Unexpected visions

I woke up this morning and found ducks on my front lawn.
It rained most of the night and has been pouring all morning, and the creek across the street is on a rampage. Or at least much higher and faster than usual (since they built the fancy new bridge at the end of the street, completed a month before my arrival, it doesn't flood the entire street anymore).
Anyway, the ducks, who are apparently taking refuge until the water dies down, were an unexpected vision of loveliness. Much like my dad's new acupuncturist, who we saw for the first time last week. My dad is suddenly having kind of serious medical problems (Mom and I think they're predicated by this new medication he started taking a few weeks ago; his cardiologists insist that we are totally wrong). During my internet research, I read about some clinical trials where acupuncture ameliorated conditions related to his, and so Stovie and I followed trails of references and found him a recommended acupuncturist out on the Island, not too far from where he lives. I went up to New York early last week, for moral support and to facilitate his appointment, since I've had lots of acupuncture (as my bank account can attest to) and he's had none. And let me tell you, Long Island acupuncturists are apparently a separate breed. This one opened the door to greet us in a tight-fitting green dress (and white lab coat), totally groomed hair and makeup, and what I swear were white Chanel pumps. Her receptionist too was a vision of loveliness - nubile, blonde, and clearly braless under her tiny sundress. I have never, ever seen a acupuncturist with makeup, nor one with a receptionist, let alone a receptionist who is a 21-year old beach bunny. But acupuncture-wise, she appears to be really competent, and my dad seems positively eager to return next week...

Too cute

Was busy doing hours of decluttering/reorganization/cleaning the other day, and went into the bedroom all sweaty and bedraggled and found this.
At least some of us know how to relax on weekends...

Rootless cosmopolitan (shopping)

The other day I was having lunch with someone who complimented me on my shoes. "They're cute," she said, "where did you get them?" I looked down and realized that everything I was wearing had a distinct provenance - from bottom up, I had bought the: shoes in Poland, pants in Berkeley, tank top in Chicago, sleeveless shirt in Turkey, earrings in LA (that past weekend), and heading inwards, bra in New York and underpants in Russia. Phew! This mini-survey told me two things: 1) I kinda get around (sadly, not so much in a slutty way), and 2) I think I must go shopping everywhere I go.

I had this in mind last week when I went to the last event in this literary series I had been subscribed to this year - a talk, Q&A, and book signing by this (quasi-famous?) Latin American writer. Heading on into the talk, I was feeling all kinds of nostalgic, because his course on Latin American Literature was the last class of my undergraduate career. In the talk, based in great part on his 1998 memoir (about bilingualism, no less), he spoke about his cosmopolitan upbringing (Buenos Aries, New York, Santiago), which mostly had been cosmopolitan because of moves predicated by anti-Semitism (well, and once, McCarthysim, not like it's totally separatable). Which brought to mind of course, "rootless cosmopolitan", the Stalin-era Soviet euphemism for Jews used during his really pretty brutal post-war anti-Semitic campaign. (Because the war hadn't been quite bad enough for everyone.) It made me feel lucky that my own cosmopolitanism, which has felt kind of rootless for the last few years, has come from privilege and intellectual inquiry (or membership in the "cultural elite", to return to a Quayle-era euphemism for us Jewy types). And apparently a desire for international material acquisition.

Anyway, I chatted with the author for a while after the talk, covering gossip about my former professors/his current colleagues, uses of memoirs and testimonials in classes on bilingualism, and writing about language for the media. And then he signed my book thusly, and the thing of it is, I can't tell what the hell the second-to-last word is. I actually ran into my landlord in the Metro station on the way home, and he read this and said:
"It looks like it says 'For Pangea, with thanks for your Ovaltine existence..." Thoughts? Anyone?

News to me

Ponytails on men - back in again?

HippyDippyville Strikes Again

A guest anecdote, e-mailed to me this afternoon by Queen Esther:

“Z. [the 2 ½ year old son] and I were just at the co-op. Z. pushed in front of a man to get to something he wanted, and I apologised. The man responded, ‘Not at all! It’s a privilege to be around bodhisattvas and their holy mothers.’ ”

Ah, HippyDippyville.

Lunchtime excitement

Of two entirely different types:

1. A few weeks ago I had a craving for a jerk chicken sandwich (minus the hot sauce, of course). Luckily for me, there's a decentish, kind of hole-in-the-wall Jamaican place not far from work - the hole in the wall aspect somewhat implied by the words Pit and Jerk being part of the restaurant name. I didn't have all that much time -- was heading to a meeting or some such -- and was a bit worried since they can be kind of slow there (to put it mildly) but decided to privilege the jerk chicken craving over time constraints.

I walked in and there was just one person behind the counter making what seemed to be rather complex to-go meals for four service-type guys sitting waiting at a table in blue workshirts and matching blue pants. And matching mustaches and paunches, now that I think about it. It took a long time, during which she didn't acknowledge me at all, and I stood at the counter trying to decide, "stay? or go? stay? or go?" except I couldn't come up with a good non-jerk chicken alternative. Plus there comes a point when you feel like you've invested so much time that you should just stay, you know? She finally finishes all their orders (and do you really want curry goat between fixing air conditioning and heating units?) and takes my order and my five bucks. Just as my money goes into the register, two guys walk into the place, flash badges, and say "Police, nobody go anywhere. Did you just receive a box in the back? Let's go back and take a look." And suddenly my sandwich maker is gone, along with the errand guy who had been running around behind her. The phone starts ringing, and then all four are standing behind the counter right by the entrance to the back part of the restaurant. No one is making my sandwich. "Don't answer that phone!" says one of the cops. "Don't even go near it!" Then there is a short interrogation, who is the box for, are they holding it for them, when are they expected? Meanwhile, I'm just standing there in front of the counter, waiting. Do I want them to still make my chicken sandwich? Should I just sacrifice my five bucks and leave? Then what will I have for lunch? I'm hungry! Maybe 10 minutes or so goes by, no one seems to even notice or care that I am there, and finally I give up and tap the taller, bearded cop on the shoulder (so undercover this guy, with a t-shirt that's not all that clean and icky baseball cap - I think I'd step into the street if he was walking towards me on the sidewalk). "Um, can I get my money back for my sandwich?" I ask politely. "Can either of you make her sandwich?" he asks the bored-but-defensive-looking employees currently being semi-interrogated. "Uh, I think maybe I'll just go," I said. And got my money back. And left. What was in the box? Seeing as we're talking Jamaica here, I was leaping to some obvious conclusions. But I never found out. What's worse, of course, is that I never got my sandwich...

2. Today coming back from my run around the lake I saw a groundhog. Just sitting in the grass, eating. How cool is that? (Many thanks to Colliculus and Prairie Landing for explaining the other day that my previous groundhog sighting had not been a beaver. Mid-Atlantic types know so much sometimes!)