Sally Would Never Complain and That's Why God Made Me

Some people stick two fingers down their throat when they want to throw up, but all I have to do is let two words float through my head: Executive Medicine.

Executive Medicine is a euphemism for “all men are not created equal when it comes to military health care.” Executive Medicine is based on the horribly misguided and un-American notion that the people who send our children, our brothers and sisters, and our friends to fight wars in Afghanistan and Iraq should not have to jump through the same hoops as the rest of us to access the health care system.

Executive Medicine says “Hey Dick, your time is more precious than Sally’s so we’ll send you to the head of the line at her expense.” Executive Medicine overlooks the fact that Sally’s husband is in Iraq for 14 months, that she endured 45 minutes on hold and then waited six weeks for her appointment, that she might be taking time off her low-paying job to see the doctor, and that every 30 minutes she spends waiting for her prescription is costing her $5 in babysitting fees. Oh, I almost forgot, Sally also pays for the cell phone she’s using to let the babysitter know when to expect her. Dick didn’t make his own appointment, doesn’t have to use any of his leave time to see a doctor during the business day, and is murmuring into an electronic gadget provided by Sally and other taxpayers.

Executive Medicine says “By the way, Dick, we hope you’ll remember how special we made you feel the next time the military health care budget crosses your desk at the Pentagon or on Capitol Hill.” This is the only rationale for Executive Medicine I have ever heard. It brings tears to my eyes.

An escort is assigned to help Dick find his way around the hospital. The escort presses a “VIP” buzzer when they get to the lab or pharmacy to obtain immediate attention. So what’s to stop Dick from concluding that military medicine has more than adequate resources? Yet wouldn’t any public servant worth his or her salt recoil in horror at the sight of one of those VIP buzzers? Wouldn’t Dick want to sit anonymously in the pharmacy waiting area and strike up fact-seeking conversations with the military personnel and family members around him? And really, if Dick’s office is on Capitol Hill rather than in the Pentagon, wouldn’t he want to apologize for using the military health care system in the first place when the taxpayers have provided him with the finest health care coverage money can buy?

Stuck in a Kafka Novel

Had the sun been shining, this could have been a really nice picture. Had I remembered to take the good camera, this could have been a really great picture. But, hey, it's a picture. (Note the positive attitude)

The electricity wasn't working when I got home from seeing Eileen off at Union Station this afternoon. Someone switched off the main breaker outside our house for the second time in a week. Neighbor Bob chalked it up to adolescent hijinks and said we should invest in a couple of padlocks. Well, okay, but I wouldn't mind catching the culprit(s) in action; I sure could use some help reprogramming all the appliances when the electricity comes back on, plus I would like to personally thank them for clowning around in broad daylight rather than after dark. Ha, ha. (Note the positive attitude)

Monday is garbage and recycling day in our neighborhood. Last night I was sitting on the front porch swatting mosquitoes at 10pm when a neighbor I have not yet met sauntered down the street. He stopped in front of the house next door long enough to toss a trash bag into Bob's garbage can, then he skipped over to the curb and planted another trash bag on top of one of our recycling bins. He didn't see me - there was a pillar blocking his line of sight - and I could not resist clearing my throat as he turned toward his gate. His head whipped around so fast I think he might have sprained his neck if such a thing is possible. Then he vanished like Road Runner sans the "beep, beep." This strikes me as very odd but Mike thinks it's great the man appropriately separates his trash and his recyclables. Well, of COURSE Mike is going to say that because he's hoping to avoid being my Sunday night stakeout partner as the weather turns colder and colder . . .

Mourning Paul Newman

Look what we saw parked on the National Mall Saturday! We heard Francine Prose and Neil Gaiman read excerpts from their new books, saw Salman Rushdie who is -- miraculously? -- still alive, waded through several hundred mud puddles, and missed seeing Dionne Warwick because the State Pavilion was quite diverting. Michigan was plugging 50 rather dull sounding books, along the lines of "The History of the Internal Combusion Engine," but state pride motivated me to pick up all the freebies before slipping over to the Massachusetts table which was offering intriguing information about Louisa May Alcott's house. Of all the authors I heard speak, Alexander McCall Smith was by far the most charming and, yes, he wore his kilt.

Eileen had never been inside the Library of Congress and I don't think she was disappointed. We took the southerly route around the Capitol Building to get there and stumbled upon a dozen or so "globes on parade" between the Capitol and the National Botanical Garden. Similar globes, promoting better stewardship of our planet, were displayed in Chicago last year, I believe. I wish some enterprising soul would turn these globes into cell phone charms and if they could do it before Christmas that would be even better.

While Eileen and I were wandering around the National Mall, Matt and Mike were picking up their race packets for the Navy 5-Miler they ran Sunday morning. Matt finished about 20 minutes ahead of his very proud father and they now own matching long-sleeved yellow-orange t-shirts. This was the first of what I hope will be many father-son runs.

Our First Guest

Eileen will be here in a few hours and our house is still in a shambles. She's taking the train from Newport News and I'm going to meet her at Union Station. Maybe, if I take her to lunch and convince her to drink eight or so martinis, she won't notice all the stuff spilling out of half-unpacked boxes until she wakes up tomorrow morning.

Eileen will be here in a few hours so this was not the best time for me to post a couple of offers on FreecycleDC. I was not expecting such a deluge of instant gratification. My peevish bone is really aching, too. There sure are a lot of Federal employees who apparently have nothing better to do on a rainy Friday morning than monitor Freecycle. The higher-paid bureaucrats are probably busy placing eBay bids. Meow.

Eileen is a member of my Tidewater book club. I met her in 2001 and she endeared herself to me by introducing me to Donna Leon's mystery series set in Venice. Then, during a lively book discussion shortly before we moved to Japan, I learned Eileen is a former Navy nurse who used to be good friends with a nurse who worked with Mike in Bethesda. Eileen's old pal is now working with Mike at BuMed so I am effecting a little 20-year reunion in conjunction with the National Book Festival, the ostensible reason for Eileen's visit.

But that is not all. Eileen sent me an e-mail after reading my blog last spring. Tell me more about this Mi-Mi, she commanded. Did Mi-Mi ever live in Virginia Beach? Did Mi-Mi have a son by the name of Andrew? Yes on both counts. According to Mi-Mi, Eileen was the first neighbor to appear on her doorstep the morning after she got back from Paraguay with her newly-adopted son 15 years ago.

Don't you just love this "small world" stuff? It is such a welcome distraction from the tedium of unpacking.

That's the Library of Congress in the photo above. The Library of Congress sponsors the National Book Festival. I've been waiting for an excuse to post this picture.

Jill is a Grandmother!

No, I have not bought colored construction paper for that student teacher . . . yet. I've been too busy reading my thrice-a-day Freecycle "Daily Digests" and wondering what the backstory is on "Joe near RFK Stadium." Has he been methodically clearing out his house before his estranged wife returns from a business trip? He's been offering a wide assortment of items, like computers and a DeLonghi espresso maker, that must be picked up by today.

I've also been knocking off books by authors who are scheduled to speak at the Library of Congress's National Book Festival tomorrow. Kate gave a huge assist to this project by asking me to meet the cable and internet installer at her apartment yesterday. He jiggled connections while I turned pages. At the end of six hours, Kate still wasn't connected to the internet but I was accomplishment personified.

I might have worked through a second book had the installer not distracted me by whipping out his cellphone and chattering in Spanish about four hours into the project. I imagined his side of the conversation went something like this: Hey, Jose! Come on over to Monroe Street and bring your truck. We'll waste this foxy old lady then steal a sofa bed and hundreds of books. Much to my surprise, I might be an okay mother after all because I was actually glad to be dying in Katie's stead and concerned about all the time and money she'd have to invest in therapy to deal with this tragedy. Be glad you're not me.

Tonight Mike and I stuffed two bags of clothing and shoes into the yellow Planet Earth bins I found on the corner of I and 11th streets. Being in a car in the middle of the week made us so giddy we decided to fill the car trunk with groceries before returning home. Had I known our cart would be riding an escalator to get to the parking lot, I would have run down the stairs and lined up my shot before Mike pushed the cart through the gates. And I would have used the camera's flash feature.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, my friend Jill and her husband Dave were becoming grandparents. Henry David (I plan to call him "Thoreau") looks like his father and grandfather to me. Now I have three boys to meet when I go to Michigan. I hope they don't expect me to part with any of my Anpanman stuff . . .

OFFERED: Nike Golf Shoe Bag, Brand New

Katie started a blog! I'll share the link when/if she writes her second entry.

Yesterday I joined FreecycleDC and ReUseIt!DC. Both are online communities that seek to keep stuff out of landfills by connecting people who have too much stuff with people who need stuff. My first daily digest included ads like these:

WANTED: colored construction paper (posted by a student teacher)

OFFERED: Bindery Machine

OFFERED: olive green couch

TAKEN: Bindery Machine

The challenge for me, of course, will be restraining myself from racing to CVS to buy construction paper for that student teacher . . .

Mom's in the Basement, All's Right with the World

Someone locked me out of the house last night. I was sitting on the back deck, feverishly solving word arithmetic problems to keep my mind razor sharp, when the men in my life decided to call it a night. One of them stuck his head out the kitchen door to bid me good night and then proceeded to batten down the hatches, somehow forgetting I was still outside. An hour or so elapsed before I got to the last page of the current issue of Math and Logic Problems and placed my hand on a doorknob that would not turn. With the back doors of four neighboring houses within 15 feet of ours, and not quite sure whether it was 9:00 pm or 2:00 am, I didn't think I should pound on the door with the full force of my fury. So I tapped politely yet steadily (think Woody Woodpecker on Valium) and the only response I got was from CC the Cat who shifted the blind just enough to peer out at me. "Go get Daddy!" I hissed. "You must be kidding," her expression replied. "Why should I help you when you left me in that dark basement for two weeks while you unpacked boxes up here?"

It's been 39 years since the last time I was locked out of a house in the dead of night but all those creepy night sounds and thoughts came rushing back like high school friends at a class reunion. Why is it I can't remember the plot or characters in books I read last month but all the horrible details of Vince Bugliosi's Helter Skelter return in technicolor detail when a locked door separates me from loved ones after midnight? I was feeling serious empathy with Roman Polanski by the time I finally nodded off. When 5:30 am rolled around and Mike found me curled up on the basement couch, I was so relieved to find him alive and in one piece that I didn't have the heart to lay a guilt trip on him.

I think I'll go solve a logic puzzle now to boost my dwindling self-esteem.

Volunteering is Rewarding

Docent training was today. For six hours minus an hour for lunch. But someone had to eat her lunch in 18 minutes because she got a little carried away with the morning assignment and had to read every soldier's letter in the World War II Victory Mail exhibit which was right next to an exhibit showing how machine-made envelopes transformed 19th Century American communications and so on and so forth.

About half the other docents are what you would probably refer to as stamp collectors but, as of a few hours ago, I call them philatelists (fah-LAH-telists). My first impressions of philatelists are (1) they tend to be male, (2) they are my age or older, and (3) they would probably be called gamers had they been born 40 years later. The sort of fun, brainy guys I wouldn't have dreamed of dating in high school but made darn sure were my partners for major projects. Come to think of it, I'm sort of surprised I haven't stumbled across a stamp collection in one of Mike's old trunks.

A really nice thing happened a couple of days ago. I've hesitated to mention it because it's not the "Sykes way." But then I decided it was never the "Sykes way" to mention stuff like this because Mom relished mentioning these things on our behalf. And she's not here to do it for me, so here goes: The National Military Family Association has given me an Award of Merit. There are two neat aspects to the award: 1) a very busy person at the hospital in Yokosuka cared enough to nominate me, and 2) the award includes a $100 commissary gift certificate which I'm going to use to brighten the day of a young family struggling to get by while their corpsman is in Afghanistan or Iraq.

If you've been thinking of doing something about Juvenile Diabetes but just haven't gotten around to it yet, please follow the link on my web page. That's something I intend to do now that we've sorted out Matt's tuition, books, and uniforms.

It's Always Something

Someone knocked on my door just before noon yesterday while I was balancing precariously on a kitchen stool, trying to slide every star-shaped thing I own onto the top shelf and regretting not squeezing them into the "Patriotic Party" box before it went to the storage locker. I was wearing a nightshirt tucked into a pair of gym shorts because my motto yesterday was "Hop Out of Bed and Finish the Kitchen." My motto today is "Get Dressed Before You Go Downstairs."

A reporter and cameraman from Channel 7 News were on my front porch. They wondered if I was the person who called the police when someone was assaulted at the Metro station Sunday night. Someone was assaulted? At the Metro station next to my house? We didn't hear a thing (Matt was probably playing Aerosmith on Guitar Hero) and I'm grateful for that. Mike and the kids would be mortified if I appeared on TV in my red nightshirt with uncombed hair.

Since I'm a quick learner, I was looking rather fetching -- wearing a skirt even -- when I came upon a fire at the corner of 10th and G on my way home from assembing FamilyLine packets at the Navy Yard this morning. Yet that reporter and her sidekick were nowhere to be seen. There wasn't any smoke either which seems odd, doesn't it? There were at least six fire trucks but no smoke. Not a puff, not a tendril, nothing.

I'm hoping I won't miss any excitement while we're in Arlington tonight for parents' night at the high school. Mike and I have grown perversely fond of this particular school tradition over the years. We like meeting Matt's teachers, of course, and there's a little sport in seeing how many of them immediately connect us with Matt and then wondering whether that's good or bad. But the real draw is the other parents, especially the ones who ask so many inane questions one has to wonder exactly who is doing the homework at their house.

Yankee Ground Crew Rejoices Over New Student Docent-in-Training

That was fun. About 15 four-year olds and I slung mail bags over our shoulders and marched (literally, except for one little soulmate of mine who just had to skip) around the museum behind Jeff. We picked up little letters from the big blue box next to the mail truck, postcards from the airplane section, and packages inside the boxcar. Then we took turns emptying the contents of our bags into another mail box and applauding each other. Jeff reminds me of the original Steve on Blue's Clues, Allison reads Kate Atkinson, and the security guard high-fived me when I exited the interview. The National Postal Museum looks to be a good fit for me. An unexpected bonus is the little stamp store next to the escalator where I picked up two Frank Sinatra sheets. And I'll have a great excuse to check out the Union Station shops and food court on a weekly basis. And - I can't believe I haven't mentioned this until now - I'll get to memorize scripts, just like Sandy, for the first time since I birthdayed over the Jackson Children's Theater age limit.

On the slim chance that Sandy isn't the only reader wondering about "Wishful Drinking," Carrie Fisher was witty, warm, charming, and funny in a pleasantly droll way. She reminded me a lot of my old friend Maribeth, or a brunette version of my newer friend Robin. Slightly outrageous, I mean. I especially liked the voice she used when imitating her Texas grandmother and the blackboard bit when she took us through the marriage history of her mother, father, and Elizabeth Taylor, advising younger members of the audience to just think "Jennifer, Brad, and Angelina." The Princess Leia and Paul Simon references were chuckle fests for me as well. Most of the other season ticket holders looked to be 15-20 years my senior (although I might be deluding myself, as is my wont) and being surrounded by all that grey hair was rather heartwarming.

Allison and Jeff Don't Know What They're In For

Mike finally uploaded his pictures from our New York City trip. Of the 100 or so pictures he took, 90 are close-ups of Yankee players swinging at pitches. Sigh.

The air is refreshingly nippy this morning. Fall is coming and not a moment too soon for me since my summer wardrobe has been deposited in a storage locker on South Capitol Street. I'm shaking the wrinkles from my trusty black blazer this morning and heading over to the National Postal Museum to watch Jeff give a tour to a preschool group. Then Allison and Jeff are going to put me through an "informal interview." All this because I raised my hand when the museum was looking for volunteers. I envisioned myself sitting behind a counter in my trusty black blazer a couple mornings a month, handing out brochures and pointing languidly in the direction of the Pony Express exhibit, so the fact they want me to tag along on a toddler tour is a bit unsettling. You don't suppose one is expected to show up for an "informal interview" with resume and college transcript in hand, do you? Whatever happened to the "warm body" approach to volunteerism?

This will be my first interview in 20 years. Actually, I can't remember participating in more than two interviews before that. Maybe my mind is just blanking out bad experiences but usually my mind isn't that cooperative.

Did You Bring Any Dry Clothes for Me?

It was a dark and stormy night. The race was delayed for 90 minutes while lightning shot down from the skies and puddles formed on ground where Civil War soldiers once trudged. Mud-splattered Matt came out of those woods a whole lot sooner and moving a lot faster than we expected; he was right in the middle of the pack which is where I'd want to be if I was running through the woods after dark. In my action shots he looks like Disney's Headless Horseman, all disconnected pointy limbs and a wavering singlet, so next time we'll take Mike's good camera. And books to read during the 90-minute delay so we don't have to resort to a three-week old newspaper (if there's anything you want to know about Barack Obama's mother, let us know).

Sixty (60) schools competed in the Brentsville Relays, south of Manassas and halfway to West Virginia. The coach's directions got us to the meet but seemed circuitous so we decided to blaze a new trail on the way home. Our adventure took us across a pretty scary one-lane bridge and into an even scarier Burger King where the other customers were straight out of Deliverance, and I don't mean the Burt Reynolds character. Mike had to stay up way past his bedtime to see Matt run, and we all had to skip a Hail and Farewell party in Bethesda, but watching Matt splash through those mud puddles was definitely worth it.

I bought two season subscriptions to Arena Stage, a great theater company located not far from us in SW D.C. Just my luck, Arena Stage is closed for renovations and won't reopen for two years, probably the day after we move to Mike's next duty station. The interim performances will be staged in NE D.C. and Arlington. Today Katie and I are going to see Carrie Fisher in Wishful Drinking at the Lincoln Theater on U Street and next week I'm taking Mike to see Resurrection. Now I just have to finish unpacking so I'll deserve all these rewards.

Alley Cats of the World, Unite!

Breaking news from the National Capital Area today: the problems of world hunger and school violence have been solved; poverty and illiteracy have been eradicated; quality health care is available to all; and we have achieved Peace on Earth. At least I deduced this to be the case when I was accosted on a suburban street corner this afternoon by Frank the Feral Cat and his/her pals, passionate advocates of alley cat rights. Hiroko, adoptive mother of a stray cat, took a brochure. I just took a picture (and hope Diane will mention this to "Mr. Green" so I can get credit for my ecological sensitivity).

Hiroko, you might recall, played a starring role in easing my transition to Japan and she delivered chicken soup to my door when I was bedridden for two weeks in April 2007. Now that her husband is stationed in Bethesda, I have the chance to return at least a few of her favors. She was brandishing an Anpanman fan (which I promptly appropriated for my collection) when she came up the Metro escalator with her new friend Aya, a delightful young military spouse from Okinawa who shares her maiden name with that "wax on, wax off" character in Karate Kid.

Hiroko and her husband arrived in Maryland in June. Two weeks later they had to make one of those sad and hasty journeys back to Japan for her father's funeral. Today she shared some pictures of her father and a book featuring a chapter about his accomplishments, including the invention of stereophonic television. Spending a few hours with Hiroko and Aya was a welcome break from unpacking. Tomorrow I'll get back on task.

Guest Poem

Just to prove I'm not a total idiot, here is a picture of our refrigerator. Switching the door hinges is not an option. I've toyed with the idea of turning the refrigerator upside down but then the nifty water and ice option wouldn't work. This is not the sort of refrigerator I would ever buy for myself; I'm not a side-by-side person.

Unpacking would go a lot quicker if Mike and I didn't both feel compelled to read every scrap of paper we've accumulated over the years. Every now and then we stumble across a gem, like this poem Matt wrote in sixth grade. I'm posting it today to give you something to read while I tone down my essay on highway detours. English teachers must not cover meter before seventh grade.

Poem

First comes my Uncle Tom,
Who sits around the pool.
Real-Estate is what he does,
And he does it very cool.

Next comes my dad,
Deputy of NNMC.
We will be moving soon,
Norfolk is where we’ll be.

My mom does her job very well,
She does it like no other.
But for this job she gets no pay,
Because her occupation is my mother.

At computer camp I once had an instructor named Will.
He taught me many things and good attention I paid.
I know he loved his job very much,
For at night DDR we played.

One of my hobbies you might think it a job,
I spend a lot of time practicing this hobby.
I make computer graphics,
And I use Photoshop, I do not copy.

My Uncle Jimmy works at the bank,
He stores people’s money,
And if he were to mess up,
It wouldn’t be real funny.

All in all they like their jobs,
They like them very much.
And they are all very good at them,
They have a special touch.

De-Cluttering: De Agony and De Ecstasy

The movers stuck a bookcase right in front of the kitchen window. The bookcase was surrounded by boxes before I got around to shifting it four feet to the right. I'll take all the credit for Stupid Move #3, haphazardly heaping the contents of those boxes on the nearest available flat surface, the bookcase shelves.

Moving the bookcase was one of several tasks on today's agenda. First I had to identify what I vacillate between calling "homes" and "final resting places" for all the items. I read enough of those "get organized" books in my self-help phase to grasp the concepts of "touch it once" and "a place for everything, and everything in its place" but this didn't made the job any less daunting so I switched into "break the task into small steps and reward yourself for climbing each step" mode. This brought me to the ponderous conclusion that each individual shelf would comprise one step. Move over, Albert Einstein.

I rewarded myself for reaching this decision by taking a short break to check e-mail. Which is why poor Diane Norwood received a lengthy epistle from me in response to her pleasantly informative thank you note (Sydney started preschool and Baby Miranda is going to be a model at the ripe old age of 10 months).

Jill's e-mail was next in the queue, presumably all the motivation I'd need to tackle that top shelf. That's when I got around to actually examining the top shelf. Bags, bags, and still more bags! Paper bags, plastic bags, cloth bags, cellophane bags with coordinated twist ties, floral bags, plaid bags, gift bags, cookie bags, wine bags. Some degree of sorting was definitely in order so I tried to throw "touch it once" out the window but, wait, the window was blocked. There wasn't any flat surface on which to sort the bags anyway unless you count my bed (and I quit counting that last night when I saw Mike had moved the remnants of yesterday's aborted sorting exercise to the floor rather than leaving the stuff in place and slipping carefully between the sheets like any reasonable person would do).

Desperate to communicate with Jill, I skipped ahead to the middle shelf, grabbed a gallon-size zip-lock bag (shudder) filled with decorative adhesive tape (a function for which I hope to discover in the near future), and figured I ought to be able to quickly sort it into four piles: Spring (cherry blossoms), Christmas, Valentine's Day, and General. The plain red roll(s) gave me acid indigestion: Christmas or Valentine's Day? The generic pink were equally problematic: Spring or Valentine's Day? This is just way too hard. Life would be a whole lot easier if we could figure out a way to eliminate Valentine's Day.

Increasingly desperate for that Jill reward and a quick victory over clutter, I brought all my purses downstairs, chose two to keep, and started cleaning the gum wrappers and cash register receipts from the ones destined for Goodwill. Finding two perfectly sharpened pencils while running my fingers through the pockets and crevices of the first purse, I mentally composed a blog entry about treasures buried in purses. I planned to mention the importance of feeling inside the lining because little things can slip through frayed threads, and thinking of this reminded me of all the time and effort I spent searching inside jacket pockets and linings for my wedding ring this Spring. That thought compelled me to do my Marcel Marceau imitation, the one where he changes from a sad to a happy expression as he passes his hand across his face, except in my case the expression went from frustrated to I-could-not-possibly-be-more-disappointed-in-myself-so-don't-even-bother-yelling-at-me-Mom. Which she (Mom) must have decided was the best I had to offer in the way of a prayer because I shoved my index finger into the inside pocket of a Vera Bradley tote bag (shudder again), felt something hard, stuck in my thumb, and pulled out my wedding ring.

You probably thought I was going to say plum. Oddly enough, the purse is plum-colored which I'm willing to take as a sign from St. Marcia that I need to make room in my life for one more tote bag.

Tomorrow I'm really going to tackle that bookcase. Right now I'm going to answer Jill's e-mail just as soon as I finish telling my wedding ring about all those handsome men who made passes at me while my finger was bare.

A Japanese Restaurant on Every Block

Mike took a lot of pictures when we went to New York City over Labor Day weekend. He didn't have time to upload any of them before the moving van pulled up two days later and, alas, neither of us can remember where we stashed the camera before all the closets were blocked by boxes. I figure I'd better share my memories of the trip before I lose those too.

Usually we stay in the Times Square area but we had such a great experience at the Kimberly Hotel on East 50th Street this time we're hoping to stay there again when Mike runs the NYC Marathon in early November. The handwritten note from President Jimmy Carter on the wall near the reception desk was a nice touch. After six weeks of sleeping on a futon, the adjustable bed with push-button massage was an even nicer touch. We liked having a separate living room, and the one at the Kimberly was bigger than the one in our house on G Street.

The hotel's location was great, too. We walked to the Theater District to see Spamalot (hilarious) and eat sushi (disappointing), to the Rockefeller Center where Mike and Katie enjoyed the view from the Top of the Rock and the height-o-phobes stocked up on Heroes and The Office t-shirts at the NBC Store, and back to the hotel from Penn Station after bidding Kate farewell Monday morning (I can't figure out why Virginia colleges insist on holding classes on Labor Day, but such is the case).

The subway we caught around the corner from the hotel took us straight to Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. We had seats in the fourth row of the top tier. The architects apparently used the Grand Canyon as inspiration because I pretty much had to rappel down 20 rows to get to my seat. I limited my beer intake so I wouldn't have to crawl back down that cliff. (I was willing to declare a Day of Fast and Abstinence in honor of the stadium's date with a wrecking ball, but Matt and Mike scampered up and down those stairs like a couple of billy goats to fetch hot dogs and such.) There's something a bit unnerving about sitting so high in a structure slated to be demolished in a few weeks time.

Kate and I explored the "8 miles of books" at the Strand and generously left at least 7 miles of books for other readers to enjoy while Matt's trip to a manga/comic book store with his dad earned them a "free" tote bag. Mike's engaging personality earned him a second "free" tote bag when we poked our heads in a bookstore at the train station so I was hoping he'd be able to nab one for me at Gotham Books which, according to my guidebook, was a favorite haunt of Kate Hepburn and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. Sadly, Gotham Books was no where to be found. Since it vanished so soon after the passing of its two most famous customers, one suspects they might also have been its best customers.

My favorite memory of the trip involves wandering around Greenwich Village with Katie in search of Kiehl's cosmetic store. We were hoping to nab some free samples. We started our trek somewhere near the corner of Fourth Avenue and 15th Street. Pulling my trusty index card from my purse, I led us 12 blocks (1 mile) south on Fourth Avenue to Third Street where the first thing we noticed was the lack of retail establishments. Katie checked her guidebook. Sure enough, Kiehl's is on Third Avenue, not Third Street. So we marched 12 blocks (1 mile) north on Third Avenue and found Kiehl's around the corner from 15th Street. We started out one block west of our destination and walked two miles to get there. This is my idea of fun, especially when I'm with someone like Kate who has a good sense of humor. I'm not sure how much longer she's going to humor me, so I intend to milk this for all it's worth.

Kitchen Design 101

One cannot live in 12 houses in 25 years without developing some strong opinions about kitchen layout and design. Over the past several days, while pondering the meaning of life and the impossibility of squeezing about 300 cubic feet of kitchen supplies into 75 cubic feet of cabinet space, I've reaffirmed several of my personal biases. To wit:

1. Refrigerator doors should open facing the counter.
2. The triangular refrigerator-sink-stove layout touted in my mother's Good Housekeeping magazine 40 years ago is vastly superior to all other layouts yet fewer than half the people who've designed my kitchens have seen the light.
3. Tall cabinets are a waste of space unless one is an NBA player or has one of those nifty pull-down contraptions Mizutani-san installed in her Chiba dream house (see photo).
4. Some kitchens are too large, but this isn't one of them.

I'd like to share these pearls of wisdom with Bob, who is renovating the rowhouse attached to ours, but I don't know him well enough yet. I endeared myself to him when he asked if 8:00 am would be too early for his workers to fire up their power drills and I told him anytime after Mike gets up at 5:30 would be fine since I've been known to sleep through a bomb blast. Bob cautioned us that anything we leave on the front porch will probably disappear so that's where we've been stacking the flattened empty boxes. I hope someone steals them soon.

In the midst of all this unpacking, I've discovered there's a local Yokosuka alumni group. They meet monthly for coffee or lunch. How exciting!

Moving Boxes Blocked My Computer

Our household goods arrived 36 hours ago. The truck in this picture carried 10 crates to our house. The other two crates came on another truck. We have an obscene amount of stuff and a house not much wider than a trailer.

Plan A worked even better than we expected. Plan A required us to rent a U-Haul truck and triage storage items on the sidewalk next to our house. Our congenial 3-man crew didn't complain about sliding a bulky box or piece of furniture straight into the U-Haul for us; it sure beat lugging it up two short flights of concrete steps to the house.

About 15 minutes after the moving crew left, two college boys showed up to help "us" unload the rental truck at a storage facility a couple of miles from our house. Luis and Daniel attend Gallaudet College. It took me about six seconds to figure out they're deaf (Luis communicating with Daniel in sign language was my first clue). Mike said he might not have figured it out on his own.

The three most interesting things I learned yesterday were:
1) Deaf School was the name of a 1970s band out of Liverpool. I wouldn't know this if I didn't care about spelling Gallaudet correctly for you.
2) Matt's cross-country coach attended Hillsdale College where he was coached by a guy who went to my high school and graduated with my brother Dave (I think). We wouldn't know this if Matt's Uncle Jerry and Aunt Cathy hadn't sent him those Lumen Christi shorts two years ago.
3) My husband no longer trusts me. I know this because I filled up seven more boxes for him to take to the storage facility and he stares at them nervously every time he passes them to go up and down the stairs. I'm sure he'll calm down once we find his NY Yankees' hat(s).

After I unpack another box, I'll give you a Labor Day Weekend in New York City report.