Looks Loch Her 10 Favorite Authors of 2008, Nae?

While most girls are glitzing up for New Year's Eve (that's Jana getting her eyebrows waxed), I've been etching a few new wrinkles in my forehead narrowing down my favorite books of 2008. This was far from a record-breaking year in terms of quantity (86) and the few books I read "of literary merit" -- like The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Juan Diaz and March by Geraldine Brooks -- disappointed me. If "you are what you read" is true, I am mainly a crime-solver in the British Isles with one foot planted in 1943 and the other in an anthropomorphic future.

My 10 favorite authors in 2008 hail from the United States (4), England (3), Australia, Japan, and Zimbabwe/Rhodesia. That's where they were born anyway. One of the English authors now lives near Minneapolis and the other resides in Edinburgh, Scotland; the author born in Zimbabwe also lives in Edinburgh now; dinnae think I should go there soon?

My list is surprisingly gender-balanced with six women and four men, and you might think it even more gender-balanced if you didn't know Curtis Sittenfeld is a woman. Now you do.

The authors I liked this year were born between the years of 1930 (Ruth Rendell) and 1976 (Curtis Sittenfeld). Although I have a hunch Hitori Nakano is a child of the '80s, I can't verify that. Hitori Nakano is a pseudonym constructed from the Japanese words naka no Hitori ("one of those people"). Anyway, half of the authors are older than I and the other half are younger. Yes, the fact that half are younger bothers me but I rejoice in their creativity and success.

I think all the authors except Ruth Rendell attended college. I think Ruth Rendell has, by a long shot, had the most books published and has enjoyed the steadiest income from writing. The irony of this tickles me. I hope she, P. D. James, and Martha Grimes all outlive me.

1. Mary Ann Shaffer, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. This former librarian and bookstore worker from Martinsburg, WV, did not live long enough to see her wonderful book published. The book was completed by her niece, Annie Barrows.


2. Elizabeth Strout, Olive Kitteridge. This book of connected short stories is set in Maine but I suspect Ms. Strout spent some quality time with my mother before she wrote these stories.


3. Markus Zusak, The Book Thief. Australian Zusak, the comely son of an Austrian father and German mother, was only 30 years old when this book was published and it was not his first.


4. Kate Atkinson, Case Histories (2004), One Good Turn (2006), and When Will There Be Good News? (2008). She won an award for Behind the Scenes at a Museum but I didn't like it nearly as much as these three featuring PI Jackson Brodie.


5. Alexander McCall Smith, 44 Scotland Street (2005) and Espresso Tales (2005). These are the first two compilations of the daily serial he wrote for an Edinburgh newspaper. I will definitely be reading the third and fourth volumes in 2009 if only to find out what happens to precocious six-year old Bertie and his obnoxious mother.


6. Neil Gaiman, Anansi Boys. This is an intriguing new genre for me. I think it's what 19-year old boys must read when they take a break from playing World of Warcraft.


7. Curtis Sittenfeld, American Wife. She won the Seventeen Magazine fiction writing contest when she was 16 (she's 32 now). This is a book about Laura Bush that's not about Laura Bush.


8. Hitori Nakano, Train Man. This entertaining transcript of a Japanese internet forum spawned a TV show and comic series. What's not to love about geeky kids advising one of their own on how to start and carry on a relationship with a girl?


9. Carrie Brown, The Rope Walk. What a difference five years makes! After I read Rose's Garden five or six years ago, I never imagined Carrie Brown would ever earn a place on one of my Top Ten lists. She's a professor at Sweet Briar College and has three children.


10. Ruth Rendell, The Babes in the Wood. I read this in May and it haunts me still. I think she put more effort into this book than most of the others in her Inspector Reginald Wexford series. I liked them all but this plot is especially memorable.

Today's entry was made possible through the underwriting support of the Michael J. Krentz Endowment for the Arts which paid for shelving, traditional and electronic books, a steady supply of booklight batteries, an off-site storage locker, and an Amazon Kindle. Reading family members and friends also played instrumental roles, including Kathryn Cavender Dykgraaf (American Wife), Colleen and John Gilstad (Train Man), and Catherine Lefere Sykes (The Book Thief). Matt, I'm glad you like pizza.

The Clock is Ticking

During our whirlwind trip to Michigan last week -- when we gave my brother a book and he gave us the flu -- I had the pleasure of introducing my new friend Ann to my favorite used book store, The Book Exchange. She was appropriately enthralled and we shared a lovely "small world" moment when she reached for a Ruth Rendell book that had my signature on the title page. Since I pass all my Rendells along to my sister, I know whom to thank for the thrill of re-encountering a book I read more than a year ago on the other side of the world. And, since I was thinking of my sister, I used her name at the register to get $1.50 off each book I bought for Kyoko.

This time of year, the waning days of December, I tend to waste an incredible amount of time staring at my bookshelves and trying to calculate how many pages I can reasonably expect to finish before midnight on December 31. I know this sounds nuts, but the thought of starting a book in one calendar year and not finishing it until the next calendar year is inexplicably painful to me. It makes me squirm. It brings bile to my throat (although that might be Jerry's flu). What if I pick a book that demands to be savored? How many pages might I have been able to read in the time I've spent shuffling through my backlog?

Matt has taken advantage of my distraction. Jonathan arrived at Union Station yesterday, lugging his computer. Lest you get the wrong mental picture, I am not talking about a laptop but a full-size PC. While I zoned out in front of the bookcase, Matt and Jonathan moved Matt's computer down two flights of stairs and set up quite a bachelor pad in the basement apartment where they are now engaged in a marathon World of Warcraft session. They promised to spend at least two hours a day visiting monuments and museums with me; the smirk on Matt's face is probably because he knows I won't hold them to the promise until after midnight on December 31.

Actually, She's MORE "Qualified" Than Hillary

One of my best Christmas presents ever was the Jackie Kennedy doll Santa brought me in 1960. If this makes me biased, blame it on Santa Claus. Had he come through with that Barbie in 1962, I might be singing a different tune today. But probably not.

Caroline Kennedy has expressed interest in filling the Senate seat Hillary Rodham Clinton is vacating to become Mr. Obama's Secretary of State. Lots of people are saying that Caroline lacks the qualifications to be a senator. Lots of people apparently need to read the Constitution because the last time I checked -- about five minutes ago -- Article I, Section 3 of the Constitution specified only three qualifications for that office: No Person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty Years, and been nine Years a citizen of the United States, and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State for which he shall be chosen.

When I read somewhere that Hillary herself questioned Caroline's qualifications early on, apparently wanting to add a fourth qualification to the Constitution (No Person shall be a Senator representing New York who did not support Hillary Rodham Clinton's desire to be the democratic party nominee for President), I was alternately puzzled, troubled, and irked. It's not like Hillary was really a New York resident when she was elected senator in November 2000. According to the White House website, she was First Lady from January 1993 until January 2001. If we are all going to turn our heads and shut up about Hillary being a carpetbagger in 2000 and then twiddle our thumbs and whistle while Congress twists a Federal law in order to permit Hillary to accept the office of Secretary of State, which will place her fourth in the presidential line of succession, then I think maybe Hillary needs to be a little more gracious toward Caroline. Come to think of it, most women could stand to be a little more gracious towards other women.

In her foreword to The Best Loved Poems of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (2001), Caroline wrote "One of the greatest gifts my brother and I received from my mother was her love of literature and language" . . . and ". . . the power of ideas, and the ability to express them, is the greatest power we have." Wouldn't it be novel to have someone in the senate who has read something other than a law book and their own press coverage in the past couple of decades?

"I See Why Dad Calls Her Aunt Weirdo . . ."

My social conscience kicked in about three hours after Mike calculated the raise he'll be getting come January 1. "Gosh," sighed the Party Pooper, "do you feel sort of guilty about getting a raise when so many Americans are losing their jobs?"

"Not at all," insisted America's answer to Mma Ramotswe*. "I am not the only American who'll be getting a raise in 2009. What's important is that the people who get raises spend that money to stimulate the economy and keep other people working."

Three minutes later we set off for Bed Bath & Beyond to do our patriotic duty. Because stores that are big boxes in the suburbs are hidden underground in the nation's capital, I get to write a really fun sentence: We bumped into Alan and Maki Ross in the District's bowels. The Rosses left Japan last summer and are now stationed at Camp LeJeune, NC. When Lori Christiansen, another former Yokosukan, offered them the use of her apartment for the holidays, they leaped at the chance to explore D.C. with their two little boys.

Thanks to people like us and the Rosses, those of you who make welcome mats and toilet paper holders can go to bed tonight feeling a little more secure.

* Alexander McCall Smith's fictional Botswanan who believes in sharing good fortune. When Mma has three pennies, she'll hire a girl to clean her house for a penny. When Mma has four pennies, she'll employ a secretary and a cleaning lady. I hope you will all remember this when we run out of pennies to buy toilet paper to store in our fancy new holders.

Voila! Explained

My sister gave me a family heirloom for Christmas. At first I thought it was the poodle skirt my cousin Patty wore on American Bandstand, but it's a quilted Christmas tree skirt. I'm a little sketchy on the details--did Grandma make it? Aunt Chris? Mom (gasp)?--so hopefully Suzi will fill us all in at her earliest opportunity.

Today Mike and I discovered the E Street Cinema, a gem of a movie theater where you can slug down a latte while watching a film that might not appear at your mall multiplex. The address Mike pulled off their website was 555 11th Street so we spent a few blank minutes standing in front of an office building strumming our lower lips before Brilliant Wife said, "Since the name of the theater is E Street Cinema, maybe we should poke our heads around the corner and glance down E Street." Voila! (Voila! is my new, kinder way of saying "Yes, once again I am right and you are wrong.")

Theaters specializing in artsy and foreign films have lots to recommend them besides the beer, wine, and latte at the concession stand. They seem to show about twice as many previews as you see in a "normal" theater and I sure do like my previews. We had a hard time deciding which movie to see today but finally settled on Doubt with Meryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman playing a nun and priest at a Brooklyn parish in the early 1960s. WOW. And that's all I'll say about that until you've had a chance to see it yourself.

Christmas with the Tourists

We spent Christmas afternoon seeing the new Brad Pitt movie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and then walked from Gallery Place to the White House to check out the National Christmas Tree and all the state and territory trees. Lots of other families decided to spend Christmas night strolling around the Ellipse with us and I managed to annoy most of the English-speaking ones by viewing Wyoming through Nevada in reverse alphabetical order.

And, yes, he's a flake. I think he's gazing at the Washington Monument, pretending it's the Star of Bethlehem.

Santa Found G Street

And I found the Peko-chan Christmas plate from Reiko. I am trying not to worry about what the 2008 plate looks like.

Santa brought Matt tickets to a Metallica concert and Katie offered to be his date. This was a bullet I was very happy to dodge.

Merry Christmas!

Robin gets all the credit for finding this Christmas Peko-chan. Maybe Kazumi helped.

Domo Arigatou to Wendy and Kathleen Jr.

This might be the ugliest building in Washington, D.C., but don't let appearances fool you. Inside this building is a gold mine, the mother lode of Smithsonian gift shops. And it's a good thing, too, because if I struck out here I was going to have to venture down to the dreaded National Museum of Natural History and contend with the contents of the eight ominous big yellow school buses parked out front.

I did not merely wrap up (snicker) my holiday shopping in the newly-renovated (not very well, I must say) National Museum of American History, I got a head start on next year's shopping! Just in case that wasn't enough to make my day, I made a new friend! And I wasn't even wearing my Mary Poppins hat! Rudy is a gift shop cashier by day and a guitarist the rest of his waking hours. In the midst of all the holiday hustle and bustle, confronted by a long line of last-minute lunchtime shoppers, Rudy beckoned a colleague to deal with the rabble so he could shoot the breeze with me. We covered guitars, Japan, my children, and his childhood friendships in about 20 minutes then he sent me on my way with his e-mail address and a little stocking stuffer for Matt.

It is finally beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. Most of the gifts are wrapped, Mike left work early and is currently standing in line at the Post Office/FedEx/UPS (depending on where he found a place to park), I've tossed some clean underwear in a bag for Michigan, and tonight we're having dinner with Kevin and Yuko and their daughters, Akira and Niki. You might remember Kevin worked at the hospital in Japan and was Matt's boss when Matt videotaped the high school football team freshman year. Now they live in Beaufort, SC, where Kevin is the Executive Officer (XO) of the Navy hospital. He's in town for meetings and the girls tagged along to see "The Nutcracker" and holiday decorations. I can hardly wait to hear Yuko's and Niki's impressions of their first 18 months in the USA.

Oh, PJ is going to be building a little solar car. Either that or the first one of his friends to host a birthday party in 2009 will be building a little solar car.

Supercalifragilisticexpialadocious or Simply Atrocious?

The weather was delightfully balmy yesterday in our nation's capital. When the mercury reached 67 degrees, I headed to the National Mall with a holiday pin on my lapel and a feather-embellished black velvet toque pulled low on my forehead. Farmers call this making hay while the sun shines; I call it Mary Poppins goes Christmas shopping without her umbrella. The hat, admittedly a horror to my offspring, allows me to further the objectives of The Smile Project while simultaneously burying my nose in a book on the short Metro ride to the Smithsonian stop.

Have I mentioned that Mike and I gained two new stepgrandsons while we were in Japan? The details are still a bit fuzzy since we were recovering from jetlag when Michael sprung the news of his marriage to Heather and their subsequent move to Austin, Texas, with PJ (12) and Gavin (6). There's never a dull moment in the Krentz family. We won't have the pleasure of meeting Heather, PJ, and Gavin until we visit Texas after the first of the year, meaning that I'm quite spun up over selecting Christmas presents for the boys. I don't want to play the game of competing with the other stepgrandparents (the ones who were actually present at the wedding and might have a clue about the boys' interests) but I also dread the possibility of having my name linked to long-term memories of the Worst Christmas Present Ever. Having spent many Christmas mornings in the company of 12-year old boys, I keep reminding myself that well before noon PJ will have forgotten the contents of the package from the mysterious "Grandpa and Kathy." Unless, of course, we give him a lump of coal or pajamas which, I assure you, we would never, ever do.

I lugged two heavy bags of loot home from various Smithsonian gift shops yesterday but, alas, nothing for PJ. Your suggestions would be most welcome. In the next 24 hours if at all possible.

Uplifting is Today's Topic, Says Yoda

This little vignette might look vaguely familiar to my siblings. My helper didn't realize he was supposed to count the spokes and space the stockings evenly. That's probably because he grew up in Arizona and only encountered staircases the two or three times he visited his grandparents in Upstate New York.

My mother knit four of these five stockings. She knit Christmas stockings to celebrate the births of her 16 grandchildren. How did Mike earn one? Your guess is as good as mine. She was not a mother who believed in filling Christmas stockings for grown children yet she knit a stocking for a 45-year old man. Maybe she just wanted to make sure I would spend a few minutes every December pondering the mysteries of Marcia. If so, it worked.

Many families catch a performance of "The Nutcracker" after they hang their stockings by the chimney with care. Us? We slipped across the Potomac yesterday to see "Next to Normal," a musical about -- are you ready for this? -- mental illness. "What an uplifting holiday topic," murmured my date between acts. Some of the music was too dissonant for me but I appreciated the acting and resonated with the playwright's take on mental illness. You can interpret "resonated" however you like.

As long as we're on the subject of mental illness, I believe I have an obligation to inform the public that I might very well have discovered a new cure for depression. It goes like this: 1) Post "OFFER: Western Digital External Hard Drive" on your local freecycle website, 2) blink once, and 3) bask in the glow of friendship that will immediately wash over you. I made 15 new bosom buddies in 45 seconds last night and another dozen by the time I crawled out of bed this morning. Just imagine the response I'll get when I advertise the computer printer.

Christmas Crafting Could Be Contagious

Matt's reindeer ornament featuring his five-year old handprint sent me into another 12-hour reverie. Thanks to a score of extremely clever teachers scattered up and down the Eastern Seaboard and Gulf Coast our Christmas tree is festooned with lightbulb snowmen, popsicle stick stars shedding glitter like a bad case of dandruff, and pictures framed in peanut butter jar lids. Credit for the styrofoam orb purloined from the Jackson Country Club tree in 1973, my oldest ornament, goes to a light-fingered friend who was my classmate from first grade through college. Our tree, needless to say, reeks of nostalgia. You won't see it on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens anytime soon and that's fine by me.

Crafts have come a long way in the past decade judging from a recent post on Memoirs of a Gaijin (link at right) where Diane reveals a reindeer banner she made using Sydney's and Miranda's footprints for the reindeer faces and their little handprints for antlers. Her creativity left me so humbled and inspired that I bought two quilting magazines and have vowed to absolutely, positively make a tree skirt in 2009. You can all start the side bets now.

An Anpanman for All Seasons

Reiko made this felt Anpanman ornament and presented it to me during our final "class" in early July. This was the first ornament I hung on our Christmas tree and then I took a 12-hour break to reflect on all my happy memories of Reiko. At this rate I should finish decorating the tree by Mother's Day.

Mailing packages has turned out to be the most complicated aspect of our Adventure in Urban Living. The post office that serves 150,000 citizens and illegal immigrants in SE D.C. does not seem to have a parking lot so I am alternately cajoling and nagging Mike and Matt into accompanying me on umpteen Metro trips to get these packages in the mail. We are going to economize on postage this year by personally delivering most of the Michigan packages during a whirlwind roadtrip next weekend. One of our many rewards for driving 12 hours through probably inclement weather will be catching Sandy's performance in the Holiday Cabaret, "It's Beginning to Sound a Lot Like Christmas."

Matt is so keen on seeing his Aunt Sandy perform that he's agreed to begin his Christmas break a day early. Now that's a dedicated nephew!

Docents Do It for Deep Discounts

A surprising number of Smithsonian docents are foreign-born. Some volunteer because they want to practice their English, others simply love American history (and seem to know a lot more of it than most of us natives). The Tuesday school tour docent, a Chinese lady, has been visiting family and friends in Beijing since before Thanksgiving so Jeff asked me to cover her tour today.

Third-graders, at least Episcopal ones, sure ask tough questions. This group was keenly interested in hatchets so I'd like to thank my brothers for forcing me to watch seven gadzillion Westerns between 1957 and 1970. These tykes also wondered how many routes existed between New York and Boston 300 years ago. "Not too many," the docent responded lamely while trying to look astute. Perhaps I'm not cut out for this after all.

But then I wandered into the museum gift shop to do a little Christmas shopping on my way back to Union Station (this will surely elicit groans from everyone on my Christmas list). The cashier informed me that my Smithsonian ID entitles me to a 20 percent discount in every Smithsonian gift shop. And there's no sales tax. Hmmmmm. This is an even better deal than the Navy Exchange. Remind me to wear my ID the next time you visit. Until then, I'll be reading up on New England trails circa 1725 so I can feel I actually deserve this perk.

This is one of the many wreaths decorating the main lobby in Union Station. I'm still trying to locate the one that goes on our front door.

I Want to Thank the Academy, My Mother . . .

Katie received an award at the Kimley-Horn holiday party Friday night, proving (to her mother at least) that engineers are a discerning crowd. Meanwhile, the parental units were hobnobbing with about a dozen O'Connell High School teachers and parents at a really neat historic house on Capitol Hill. We have no idea how we merited the invite, but neither did any of the other guests and I was not about to miss an opportunity to model my new snowman sweater. The school president turned out to be less perceptive than the Kimley-Horn engineers. He mistook me for an actress. "Well, you've missed your calling," he declared. "Your voice, your facial expressions, and your vitality all suggest the stage."

Oh, wait. Maybe he was perceptive. Because two glasses of wine later I think I volunteered to spend one afternoon a week typing in the president's office. I intend to be the most dramatic typist ever to grace O'Connell's halls.

WWII Memorial Fountain or Richard Gere's Hair Plugs: You Decide

This was going to be about a quaint little bookstore, Trover Shop, I wandered into on my walk home from the hair salon Wednesday afternoon, about how I want to do my small part to help keep independent bookstores afloat in this troubled economy. But on my way to the computer this morning I stumbled into the kitchen, poured coffee into my Hiroshima mug, and unrolled The Washington Post. Because it's December and Santa might be watching, I virtuously postponed blogging, set aside the Post's Holiday Movie Guide, and tackled the front section of the paper.

From the top:

• Lawmakers Still Not Sold on Auto Rescue (uh-oh)


• Retailers Post Worst November Sales in More than 30 Years (don't blame me)


• Strapped Schools May Boost Class Sizes (from 20 to 22.5 students; I'm trying hard to care but there were 50-53 kids in my class from first grade through eighth and look how well I turned out; Dear Lord, I'm starting to sound like those old people in Northern Florida who wouldn't allow fluoride in the water)


• Methodist Church Gets Busted for Selling Christmas Trees Before December 5 (bah humbug to you too)


• Sadr Movement Struggles in Iraq (not sure whether I should feel sadr or hapr about this)

Holy Shiite, that Holiday Movie Guide was increasingly tempting but I splashed more coffee in my cup and turned to Dana Milbanks' "Washington Sketch" column on page three. Milbanks told of the 'ritual humiliation' the automakers were subjected to yesterday by the senate banking committee, which I have decided to cease capitalizing until they earn my respect. (Had I known it was possible for someone with an abrasive personality to get elected to a national office in this country, I would have run for office years ago.) Richard Shelby (R-AL) struck me as particularly petty and mean-spirited, demanding a detailed accounting of how the automakers made the 520-mile trip from Detroit to D.C. -- am I the only one fretting about job security for corporate pilots? -- and Corker (R-TN) sounded like an overweight, insecure fifth grader bullying the brainy nerd kid during recess the way he taunted Chrysler's Nardelli. For just a second there I wondered whether Southern republicans swear some sort of Nasty Oath when they run for office but then the lower-case democrats from Montana and New Jersey played arrogant and testy for their constituents and the media (never necessarily in that order) as well.

According to Milbanks, the automakers "tripped over themselves to be agreeable, answering the senators with cheerful calls of 'Yes, sir' and 'Fine, sir'" and he opines that it "must have been difficult for the . . . CEOs to hold their tongues in this manner -- and to sit obediently as lawmakers who had enough trouble running the country dispensed advice on running their businesses." Chairman Dodd, for instance, suggested GM get back into the business of making buses. When do you suppose was the last time Chris Dodd rode a bus, if ever? In fact, now I'm curious about how all our congressmen get to work every day. Do they take the Metro, or a bus, or walk, or drive? Who pays for their transportation?

Let me see if I have this straight. Congress has approved a $700 billion rescue program for Wall Street banks and insurance companies. The car companies, which support 10 percent of U.S. jobs, are asking to have slightly less than six percent of that $700 billion earmarked to keep the auto industry afloat. Why exactly is congress making the automakers grovel so much more than the bankers and insurers? Please tell me this is not related to corporate campaign contributions.

Oh! I just thought of a way to tie together that quaint little bookstore and my rant on caustic, abrasive congresspersons. While the senate banking committee was busy lashing the car guys, nancy pelosi was signing copies of her book at Trover Shop. Being a (comparatively) kind and gentle person, I'm just going to assume she walked the two blocks from the Capitol.

Guitar Heroines Meet Einstein

They went to museums yesterday and hiked to the Jefferson Memorial then came home to play Guitar Hero and practice multiplication (seriously), so we thought they would want to put off seeing the Lincoln Memorial until today. We thought wrong. They ate jambalaya with chopsticks and then we were off for another moonlight tour of the monuments. Uncle Mike pointed out the Supreme Court and Library of Congress and then he took them across the Potomac River into Virginia, a dizzying experience since he had to go around the traffic circle twice before he could get back across the river.

The statue of Einstein was a big hit as were the Japanese handwarmers once we figured out how to get them to heat up. The Reflecting Pool is absolutely magical at night; from the Lincoln Memorial we could see perfect images of both the Washington Monument and the Capitol.

Today they want to go shopping. I think I'll make them eat mashed potatoes with chopsticks first.

Thompson Girls Ride the Metro

The monuments at night are quite spectacular but on Thanksgiving 2008 they paled in comparison with the Thompson girls. Simply riding the escalator down to the subway was thrilling; Mara made her sisters turn around so she could record the moment for posterity. It's fun to view Washington through a child's eyes.

Today they are going to explore some museums with their mom, Uncle Pete, and Colleen. Tonight Uncle Mike and I get them all to ourselves because Katie is going to take her cousins out on the town. I'm hoping they'll get a chance to sit on Einstein's lap and praying they won't try to sit on Lincoln's. I mean the girls, not the cousins.

Why didn't anyone tell me that Lizzie is a rhyming whiz just like her great-grandmother?

Happy Thanksgiving

I am thankful for family, friends, freecycling (those people will take ANYTHING), mass transit, World War II veterans who sit next to teenage boys on trains, inspirational teachers, creative writers, mail carriers, whoever invented the Internet, book clubs even though I haven't been to one in five months, pastry chefs, and people who create puzzles. I'm happy to be alive at the same time as you.

P.S. Amazon contacted me yesterday. The price of a Rowenta Focus iron has just dropped by almost $15. Apparently sales have skyrocketed in the past week. Is it I, Lord?

Freight Elevators are Uplifting

Don't tell Matt, but he's getting a t-shirt imprinted "Freight Elevators are Uplifting" for Christmas. If he wore an XL or XXL size t-shirt, I might be able to squeeze in a more fitting slogan -- like "I Was Trapped in an Elevator with my Mother and All I Got was This Lousy T-Shirt" -- but if he wore an XL or XXL size we probably would never have been stuck in that elevator in the first place.

We went to the storage locker yesterday to retrieve two mattresses and box springs which, of course, the moving guys had tucked behind 50 boxes of books, 75 pounds of slides (!) belonging to Mike and his dad, several chairs, and a really nifty four-foot tall wire contraption coated with red plastic which I vaguely recall ordering from a garden catalog back when I planned to become a tomato farmer but then we moved, and moved again, and yet again, and now we're here where there's not enough dirt to accommodate a tomato plant. Katie thought the tomato frame was worth a guffaw but was even more thrilled to spot the boogie board collection. Those boards are sure to come in handy when we move to our oceanfront retirement villa in Maui or Malibu.

Mike went off to rent a van once we wrestled the mattresses out of the locker. Katie stood guard over the tomato frame, boogie boards, slides (!), and books while Matt and I went in search of the nifty mattress-moving cart UHaul lets us lessees borrow (you probably won't believe this, but we don't own our own mattress-moving cart although Mike will probably put it on his Amazon Wish List before Christmas rolls around). The cart was on the loading dock, right where it was supposed to be, so we had to use the freight elevator to get it to our lockers which are on the second floor.

By now Matt and I are both well-versed on freight elevator protocol: pull the strap to close the outer door, pull down the mesh door, and push the button for the floor you want. Except the outer door on the first floor elevator is heavy. Incredibly heavy. Heavier than the outer door on the second floor by a long shot. With both of us swinging from that canvas strap like a couple of chimpanzees at the National Zoo, we could not budge that door one centimeter. This went on for quite some time but all our carefully choreographed joint leaps were to no avail.

Hark! Do I hear voices? Three ladies strolling toward the exit spotted our predicament. The young one, the pleasingly plump, helpfully hefty, graciously gigantic lady, offered to assist. She grabbed that strap and the door promptly smashed down hard and fast -- on her finger! I felt so bad. When last I glimpsed her through a small crack in the door, she was waving her hand in the air and hopping from one foot to the other. Thank you so much! Sorrreeee! I sure wish I had thought to get her name and address because I think she might forgive me if I took her a batch of Christmas fudge . . .

A Ham is Born

Maybe I need to spend a little less time reading the Style section of The Washington Post and a little more time scanning the front page. So when exactly did they clear up that Global Warming problem? Jack Frost was nipping at my nose yesterday morning when I sprinted the mere 30 yards from Union Station to “my” museum. Although Yokosuka and the District are in the same latitude, I don’t remember feeling this cold in Japan. It probably has something to do with ‘ocean effect’ but someone else is going to have to research it because I have a bake sale deadline looming and I’m trying to get my butter to soften faster by glaring at it.

Not too many schools schedule field trips around the holidays so yesterday’s tour will probably be my last until 2009. Drat, drat, and another drat because I was just starting to feel comfortable enough to “embellish” the script and now I’ll probably have to learn it all over again in January. And today I came up with a rather winning docent persona, if I do say so myself. There’s no way I could do this as me so I decided to be – drum roll, please – perky and outgoing Shirley MacLaine. On the spur of the moment, I introduced myself as “Mrs. K” and immediately started feeling like a rising new hip-hop star. Then, about five minutes after the tour started and completely unexpectedly, a museum staff member handed me a battery pack and rock concert head microphone in order that a dear little mute, hearing-impaired, wheelchair-bound boy could listen to me through special headphones.

That’s when I morphed into a strange fusion of Shirley MacLaine and Mick Jagger.

We “stamp, stamp, stamped” across the Ben Franklin foyer when it was time to talk about stamp collecting. I improvised a modified Moonwalk to illustrate how paths became trails became roads as more and more settlers moved west. The only thing missing was a catchy ditty we could sing as we moved from one activity to the next, so please send your suggestions before I’m compelled to pretend I’m Weird Al Yankovich and start butchering every song Freddie Mercury ever wrote.

I haven't had this much fun since the last karaoke night in Japan.

Lack of Focus No Longer an Excuse

Just before we left Japan a six-inch bamboo skewer impaled itself in my vacuum hose. Plan A called for duct tape and Plan B had me replacing the vacuum but neither plan was executed because the hose miraculously repaired itself during its long journey to D.C. Scientific types would probably chalk this up to temperatures in the cargo hold rising just enough to cause the soft plastic to expand and reunite. Since I'm not a scientific type, I'm crediting my charmed existence and the fact that I own the the vacuum recommended by Real Simple magazine, a Eureka Boss.

Forget those pricey Dysons and Mieles when you can get a Eureka Boss for under $160. When it comes to suction, the Boss outperforms every other vacuum I've ever owned and/or used.

(Disclaimer: Since I was not allowed to touch the Electrolux canister model my mother bought when I was in high school, I can't compare that brand to the Eureka. The Electrolux was such an uncharacteristic splurge for Mom that she claimed sole operator rights. I do believe I succeeded in keeping the grin off my face when she issued that decree, one of the two Marcia Mandates I was not the least bit tempted to break. "What do you mean I'm not allowed to vacuum anymore? Gee whiz, Mom, you're so mean!")

Take some of that money you saved buying a Eureka and invest it in a good iron. A Rowenta Focus, for example. I used my new Focus this morning for the first time and was absolutely amazed with the results. Ooh-la-la, the steam! One quick pass over Matt's white oxford school shirt and -- poof! -- every wrinkle disappeared. Some consumers are enamored with this iron's steam output and professional-looking results but complain that the Focus is thirstier than other irons. Well, duh. Steam = water + heat. I don't mind refilling that large water reservoir after ironing four shirts since the overall time I'm spending at the ironing board has been cut in half. And if I dance or skip between the ironing board and the sink, the entire endeavor can go in the exercise column. That's called multitasking.

The Focus has a proboscis like Nefertiti, great for nosing into little corners and crevices (although it beats me why you would take the time to iron around buttons unless you're planning to wear your shirt unbuttoned). You can pay more for a Rowenta (the Focus is a mid-range model retailing for about $70) but why bother unless you're planning to start your own ironing business?

Entries like this are what happens when someone rediscovers housework after taking a few years off. Writing about it is sure a lot more fun than doing it.

My Favorite Non-Canine

Can I truly have a dog phobia when I'm not the least bit afraid of Mel? Certainly. Most people who know Mel snicker when they hear him referred to as a dog. He is that precocious, inquisitive, well-behaved only child who sat behind you in third grade and was happy to share his Twinkies with you. When I spend the night at Mel's house, I'm not afraid he'll attack me if I need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. That's high praise and always a huge relief (in every sense of the word).

We experienced our first snow flurries this afternoon just after I wrapped up another gig at the National Postal Museum and while Matt was running laps around the Bishop O'Connell track. Mike completely missed the excitement because his nose was glued to the grindstone as usual.

I'm cracking open a book Katie gave me a while back, Julie and Julia, about a girl who spends a year making all the recipes in a Julia Child cookbook. If I pace myself correctly, this ought to put me in the proper mood to create a memorable Thanksgiving dinner this year. Pete and Colleen are coming from Baltimore and we're also expecting my niece Ann (Pete's sister) with her four girls. Exciting times!

Sunday at the Newseum

This is what Jerry and Cathy look like when they're having fun. We were standing on the Newseum's sixth floor Pennsylvania Avenue Terrace when I snapped this picture, thinking it would make a great Christmas card. No, no, no on the ho, ho, ho. In their defense, the wind-chill factor on that terrace felt like -15 degrees.

The Newseum opened this past April to rave reviews and lives up to all the hype. Matt liked it as much as I, meaning we worked our way down from Level 6 at a snail's pace and I'm going to have to go back to get my fill of the exhibits on the lower levels, like "G-Men and Journalists: Top News Stories of the FBI's First Century" and the Pulitzer Prize Photographs Gallery. The Berlin Wall Gallery and 9/11 Gallery moved me to tears but Matt and I dawdled the longest in the News History Gallery where we laughed at video clips spoofing the news (from the first season of Saturday Night Live through recent episodes of The Colbert Report).

The Newseum is not affiliated with the Smithsonian so there is an admission charge. Next time I'm going to shell out an extra $5 so I can try reading the news in front of a live camera.

Monarch Visits Maryland

The Secretary of Defense and Secretary of State supervised the coin toss before the opening kick-off of the Navy-Notre Dame game at M & T Stadium in Baltimore. You can't pick them out in this picture -- Mr. Gates is distinguished by a mop of white hair and Ms. Rice is in a red suit -- but I captured the coin toss anyway so Mike would know what he missed. Because he and about 50,000 other fan/motorists were still looking for parking spots while the Midshipmen were singing the National Anthem.

Why were all those fans running late? One reason is they were forced to form a single lane about five miles west of Baltimore to let a black sedan and three shiny black SUVs speed past in the far left lane. I hate to jump to conclusions so maybe Ms. Rice and/or Mr. Gates were not passengers in that black sedan and maybe the guy sticking his head out one of the SUV windows (the guy with a shaved head and wire snaking out of his ear) was merely impersonating a Secret Service agent.

Public servants in a democracy would surely not presume to inconvenience their fellow citizens, their titular masters in fact, in this manner. Public servants would never, ever ignore a speed limit unless they were rushing to the hospital in a medical emergency. Public servants would welcome the opportunity to stand in long lines like the rest of us to be frisked by other public servants for the pleasure of watching a college football game.

Still, I can't help wondering who was riding in that black sedan. Was the Queen of England running late for the noon dolphin show at the National Aquarium perhaps?

Soaring on Docent Wings

We've had a Smithsonian kind of week here. Mike ran (literally) home from work Wednesday at the unprecedented hour of 5pm to escort me to a volunteer appreciation party at the National Postal Museum. The theme was "Latin Jazz" to celebrate a stamp by the same name, the food was incredible, and the cavernous Old Post Office reverberated with foot-tapping melodies played by the Music Teaching Project, a teacher-student ensemble.

Thursday I conducted my first full tour for 10 Maryland second graders with Allison observing. Jeff was going to observe me Friday but Allison decided I was ready to solo so, less than 24 hours later, I was showing 20 second graders from Woodbridge, Virginia how mail delivery has evolved over the past 300 years. They were a participatory bunch, which is great (and might be even greater if I could manage to hear anything they said), and extraordinarily well-behaved, my standards in that regard leaning toward the realistic.

Conducting a tour filled with me with such buoyant goodwill that I positively beamed all the way from Union Station to L'Enfant Plaza where I fetched my official Smithsonian ID card. You don't see too many people positively beaming in D.C. -- I guess everyone besides me is weighted down with such pressing issues as what Barack Obama ate for breakfast this morning or where his daughters will attend school -- so most people just averted their eyes the way we do when a crazy person in our Metro car starts hollering to herself (this has only happened once, Jimmy). Being treated like a crazy person irked me so I decided to make a game of getting other people to smile. I love your umbrella! What cute shoes! What's that H on your baseball cap stand for? The cap was his prize for winning a trivia contest at Hooters. This conversation could have gone in one of two directions, trivia contests or Hooters, and for once I chose the higher path and we had a pleasant, 10-minute conversation about trivia contests and his work as a music educator.

Not counting the second graders, I think I made about 10 people smile Friday. This might turn out to be my new thing: The Smile Project.

Tombstone Tales

Here's an idea that should earn a standing ovation from historians and genealogists: a family tree on the back of a tombstone. Is this clever or what?

Jerry, Dave, and I spotted this tombstone when we were wandering around the Stockbridge cemetery last month. Just after I took the picture I noticed the names of the decedent's maternal great-grandparents in the lower right corner. Aaron Moeckel, Alvina Artz, Edward Carley, and Eda Walz. My brothers and I might have unwittingly stumbled upon the explanation for how we are distantly related to Odie (Mary Odema) Moeckel. Is Eda Walz the sister of my Grandma Crippen's father?

Filing for Odie was my favorite task when I worked for Dad during high school because she would always put her work aside to chat (I'm sure Dad appreciated that). She was so thrilled when I told her that I was going to name my first daughter after Grandma Sykes, I impulsively promised to name my second daughter after her. After tossing and turning for several days, haunted by visions of the hateful looks my second daughter would surely cast my way, I decided I'd go with Mary Moeckel Whatever, eliminating Odema entirely, and call the kid Kelly.

Since I put so much thought into this but never had a chance to use the name, please feel free.

Speed Dating Jackson-Style

If you think I lack self-control, consider this: I did not use this picture to illustrate yesterday's entry on speed dating. Not that it didn't cross my mind . . .

This is Gillian (Jill) Crowley Peck and Bobby (Booper) Prestler. Jill and I were having lunch in the cafe behind The Lilac Tree, a charming shop in our hometown, when Booper wandered in to use the facilities. Had I thought to switch my camera to movie mode, you might have been able to pick up Jill's "I'll kill you for this." Jill is really good at smiling and gritting her teeth at the same time.

How to describe Booper? We grew up in the same neighborhood and, although he is four years my elder, we were classmates in fourth grade, his eighth and final year in parochial school. After that he briefly attended Hope School along with two other boys from our neighborhood who were also born in 1948. According to my mother, a Scarlet Fever outbreak in 1948 caused mental retardation (the expression used at the time) in Danny and Vic but Bobby had other issues. Some of us diagnosed him as an idiot savant after we saw Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. Bobby deserves credit for at least 200 of my SAT points; he told me more about Hitler's atrocities during a 20-minute monologue (he talked, I nodded) in the A & W parking lot when I was 16 than I subsequently learned in two consecutive college semesters. Currently he's concerned about increased sales of firearms which he links to the mortgage crisis, forecasting a dire future wherein homeowners will take aim at growing hordes of homeless seeking shelter.

There is a soft spot in my heart that belongs to Bobby Prestler. He returns the smallest gesture of kindness a hundredfold. Yes, he can be a pest and maybe my heart would have hardened some by now if I still lived in Jackson and he was showing up on my doorstep every day, but he is the one person besides my family and Jill who can still make Jackson feel like home to me after all these years.

Now I'm off to find a frame for this picture so I can cross Jill off my Christmas list.

Speed Dating for Seasoned Parents

Adjusting to new systems and procedures has always been the hardest thing about changing schools for my three children. Empathizing with them was not a struggle for me since I had my own adjustments to make. Between them, Katie, James and Matt have attended a grand total of 15 different elementary and high schools. Along the way, I've had to master 13 different weekly communication systems, fit into (or at least endure) 13 different Parent-Teacher Organization formats, memorize 13 different ways to spring a child for a dental appointment, and figure out 10 different drop-off/pick-up routines. Why must every school have different procedures? And was it simply a coincidence that the two elementary schools with the simplest and most effective communication systems were the only two schools my children attended that had nuns as principals?

The one thing that's been fairly standard across all the schools is parent-teacher conferences and, thanks to a rogue gene that occasionally craves routine, I actually look forward to these sessions even when the student under discussion is not the one who always without fail managed to turn in her homework. Most schools allocate three or four hours for conferences at the conclusion of each of the first three quarters. The parent schedules a 5-10 minute appointment with the teacher(s), shows up on time, and sits on a little chair outside the classroom door for 20-30 minutes because it is a rare teacher who can move the parents in and out on schedule.

The seasoned parent brings a book to (a) pass the time in the hallway and (b) subliminally impress upon the teacher that the student comes from a family of readers. (Trust me on this, young parents: a book leaves a much better impression than a cellphone or BlackBerry.) Rather than getting frustrated or impatient while sitting in the hallway, the seasoned parent makes a mental note to gently compare the teacher's lack of time management skills with the student's failure to turn in homework on time should push come anywhere near shove. Finally, the seasoned parent never, ever reads any essays by their child and/or his/her classmates that might be posted in the hallways, especially after their child enters junior high.

The above tips will be all for naught if you send your child to Bishop O'Connell High School because the person who invented speed dating apparently went on to design a new parent-teacher conference format Mike and I were delighted to experience the other night. (Little Miss Put-a-Damper-on-Mom's-Enthusiasm tells me the speed dating format is in vogue at other schools these days but I still think I need to spread the word if 12 out of 13 schools are still doing conferences the old way.)

The teachers sat behind desks around the circumferences of two gymnasiums. Parents lined up in front the desks for a turn in the guest chair(s). This was incredibly efficient; if there were already two or three parents waiting to talk with Teacher A, you just ambled over to Teacher B or Teacher C. I was so enamored with the speed dating analogy that I chatted with a dashingly handsome young man who teaches a class Matt will never take. And it seems like a principal might be able to draw some pertinent conclusions by simply strolling through the gym and eyeballing the length of the lines.

Moral Dilemma in Magnolia Bakery

If I remember correctly from fourth grade arithmetic, 12 city blocks make a mile. This means Matt and I covered more than six miles Sunday afternoon when we walked from our hotel on 40th Street to 75th Street and then back past the hotel to catch our train at Penn Station. Our milk of human kindness soured before we reached the first mile marker.

Like metal shavings to a magnet we were drawn to the windows of Magnolia Bakery which occupies a prime corner of the Rockefeller Center at 48th Street and 6th Avenue. Smiling workers were expertly spreading mounds of creamy frosting on cakes stacked three or four layers high and the sun was bouncing radiantly off glass cases crammed with cupcake-size cheesecakes in tempting flavors like key lime, vanilla bean, pumpkin, chocolate marble, and caramel pecan. Matt had his eye on a vat of banana pudding and I was hoping to beat a little kid to the last portion of apple crisp when we pushed open the door.

A twentysomething urchin followed us into the bakery. He had an acoustic guitar slung across his back and the hair on the crown of his head was that striking shade of yellow nature reserves for daffodils in spring and sycamore leaves in autumn. His clever use of his iPod earbud demanded most of our attention because he pulled it out of his ear as he approached us and then spoke into it like he thought it was a microphone. "Can you give me some money? I haven't eaten all day."

Momentarily mesmerized by that imaginary microphone, and flashing through the history of imaginary microphones from broomsticks to hair dryers, I decided to take my cue from Matt, the boy who at the age of nine donated his brand new winter coat to a school clothing drive and at the age of 14 forked over a week's worth of lunch money to help the volleyball team buy new uniforms. Matt also gets most of the credit for my Jaguar Philosophy, to wit: When you're driving a Jaguar with an impressionable kid in the car and the light turns red, you have to give $20 to the raggedy man standing in the median or risk losing your soul. (Note that I am no longer driving a Jaguar, having long since frittered away my gas fund.)

When Matt didn't poke his bony elbow in my ribs in the Magnolia Bakery, I told iPod boy that we hadn't eaten yet either (which was true). Then Matt and I left the bakery without buying anything (drat). But we went back to the bakery after talking ourselves out of feeling guilty about not feeding someone who owns a guitar and iPod.

This pretty much sums up my current thinking about helping people pay mortgages on homes they can't afford.

And I'm a little cranky because that last piece of apple crisp disappeared while we were addressing this moral dilemma.

Vote!

Mike Completes NYC Marathon

Mike finished the New York City Marathon yesterday 10 minutes faster than he finished the Tokyo Marathon earlier this year. Which is why Matt and I didn't see him cross the finish line. We were parked on a bench in Central Park about 200 yards from the final stretch, digesting pretzels and discussing John Lennon and Woody Allen, when Mike sprinted those last few yards. Whoops.

When Mike first ran this marathon back in 1986, there were 20,000 competitors. This year there were 40,000 runners. Since there are only 39,999 cabs in Manhattan, we ended up walking two miles back to our hotel and then sprinted another half mile to Penn Station. The person who complained about the post-race hike was not the person who ran 26.2 miles.

Blast from the Recent Past

Mike and I got spruced up last night and headed to the Japanese Embassy to celebrate Japanese Self-Defense Force Day. We felt very honored to be on the guest list and excited at the prospect of spending a couple of hours in the company of Japanese people. The embassy is on Nebraska Avenue in Tenleytown, a neighborhood in NW D.C. near American University. The nearest subway station is about four blocks from the embassy, allowing us to feel virtuous about getting a little exercise.

The ambassador gave a double-take as we were going through the receiving line when he heard his wife mention my Peko-chan pin, the one Kathleen Jr. found in Seto. The pin, the Anpanman charm dangling from my camera, and my kimono fabric purse were excellent conversation starters unless, of course, I found myself standing next to an Estonian Army officer. Who knew Estonia had an army? Brasil (which I assume is what I heretofore spelled Brazil but will henceforth spell Brasil -- when in Roma, etc.) sent a surprisingly large contingent.

I have frittered away about four hours today, trying to get my Michigan trip thoughts in order. Now that I've taken care of the embassy, I'll get back on task.

The Best Used Book Store Ever

I am blessed with a wonderful extended family. Being able to spend five days in Jackson was a real treat despite the fact that two-year old Teddy, who was born the month after we moved to Japan, ran away whenever I got within 10 feet of him. I took about a hundred pictures and they seem to be fairly evenly divided between relatives and grave stones this trip.

Amy and Matt went to the used book store with me and graciously lugged three heavy bags of mysteries I bought to send to Kyoko. When I was a kid the book store was a gas station frequented by my parents which is why there's a picture of me pumping gas in the ad section of my high school yearbook. I'm pretty sure it's the only ad I sold.

The Assistant Postmaster's Great-Granddaughter

That economic slump I keep reading about in The Washington Post has not yet reached the D.C. suburbs judging from the mall crowds we ran into last weekend when we were stocking up on winter school uniforms for Matt (a full two weeks before he has to start wearing them, no less). Kate momentarily escaped the teeming masses of humanity by crawling into a store window to pose with this pair of political hopefuls.

Do you suppose all those shoppers work for the government or, like me, are supported by someone who does?

I'll ponder this tonight when I'm on the plane bound for Michigan. This morning I'm heading to the National Postal Museum to make my debut as soon as I finish speed-reading A Lucky Dog: Owney, U.S. Rail Mail Mascot. If those first graders hurl tomatoes at me, you'll be the last to know.

Guidelines for Choosing a Rug Cleaner

Josh and Andrew delivered my freshly-cleaned rugs yesterday. This is good news for you because it diverted me, at least momentarily, from researching hospital CEO salaries and trying to get a handle on the wide variance in what people are charged for MRIs and other medical procedures in this country. Is that a collective sigh of relief I hear?

Josh and Andrew work for Ayoub Carpet Service, the company that cleaned eight of our rugs. Josh is handsome, Andrew is cute, and they are both wonderfully personable which is good because otherwise I might be annoyed they forgot to bring the new rug pads I ordered. We're going to have to wait one more week before we unroll the rugs on the first floor and reposition the furniture, but the end is in sight.

"Get rugs cleaned" has been on my To Do List since Katie was a freshman in high school. Between eBay, the charmingly-christened The Dump in Virginia Beach, and fundraising bazaars in Japan, the original two rugs slowly but surely multipled into 10 rugs. The plan has always been to have the rugs professionally cleaned whenever we move but the movers have always been at least one step ahead of me, unrolling the rugs and positioning heavy furniture on top of them while I'm averting a crisis in another part of the house (trying to find toilet paper, probably). This time I stuck with the plan and that's a big reason why it's taking us so much longer than usual to get settled.

For a rookie like me, choosing a rug cleaner was a lot like playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey (without other people mocking your missteps). A company based in the District was my first preference but the ones advertising themselves as D.C. companies in the Yellow Pages are really located in the Maryland and Virginia suburbs, and distant suburbs at that but that's beside the point because all the companies offer free pick up and delivery. I finally settled on Ayoub Carpet Service for some very sound reasons: (a) My parents had good friends named Sam and Thelma Abdou, and Ayoub sort of sounds like Abdou, and maybe their grandparents were friends back in the Old Country, (b) the company is located in Chantilly, Virginia which is one of the most upbeat, bouncy, and danceable city names I've heard in a while (certainly better than Gaithersburg, Maryland which I cannot pronounce while smiling), (c) the company was founded the year I was born, and (d) Linda, the Mi-Mi clone who took my call, acted like she was laughing with rather than at me when I couldn't rattle off the approximate dimensions or provenance of any of the rugs.

The Elephant/Donkey in the Room

When did we start substituting the expression "health care coverage" for "health care"? When the health insurance industry was cobbled together in the mid-1960s, I was preoccupied with the Funky Chicken and getting out of the house in a mini-skirt without my parents noticing. I can remember when the only person on a doctor's payroll was a nurse who doubled as a receptionist. Then, around the time the Beatles split up (Ono, Yoko), doctors were expanding their office spaces to accommodate non-medical personnel trained to decipher the fine print on insurance policies.

I was lucky to land a job with great health insurance, although I only made two claims (Katie and James) in 15 years. I paid out of my own pocket for routine annual check-ups because I didn't see doctors often enough to meet the annual deductible.

James was born with a tiny hole in his heart. This "pre-existing condition" was a problem when I decided to change jobs. The insurance company was required to offer continuing coverage for a certain period of time, say six months or a year, and offered to insure Katie and me for $50/month. Insurance for James would cost me $850/month. This was the same company that had received roughly $9,000 in premiums from my employer while shelling out about $700 for my health care over a decade and a half.

I get peeved when people use "health care" and "health care coverage" interchangeably. If we want affordable health care, maybe we need to start talking about eliminating the middleman.

Just Call Me Precious

We seem to have acquired a Jack-of-all-trades. His name is Larry, he rides a bike, and he likes to weed, mulch, sweep, rake, change tires, and wash cars. We rarely see him during the week or much earlier than 4:00 pm, leading me to believe we are providing his party funds. I'd estimate him to be in his mid-30s.

Larry is a self-starter: he sees a need, fills it, then knocks on the door to see if we might want to pay him "whatever" for his time and effort (and, sometimes, supplies). Whenever this gets a wee bit annoying -- like last Friday night, for instance, when he knocked on the door at 10:00 pm to present us with a scarecrow he had created to add a seasonal touch to our porch -- I pretend I'm a character in an Alexander McCall Smith book, specifically Mma Ramotswe, the Botswanan lady detective who believes one ought to share one's good fortune by providing employment to others.

Matt hasn't read any of the #1 Ladies' Detective Agency books. He hasn't ready anything by Stephen King either, thankfully, or he'd probably be even more creeped out by the late night rapping on the door or the mysterious flat tire that needed changing. (Frankly, Mike and I were a little skeptical about the tire ourselves until the tire store guy informed us the tire had been slowly leaking air for months and no foul play was involved.)

Subculture: The Gestalt of the New Millenium

Matt's meet Saturday was at Bull Run Park, just north of Manassas. Civil War buffs will recall that the Confederate Army favored geographical references when naming battles (Bull Run) while those Yanks named them after the closest population center (Manassas). As for the rest of you? Well, now you know and you can thank me if you're ever a contestant on Jeopardy and this comes up.

This was the first meet Kate's been able to squeeze into her frenetic schedule. Her timing was excellent; we bought a couple of those collapsible chairs on our way home from the last meet and Mike ("The Gent") let her use his. The XC (cross country) "subculture" (Kate's word) is a new experience for us after years of following basketball, soccer, volleyball, and football. The most similar spectating experience that springs to my mind is golf: there's some walking involved, quite a bit of down time, lots of fresh air, and absolutely no reason to engage in conversation with other spectators. Everyone but us seems familiar with all the courses so we just trail along after them to the next vantage point. Baaaa!

Matt was disappointed in his time - a minute slower than last week - but we thought he did terrific considering the heat (Indian Summer, I presume). And he must have been having fun because Mike caught him smiling about two-thirds of the way to the finish line.

My Primitive Phase Catches Up With Me

The UHaul loading dock Friday afternoon was more fun than my last class reunion. We grinned when we watched Mom's cedar chest and our old Liverpool school desk come off the truck; we groaned when we glimpsed that dark oak chest that tries to pass itself off as a desk; we reminded ourselves that we're saving all those books because eventually, someday, maybe, hopefully, we'll get around to transforming the walls of our dining room into a library, like the one we spotted in a magazine sometime in the last Millenium.

I spent four hours on that hot loading dock because Bill tasked me with watching the truck while he, Frankie, and Mike buzzed back and forth between the freight elevator and our storage lockers. Stupidly, I didn't grab my book when I left the house so finding something semi-productive to do was a huge challenge. After strolling around the UHaul lot and carefully reading the travel tips on the sides of 50 trucks and trailers (I can hardly wait to head for Alberta to check out the remote lake where our government attempted to construct an aircraft carrier from wood pulp and water in 1943), I tidied the glove compartment, memorized the map of Virginia, munched on some stale breath mints, and scraped a few millimeters of old parking decals off the rear window. I am never, ever, ever going to leave the house without a book again.

The most interesting thing I found in the glove compartment was an ad for the "Largest Antique Showroom in the Shenandoah Valley." Gosh, just what we need: more old furniture!

Move Over, Helena Bonham Carter!

Sandy is playing Mrs. Lovett, the Angela Lansbury-Patti LuPone-Helena Bonham Carter role, in Sweeney Todd - The Demon Barber of Fleet Street and I am going to catch one of her performances the last weekend of this month. I've been postponing going home until Matt and Mike could go too, but I just can't pass up this opportunity to see and hear the family diva on stage. So I am finally going to meet Teddy and Baby PJ, and catch up on the rest of my Michigan family and friends. And I am hoping to meet Sandy's friend Ann Holt, she of the Book Keeping blog, who happens to be co-directing the play.

I've been having such a miserable day here that, had I not purloined Sandy's picture from Facebook, I planned to borrow a title from Judith Viorst. When I looked Judith Viorst up on Wikipedia to make sure I got the words straight to Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, I found out Judith has coined a number of titles that more or less sum up my day. This embarrassment of riches wiped that frown right off my face for at least 15 seconds:

• Alexander, Who Used to be Rich Last Sunday (ain't that the truth)
  
• Alexander, Who is Not (Do You Hear Me? I Mean It!) Going to Move
  
• I'll Fix Anthony (I can think of at least three names, including Helena Bonham Carter, to insert for Anthony)
  
• If I Were In Charge of the World

That truckload of stuff we stored in Norfolk while we were in Japan? It's going to be delivered tomorrow. If Mike is having a better day than I am, it's going to be delivered straight to a second storage locker without passing our house. Fifty boxes of books, three beds, two sideboards, several bookcases, a hutch, a washer, a dryer, enough lawn and garden equipment to start a nursery business, and a partridge in a pear tree. And this is just the tip of the five pages of inventory.

Whatever I Like is Alike, Right?

The Stamp Stampede tour has three modules: Stamp Collecting, Post Office Jobs, and Transportation. Jeff wants me to present my first module on October 23, the next tour scheduled on a Thursday. Thursday is "my day" at the National Postal Museum. If Jeff knew me better, he would have until October 22 to mention this to me.

Stamp Collecting is the module most docents-in-training choose for their debut. Stamp Collecting involves the concepts of "alike" and "different." Things that are not alike do not a collection make. Easy-breezy, right?

Each child is given a little plastic tub filled with flower, transportation, and people stamps and tasked with making a collection of six stamps. Susie picks flower stamps, Bobby goes for the airplanes, Mary finds six red stamps, and Tommy . . . well, Tommy has a problem. Tommy is stumped. The clock is ticking and Tommy is getting more and more frantic. Clearly Tommy can distinguish between alike and different; there are a half dozen train stamps heaped up next to his collection card. But Tommy also feels a magnetic attraction to a stamp picturing a faded blue face. The clock keeps ticking, Tommy starts hyperventilating, and I find myself wondering how in the world I managed to get promoted to second grade.

Since a docent probably shouldn't whisper "Put the trains on the card and stick that one in your pocket," I'm going to steer clear of Stamp Collecting for my debut and talk about Post Office Jobs instead. How much trouble can I get into passing out 42 giant laminated pennies?

Dream Dinners Rediscovered

My friend Michelle, like many military spouses, worried about having too much time on her hands when the Navy decided to send her husband to Kuwait for a year. Under similar circumstances, I would have been content to subscribe to a few more puzzle magazines and prioritize my reading list so I was bemused when Michelle accepted the spouse club presidency, agreed to lead a Brownie troop, and lined up a part-time job. Who could have imagined that Michelle's job would change my life? For the last six months before we moved to Japan, I drove to a strip mall in Chesapeake at least once a month to toss together 72 servings of some truly memorable entrees at the Dream Dinners franchise.

Dream Dinners offers a different menu every month. Choosing which meals I'll make is almost as much fun as wandering through a college bookstore during exam week to see what books I'll get to read next. I pick the meals and register for a session on-line. When I show up for the session, I work my way through the stations for the meals I've selected. If a recipe calls for chopped tomatoes, there will be a container of pre-chopped tomatoes sitting on the counter right in front of me. It's quite magical.

The fact that ingredients are already chopped appeals to many customers. Others like having someone to clean up the spills and crumbs they leave on the counters. Many enjoy the convivial atmosphere that naturally occurs whenever a dozen or so women (and men) find themselves together in a kitchen. While I like all these things, working against the clock is what keeps me coming back. It's one reason I assemble 72 meals when most people are content to make 36, it's why I clap my hands and strike a victory pose when I toss my last meal on the freezer shelf marked "Kathryn" in under two hours, and it's why I was quite frantic when I realized I was going to be at least 45 minutes late for my initial session at the Lake Ridge franchise last month.

I chose the September 11 session because it was offered in the morning on a weekday. It did not cross my mind that September 11 is AKA 9/11 until long after I and several thousand other drivers were directed off the roads within a three-mile radius of the Pentagon. It did not cross my mind that September 11 is AKA 9/11 until I was running a gauntlet between hundreds of orange cones and spotted four fire engines racing along a parallel street. And when it first crossed my mind that September 11 is AKA 9/11, the next thought that crossed my mind was "Those despicable terrorists have staged another attack and I need to find my way to Matt's school and then we need to grab Katie and head for Michigan." Then I turned on the radio and heard our nation's leaders dedicating a 9/11 memorial at the Pentagon. Oh. I washed myself in a few waves of relief before noticing the road was no longer lined with orange cones and that traffic had lightened considerably. What are they teaching in traffic engineering school these days? If they are going to direct traffic off a major interstate highway, shouldn't they put up signs or wave orange batons to get us back to the highway?

The good news: when I finally found Lake Ridge, I had enough excess adrenaline to assemble 72 meals in one hour and 15 minutes. The bad news: Katie and Mike tell me I won't be able to cross the Potomac River if a terrorist attack occurs. Kate will assume responsibility for Matt, Mike will disappear into one of those places we read about in spy novels, and I . . . well, maybe I should subscribe to a few more puzzle magazines.

Tomorrow I'm going to Dream Dinners for my October session. This is what I'm going to make: Martha Stewart's Pot Roast, Firehouse Three Cheese Pasta and Meatballs, Seafood Cioppino, Salmon and Crab Pinwheels, Diablo Chicken, Tangy Down Home Pork Chops, Classic Chicken and Dumplings, Chicken Mirabella, Canadian Bacon Stuffed French Bread, and Buffalo Chicken. Feel free to stop by for dinner whenever you're in the neighborhood.