin, certain annuals can also be rather showy and flamboyant, somewhat too liberace for my tastes. I've seen my mother wear dresses with patterns exploiting the color of annuals. That alone should be enough reason to keep them out of my garden.

This year, however, I was given a couple of packages of nasturtium seeds as a birthday gift and hence, already had them by early spring. I do like the gorgeous blooms of the nasturtium, so I dutifully wrestled with peaty pellets and pots and started them indoors, rather early if judged by my own schedule. I then painstakingly hardened off these seedlings.

And for what: not a single bloom.

It says on the package that nasturtiums are edible flowers, and indeed, they would look spectacular on any buttercreamed cake. However, if there are no flowers, there is nothing to eat.

So next year, vote no on nasturtiums.

In fact, for the most part, most of my started-indoor efforts fell flat on their face. There was the lettuce I planted too early - now sickly yellow and probably permanently stunted. The basil that for whatever reason decided just to die (maybe I should have kept up with watering). Various other flower seeds that also did not flourish. And above all, many of my peaty pellets got moldy after someone dropped almonds from a cake onto my miniature farm.

Next year, vote no on starting indoors.

Of course a real gardener and lover of land has to start something from seed, so I hear. But in our short growing season in Alaska, it is the antithesis of natural growth to mess with seeds in the darkness of April, setting up grow lights in your basement for confused seedlings, hardening off, covering your kitchen table with dirt, etc., etc.

Most of all, it's all way too much trouble for a lazy gardener prone to disaster.

In fact there are plenty of things to plant into the ground as soon as you can work the soil - things that will even survive a mild spring frost. For example, lots of varieties of peas seem to thrive in the colder climate. I grew them last year, which means even a pony could grow them. And although the gardening gurus say start planting gladiolus bulbs in March, the truth is when I plant 70 bulbs, I can't be bothered with finding coffee cups for each of them and transplanting them into the garden.

After all, gardening, for better or worse, is an exercise in realism. It is about working with, against, and within Nature, gently negotiating what we can achieve with human hands. Of course, if left entirely to her own devices, it seems Mother Nature would prefer a yard of chaotic dandelions. I'm still negotiating with her on that one.

In addition to my non-blooming nasturtiums, I have a few annuals this year due to a sudden rash, live-in-the-moment-loss-of-pragmatic-sense morning I spent at the lovely local nursery. While delicate and beautifully colored, I look upon these annuals with some sadness knowing that they have limited lives and will die out with no long-term future better than feeding the worms in the compost pile.

In contrast, my perennial bed is truly flourishing this year. Sure, there were some Home Depot perennials that didn't make it, but a surprising number of sorry specimens have managed to regain strength now that we are solidly in the growing season. A burning bush that had been painfully pruned by moose has re-leafed itself with enough foliage to provide an exciting vibrant display come fall. Daylilies, columbine, irises, wild geraniums, meadow sage ... they've all been putting on a good show. Strawberries that I tore out my first year thinking maybe they were weeds (that's how little I knew) are back with fierceness and have stretched out their runners to claim more of the garden. Even raspberries planted late summer, on one of the hottest days most hostile to transplanting, will probably bear fruit this year and spread next year.

And of course, there is the perennial, quintessential, Forget-Me-Not. Not only is it the state flower, but it is truly oh so lovely. Delicate, perfectly blue blooms with yellow center ... Forget-Me-Nots capture the true heart of a perennial. Without much care or attention, they beg us to remember them forever - which we do - because they come back every year.

I love perennials because they are seemingly loyal - despite winter's cruelest deliverances, they come back to say hello and make me happy. Beyond being beautiful in the moment, they are also something that I look forward to again and again, year after year.

How could I possibly keep myself from falling in love with that?

Weeding Is Good For the Gluteus Maximus!

2007-06-27T18:55:00.000-08:00

The problem (or blessing) when it comes to a private blog is that one is never accountable to the masses. I can blog with irregularity, about the most undesirable topics, the innermost grumblings of my belly.... I can, for example, have a blog entry touting the benefits of weeding for purposes of firming up the derriere!

Solstice has blown through this joint, "joint" being myself. After a rollercoastery two months of rain, intense sunshine, and so much daylight that I've taken to sleeping with my sports bra wrapped around my head, the pendulum now swings the other way as we are technically on our way to... is it winter??

Don't tell the garden about this turn of events. It is just getting warmed up, starting to share its blooms, and offering glimpses into the harvests to come in the upcoming weeks. This year, I've delayed nuclear warfare on the dandelions, mostly due to a sudden surge in yard traffic thanks to sundry friends and barbecuing folks. Last year, I engaged in a questionable scientific experiment in which I retained a control group (organic lawn) and nuked half my yard. Although it pained me to kill my microbes and threaten the livelihood of my worms, I have to admit that chemicals accomplished over the course of a few days what months and months of devoted, back-breaking hand-weeding could not deliver: some semblance of control over the Chaos that is called Dandelion.

Unfortunately, the organic control lawn has basically turned into a dandelion patch. As for the rest of the lawn, the unintended side benefit of not getting serious about war has been that the lawn has not grown exponentially on steroids as it did last year, thereby allowing me to escape with fewer mowings. In fact, I am so indifferent to the front yard lawn that I am rather pleased to put it through the throes of starvation - anything to avoid that "furry" look it had going on last year!

Weeding can be magical if you have the right temperament and set of circumstances. I find that it maintains my tenuous sanity, and truth be told, I am probably slightly addicted. Rare is the occasion when I'll enter the house NOT bearing a bouquet of puffy dandelion seeds freshly yanked from the lawn. For anyone who doesn't have a pair of idle hands, weeding is second nature. It is my very microcosmic way of trying to create order in a world that will otherwise choose chaos ... if only it were so easy to yank puffy dandelion balls from my psyche. In the meantime, this emotional exercise also yields physical benefits. Very few positions required for weeding can happen without engaging in a set of muscles that would otherwise lie unused.

So get weeding - it's good for the soul ... and the gluteus maximus.

The Danger of Edible Accoutrements....

2007-06-07T16:43:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it is lovely to dine alone. I find that it is an excellent opportunity to make your food your best friend. You can't be distracted by the commentary of a dining companion; the eating experience becomes a one-way conversation between you and your entree. And the food has only one thing to say -- Eat me.

I decided to dine in a manner uncharacteristic for me. The restaurant at the top of my hotel in Dallas this week, Chaparral, rated *four stars* by the esteemed AAA. It's no Zagat rating; my experience with Triple A recommendations has been confined to finding a hotel/motel when stranded with a van of crazy family members without housing in the open Southwest. Still, the advertisements in the hotel elevator and all over my room seemed to invite a visit. That and the fact dining in the hotel restaurant would spare me from the hot mugginess that is Dallas in June.

crudite
assorted bread
ice tea
roast sea bass
coffee
lemon chantilly mousse

CRUDITE
This was an unexpected house complimentary offering which although fetching to look at and good for passing the time while waiting for my entree, was unexciting. It came served in a giant martini glass with young veggies embedded in shaved ice. The garlic hummus spread that was to serve as a dipping sauce of some sort was confused, neither hummusy or garlicky. Just kind of brown with green herbs in it. Nevertheless, I enjoyed cleansing my palate with a few stalks of jicama. Left the celery untouched.

ASSORTED BREAD
I like it when a restaurant brings out an assortment of special breads rather than slapping some run-of-the-mill stuff on the table, as if to say, you look like you need to feel bloated today for no reason - try some bread. There was butter in one of my breads; I could smell it when it hit the table. Can't find fault in that.

ROAST SEA BASS WITH TOMATO COULIS SERVED WITH SPINACH AND LOBSTER RISOTTO
Most waiters don't know that if I've had the opportunity to do so, I've previewed the menu on the Internet. I find that in the quiet space away from the din of the restaurant, away from the foreign-accented descriptions by the waitstaff of tonight's dishes, I can shrewdly calculate what I want to eat. Tonight was such an occasion. I had pre-selected roast sea bass although I permitted my waiter to go through the motions of explaining the day's specials. He actually independently recommended the sea bass at the end, which I took as a green light.

My first bite of the sea bass was quite good. It was cooked just enough - still tender but flaking gently with the push of a fork. Had a nice little crust to it. Had the fish been served alone like this, I might have joined Triple AAA in its quadruple star rating.

The problem with the word LOBSTER before anything other than MARKET PRICE or WHOLE is that usually whatever it is, it doesn't have enough lobster soul in it. Tonight's "lobster risotto" was no exception. I don't think it is enough to treat "lobster" as a mere color of cream sauce for some otherwise unexciting rice. (Nothing arboriol about this risotto.) While the entree as whole had pleasing colors, I of course had to taste the colors as well. The tomato coulis over the fish was decent, but not exactly the right accompaniment. I thought that perhaps if served in another context, I might have enjoyed it more. And then there is the subject of other obligatory vegetables: in this case, a small bed of spinach, one carrot, and two shaved spears of asparagus. The asparagus was nondescript and the carrot, while young and full of carroty flavor, seemed misplaced with its perfume. Lying next to a big steak, it (and I) might have been happier. The only nonintrusive accompaniment was the lightly seasoned spinach.

In finishing the sea bass but leaving the various accoutrements, I decided that the Chinese (or more inclusively, Asian cuisine in general) have the right idea when it comes to fish. Don't dress up fish like it's poultry or steak. All of it robs the fish of its most exciting flavor, which is that of the fresh open sea. There is something to be said for serving a bowl of plain rice with fish - let the fish be on stage, not standing behind senseless vegetables and costumed in directionless cream sauce.

(Note: The sea bass also came with an interesting garnish/condiment - a half lemon wrapped in what appeared to be yellow muslin-like fabric, complete with green bow, ostensibly so that when you squeeze the lemon, the seeds do not fall onto your precious fish. At first, I wondered if a bouquet-garni had wandered onto my plate, but I am sure that many other restaurant goers have unwrapped this surprise not understanding its utility, despite its obvious aesthetic acknowledgement.)

Overall, however, the sea bass was decent enough that it was a pleasing meal. It did have the unfortunate experience of tasting less and less good as I continued to eat, but you can't have everything.

COFFEE
The menu offered an array of "specialty" coffees for $8.95 each, apparently made "special" by the addition of a splash of some type of alcohol. That is way too much for any coffee unless it comes with a bottle of booze attached to it. The fancy splash was not enough so I ordered plain coffee, which nicely turned out to be solidly good.

ICE TEA
Never-ending refills when you dine at the top of a hotel! I drank buckets.

LEMON CHANTILLY
After I interrogated the waiter regarding the chocolate used in the "Godiva Chocolate Bread Pudding," I decided I had enough of having my chocolate hopes and expectations dashed by inartful American sweetness. So I elected to get the lemon mousse chantilly. It had a decent pistachio cake crust to it, but the lemon mousse was about average. A little too greasy feeling. A little too much of store-bought lemon flavor. Also, there was a cookie-like curly garnish on the top of my mousse which of course I tried to eat. It tasted stale, like an after-thought. Word to the wise: don't put garnish on top of anything unless you're ready for someone curious like me to eat it. Still, at the end of the meal, I no longer needed chapstick, which I had earlier noted was being sold at the hotel gift shop at the highway-robbery prohibitive price of $3.00.

SERVICE
Only nerds eat early, which meant I was given a large table right by the window with a less than most flattering view of Dallas. Probably no fewer than six different staff members either greeted me, refilled my drink, brought my crudite, cleared my table, etc., etc. And given it was Dallas, it was like being served dinner by a kindly troupe of Hispanic grandfathers and uncles. Very pleasant.

THE BELLY'S RATING: 2.95 out of possible 4 cow bellies. I'm feeling generous tonight!

Hot With Hooligans!

2007-05-27T15:41:00.000-08:00

Anyone who has been down the Seward Highway lately will tell you that the hooligan crowd is back. You'll see many slovenly clad fisherman bearing buckets off the highway, seeking the hooligans that run this time of year, small herring-like fish resembling smelt. In Anchorage, dipnetting for hooligans in the rivers starts in May and serves to whet the fisherman's appetite for the real fish yet to come.

Hooligan fishing requires a much smaller dipnet (with maybe a two-foot diameter) a pair of waders, some patience, and a love for oily fish. In a town where everyone can get fresh wild Alaskan salmon without much trouble, the hooligans lie pretty low in the hierarchy of fish. Most people will scrunch up their noses at the sound of "hooligans" and snootily say, "Aren't they really oily?" But if you press these skeptics further, they will admit that they've never fished for them or eaten them. For the hooligan, its reputation precedes itself. As someone who has fished for them and eaten them, I'll say this. They are oily, which translates into being soft-fleshed. For this reason, I am not a big fan of the hooligan. They also do not have a very characteristic flavor. Nonetheless, Hooligan dipnetting is popular among the Alaska Natives here as well as non-white immigrant population. In fact, dipnetting for hooligans is one of the few activities in Alaska in which a Chinese person doesn't feel like a minority. I've met Indians, Filipinos, Koreans, South Americans -- all kinds of people harvesting buckets of hooligans.

For me, the appeal of hooligan dipnetting is the thrill of getting multiple fish in one dip. Try this with salmon and you'll be floating down a river to your demise. When the river is hot with hooligans, it is not unheard of to have six or even seven hooligans squirming in your net at once. At the end of the day, you can sling your net over your shoulder with a sizeable bounty of miniature fish and feel like a real bad-ass fisherman of tiny tiny fish. Hooligan dipnetting is also a great activity for couples. It is customary to have a hooligan "wife" or "bitch" depending on your relationship with your partner. One person stands in the river dipnetting, and when the net catches something, he throws the fish to said hooligan "wife" or "bitch" who stores it in a cooler or bucket of cold water. Without the hooligan wife/bitch, the fisherman would have to wade out of the river every time just to deposit a single fish, so he/she/whatever is really instrumental to the process. Behind every good hooligan fisherman is literally a hooligan wife or bitch. There's nothing sadder than fishing for hooligan by yourself.

Before you run off the side of the highway with your hooligan net, a couple of warnings about hooligan dipnetting. First, it's reserved only for residents, so tourists have no choice but to stop on the highway and gawk. Second, the river can be cold - wear socks, maybe long underwear under your waders and certainly gloves. Third, the fish are frisky. It is not uncommon for the hooligans to give one last reproductive spray as you try to drop them into the bucket. So don't take it personally.

The best thing about warming up with hooligans is that it means the salmon will be coming soon.

Gyrating With Gordon

2007-05-02T09:16:00.000-08:00

Many months ago when I first started this blog and referred to the young kids with fingers poised on the dials of their iPods, I considered them to be creatures who lived in a different world not my own. Now I have become such a creature. This morning, I found myself using my own index finger to swirl the smooth surface of an iPod in order to rock out to J. Timberlake's Sexy Back in my basement.

I know little about this iPod except that it is black and shiny and that its shiny black surface picks up fingerprints very easily (a passive-aggressive warning to anyone wanting to steal it!). It has some permutation of gigabytes for memory and may have lots of interesting features, but my familiarity begins and ends with knowing how to plug in earphones and rock out.

Previously, I was a user of the iShuffle, which I think was probably not very cool among the young kids with the low-riding jeans despite the iShuffle's convenient small gum-stick size. I also may have mitigated what little cool factor it had by 'snoopifying' the device (and by that, I mean sticking a small Snoopy sticker on it to mark it as my own). The iShuffle, despite its moniker, seemed not to shuffle very much. I often experienced weird long stretches of Madonna or Michael Jackson (my iShuffle seemed to have an eerie proclivity for these artists) and then random strings of Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations. (A word of advice: while nobody plays the Goldberg Variations like Glenn Gould, putting him on an i-Device is like making David Bowie have lunch with my mother. The universe does not agree with such things.)

But those shuffling days are now over. I now use an I-POD. Not wanting to make party guests suffer through my Snoopy i-Shuffle's personal opinion of what kind of dance music should be playing, I loaded 172 songs onto the iPod for an evening of play. But in the end, our party guests ended up suffering through my personal opinion of what kind of dance music should be playing. Although we danced until 5am, the gang probably heard the same 10-12 songs. So much for diversity in music. Still, the high-quality color screen of the iPod made it very easy to select these same 10-12 songs over and over again. Plugged into a set of very large vintage speakers in an unfinished basement, this iPod was magical. We named it Gordon.

It was so magical that I spent many days after the party recreating the experience. I've spent many morning rocking out in the basement with Gordon providing the tunes and the speakers filling up the basement with delicious sound. This went on for two weeks until the speakers were abruptly repossessed by the friend who had loaned them to us. Not that I should have expected that the speakers were mine to keep simply because I DESPERATELY LOVED them.

Since those speakers were tragically ripped out of my life, I had not returned to the basement until this morning. Rocking out had become my morning workout, and it seemed ill-advised to just mope and get fat. I found Gordon's white factory earplugs, put on my hoochie-mama jeans and stuck him in the rear pocket of my jeans.

It was then that I realized life can go on without speakers. With Gordon plugged close into me, I suddenly gained great insight - for example, I finally understood what Beyonce and Shakira have been trying to say to each other in Beautiful Liar. Although I've danced to that song a number of times, up until now, I had been dancing to breathless, albeit sexy, gibberish.

Dancing with an iPod plugged in also means I become the vintage speaker you can buy at a garage sale; the music seemingly flows from within and then out of me. Like my mother, who is someone who will vibrate like a weird doll whenever Elvis is playing, I am someone whose dance is closely tuned into what I'm hearing. With Gordon plugged straight into me, I've cut out the middle man.

There are a few bugs to work out, however. Gordon is big enough that I don't want to hold him in my hands when I dance, but the rear pocket of my hoochie-mama jeans is apparently not the best place for Gordon either. For one thing, there's not a whole lot of room there, so every time I gyrate or spin, the friction from my butt cheek apparently spins Gordon's dial, making him get louder and louder. While exciting, it could prove dangerous for my ears.

But otherwise, there's nothing like rocking out "silently" at least vis-a-vis other people. Gordon and I can get lost in our own world, our own sound space. Whoever designed the iPod knew what he was doing. Gordon is sleek, powerful, and his white cordage is a clever marketing tool for branding. For a while, I used black earphones specifically to avoid telling the world that I was listening to my iShuffle. With Gordon, though, I somehow don't care. And I confess I even like the look of his factory white cord twisting out of my pants.

I suppose I've fallen victim to those iPod billboards depicting the bright white iPod accessories grooving against the hip black silhouettes. The whole get-up makes it possible for anyone, even someone with no musical skills, no rhythm, and even no battery power left, to at least look really cool.

Even with a Snoopy sticker.

You're Worth Crab!

2007-04-30T10:17:00.000-08:00

This weekend, we long-suffering residents of Anchorage were finally rewarded with two beautiful sunny days. It was a great moment for being outside in the yard and enjoying the 58 degree weather (chilly by southern Californian standards but quite blissfully balmy for an Anchorage spring day).

Inspired by the decent-looking weather, my friends and I decided to hold a Crab Night. We've had a number of crab nights this year in response to somebody's realization this winter that everybody loves crab, yet nobody buys crab for himself. Somewhere deep inside all of us is a small little person who thinks he does not deserve crab unless he is inviting guests or putting on a fancy spread to celebrate a special occasion. It is a sad statement of low self-esteem... especially in a state where we have such delicious indigenous wild crab all around us.

You've probably seen these Alaskan beauties before -- long spindly crustaceans with legs which seem to go on forever, available in either the Red King or Golden King variety. I once tried to conduct a very scientific experiment to determine which is better but after they got mixed up on my plate, I had to abort my quest for knowledge. Generally speaking, the Golden King is more affordable -- whether it is due to an inferior flavor or due to its spiny shells which may cause injury (or at least certainly materially slow down crab-eating), I do not know. If I weren't so crazy about crab, I could remain level-headed enough to conduct another experiment.

I did have some apprehension about our first Crab Night; like others, I did not think I was worth crab. As a kid, the family ate crab to celebrate birthdays or when the supermarket was having an unbelievable sale. At no point would anybody in my family buy crab alone and go off into a dark corner by yourself to eat crab just for the sake of having it. So for our first crab night, it took a great deal of determination to buy a bag of these luscious crustaceans, just for me and no one else.

Despite my trepidation, the first Crab Night was a smashing success. It ended up being a ladies-only affair, a group of women huddled on the kitchen floor, with crab and happiness dripping from our chins.

Sucking the rich flesh out of the shells with reckless abandon, I felt a great sense of inner peace.

The success of Crab Night One spawned a series of other crab nights, the best of which occurred this year on Valentine's Day. In the past, Valentine's Day had been about little more than the unfortunate proliferation of pink junk, overpriced bouquets, and cheap and unwanted milk chocolates. This year, however, the ladies and I decided that We Were Worth Crab.

I realized then that my problem with V-Day past was not that I had been spending the "holiday" alone or with imperfect men, but rather, I had not been spending them with Crab.

You see, nothing says I LOVE YOU like the Gift Of Crab To Yourself.

From now on, rain, sleet, or shine, man or no man, I am having crab on Valentine's Day! You're worth it! You're worth crab!

(not to be confused with You're Worth Crabs... nobody is worth crabs.)

You Know It's Spring When You're Eating Rudolph!

2007-04-26T10:11:00.000-08:00

Some might think that living in the one long beautiful sunny day that is California might make its residents completely oblivious to the changing of seasons. If anything, though, my years spent in the sunny land have left me more heightened to seasonal details. Be it a brilliant crimson fall or a budding spring abloom with magnolias and fertility so rich you can taste it in the mud - the seasons keep life dynamic and pose excellent opportunities for renaissance.

In Anchorage, there are a few clear signs of that Spring is finally here:

The Park Strip starts to melt, which unfortunately unhides The Poop of One Hundred Dogs. These are the dogs who frequently made their mark in the park during our many-monthed winter.
Everyone's yard starts to melt, magically revealing The Poop of Many Moose who may have crunched away at your most expensive bushes and fruit trees.
Slow, dim-witted mosquitoes begin to appear. As someone who was born with the pheremone that drives these buggers wild, I can't say I am fond of this sign of spring. (Right now, the mosquitoes float slowly as if drunk, but even in this relatively harmless state, I see them only has Harbingers of Doom.)

Wild geese are afoot everywhere. With them, they bring their own poop, but it's fresh spring poop that seems to act as a fertilizer to help green up the Park Strip and other currently brown spaces.

And finally, the reindeer dog stands pop back up in downtown.

Today, I took advantage of #5 and had my first reindeer dog of the season. My decision to do so today was no coincidence. First of all, we finally got a bona fide sunny day. Second, there are only a handful of days before May. Why should this matter, you might ask?

The downtown Anchorage area is a tourist drag, lined with shops selling the kitchiest souvenirs you can think of. (While all souvenirs by definition are kitchy, this state is predisposed to hawking what might be considered exceptionally bizarre down south, such as chocolates in the shape of moose poop.) A sure mark that tourist season is warming up is the sudden proliferation of reindeer dog stands.

The reindeer dog itself isn't really as exotic as tourists might think. It tastes much like any other kind of delicious sausage; it doesn't come with antlers or anything weird like that. But for whatever reason, it seems to give tourists a lot of satisfaction to chow down on Rudolph. My suspicion is that running a reindeer dog stand in downtown Anchorage is a very lucrative business.

Like all small businesses based on shacks and stands, a lot of the reindeer dog establishments use sex to sell the goods. It's not uncommon to find a pretty lady flipping your dogs. But the locals, and by that I mean the subset of Anchorage residents who work right in downtown (and by that I could probably further winnow the pool down to young lawyers who work downtown), they seem to favor M.A.'s Gourmet Hot Dogs.

M.A. was my first and has been my only reindeer dog guy, unless you count that one giant package I bought at Costco for a camping trip (which I don't). He was introduced to me by another young downtown Anchorage lawyer, and I've been going there ever since. M.A. himself does not appear to use sex to sell his dogs. Don't get me wrong; he's a decent-looking man, but I think he wears a fanny pack which leads me to believe he is not using his body to sell his wares. The protocol at MA is to know what you want and be ready to order when you get to the front of the line. At noon, when the line winds around the Federal Building where he has set up shop, a failure to do this may incur some wrath or at least certainly a few dirty looks from more seasoned customers.

I think M.A.'s stand was recently, in the last two years, featured on TV - either PBS or the Food Network or both - and this newfound fame was no doubt responsible for the rather ridiculous price hike we saw last season. The standard reindeer went up at least one dollar, and when you're talking hot dogs, that's a material increase. I stopped ordering "the Special" (which includes chips and soda) and elect instead to devote my funds purely to reindeer. M.A. carries some other varieties of dogs - I remember the summer he started doing this and how excited he was about the expansion - but trust me, stick with the classic Rudolph.

So why do I choose M.A. over the other sexy hot dog vendors? Since I am not a man, I am immune to the wiles of M.A.'s competition. But I see other men buying high-priced dogs from M.A., so what's the draw?

Well, the devil is in the details.

M.A. sautes his onions in Coke Classic. Not some knock-off soda or RC cola, but the real stuff. No diet. Just the good stuff out of the red can. This isn't just a party trick; the Coke adds sugars and caramelization to the onions. A savvy business man, M.A. maintains a Rolodex of "Frequent Wiener" cards so that his regular customers can earn their way to a free dog. Unfortunately, you have to eat something like twelve dogs, or at least some other highly significant number, before you earn your free sausage. Surprisingly, I've never made this summit. My first year, I got very close by going very often and by treating my tourist out-of-town guests to reindeer dogs. Just when I figured I was just on the brink of getting my free dog, I could not find my card anywhere in the official Frequent Wiener Rolodex.

M.A. explained that if you don't re-activate your Frequent Wiener card in April, when he first restarts his stand, he throws the card away. It's not a mean business tactic - if he didn't, he'd have to start rolling a giant Rolodex instead of his hot dog stand. Needless to say, I was crushed by this business policy. After all of that diligent consumption of reindeer, I had to start over.

So today, April 26, 2007, I knew that I had only moments before I would suffer the same fate again. With the sun out and a friend who never had been to M.A., the stars were aligned.

I'm happy to report that the Rudolph I got today was exquisite. Just perfect. I won't say it was magical because after all, it's a hot dog, but there wasn't anything else I would have asked for with respect to this dog. Most importantly, I am now a re-activated Wiener and am looking forward to many many wieners to come.

Rolling With Rolando

2007-04-25T16:07:00.000-08:00

For those who live in Anchorage and frequent the Carrs (otherwise known across the country as the Safeway) at 13th and Gambell, you probably already know Rolando. Rolando works at what locals affectionately refer to as the Ghetto Carrs. I think every city has one of these - a grocery store in not-the-best-neighborhood, stocked with a rather meager inventory, and frequented by somewhat questionable clientele. That's Ghetto Carrs - open 24 hours, 7 days a week - a small little space for your most urgent 2am needs.

Ghetto Carrs used to be my neighborhood Carrs. My most memorable trips, before yesterday, included (1) the time I was asked to open the bottle of vanilla extract in my shopping basket in order to verify that somebody had not already drunk it and (2) a 3am drunken stop with an out-of-town guest in search of "peaches 'n' cream." What can I say? Breyer's was on sale that night.

Yesterday, however, when I stopped by to pick up some fruit on the way to a friend's house, I met Rolando. I had heard of Rolando before. Other friends in my neighborhood often spoke of the little man in the Ghetto Carrs produce department - the one who always tries to feed you free fruit. The mythical Ghetto Carrs fruit man was also reputed to be particularly fond of a certain strawberry sauce. Legend has it that it was not unusual for him to run to the back of the store and come back with a piece of fruit dipped in strawberry sauce. I only halfheartedly believed these stories, thinking that such treatment was reserved for the pretty lady customers who for whatever reason found themselves stopping at Ghetto Carrs. I didn't think it would ever happen to me.

But yesterday night, when I reached for the last carton of strawberries on sale, I heard a "psssst."

"Pssssst."

By the salad bar, a somewhat short Hispanic man of medium build was beckoning me and holding a fork skewered into a piece of watermelon.

"You want?"

Had I not previously heard the tales of Ghetto Carrs Fruit Man, I might have started running. But for once, offered a strange piece of fruit by a strange man, I felt completely at home.

"Sure."

I was dubious - we are still scratching at the surface of spring here in Anchorage, and it seemed unlikely that a piece of watermelon would taste very good in April. But to my surprise, it wasn't at all bad. He motioned for me to dispose of my fork in what appeared to be his cart of rotting fruit, the rejected dregs of the day.

I finally picked up my strawberries and as an after-thought, piled on a bunch of asparagus also on sale. No sooner had Fruit Man observed my arms full of produce did he quickly run off, returning with a shopping basket to place my strawberry cartons inside. And then, with the kind of lightning speed exhibited only by supermarket superheroes, I kid you not, he bagged my asparagus.

But our interaction did not cease there.

"Anything else? Want anything else?"

I realized that he did not mean, did I want to buy anything else, but rather, was there any other piece of fruit in Ghetto Carrs that I wanted to eat for free. On top of his cart, he had just placed trays of cut-up fruit from the salad bar, no doubt retiring from service given that it was now already 7pm. He pulled out yet another fork, stabbed a piece of cantaloupe and offered to me. And then it was the honey dew. Out of politeness, I tried to accept no more, but having gone this far, I did not have the willpower to abstain from myself skewering a piece of pineapple. The pineapple was not great, and this was what brought me back to my senses before I traveled too far down this hazy road of freely given fruit.

During this interlude, I spotted Fruit Man's name tag. "Rolando." I was tempted to say, "Rolando, that's a beautiful name," but then remembered that I was not in Ghetto Carrs to start an intimate relationship with the produce section but rather, was on my way to dinner which was probably already waiting for me. So I rubbed my belly, much in the way a Santa Claus might, and said, "Full. I'm full. I've already eaten too much."

Rolando did not buy this explanation. He looked at me in a way that was both shy and skeptical. "You just started. You only ate little."

Of course, I had already eaten far more free fruit at Ghetto Carrs than I ever had in my life. I tried to act like I had other items to buy. He disappeared for a moment behind the mysterious black plastic curtains separating the real world from what I imagined to be some kind of Narnia of magical produce. I speculated that he'd had gone to Narnia to retrieve the famous strawberry sauce I had heard so much about, but in fact, he returned with a whole slice of watermelon which he shoved into my mouth, no questions asked.

Like I said, the watermelon wasn't bad that day. Although somewhat taken aback, I decided that since the watermelon was already in my mouth, there was little left to do but chew.

I did finally manage to get out of Ghetto Carrs that night without eating any more fruit, but I have to admit, I am now intrigued. It is somewhat out of my way, but somehow, the prospect of the strawberry sauce of Narnia has piqued my interest. Stay tuned for more adventures of Produce Man.

Leave My Dude Alone.

2007-04-18T13:07:00.000-08:00

Ah... there's nothing like an untimely movie review! Casino Royale was released in November of last year, with second run theatres playing it months ago, and no doubt the film has long since hit DVD, maybe no longer even crowding the queues of Netflix customers. It has been months even since I've seen the movie and first started chewing this cud of criticism.

But alas, opinions are timeless.

The press and fans had been all abuzz about the new James Bond, giving me high hopes that we were finally embarking on a new 007 era, finally free of that corny Pierce Brosnan who to my dismay, during his reign managed to woo many first-fans not even gametes when I saw my first Bond flick. No doubt all the talk had set within me high expectations for a great Renaissance, perhaps something worthy of the Cold War?

Not quite. While we've definitely left Remington Steel behind, this was not the return to the James Bond whom I fell in love with so many years ago.

Let's start with the basics. Bond does NOT ever say, "I love you." Doing so will immediately result in DEATH (as older fans will recall was the fate of his wife Teresa Bond, whose matrimonial bliss and lifespan did not extend beyond the ending credits of On Her Majesty's Secret Service). Bond may have muttered some crap about "love" a couple of times in the Brosnan era, but that was reason to stop watching the movies. 007 also does not give the pink slip to God, Country, and the Queen, and again, certainly not for love. And he is not a robot. The Daniel Craig version is entirely binary without any nuances reflecting the spectrum in between extremes. As the more classic Bonds have shown us, it is in fact possible to:

kill for the love of your country,

"love" women for the moment,

and be human at the same time.

And if God forbid, Bond finds himself mired in a moral struggle, he keeps it private - he certainly doesn't talk about it. Eww.

In Casino Royale, as soon as this Bond left the Her Majesty's Service in order to spend the rest of Forever with Random Bond Girl, predictably, I leaned over to my companion and whispered, "She's either EVIL or GOING TO DIE." Or both, I suppose.

And I guess I am the only one who thinks that the real James Bond can be clever and witty without being corny and sappy. It frustrates me when people think Bond is inherently corny. As one friend has described me, I belong to that "radical faction" of Bond fans that really likes Roger Moore. And no, I do not think Roger Moore is corny at all. (He has a good sense of humor, let's just say.) I tried recently to look up on the Internet statistics to verify whether I truly stand in the minority of the fan base, but the search was inconclusive. In my opinion, the truly unsufferably corny James Bond came with Pierce Brosnan, and I wish he took that Bond with him. (I'll note here that I was actually fond of Brosnan's Reminington Steel work, but Remington is no James.)

Puckery Daniel Craig did a good job with what he had, but I found the script generally lacking. Only the dialogue between Bond and Bond Girl on the train ride was mildly interesting. They even gave poor Oscar-winning Judi Dench lame lines. Over the years, whoever has been in charge has soured Bond movies into regular action flicks, a genre which has recently suffered from an over-proliferation of testosterone-indulgent, drawn-out, seemingly never-ending violence. (See giant-insect killing scene in King Kong; Orcs fighting in second Lord of the Rings movie. Yes, I know all of you men are still drooling over these cites.) That men enjoy watching minute after minute, scene after scene, of boring arbitrary repetitive boring action suitable for only fast-forwarding leads me to believe I will never ever be compatible with the opposite sex.

And to top it off, Casino Royale was a remarkably unsexy movie. Bond movies are supposed to be super sexy! What happened to the not-so-subtly-implied sexual escapades worthy of only indecent international spies? The slow, slinky unzip of a sequined gown that used to make my five-year-old heart turn all a-flutter???

In Daniel Craig's defense, he is undoubtedly the most athletic Bond ever and could beat Bambi in any contest of leaps and bounds. And certainly even the dear and eternally smooth Roger Moore would not want to compare pecs with Mr. Craig. Despite my opinion that the movie's plot was generally unsexy, the word HOTNESS did inexplicably and randomly HOTNESS cross my mind a number of HOTNESS times during the film. HOTNESS HOTNESS HOTNESS (Ladies, you know exactly when.)

In the end, I question the constant effort to reinvent 007, to bring him into "our time." If I want to think about "our time," I would not watch a movie about a man who probably packs a helicopter in his attaché on a daily basis. The point is that James Bond is classic and timeless. You want to do a movie about a spy who likes strange girlie concoctions with curly lemon peels, well, invent a new dude.

Hands his shaken martinis, and leave my dear 007 alone.

All in all, Casino Royale was certainly not a waste of the three dollars I spent at the second-run theatre. And there is the business of HOTNESS HOTNESS probably being worth a few extra nickels, too.

Bring Back The Five-For-Five!!!!!

2007-04-17T13:14:00.000-08:00

I may be skirting the fine line separating the Blogworthy from the Better Left Unsaid, but this is a one-woman-one-stomach campaign to bring back the Arby's FIVE-FOR-FIVE deal. For those of you who sadly missed the promotion, it permitted a hungry customer to buy five items of food (your choice of Arby's Melt, Curly Fries, Drink, Cherry or Apple turnover) for five dollars... and ninety-five cents. That's the annoying fine print. It's not really "five-for-five" but rather, "FIVE-FOR-FIVE-NINETY-FIVE." Arby's had the good sense to know that "five-for-five-ninety-five" would not be a good slogan, so they elected instead to defraud their customers with "five-for-five."

Ninety-five cents and fraud aside, I am mostly upset that the five-for-five is gone. I am even more upset that it has been replaced by a disturbing TWO FOR FOUR FISH SANDWICHES. Not only has the price per item of food doubled overnight, but the previous array of diverse options has now dwindled to a single fried fish sandwich, not very promising from an establishment that specializes in roast beef (and even this specialty is suspect). The extent of your choice is to get two of these unappetizing sandwiches.

What Arby's doesn't know, and perhaps this is why they pulled the FIVE-FOR-FIVE, is the cessation of this promo is really cramping my style. The five-for-five used to be my default bet. "I bet you a five-for-five that you're wrong!" was a win-win situation. If I lost, I had to buy a friend a five-for-five, which said friend would usually graciously split with me. If I won, the friend footed the bill. But in all circumstances, everybody gets to eat five-for-five. Everybody wins!

"I bet you a two-for-four-fish-sandwich!" however, does not have the same ring. Nor is it likely to invite anyone to wager against me. With the departure of the five-for-five, I've ceased being a betting woman, rolling with Vegas odds. Life in the fast lane cannot be had with fish sandwiches in your convertible. Nobody wins!

So to anyone else similarly grieving the loss of the five-for-five, please contact your local Arby's and bring the five-for-five back. And at all costs, don't be suckered into the two-for-four fish.

For the Love of a Gladiolus

2007-01-31T10:23:00.000-09:00

The very end of January is about the time when I notice that the light is better in the (late) morning and when March feels like it's within striking distance. But when thoughts of March enter my head, something deeper inside stirs -- some strange call of nature telling me not to forget that I am supposed to be planting gladiola bulbs that month.

This all started the spring of last year, months after I had purchased my first home in the fall. I had bought the little house at the bubbliest time of the housing bubble, and in that competitive market, there wasn't much time then to ponder the state of the lawn or figure out whether any flora was flourishing outside. But as spring started to remove the snow revealing the yard that had been a stranger to me, I realized for the first time that I had never before had any real jurisdiction over any yard. In fact I had never used a lawnmower in my entire life, not that I had ever avoided it. It just never happened.

I started to read dutifully about gardening in the daily paper, although by the time I got around to it, the recommended moment for planting gladiolus bulbs (which take a whopping 90 days to mature, that's right, just about an entire summer) had long since passed. A month past the ideal planting time and against the suggestion that corms (code word for baby gladiolus bulbs) be started in cups and planted days apart "for a continuous display of blooms," I crammed all of them into the muddy ground one night before a redeye flight to the lower 48. The "continuous display of blooms" is a luxury reserved for those who are not procrastinators and who have some clue regarding gardening. I was not one of those so fortunate.

Given the lateness of my gardening efforts, one might ask why I bothered at all. The truth is that the gladiolus is my mom's favorite flower, and it was the flower that she always bought for my grandmother because it was my grandmother's favorite. They have tremendous height and blooms that really can be appropriately described as glorious. I bought a bag of 60 bulbs at Costco and figured late planting was worth an $8.99 experiment.

I waited very patiently (did I mention ninety days) for those blooms to appear. The gladioluses did steadily grow in my garden but spent most of the summer in rather boring and modest green sheaths. It was as if I had planted a row of corn in the back of my garden, except without the corn part.

When the buds and then blooms finally emerged, however, they were absolutely worth every minute of wait and every penny of the $8.99. I truly felt like a Miss Universe when I cradled them in my arms, and I swear the self-esteem of my vases improved whenever I put these gorgeous flowers in them.

My hope was that my mother would come and visit around blooming time so that I could show her the flowers I had planted just for her. Discordant schedules prevented her from coming up, and so I decided to visit my family in LA in late August. After ninety days, however, I was not about to leave those blooms in Alaska. I harvested all of them, coincidentally and appropriately right before my redeye flight to California, and carefully wrapped them in tissue paper along with frozen gel packs I usually use for shipping fish and slid them gently into a box. I had never transported flora in the belly of a plane before, but I figured it would be just like a giant florist's refrigerator, except plane-shaped. For the gladiolus that were already in full bloom, I saved these to hand-carry as a bouquet on the plane, to greet my mom with "Surprise! Gladiolas!"

What I didn't realize was how fetching this bouquet would be. My bunch of gladiolas turned out to be like the beautiful best friend. It literally turned heads. I have never had so many people make small talk with me at the airport. And what was most unexpected was that they were mostly men. First, someone at the baggage check wanted to know what was the name of these beautiful flowers so that he could get them for his girlfriend. The TSA agent who checked my ID remarked how beautiful they were. Another TSA agent almost let me carry on my dangerous bottled water (almost) and asked me if my boyfriend had given me those flowers. (I believe a bitter "I WISH!" was my response.) The blooms inspired the imagination; perhaps people thought that I had just come from quite the emotional and passionate farewell at the airport befitting such flowers. Maybe they remembered a time when they had such a thrilling airport goodbye. And I daresay my own attractiveness improved with these beauties in my arms. Suddenly I became someone worthy of them. Everybody looks better cradling a bunch of pretty flowers.

It turned out that a beautiful bouquet of homegrown gladiolas is something that brings a smile to people's faces, much like a cute puppy or a toddler doing something unbelievably adorable. It is an instinctive response we have to the works of Mother Nature. To each person who asked me where I got these flowers, I proudly told them the truth.

"I planted these myself in my backyard. I planted them for my mother because she loves them, and I am bringing them to her, from Alaska to Los Angeles!"

While not the romance-novel-cover story they perhaps hoped for, this narrative was still warmly received. In LA, where everybody thinks Alaska is a frozen tundra, the irony was even more poignant. "You grew these flowers in Alaska?!" And I am happy to report that the Anchorage Gladiolas were beautiful enough to more than rival those I saw in local farmers' markets in southern California.

That sunny place apparently has nothing on us.

Sharing Is Caring

2006-12-01T11:54:00.000-09:00

It has finally happened. I am joining the youthful masses, those who are clad in low-riding jeans with fingers poised on the dial of their iPods -- yes, I, too, am joining the blogging community! My anachronistic presence here reminds of a similar venture many unspeakable years ago when I started my first (and last) webpage. It was a pitiful thing, at first grey and bleak with default fonts and a some kind of message akin to that of an answering machine, until it later careened out of control - was it something like javascript that allowed it to slowly and painfully change bright colors while loading, to the dismay of my few visitors who no doubt never returned?

Who could blame them.

In great hopes that a similar mutation will not happen here, I will keep this personal archive private for now, if blogs can be private. If no one looks under this rock, who knows what species of moss might grow here!

I chose today to start this blog because I think one needs to vent something when one is blogging, and recently, I've been rather dormant in this department. But yesterday, a small minor twitch in the cosmos happened. I received a piece of mail addressed to Mr. ___________.

This would be of no significance if it were not for the fact that I am a MISS _________. While generally reasonable about most matters of the earth, for some reason, when people wrongly assume that my name is a man's name and then proceed to send me bills, junk mail, or the worse yet, attempts to hire me in the name of Mr. ____, I have a fit. Granted, I have a Chinese name that I've never encountered elsewhere, but why assume?

Any of us who have made it through grade school knows that it only makes an Ass out of U and Me.

I can handle mispronunciations; in fact some are endearing, but the error of gender is simply unforgivable. Some might ask, but how are anybody supposed to know by your weird Chinese name that you're a woman? Point taken, but this does not excuse the failure to use simply my full name when in doubt. You can't take anyone seriously if they can't even get your gender straight. And aren't prefixes supposed to be honorific and polite? "Mister" is not likely to be taken politely when you're talking to a woman.

So I HATE it when people call me mister, even if just on paper. There it is. That piece of Mister Mail provided me with the requisite critical mass of Outrage to start this blog. So everybody write to the San Francisco Bar Association and give them a piece of your mind.

And I share the Outrage because I care. I care that others know this about me so that I give the world a chance to cease offending me, and I care that others understand this reaction so that other ambiguously named individuals will similarly be free of this offense. And hence, the title of my first blog entry. My college friend BJ would often utter this phrase after listening to one of my rants and vents or a bit of useless but mild-mannered commentary. He also used to say it after making an unsolicited observation, like when he found me in the dining hall after a rough night -- "Gee, you don't look too good. Sharing is caring."

Since then, I've taken BJ's words to heart. "Sharing is caring" disseminates the good in life and better packages the bad. If a sentiment is not shared, how is it to proliferate? I guess this is how I'm justifying this blog.

It's certainly not a one-way street, though. I appreciated BJ's advice that I didn't look too good because maybe it made me go back to my dorm room and brush my hair. And I appreciated it when a friend told me that I had a giant pizza stain on my sweatshirt when I showed up to fifth period biology unknowingly wearing a slice. And I appreciated it when someone told me that there was something wrong with the peach cobbler I made when I accidentally used salt instead of sugar. This is all useful information, so keep it coming! The eternal work in progress can't get better without feedback.

So onward with sharing and caring....