I sent off my Father's Day package Priority Mail, with plenty of time to get to its destination.

It contained:

One card, carefully selected. It's hard to find ones that have just the right sentiment - respectful without the 'you're the best dad ever!' fawning - because he wasn't. Fifties-style fathering - grades, chores, done.

And two pairs of SmartWool socks (Standard Hiking variety, muted gray color preferred), because I know he likes them. And he doesn't like too many things. Especially if they're things I'm interested in. We don't seem to have too much to talk about. The overlapping bits of our particular Venn diagram contain very little right now, save high quality socks.

This is what I can tell you.

My father has blue-gray eyes. Summers growing up were spent with his grandmother, who had a vegetable garden that was the stuff of legend. He had a pet raven and a pet rat. The rat's name was Squeaky. He was very handsome when he was younger - a Harrison Ford lookalike. He signed up to fight in a war. He bought his parents a house, even though he was a mere construction engineer to everyone else's loftier careers. He won a lot of sharpshooting contests. He sold his motorcycle when my mom got pregnant. He saved every one of the handmade cards I made him as a kid. He has cried only a few times: when his father died, when his brother died, and when our German Shepherds died. When he worked on the Big Dig, he saved all the old bottles from Bostons past, instead of just letting them get crushed beneath the heavy equipment. He enjoys building things. So far there is a complex irrigation system to keep the basement from flooding, a brick-floored sunroom, an inground pool, and now a giant garage to house all of his many toys. He is more outgoing to and forgiving of strangers than his family. We haven't spoken in months.

Who is my father, and how can I not really know much more than this, after 26 years?

Well, there's one more thing...

he likes good socks.

t minus 31 days

Looked at a seemingly endless rainbow of paints (Ben Moore) today.

There is something about those paint chips that conveys limitless possibility.

Left the paint store with samples of: November Rain, Revere Pewter, Driftwood, Kingsport Gray, Dusk to Dawn and Buxton Blue. They may not all work, I realize. It's just a start.

I also fell hard for Iced Marble, Smoke Embers, and surprisingly, Galapagos Turquoise.

My current place is full of bright, warm colors....deep gold, tomato red, apple green. They've served their purpose well - gave a cheerful, lived in air that comforted a distressed Boston transplant. I remember the first time I walked into this house, I instantly knew I wasnted to live here. It felt like home then, and I wish it still did. But extenuating circumstances have interfered with that. Given the situation, it's most definitely time for a change.

I'd like to switch to dark, sophisticated shades. A new palette, for a new phase in my life.

To my Valentine

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than a gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oathes,
That's how you're loved by me.

-Ogden Nash

Happy Birthday, Mr. D.

I recently took D. to DiPasquales, where he enjoyed a meatball sub that came with a warning...."BE PREPARED."




Italians. More than a little insane about their food.

conversational snippet

"Is your tatoo in Times New Roman?"

The answer was yes.

This is stunning - 500 years of women in western art.

Thank you, S.

May 2007 - the books.

An Italian Affair, L. Fraser
The Virgin Suicides, J. Eugenides
Auntie Mame, P. Dennis
Until I Find You, J. Irving
The Things They Carried, T. O'Brien
Wild Thoughts from Wild Places, D. Quammen*

Did not originally care for it, but I finally picked the Irving book back up. It gets somewhat better after the protagonist's uh, formative years. Still, I'm glad to be done with it.

I liked The Things They Carried. I don't know much about Vietnam, except for my dad's experience, and he was an outlier. (He SIGNED UP for it, then got shipped off to Europe, and hunted rabbits destined for dinners as a way to get in some target practice. Not the same.) I felt that I would have gone through similar emotions, had I been in O'Brien's shoes. And he does put you right there in the action. The other things I read were on the fluffier side, so this brought some gravity to the month's reading.

My favorite book this month was the Quammen book - it's more like a collection of essays a la Stephen Jay Gould. I had already read Monster of God, so I knew his style. It appeals to the hidden National Geographic photographer inside me.

coming home

When we're driving, in the dark,
on the long road
to Provincetown, which lies empty
for miles, when we're weary,
when the buildings
and the scrub pines lose
their familiar look,
I imagine us rising
from the speeding car,
I imagine us seeing
everything from another place -- the top
of one of the pale dunes
or the deep and nameless fields of the sea --
and what we see is the world
that cannot cherish us
but which we cherish,
and what we see is our life
moving like that,
along the dark edges
of everything -- the headlights
like lanterns
sweeping the blackness --
believing in a thousand
fragile and unprovable things,
looking out for sorrow,
slowing down for happiness,
making all the right turns
right down to the thumping
barriers to the sea,
the swirling waves,
the narrow streets, the houses,
the past, the future,
the doorway that belongs
to you and me.

-Mary Oliver


For Tuesday.

El Jefe Poster for the DC show.


Sunday night I went to see my favorite band play the Black Cat. They're breaking up and this is their last tour. (I think I first saw them in 2002 at the Middle East in Cambridge, a show at which my friend Evildave jumped on stage to help A.Z. sing 'Bring It On Golden Pond'. )

It was so emotional. Everyone - musicians, fans - was crying. They played like they wanted to wear out their instruments before they got to their last tour stop.

They played all our favorite songs.

I haven't been able to listen to any other music since then.

Update on the headphone saga...

I think I'm going with the Grados.

speakers push the air

With the work I'm doing on this soundtrack project, I've begun to feel the need for some serious headphones.

I've found a few that look promising:



The Sennheiser HD-280.


The Grado SR80.


The Panasonic RP-DH1200.

This acquisition might have to be via the interwebs - I have no idea where to find these to try out in Baltimore. (Other than the Bose Triports I tried on at Best Buy - super comfy, but I want to keep looking. )

grazia

*red velvet cake
*seriously beautiful weather
*quality time with people I care about
*some nice new summer clothes
*perfection in a light, flavorful lunch - Soup's On in Hampden.
*finding my sunglasses
*seeing another Verdi opera
*600 thread count sheets
*getting an A in my genetics class
*my Mother's Day card getting to Massachusetts in time (phew)
*Dayna + Kevin's happy news

on time

Time can be told in the opening of a flower,
Trumpet of dawn, flugelhorn of the sun
Sinking down. Noiseless explosions
Greet an attentive eye. And the ear

Is a flower, too, a welcome home for echoes,
Kisses, and cackles. Cauldron of starlight,
Tincture and blaring cry, whatever brushes
Your senses unlatches a doorway

Scoured by salt, vanishing as you plunder
The coffers of sleep. So you will know
What it means to be utterly free, floating

Without a hope, floating in hope, a medium
Fit for the being you have become, given
The bed you have made, the race you won.

-Phillis Levin



This issue (May 14th) is absolutely fantastic through and through. And perfectly timed.

passing the bar

Congratulations Mike, from one of your fans in Baltimore.

charm city scooter rally

It starts today.

retail therapy.

peridot earrings, courtesy of d.

More shopping to come this week. Really, it's the only way to get through getting older.

April 2007 - the books.

How To Cook A Tart, N. Killham
The Accidental Tourist, A. Tyler
Acquired Tastes, P. Mayle
The Stone Diaries, C. Shields
A Suitable Boy, V. Seth*


Two light and fluffy books (first and third), two depressing books (second and fourth), and finished with one of the longest novels ever published in the English language. I've always had an aversion to the ultra-long novel, they have such a stigma for being sisyphean (cue in everything I've ever heard about Middlemarch and Ulysses.) Having conquered this one nicely nullifies that. I'm all for dismantling self-imposed limitations.

By the way, the How to Cook a Tart book was written by a Washington Post food writer. While the plot goes round the bend at the end, the decadent food descriptions are well done and fun. Also, she mentions Sutton Place Gourmet, the former name of my current favorite posh food store, Balducci's.

the difference.

I continue to be conflicted about not trying out for the Charm City Roller Girls. On one hand, I love the idea. The comraderie. The (most likely) fascinating social circle. Plus, I may not have the semi-required sleeves of tatoos, but I do currently have the multicolored hair for it.

On the other hand, I've already broken my nose once, and I think the second time around's results won't be as benevolent.

I can ponder this more at this season's opener. How can you not be entranced by that flyer? Well played.

the isabella stewart gardner museum.