Recycling the Reusable

The eco mantra is reduce, reuse, recycle. And always bring your own bag.

I came home from the farmer's market and unloaded the chicken and greens and bread and hummus and pears and mozzarella and cauliflower and onions and, yes, many pounds of food - and discovered that the side seams on the bottom of my sturdy shopping bag were splitting. Happily, they did not give way in an unseemly fashion in the middle of the parking lot.

I turned the bag inside out, and contemplated fixing the seam. But the bag's construction meant that it would have been a half-assed repair, so I took the bag to the garage thinking I'd bin it. But...

The Instant Pot has been living in the garage on the counter next to the toaster oven - remember my summer kitchen? I'd been thinking that the Instant Pot needed a slip cover, and with nary a pause, I slipped the shopping bag on its head. Ta da! It fit like a glove, though a little taller than it needed to be. I took the bag back inside, dredged up some denim, cut the bag down to size, and Bob's your uncle!

I love that I repurposed a reuseable bag.

In Which We Fall Down A Gorey Rabbit Hole

Diving into the rabbit holes of sketchy draft posts has been the best thing about #nablopomo. Some of have just stopped me in my tracks - they've been nothing more than a hodgepodge of links and a little text, like this one:

I start copying the links to see where they go.

Oh!

I love that image!

The next one's the same. So's the third - although the third one tells me the image is the Boggerslosh, from The Utter Zoo.

The Boggerslosh conceals itself
In back of bottles on a shelf.

I fell down the Boggerslosh rabbit hole because I'd bought a book of postcards when visiting the Gorey house a few years ago. The Boggerslosh is the only postcard that I didn't mail off to someone. I kept it because it reminded me both of my mother (who was fond of blue & green glass bottles) and of the Gorey house (with its collections of oddments and glass bottles).

I decide to check my Gorey library. I do not have The Utter Zoo - and it is not included in either Amphigorey or Amphigorey Too.

Tucked inside Amphigorey, though, is a photocopied note in my mother's handwriting:

Amphigory
A nonsense verse or composition - a rigmarole with apparent meaning which proves to be meaningless.

Rigmarole
A succession of confused, meaningless or foolish statements; prolix and rambling or incoherent talk.

Ragman Rolls
Document having many names or seals (i.e. Papal bull) - from rolls of deeds in which Scottish novels swore allegiance to Edward I of England in 1291.

I do not remember discussing rigmarole and ragman rolls with my mother, but I love knowing that she cared enough to look up amphigory and follow it back to Edward I.

Aimless archeology paused, I return to the draft post.

The Wuggly Ump, by Edward Gorey

It eats umbrellas, gunny sacks,
Brass doorknobs, mud, and carpet tacks.

The Wuggly Ump is in Amphigory, but - sing tirraloo, sing tirralay! - I also have a battered 1963 hardcover, complete with dust jacket.

What I cannot find is the photo I took at the Gorey house, of the small pile of carpet tacks on a mantelpiece. I know it's here somewhere.

Funnily enough, there's a new biography of Gorey just out, called Born to Be Posthumous. I did need to read aloud much of the review at the breakfast table yesterday. Like:

Even some of Gorey’s most ardent fans assumed he had to be British and long deceased. Such intricate, gothic scenes were supposed to unfurl from the pen of a wan, wraithlike neurasthenic holed up in a garret — not some towering Midwesterner partial to floor-length fur coats and busy days attending the New York City Ballet.

Even though I generally don't love biographies, I might need to put that one on my Christmas list.

---

I meander here, I meander there. And thus concludes a month of posting, nearly every day.

Throwback Thursday: Cat Scan

Why yes, I did scan the cat once.

And in a completely unrelated event, I wrote a haiku about the underbelly of the cat.

The underbelly
Of the insatiable beast
Is soft, cat, fluffy.

I tell you, I have found some great stuff in the drafts folder.

Unanswerable Questions

Why does the free WiFi work on the lower level tracks at Grand Central Terminal but not on the upper level?

We have two water bowls for the cats: one in the kitchen and one in the upstairs bathroom. Why do they only drink out of the the upstairs bowl?

Why does my doctor’s office need to text once, call once, and email TWICE to remind me that I have an appointment on Friday. One or two reminders, okay. But FOUR?

Giving Tuesday, Or How To Kill Two Birds With The Same Stone

You are probably inundated with posts, emails, tweets, and other messaging about Giving Tuesday.

May I offer another way to think about it?

You surely have people on your holiday gift lists who need a gift from you, but who don’t actually need anything. Yes? I know I do. Instead of buying a tie, or a scented candle, or another well-meaning but banal gift, make a charitable contribution in their name.

• Your aunt likes dogs? Give to the local ASPCA.
• Your mother-in-law is a rabble-rouser? Try the Southern Poverty Law Center.
• Your father has a fondness for fishing? How about the Atlantic Salmon Federation?
• Your grandparents always take you to the ballet? Make a gift to Dance Theatre of Harlem.
• Your sister is a passionate advocate for women's health? The Fistula Foundation does great work.
• Your friend works for a non-profit? That's easy - donate there, in his/her honor.

One less mug out there in the world, one more pair of toe shoes for a ballerina. It's a win/win.
​
Incidentally, Giving Tuesday is a new phenomenon - it only began in 2012, the brainchild of the 92nd Street Y. The intent was, and remains, lofty: "a way to pivot back to the values of community and gratitude celebrated on Thanksgiving after Black Friday and Cyber Monday." So, even though you're feeling overwhelmed by the solicitations pouring into your in-box, think about how you can kill two birds with one stone: a charitable contribution can be your gift to someone on your list.

Pinocchio, The Velveteen Rabbit, and Me

Today, because I opted not to go on a field trip to the dirty bowels of our building, my boss shrugged and said "you're a girl".

I replied, "I'm not a girl".

Him: "Well, what are you then?"

Me, snarkily: "Wouldn't you like to know?"
​
Don't get me wrong. I've made plenty of visits to the cellar. I love the generally off-limits, odd spaces around here. We had a fire drill not long ago, which dumped me out a door I'd never gone through - a ground floor exit through a wood paneled staircase that must have once been lovely.

What I don't love is when people call me a girl. I do not take kindly to people who said "you went to an all girl's school". Nope, I went to a women's college.

I can say, about myself, that I never learned how to be a real girl - but in so saying, I am acknowledging my complete inability to apply or wear makeup, my absolute indifference to any hairstyling that isn't wash and wear (and yes, I don't own a hair dryer), and my refusal to wear spike heels ever.

Unlike Pinocchio (who wants to be a real boy), and the velveteen rabbit (who wants to be a real rabbit), I am perfectly content to be me because, in fact, I am a real girl.

But if you tell me I'm a girl - real or not - I will bite your head off.

In Which We Rant About The Good Grey Lady

Allow me to be cranky for a moment. I am annoyed with the New York Times.

Today's Arts & Leisure section is modest - only 20 pages, only 12 articles.

Of those 12 articles, nearly HALF - 5 out of 12 - are essentially dialogue. They are not fleshed out writing, they are "he said, she said" transcribed conversations.

Dialogue
The Power of Stories
The Many Perils of Rose Byrne
Bryan Cranston Likes Getting ‘Mad as Hell’
The Boy Who Became Princes
How A $15,000 Movie Rallied Black Auteurs

Actual Written Work
A Network for a New Era
Look, You Need to Start Acting Like a Child
A Partnership Most Powerful
A Writer Who Found His Voice in the Movies
Looking Into the Past
Uncovering the Secrets of Bruegel
Uneasy Lies the Head That Wears a Crown

I'm sorry, but that just seems like a cop-out. Sure, once in a while, maybe once in every Sunday Arts & Leisure section, you can include a transcription, but in nearly half of the pieces?

It's not just today's A&L. These "conversations" have been creeping in all over the paper. The most egregious iteration of this trend was a purported review of an actual new Broadway musical, in which, instead of writing a review, two of the theater critics had a conversation! Lord knows I don't want to see King Kong, but it feels like an over the top dis to not even give it a proper review.

Rant over.

Cocktail party nibble food

If you are in need of a quick something to bring to an impromptu after-dinner nibble party, here's your ticket: Marinated Brussels Sprouts.

It comes from my mother's Black Book, her looseleaf binder of handwritten and copied and clipped recipes, so I haven't any idea of the original source. But it's essentially pickled sprouts - steam them, and douse them with a hot vinaigrette, and cool, and eat.  I find that the recipe as written makes way too much marinade, so I tend to scale back the liquid.

I haven't time to refrigerate mine for two hours, because I started making them at 5:30 and need to be somewhere by 7:30. But they'll be delicious none-the-less - a piquant addition to a plate of cheese, with the added virtue of healthy!

Marinated Brussels Sprouts
1 pound of Brussels sprouts
1/4 cup olive oil
2 T. lemon juice
1 t. salt
1/4 t. freshly ground black pepper
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 T. chopped fresh parsley
3-4 branches of fresh thyme (or a 1/2 t. dried)
1/2 t. dried oregano

Trim the sprouts and cut an X into the bottom of each one. Steam until tender - about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine everything else in a small saucepan and bring to a boil.

Drain sprouts and place in a heatproof bowl. Pour marinade over sprouts, and set aside to cool a bit. Refrigerate until you need them. Fish the thyme branches out if you used them.

Transfer to a pretty serving dish and serve with toothpicks.

My Own Private Dictionary

A few years ago, I started reading Georgette Heyer. To date, I've read nine of her Regency romances:

Sylvester: Or the Wicked Uncle
Frederica
Venetia
Cotillion
Regency Buck
The Reluctant Widow
Cousin Kate
The Toll-Gate
The Quiet Gentleman

And I found myself looking up any number of words as I went along. Always a good sign in a book, yes?

Herewith, a tiny glossary:

• Abigail - a lady's maid
• Almack's – an upper class mixed-sex public social club
• Cicisbeo – the escort to a married woman, like a walker
• Curricle - a light, open, two-wheeled carriage pulled by two horses side by side
• Domino – a robe-like costume worn at a masquerade ball 
• Farouche – sullen or shy, as in behavior
• Gig – a light, two-wheeled sprung cart pulled by one horse
• Gretna Green – a Scottish town (just over the border) where English people ran away to get married under less restrictive rules
• Jean – light denim fabric, as in “your boots are made of jean, not of kid”
• Lief – happily or soon – as in “he would just as lief eat a porcupine”
• Morganatic marriage – a marriage between people of unequal social rank – in the context of royalty, this would prevent the passage of the higher ranking person’s titles and privileges to the lower, and to any children born of the marriage.
• Obtunding – to dull or to blunt
• Phaeton – a sporty four-wheeled carriage, drawn by one or two horses, with extravagantly large wheels and open seating
• Plum – 100 pounds (or maybe more) 
• Rheumatic fever - a complication of untreated strep throat
• Se'enight – archaic word for a week (seven nights)
• Tilbury – a town in England, not far East of London
• Ton – upper crust English society
• Trevithick – English inventor of a steam engine 

Phaeton

A Happy Thanksgiving To You

This picture wasn't actually taken on Thanksgiving. In fact, it's marked on the back as being taken in March - spring, therefore, not fall. Or maybe it was just processed in March, and was taken in January, or even November. So maybe it was taken on Thanksgiving!

In any case, it says holiday to me. It says family to me. And so, I offer it, this portrait of my siblings, for Thanksgiving.

May your day include a ferocious game of Monopoly, played - perversely - outdoors on the front porch. Wear a warm hat, and a leather motorcycle jacket purloined from the French boyfriend. Drink your beer from a bottle, and don't forget a blue bowl of Cheez Doodles. For what is Thanksgiving if not nostalgia?

How To File

My mother's filing system was...idiosyncratic. Oh, I'm sure she knew where everything was. But my sister recently unearthed these three folders, and passed them along to me, and ... I got nothing. Two Misc. Papers and one ?. How does one know what one will find in any of those folders?

Maybe it's like the mixed-up files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Secrets abound?

Sophie Czarnewsky Nissen Hager

Several years ago, we were in San Francisco on vacation, and found ourselves wandering through the National Cemetery there.

I took a picture of a grave, for two reasons. 1) I loved that the stone was carved as a book. 2) What happened to Sophie?

Sophie's husband was Llewellyn F. Hager, a warrant officer, who was born in 1886 and died in 1927 at only 41.

But Sophie? Sophie was born in 1891, and NEVER DIED!

Was her maiden name Czarnewsky? Or was it Nissen? Or was Nissen her first husband? And if she wasn't buried next to Mr. Hager, did she go on to yet another marriage? She'd have been only 36 when Llewellyn died.

I have idly googled her from time to time, and I have turned up NOTHING.

It gnaws at me.

What happened to Sophie?

Magic and History, Tits and Ass

I was lucky enough to see A Chorus Line on Broadway in its first incarnation – twice, if memory serves. Its soundtrack became part of the perennial playlist in my mother’s house, and we used to dance around the living room singing "Dance: Ten; Looks: Three". Later, I got my own CD, and yet later, transferred all the songs to MP3. Needless to say, all of the songs are indelibly imprinted in my head. I didn’t see the 2006 revival because I had a small child and no time. But the small child is now 15, and a couple of weeks ago, she sang “What I Did For Love” at a recital. En passant that night, my sister-in-law told me that it was going to be at City Center last week, for a week, and one thing led to another and the child had a birthday and my other sister-in-law got tickets for my daughter (and me, as chaperone) to see it.

It was spectacular. We were sitting up in the balcony, the house was packed, and there was a palpable joy in the room. What a delight to be there, and how lucky we were, me yet again, her for the first time.

The building I work in is intimately connected to Michael Bennett, likely purchased and renovated by him with his proceeds from that original production. When I started working here, the building was home to several theatrical support shops: a costume shop, a shoemaker, a hat maker and a set designer. The hat maker, Woody Shelp, grew old, and retired, and his space was taken over by the costume shop. They sublet it to a costume designer. Eventually, the costume shop went out of business, but the designer stayed, until last year, when he decided he could save money by working out of his home. He left behind a few pieces of furniture, some of which dated back to the hat maker days, the hat maker who died in 2004. Before we re-leased the space, we pondered what to do with the small waist high work table. I opened the ill-fitting metal drawers and found magic: five of the hat maker’s labels stamped with the names of actors for whom hats were destined, a handful of hatpins, and a little piece of the beaded organza band Woody used for all of the Chorus Line hats. I have it squirreled away in an envelope, pinned to the bulletin board in my office.

I love that I knew the hat maker. I love that I got to watch A Chorus Line next to my jaw-agape, singing-in-my-ear girl. I love that I have a tiny piece of one of those glittering gold top hats.

I MISSED A DAY

Oh well. So much for NaBloPoMo.

Today I am attempting to clean up my desk and my house and the OMG piles of paper everywhere.

And, because sometimes I roll that way, I'm listing weird shite on eBay, like a petticoat from Laura Ashley that I wore in high school. It was meant to be worn peeking out from under one of those Victorian-meets-prairie cotton flannel dresses.

And it has now been kicking around my house, unworn, for far too long.

Last year, I fell into a headline trap and bought a pair of those Rothy's shoes. I so liked the idea of them, but I just didn't like the way they fit me.

Them? They're going on eBay too.

How about you? Are you a throw it away person, a give it to Goodwill person, a hold onto it until someone needs it person, or a let's put it on eBay person?

Because, Science

November isn’t just NaBloPoMo, it’s also Lung Cancer Awareness Month; as a result, my sister has been posting about lung cancer on Facebook every day.

Here’s what she wrote there on Tuesday:

LCAM, Day 13.

I am an atheist. Some would call me a nonbeliever, but that’s incorrect. I believe in a lot of things, just not in a god. You know what I really, really believe in? Science. 

I have spent the past month, leading up to the past three days, immersed in the science of medical research. It has humbled me beyond all comprehension - the funding applications I was charged with reviewing contained the densest, hardest reading I have ever done. Truth be told, I did not understand most of the science. But the scientists and researchers do - and I am in awe of their work.

I am alive today - my awesome cancer friends are alive today - not because of prayers or divine intervention or miracles. Because of science.

​

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[What she's been participating in is the Congressionally Directed Medical Research Programs, as a consumer reviewer. She's awesome and I'm proud of her.]

Scent Memory

Odors are powerful. One whiff and your brain whirs, oh yes, I remember that.

I grew up on Long Island, and, as a result, I have traveled through Penn Station often. We would take the train in and out of Manhattan, on visits to museums or expeditions to Broadway shows. Later, I’d change trains at Penn for Amtrak, to get back and forth to college. Summers, I commuted - a daily passenger.
Penn Station then and now always smells to me like donuts. Sweet, oily, distinct. Stale beer and indifferent popcorn, occasional piss, late night vomit - they layer grace notes into the donut aroma. But a whiff of that particular donut small will always jolt me back to hours spent waiting at or traversing through Penn.

For years now, I’ve commuted daily through Grand Central Terminal. It’s a palace, a wonder, a temple, especially as compared to Penn Station. Penn is low-ceilinged, subterranean, warren-like; GCT soars, replete with daylight in the main upstairs hall. GCT has never smelled specific to me. Yes, it's briny in the Oyster Bar and smells of solvents near the shoeshine and there are pockets of coffee, onion bagels, diesel fuel, flowers. But there’s no one smell that says “I am in Grand Central”.

The powers that be are building a whole new station under GCT - the Long Island Rail Road will one day stop there, 14 stories underground, providing “East Side Access” (because Penn Station is so far away). It’s supposed to be open and running four years from now.

Recently, one of the stands in the lower level food hall changed hands. I can’t remember what was there before, but now it’s a fancy-pants donut shop. The result, for me, is that now, willy-nilly, GCT smells like Penn Station. It's like the Doughnut Plant is a harbinger of the arrival of the Long Island Rail Road.

​

Be Prepared

I, curmudgeon, am usually exasperated by tourists and strollers and tourists with strollers at rush hour? OMG.

This morning, the downtown express was unusually uncrowded, and the family of four tourists plus two strollers wasn't in the way.

And the father? He caught my eye, because attached to his baseball cap he had two hair elastics and one barrette.

It warmed the cockles of my cold black heart to see how well prepared he was for the inevitable hair emergency that was going to befall his three-year-old daughter.

Kudos, stranger!

[I did find myself singing Be Prepared to myself. Because, curmudgeon.]

Words from the girl, and other matters of importance

"This womanhood stuff is disgusting!" (pause) "But maybe my tits will get bigger."

Wielding a bowl and a pair of chopsticks: "This is the best way to eat hot Cheetos, because you don't get red dust on your hands."

"Japan is attacking!" Me, blank look. "You know, white underpants, red blood...?"

* * * * * * *

I don't know about your house, but in ours, there are two female people and one male person. This results in rather too many conversations at the dinner table about matters of the uterus, many attempts to make Daddy squeamish, and long groans at how awful it all is. The final straw - for my husband, anyway - might have been the Diva cup discussion over breakfast.

We have also had conversations about how lucky we are here in these United States, where most of us have easy access to sanitary pads and tampons, and where menstrual cups and period underpants exist, and where we have high tech apps that predict just when to expect to have the painters in.

That said, there are plenty of women and girls in the US who have have trouble getting menstrual supplies. Schools do not always recognize that teen-aged girls may need pads or tampons, because their cycles may be erratic and their period arrives when they're unprepared, or because they haven't the money to buy the goods. Prisons and jails often fail to supply adequate quantities of pads. Shelters may not have supplies available.

Happily, New York City passed a landmark law "to ensure access to menstrual products in public schools, shelters and corrections facilities." And Free the Tampons "believes that every bathroom outside the home should provide freely accessible items that people who menstruate need for their periods. We think menstruators shouldn't have to worry about an unexpected physical need becoming an overwhelming emotional ordeal." And just last week, Nevada became the tenth state to lift the "tampon tax" - meaning that there's no state sales tax on tampons and sanitary pads.

Women and girls are not so lucky in other parts of the world.

In Kenya though, ZanaAfrica supplies pads to girls who need them.

And in India, Arunachalam Muruganantham, the Indian sanitary pad revolutionary invented a simple machine that enables village women to produce their own pads for sale.

What is important about our dinner table conversations is that we are having them. There is no shame in a bodily function like menstruation; and failure to discuss only leads to misinformation and stigma, and - in fact - is a human rights concern for girls and women.

Remember: human rights are women's rights and women's rights are human rights.

The Birds And The Bees

The astute reader may have surmised that I am cleaning out my drafts folder. What better project than #NaBloPoMo?!

If you have children, and are in need of literature with which to guide them vis-à-vis the birds and the bees, I would like to heartily recommend the following three books by Robie H. Harris and Michael Emberley.

Ages 4-8
It's Not the Stork!: A Book About Girls, Boys, Babies, Bodies, Families and Friends

Ages 7-10
It's So Amazing!: A Book about Eggs, Sperm, Birth, Babies, and Families

Age 10+
It's Perfectly Normal: Changing Bodies, Growing Up, Sex, and Sexual Health

They are funny, dispassionate, and inclusive.

On the Inanity of Plastic Bags

I am amused by the shite I have found in my drafts folder.

How about this?

Title:.
The plastic bag songs

Text:.
Katy Perry
"Firework"
Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?
Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
Like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?

Train
"Drive By"
Oh I swear to you
I'll be there for you
This is not a drive by
Just a shy guy looking for a two-ply
Hefty bag to hold my love

Right. Apparently I was briefly obsessed with pop songs referencing plastic bags. There are a lot of them! Why do I care? Because it's inane? Because it is inane!

I do like that the internet is like one enormous concordance. You want songs about "plastic bags"? We got 'em. Prefer "hefty bags"? We got them too.

Honestly, though, do you ever feel like a plastic bag, looking for a hefty bag to hold your love?

Oy.


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