Girl Detective

Girl Detective

( 11:27 AM ) Girl Detective

When I get my hair cut, I don’t know what to do with myself. I suspect there are rules out there, but no one ever told me what they were. I could look in my mirror, but that makes me feel self-conscious and vain. Or rather, self-conscious about being vain. I could keep up a stream of witty banter, but I don’t want to distract the person who wields the scissors.

Instead, what I usually do is look at other people. I check out the cut or color they’re getting, decide if I approve, and sometimes make up stories about them. The last time I went, though, the person sitting catty-corner to me had me stymied.

The person was having the roots foiled on long waves of wavy blond hair, which completely obscured the face. I could not determine gender or age. I began to think of him/her as Dee since that name could cover both genders and belonged to another with a distinctive mane. A woman sat next to Dee while the stylist methodically slathered and foiled masses of curls. Dee’s companion was in her late thirties or early forties, with glossy brown hair in a stylish short cut. I couldn’t hear her conversation, but she chatted steadily, often smiling or laughing. She held Dee’s hand, and periodically squeezed it as if in support or emphasis. When the stylist finished the foils and drew back the curtain of hair, she revealed the tiny, pale face of a girl who looked no more than fourteen. Dee’s eyes were wide and she looked absolutely terrified.

She immediately drew my sympathy and I imagined a long, complex story in which the woman was Dee’s guardian and had taken her in after Dee’s mother had died. The mother, a former model, had encouraged Dee to grow her hair and to dye it blond. Unwilling to cut it, Dee still had to go through periodic salon visits to maintain it. These always brought up painful memories.

I could have continued, but my own appointment drew to an end. As I left the salon I threw a brief backward glance at Dee, who still looked sad and nervous. I hoped that someday she’d gain the confidence to match that extraordinary head of hair.

( 7:00 PM ) Girl Detective

Thanks to StephA, who corrected my faulty Facts of Life trivia. Charlotte Rae played Mrs. Garrett and was supplanted by Chloris Leachman who played Beverly.

I don't know where I got Hammond.

Also, Varsity Boy wrote with a metaphor for bravado in one of the swimsuit escapades. "My bravado evaporated like so much ... " lemon extract on a flaming garnish.

The idea is courtesy of a book called Pad. It contains several flaming garnish recipes, and asks "Doesn't everything look better when it's on fire?"

| ( 8:56 AM ) Girl Detective

G. Grod and I own an apartment in a mid-sized, mid-western city. Apartment living suits us. Both of us loathed our childhood lawn-care experiences and have no desire to own our own yard. (My father would be quick to add that all those plants and shrubs I killed probably don’t miss me either.) And neither of us is very handy in the fix-it department, though Grod is quite clever with tech support.

We can walk to work, parks, restaurants, movies and more. We have one car, which we use mostly for weekly grocery trips and only have to refill about every six weeks. Our building has a landscaped courtyard with a heated pool and a cute collection of bunnies, chipmunks and squirrels. We even have underground heated parking, so the winters aren’t so rough. But I am regularly reminded that everything is a compromise, as my father is so fond of saying.

I walk several blocks to the gym each Sunday morning. There are certain things I expect to see on the streets, like cigarette butts and old gum stains. These are universal. Then there are those other things that make me wonder if a little yard work in the‘burbs would be such a bad thing. These include flyers for strip clubs, blood, vomit, puddles of urine, horse sh*t. and chicken bones

Most of these are bodily fluids of some sort. Not meant for public display, but hey—people drink, get drunk and stuff happens. Then the mounted police come in to add to the fun. But the chicken bones really bother me. The person had enough control to buy the wings, but then just drops them on the ground when finished?

My friends can’t believe that my pet peeve is chicken bones on the street, since they claim never to have seen such a thing. Maybe some of the other items momopolize their attention so the chicken bones don’t even register. But for me, they’re utterly barbaric, stoking my peeve every week and ensuring that I never get too smug about where I live.

( 3:49 PM ) Girl Detective

I saw Austin Powers 3 on Saturday night. The movie was uneven, but two girls near me (both about six) kept my attention the whole time.

Warning--minor spoilers ahead.

Early on, Austin crosses "Threesome with Japanese twins" off his to-do list. The theater burst into laughter, then the li’l tyke behind me piped up. "Mom, what does it say? Read it to me!"

Mom was silent.

When Dr. Evil enters his new submarine, he sighs happily, "I’ve always wanted something long and hard and full of seamen."

There were both laughs and groans in response, but the girl behind me was curious. "Dad, what’s a seaman?"

Still no word from the parents.

In a later scene, Austin meets with a Japanese man whose subtitled comments are partly obscured. Austin is offended by his comment "I have a very large rod" until it is corrected to "I have a very large rodent problem." After the laughter had died, the little girl asked insistently, "What’s so funny? Read it to me!"

Again she got no response. I was surprised that she didn’t persist; that scene was the last I heard from her.

At about 9:30, with a half-hour left, the little girl of the dad to my right wailed, "I’m TIRED, Daddy. This is boring!" Dad pulled her onto his lap then she wiggled her leg and kicked me for the rest of the movie. I tried to scrunch closer to G. Grod, but he was oblivious that I was under assault and shoved back. Since the kicks weren’t painful I decided to stick it out.

I could go into an "I can’t believe these people brought little kids to a movie like this" rant, since Austin Powers is hardly all-ages fare. But I’m not a parent. Wondering about stuff like this will only ensure that if ever I am, I’ll have the worst behaved child ever, who will cause people to look at me daily and say, "Whatever made her think she could be a parent?"

So maybe these families had extenuating circumstances, like a sitter who bailed at the last minute. Who’s to say? All I know is that I felt rather sorry for the girls, who were tired, bored and confused. They probably won’t suffer any lasting damage. But they did consistently entertain me through a very uneven movie. For that, I’m grateful.

( 2:00 PM ) Girl Detective

According to my friend Scarlet, this is a genuine psychological test. It is a story about a girl.

While at the funeral of her own mother, she met this guy whom she did not know. She thought this guy was amazing, so much her dream guy she believed him to be, that she fell in love with him there and then... A few days later the girl killed her own sister.

Question: What is her motive in killing her sister?

DON'T scroll down until you have thought what your own answer is to this question!

Here was my answer before I scrolled down:

Dad is either dead or gone so he's not an issue.

Sister and Guy were responsible for Mom's death.

Guy is actually Sister's tool, planted at the funeral to be charming and to distract Girl.

Girl, of course, is emotionally fragile after having lost Mom.

She dates Guy but eventually uncovers evidence that Guy is in cahoots with Sister. Sister and Guy's plan is for Guy to marry Girl, since Girl is in line to get biggest share of inheritance. Guy will shamelessly milk inheritance money from Girl after marriage, share it with Sister and then be totally cruel and abusive to Girl.

Girl confronts Sister, things get ugly and in the ensuing struggle, Sister is killed and Guy is wounded (so he can't run away).

It is unclear whether Sister's death is accident or not. It is ruled self-defense. Girl gets all money, plus snazzy apt. in NYC. Guy goes to jail and regrets having picked the wrong sister.

In counterculture twist on Hollywood ending, Girl does not find new guy and end up pregnant and happily looking out window, but instead hooks up with cute, sassy girlfriend.

After I had written this, I checked answer:

Answer: She was hoping that the guy would appear at the funeral again. If you answered this correctly, you think like a psychopath. This was a test by a famous American psychologist used to test if one has the same mentality as a killer. Many arrested serial killers took part in this test and answered it correctly. If you didn't answer correctly, good for you. If your friends hit the jackpot, keep your distance.

Hurrah! Am not psychopath! Just writer with overactive imagination, with a little too much time to ponder chain mails from friends.

( 5:05 PM ) Girl Detective

The morning after we returned from our wedding/Fourth of July trip found G. Grod lolling on the couch, moaning occasionally, in the grip of a stomach gremlin that was apparently eating its way out from the inside. It wasn't enough that our flight back had been delayed for two hours due to mechanical problems and that we then had to fight fireworks traffic on our way home. Love that going-two-blocks-in-ten-minutes thing. If not for our suitcase, we could have walked home more quickly. Then he comes down with some freakish malady at 3 in the morning. Hurrah.

I had to call in to his work to let his boss know that he was too sick to come in. I felt very 50's housewife. In spite of the fact that he was clearly quite sick, I thought it very suspect to call in the day after vacation.

You may have noticed that there’s now a site meter on the page. For a while, I was ambivalent about getting one. At first I thought I definitely wanted to know. Then again, maybe it was like my IQ; I don't know what it is and that could be a very good thing. What if this blog was the e-quivalent of tumbleweeds and Leone soundtracks? It’s just like that episode of…

ohmigod I can't remember the name of the show. It was a spin-off of Diff’rent Strokes. Kim Field's played Tootie, Lisa Whelchel played snotty Blair but was a straight arrow in real life, Nancy McKeon was boyish bad-girl Jo and then there was the pudgy one, Natalie, can't remember who played her, Mindy something, and Mrs. Oh no, can't remember her name either.

Help! Grasp of 80's trivia slipping! Oh, wait, I've got it. The Facts of Life. And it was Mrs. Um. Hmm. Well, I got the show name. That only took me ten minutes.

Oh, wait. It was Mrs. H. wasn’t it. Hammond? I think that’s it. Phew.

In any case, I decided that I’d bite the bullet so I now know how many readers run Linux, live in Australia and so much more. I’m still not sure this is a good thing.

I attended a reading by Michael Chabon a while back (which included an embarrassing story, but I’ll save that for another day). One of his comments was that he found the sales ranking at Amazon.com to be one of the cruelest torture features ever for an author—something to obsessively check and agonize over. "Oh look, I’m now at #10,534, up from 10,736. Woo-hoo."

Perhaps he isn’t so concerned with it now that he’s won the Pulitzer. And perhaps it’s presumptuous to compare the situation, but I think the site meter is a similar device. It gives information but can also inspire paranoia, despair and occasional manic elation.

And that’s just on a good day.

( 7:12 PM ) Girl Detective

Swimsuit, one year later

After reading yesterday's blog entry, G. Grod suggested including a link to Cathy comics. I disagreed. If you don't know what I mean when I refer to a Cathy comic, you're a happier and better person than those of us who do. As for us, there's no good reason to compound our misery by additional exposure.

You're welcome.

One morning I returned from a swim, glanced in the mirror then took a long, second look. My swimsuit--that beloved piece of spandex that I'd searched so long and hard for--was no longer looking quite so well. There were bubbles and sags around the bottom and neck. When I took it off to rinse it out, I noticed several threadbare patches. I could not believe my misfortune. How could this have happened so quickly? It was only a year old. After I'd survived the agony of the search, we'd had such a rewarding relationship. Yet I knew that it had seen its fair share of chlorine. I grew sad as I realized that it was time for me to move on.

Ah well, I sighed, transiting quickly from grief to acceptance. At least I knew this year not to look for boy-leg bottoms. There were plenty of one-pieces already on the clearance racks and I was in better shape than I was last year. This'll be pretty quick, I thought smugly

Buoyed by the memory of my eventual triumph last year I strode fearlessly into the swim department of my local department store. I grabbed a range of sizes, though I thought that the largest size I picked was overly cautious. What they heck, I thought, I'll try one and it will make me feel better.

When I put on the first suit, though, everything changed. My bravado evaporated like so much [Insert your own analogy. Mail it to me and I'll post them!] Once again, I found myself staring at my
exposed, pale flesh dotted with an assortment of moles that seemed to jeer at me for all that misguided tanning. My bum was no longer the slightly-more-firm-than-it-used-to-be appendage I'd recently considered it to be. Instead, it began to lobby for its own zip code and refused to be confined within the edges of even the largest size suit I'd brought into the dressing room. I tried on suit after suit to no avail. If I found something even close to fitting over my bum it was at least two sizes too big on top.

When the saleswoman asked if I needed any help, I snarled, "Don't bother. It's not use."

"Oh, honey, it can't be that bad. We're all women. I'm sure you look fine."

Just to spite her, I drew back the curtain. Her eyes took a moment to register, then they rolled back inside her head and she dropped to the ground, jerking spasmodically while I looked for a hanger to jam in her mouth so she didn't choke on her tongue.

Except what actually happened was that I told her I begged to differ, waited for her to leave then stripped off the last suit and fled in disgrace.

Since I still had the ragged but usable black suit, I didn't press my luck. I waited a few weeks till my sister Ruthie came to visit. I thought that having a kind second opinion might help.

Wrong again.

Ruthie and I went to several places, to no avail and found only one possibility which was $85 at full price in July. July?!? My mother didn't raise me to take that kind of nonsense. And even Ruthie, a kind and generous soul, agreed that none of the suits looked that great.

I waited a few weeks, then tried again back at the first store I'd gone to. Cavalier, I grabbed a dozen suits, wondering at what kind of sad masochism spurred me on to imminent humiliation.

Wasn't I surprised, then, when not one, not two, but the whole damn lot of them looked good. WTF?!? This time it was me keeling over in shock and surprise, poking at the mirror to make sure I hadn't entered some alternate dimension.

In disbelief, I tried on each suit. I found that I could be picky as I chose. I didn't like the straps on this one, the closure on that one or the color on the other one. After eliminating several I found I still had three to choose from. I had the saleswoman check to see if there were in fact all on clearance. They were.

Spooky.

I finally picked my grand-prize winner, and laughed joyfully with my new best friend the saleswoman, who was glad to share in my happy change of fortune.

I was so happy, in fact, that it didn't even bother me when the suit was marked down another 20% a week later and I couldn't get an adjustment because it was a clearance item. I simply sighed philosophically, willing to have paid those extra few dollars for my elusive prize.

| ( 6:24 PM ) Girl Detective

I recently slogged through 500 plus pages of Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner. I can't say that I wholeheartedly embraced the experience. You can read my review of the book on chicklit here.

[Ooh, here's a postmodern punctuation dilemma. Should I include the period as part of the link, or just the word here? What would Strunk and White have to say about this, I wonder?]

Even if you have no desire to read what I think about Angle of Repose, just go visit chicklit. It's smart and fun.

I'd say that even if I didn't have an essay there.

( 7:03 PM ) Girl Detective

One day last year I missed my bus. I ran after it but was barely capable of running one block, much less the two that I would have needed to catch the aforementioned bus. Sucking wind, I stared at its taillights and had to acknowledge that my periodic walks weren't enough exercise. I was woefully out of shape.

I decided to try swimming. I've always been a stress puppy, no matter what job I've held, so I wanted something that would balance me out, rather than bouncing me around. But swimming presented a significant dilemma. My svelter friends and sisters collected swimsuits like shoes and actually thought that shopping for them was fun. I, however, owned only one swimsuit, which was about five years old and no good for swimming laps. I didn't need a suit because I no longer sunbathed, unlike seemingly everyone else in the world.

I had been warned by a series of dermatologists that if I ever went out in the sun again I would sizzle, fry and then go up in a poof of melanomic smoke. During my misspent youth I regularly went out between ten and two slathered in baby oil. I figured that since the magazines said not to that it must be effective. Additionally, I completely bought into the utter crap that tanning booths were safer than the real sun. My worst job ever, in fact, was as a receptionist at a tanning salon. Not only was it a menial experience where I wiped up other people's sweat for pay, but I was also disparaged daily by my women-hating bosses and left with an unhappy collection of irregularly shaped moles and years of dire looks from doctors.

I decided I wanted a suit with a boy-style bottom. I hoped for a one-piece but decided I could settle for a two-piece. I am smaller on top than in the hips and thighs so I thought boy-style would be flattering with increased coverage and the added bonus of not having to worry about whether to shave, depilate or wax my bikini line. How hard can it be to find a suit, I thought. My sisters and friends have no problems.

First I checked sporting-goods stores, where I thought suits for actual swimming would logically be found. Instead I found Speedo tanks, not much changed since I took swimming lessons as a kid. I did find tops that looked like sports bras, but only with bikini bottoms.

I next ventured into the department stores. The woman in Bloomingdale's told me that they'd sold out of all their styles with boy legs back in April. April??! Who the hell is swimming in the midwest in April? At Nordstrom and Nordstrom Rack I found only bikini bottoms. Finally at Marshall Field's I found short bottoms but only in two-pieces. I took half a dozen to try on, confident of success.

The first one I tried looked awful but it wasn't expensive so I thought perhaps it was just cheaply made. The next two were similarly ugly. The saleswoman asked if I needed anything. I mustered a whimper in reply and asked if she could find some other options. I opened the door to show her which styles I already had, and her eyes widened in horror before she keeled over backward at the sight of my bulging saddlebags and rippling yards of cellulite.

Well, actually she just shook her head, not unkindly, and told me that she'd see what she could do. Even with her help I had no success. I saved the Ann Cole separates for last, thinking they'd be a sure thing because they were full price, but even they looked bad.

I found myself on the verge of tears, unable to complete what I'd thought to be a simple task. How was I ever going to exercise if I couldn't even find something to exercise in? I wasn't sure what made me feel worse, the sight of my ample flesh surging out of brightly colored Lycra spandex; or being trapped in a real, live version of a Cathy cartoon in all its insecure, whiny hellish absence of insight and feminism. I wish I could say the latter, but it was a toss up at the time.

I looked three or four more times with no success. I couldn't even find anything that I thought looked ok. Despairing, I thought I'd have to settle for one of those old-lady suits with the skirt overlay on the bottom. I gave up on the idea of swimming and took some yoga classes instead. All they required was loose, comfortable clothing and I had plenty of that.

A few months passed, and I had fifteen minutes to kill one afternoon. I ducked into Marshall's and grabbed a bunch of one-pieces to try on. The first was too big, the second too small, but the third was just right. I stared at the mirror in shock and amazement. It was a black, vertically ribbed one-piece with two slimming lines of bright green piping and a zipper at the neck. The cut on the thighs was flattering, though I would still have to tackle the dreaded bikini line (which is not so bad with the help of Nair's Quick 'n' Easy 4-Minute Formula). It not only looked ok, it looked pretty good. "You look like a superhero in that," G. Grod commented when I modeled it for him later.

To top it all off, it only was $14.99. Amazed at my good fortune, I grabbed the suit and raced out of the dressing room. Passing the handbags, I noticed a Kenneth Cole knockoff of a Coach style I'd been coveting. It was also only $14.99. I sent up a quick prayer of thanks to the goddess of shopping, who was clearly smiling on me that day.

And I was only five minutes late to work.

( 4:40 PM ) Girl Detective

Duran Duran, conclusion

After the lights came up, a drunken woman started to chat up the audio-visual guy breaking down the equipment. She asked if he could get her backstage, then promised him a job and money if he did. A friend of hers came and tried to drag her away, but she wouldn't be budged. He kept telling her firmly but politely that he wasn't the one to talk to. She persisted for several more minutes, but finally gave up and wandered away, perhaps to convince someone else.

A well-groomed young man wearing a pressed shirt and a gold chain approached and began talking at Ruthie. "This was pretty lame," he complained. "They only played 2 songs off their greatest hits CD." He confided that his friend had hooked up with "a real hosebag" and that he was too appalled to rescue him. I assumed he was trying to imply that my sister, to whom he had edged awfully close, was not a hosebag. He eventually left after she only responded in polite mmm-hmms. Security shooed us off the balcony and we went to wait in the car.

We watched as a long line of cars crept slowly out of the parking lot. A new tan Infiniti stopped, halting traffic. The passenger opened his door, leaned out and vomited continuously for almost a minute to a growing chorus of horns and shouted obscenities. The subsequent cars made a sickening, wet sound as they rolled through the substantial puddle.

Sydney and Buffy returned, proudly sporting backstage passes signed by Simon and full of excitement at their adventure. According to Buffy, Simon had been easily distracted and hyper, repeatedly swatting the butt of the young woman he was with, who later asked if she could use the telephone to call her mother.

When someone called his attention to the growing crowd behind the trailer, he responded incredulously, "Bloody hell! There's no way I can sign all those autographs. Do you s'pose they'd accept a smile and a wave?"

He was about to introduce himself to Sydney when a woman in a crushed red velvet tube top planted herself in front of him and purred, "Hey, baby." It was some moments before he again turned to Sydney and Buffy. He chatted for a few moments, let them take some photos and then moved on.

When we asked who else was there, Sydney said that Nick was not, though Warren was. "I keep calling him the new guy but I think he’s been with the band ten years. That woman in the tube top was hitting on him when we left."

Sydney and Buffy’s sense of humor about the night was infectious. They had both been so excited before, during and after the show that I had more fun than I’d expected. This was in stark contrast to some of the other fans we saw. No one that I observed in the crowd had a sense of fun, or silliness, or embarrassed nostalgia. Only Simon, Nick and the rest of the band seemed to be having a good time. So when I was asked how I liked the show, I responded that it was pretty good; I'd enjoyed it and they'd played some good songs. But what really made it worthwhile were the people I went with.

"See," I said to my husband later. "I did go to see my sisters and Buffy. It wasn’t about Duran Duran."

"You keep telling yourself that…groupie." He ducked as I threw a pillow at him.

( 7:13 PM ) Girl Detective

Duran Duran, part two

The opening act was very loud and very bad. They played for 45 minutes and it was as painful as one of the passing crewmen had assured us it would be. The singer wore a great deal of eye makeup and an improbable dress--really more of a long black tube top that extended to her crotch and finished with a leopard print ruffle over dark garters. I could not tell from the balcony whether she wore underwear but I'm sure those close to the stage could tell. Some sample lyrics:

Girls love sex,
Boys don't care
Ooh, ooh
It's not fair.

The crowd gave some token applause between songs and at the end of the set, but it was more motivated by relief and pity than appreciation.

This was in marked contrast to the reaction when Duran Duran took the stage. The lights dimmed, an announcer spoke, and the crowd screamed. I was surprised to see the woman with glasses in front of me bite her hand in excitement.

"I hear they only have three of the original members left," one of the boys who'd been in front of us in line shouted in our general direction.

Sydney rolled her eyes. "Two!" she snapped back at him.

They opened with a pounding rendition of Girls on Film, a hit from their first album. The two original band members, Simon Le Bon and Nick Rhodes, actually looked much as they did in those early, pre-Rio days. Simon had dark, closely cropped hair and Nick had bleached-blond sprayed hair, with a carefully arranged wall of bangs that came down to the tip of his nose, a la Andy Warhol. In order to see he had to tilt his head back, an incongruous and amusing mannerism that continued throughout the show.

They played for about an hour and a half. As I'd expected, they played Rio and Hungry Like the Wolf as well as some of their more recent radio hits like Electric Barbarella and Perfect World. Additionally, they included three or four songs from their upcoming album. The audience reaction to these tended to be polite but tepid. The biggest crowd pleaser was a long, energetic version of Friends of Mine, off their first LP. The biggest surprise was Secret Oktober, an obscure b-side from an early dance-mix EP, perhaps a nod to the long-time fans like my sister. They closed their single set with a long, hyper cover of White Lines from their cd Thank You but Simon's performance seemed forced. His energy level afterward was markedly low during their three-song encore, in which they played Planet Earth, the Reflex, and another song from the new album. I think it's bad manners to play new stuff in the encore, especially when it's not that great. But the band had recently been dropped by their old label and picked up by a much smaller one, so this type of hard sell wasn't surprising.

to be concluded...

( 5:01 PM ) Girl Detective

Going to Duran Duran, part one

Duran Duran's heyday was the mid-eighties. They were early poster boys for MTV with their moussed hair and kohl-lined eyes. Over time they'd lost band members but were still putting out songs, though the style and content of their music had changed little. I had liked them a lot when I was in high school, but moved on once my sister Sydney, in seventh grade at the time, plastered her walls with pictures of the band in general and Simon Le Bon in particular. Liking a band is no fun when your pesky little sister is fixated on it.

A while back, Sydney scored tickets to see Duran Duran and asked if I wanted to come along. Her friend Buffy and our other sister Ruthie would also be going. "It'll be a girls' weekend, and the tickets are free," she said in a wheedling tone. She then located a cheap, convenient flight and a free place to stay, eliminating my other protests. I finally agreed. I had no interest in seeing the band, but it would be good to see my sisters and Buffy.

"I'm going to see my sisters. I'm NOT going to see Duran Duran," I insisted, under the amused glance of my husband.

"Yeah, right," he countered, knowing how annoyed it would make me. He was, of course, right.

Once there, though, I found myself looking forward to the show. I was especially curious to see what the crowd would be like. Ahead of us in line was a group of boys, probably in their late teens, with excellent haircuts and meticulously casual clothing. Directly behind us was a pregnant woman standing alone, about 6 months along. She was taking deep, even breaths, as if she was under stress and trying to calm down. Once inside, the crowd was mostly white, mostly female, and mostly in their late twenties and early thirties. I saw a heavy-set woman wearing a turquoise knit mini-dress with sheer white hose and ballet flats. I wondered if this was how she dressed all the time or if she was trying to recreate some old concert memory. I saw her later in the evening accompanied by her son, about 10 years old. Several people were dressed to shock, in shiny plastic pants, high stiletto heels, or backless tops. Finally, there were the two women standing in front of us in the balcony, one slender and attractive in a simple gray sheath dress. Her plainer friend had short hair and glasses and wore a dowdy sweater and long skirt. The large, loud man sitting next to them bought their drinks and had presumably aided them in achieving their prime spot, front and center. He became more affectionate as the drinks piled up, first stroking the attractive woman's arm, then resting it on her hip, and finally blatantly caressing her ass. She didn’t react at all to his groping; she did not appear to enjoy it, but she didn’t shake him off either. At the end of the show, however, the two women disappeared while the man and his friends stayed for a while.

to be continued...

( 9:37 PM ) Girl Detective

G. Grod and I decided to try the new raw-foods restaurant. Or, I suggested it instead of the greasy-but-delicious burger place he mentioned, and he said OK.

At around 8 on a Sunday night, there was only one person seated inside. "Is this the restaurant?" I asked, unsure because of a multitude of signs.

"You bet!" the man nodded excitedly. "Come on in!"

We picked from the sea of open tables and looked around but did not see a
waitperson.

"Here, you can have these menus," the man offered helpfully.

The menus detailed that the restaurant used only food that was vegan (no animal products) and raw (nothing was cooked or steamed) because these foods had the greatest health benefits. The restaurant subscribed to the philosophy of the Slow Food movement, a group that supports taking time to cook and eat food and using meals with friends and family as a basis for relationship building.

Still no waitron appeared. Our neighbor piped up. "Did you know that a recent study showed that cooking vegetables reduced their nutrients to only 6%?"

Grod has his back to the man but I felt obliged to answer. "Yes, I think I had heard that."

He went on to quote other statistics and seemed very excited about the enzymes.

Grod winced. "If this is communal eating, I'm not a big fan." I assured him that I didn't think that strangers yammering at you was quite what they meant--more like family dinnertime.

Finally a guy with a dreadlock mohawk appeared at our table with a pitcher of water and took our order.

I didn't know if it was the power of suggestion, but the water tasted great . The menu said something like it had been triple filtered and treated with a reverse-osmosis abracadabra machine.

As if reading my mind, our neighbor chimed in again. "Isn't the water great? There's no ice, like in Europe." I had to agree that I didn't miss the omnipresent and overwhelming American ice.

Grod and I realized that the key to avoiding talking to the neighbor was to talk to each other, but the Food was indeed Slow in arriving, so during any lull he'd come right back in. I wondered if he worked there until the waiter brought his food, which quieted him down and seemed to indicate that he was just a fanatic customer.

We had a beet soup, which was raspberry colored and garnished with thin sprigs of bright green broccoli. The broccoli was crisp and gave good texture to the tart soup. When the entrees arrived, they were huge plates of some of the freshest, brightest vegetables I've ever seen. The hummus plate was garnished with strips of dates on a bed of spinach and lettuce. Sliced cucumber and tomato were dusted with dill. There were two types of olives and several flax seed crackers, which made good vehicles for combining any of the above.

As he cleared out plates, our waiter asked if we'd ever eaten a raw foods meal before. We said no.

"Sometimes people can have some trouble with an uncooked meal." This didn't seem unlikely. "All the enzymes from the fresh food can be difficult for the body to break down if you're not used to it. Some people feel a little nauseous afterward."

Well, after we'd eaten seemed a silly time to warn us of that. But then, if he'd started off with it we probably wouldn't have stayed. Maybe he'd learned from experience not to ask till after the food has been consumed. In spite of his caution we had no trouble digesting the meal.

The only thing we had trouble with was the chatty neighbor. I thought he was a fluke until I recommended the place to a friend at work. She went and said that the man sitting next to her, (based on her description it was not the same man ) had turned around at some point and tried to engage her in conversation.

So the food is great, expertly prepared and presented, locally grown and organic. But the preparation and delivery are slow, allowing one to fall prey to others who clearly like the idea of meeting strangers in restaurants. I haven't yet decided if that's a reasonable trade off.

( 11:43 AM ) Girl Detective

Recently I found myself wondering what baby sparrows look like. Since the adult ones are so wee the babies must be very small. A few days later, I got my answer. As I walked home from work I noticed some sparrow commotion in the middle of the closed-off-for-construction street. There were two regular-sized brown sparrows and a smaller, fuzzier, dark gray one between them—their baby!

I paused to watch and a family drama unfolded. The parents were encouraging the little one to cross the street. One of them was always by its side while the other flew on ahead. The baby was not capable of sustained flight. It would hop, hop, then flutter, which produced a glide of about a foot. The parent would bob its head, as if giving a pep talk, then touch the beak of the child in an encouraging smooch. Then they’d be off, and the little one would hop, hop, and flutter a little further toward the opposite sidewalk where the other parent waited patiently in a small tree.

A group of three businessmen stopped to watch as well. "It’s a baby sparrow," one noted. "Yeah, and it’s trying to cross the street," his friend added. I didn’t know if they were trying to initiate conversation with me or if they were simply masters of the obvious, but I ignored them in any case. They stayed to watch for a few moments but were obviously not as enthralled as I was and moved on.

The baby and one parent eventually reached the opposite side, entering and emerging from a shallow construction ditch only to be faced with the daunting curb. They were unable to back up for a hopping start because of the ditch. I could barely stand it as I watched the baby try again and again to flutter just high enough to clear the curb. The other parent flew down from the tree so that they both flanked the little one. After several attempts the baby achieved success.

I was tempted to stay and watch more, but knew that if the curb had been difficult that the tree, even though it’s a small, city-stunted one, would be the baby-sparrow equivalent of Mt. Everest.

I wanted no part of that heartbreak.

( 11:00 AM ) Girl Detective

I met my next random as I crossed the same street on which I'd escaped from Random #3.

Random #4 was a normal-looking middle-aged guy in a windbreaker and baseball cap. Then he looked me in the eye like he knew me and said, "Nice underwear."

Thought #1: "Crap. I’m not wearing any. I’ve only got a pair of stockings on under my skirt. He’s got x-ray vision."

Thought #2: "That’s silly. You need to buy fewer superhero comics."

Thought #3: "Do I have something lingerie-like on, or is my skirt tucked into my stockings?" A quick check assured me that I was dressed normally in a conservative skirt and blouse, both of which were properly aligned.

Thought #4: "I need to be more careful walking home. There are some freaky people out here."

( 6:36 PM ) Girl Detective

Random #3 also found me on the walk home from work. I had just passed a kid singing folk music on the street and hoped that he had a day job when I heard someone speak.

"Sounds kinda like Dylan, doesn't he?"

A skinny, dark-haired guy had appeared at my elbow.

Off guard, I said that first thing that came to my head. "No. Dylan's good." ["Big mistake!" Trash assured me later when I told her this story. "You NEVER talk back to a random."]

Since I responded, he continued. "Yeah, but he didn't have a great voice. A lot of his best stuff were covers that other people did of his songs."

I couldn't repress my snarky response. "Like what, Forever Young by Rod Stewart?"

He seemed to miss my sarcasm. "Yes, but more like Joan Baez and some others."

At this point I was already in the conversation, so I added, "Yeah, the Dead did some good covers of his stuff."

This seemingly innocent comment unleashed the floodgates. He began to babble. "You know the Dead?" He didn't wait for me to answer and I didn't, but he plowed on. "I've got this tape, and you wouldn't think it would be one of their best, but do you know what it was?" His voice rose in pitch and he talked faster. "Woodstock. It's got this amazing Drums/Space on it. I hate people who don't get how great those pieces were. Morons. Total morons."

Even if I'd been able to get a word in edgewise at this point I decided not to tell him that my two favorite descriptions of Drums/Space are "the long scary song" and "pretzel break." I began to worry how I would ditch this guy before my building because I didn't want yet another random knowing where I lived. He paused at the bus stop, though, and I darted across the street.

"Bye!" I yelled in relief and triumph over my shoulder.

He looked hurt and puzzled by this turn of events, but he kept talking until I was out of earshot.

( 2:42 PM ) Girl Detective

Randoms 1 & 2

My friend M. Giant calls the strangers who approach you on the street randoms. His wife Trash is a big magnet for them. You can read about it in the 5/26 entry here. I wish I'd asked for their advice before I had my recent spate of unwanted street attention.

One Friday, tired after a long workday, I was startled by a man who came up behind me and touched my arm. "Excuse me, miss?"

Before I could get my bearings, he stuck out his hand. "Hi, my name is Roy. What's yours?"

Crap. I knew that I shouldn't say, but gave him a shortened version of my first name, which no one ever calls me.

I added nothing and he continued. "I think we must have the same schedules because I've seen you a few times."

Crap again. I've got a stalker.

Then things got weirder. "Do you work for [the company I work for, and not even the big parent company but the smaller one that I actually work for]. I realized that maybe I couldn't get my bearings because there weren't any to get.

"Uh, yeah." Suddenly I'm thinking that he's following me because he wants an informational interview. Crap. I don't want to have to talk to some weird stranger who's following me on the street. Is this the advice they're giving in job columns, now?

Ignoring or oblivious to my rising fear, he blundered on. "So, I know this seems strange,"

No, really?

"...but I was wondering if you'd like to get together for a drink sometime. I think it's fate that I keep seeing you out here."

Suddenly, the correct response became blindingly clear. "Sorry, but I'm married. Happily. Very flattering and all. Best of luck. Bye-bye."

I completed my escape and was taking a deep breath of relief when I heard a voice behind me ask, "What was he selling?"

I turned to find a 60ish man walking behind me, and the relief of escaping the earlier encounter made me decide that he was safe. "No, he was hitting on me," I said, incredulously.

The man shook his head and said that he'd lived in New York for years and that the people here in middle America are way pushier than anyone he'd ever met there.

He introduced himself and we found that we lived on different floors in the same building. Later, I saw him on the elevator a few times and once in the convenience store. "I'm not following you, really," he said. I laughed, until he continued. "Hey, why don't you buy me dinner sometime? I know I'm supposed to ask you out, but how about it?"

Seemingly Normal Neighbor had peeled back his face to reveal Random #2.

"Sorry, I don't have dinner with strange men. It's bad for my marriage." He laughed as if he'd been joking, but it was an awkward and silent walk back to the building and elevator ride.

Mercifully, I haven't seen him since.

( 9:16 AM ) Girl Detective

I am a recovering cosmetic gift-with-purchase junkie. It’s an insidious disease. I’ll indulge, feel guilty then forget and do it again. I think the cosmetic companies space the gifts scientifically to coincide with this cycle of forgetfulness.

The last time I fell off the wagon, I’d been waiting not very patiently for a gift-with-purchase from Lancôme. I had planned to purchase their new foundation but didn’t want to plunk down $35 when if I waited I could also get a cute bag full of goodies.

I waited for what felt like an eternity, but was actually only about six weeks. It was not as if I was going without—I had foundation samples from both Lancôme and Prescriptives. So the itch wasn’t about the product, but about the acquisition, specifically of the gift.

I was thrilled when I received notification that I could reserve my gift in advance. The perky young woman behind the counter took down my information and told me when I could get my purchase at the package pick-up desk.

The following week I presented my slip then became aware that the dark-haired woman on the courtesy phone next to me was crying. Not quietly, either, but in a deep keening wail punctuated by gasping sobs. I wanted to retreat in the face of such raw emotion, but I’d already given the woman my ticket and she was taking quite some time to locate my package.

The crying woman hung up the phone, then a blond woman with a store nametag came over and hugged her. I turned away, trying to give them as much privacy as possible in the small space but couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. "I’m so sorry, honey. Is there anything I can do to help? Anything?"

I felt trapped in this random intimate drama. The dark-haired woman shook her head as she continued to weep. "No—thank you—I have to call my husband right now."

The desk woman reappeared, clearly uncomfortable as she tried to give friendly customer service to me and still attend to the grieving woman. I clutched my package and moved quickly out the door.

Once home, I was still shaken by the encounter. I unpacked my bag, hoping for some comfort in the mundane silliness of my new foundation and the gift. Instead, I found makeup items that were the wrong color for me, that I already had, or that I didn’t like. I felt sick with guilt and remorse--I’d waited weeks to make my purchase, paid in advance and been an unwilling witness to someone else’s life tragedy. Perhaps I’d been served a cosmic lesson. I figured the only way I could possibly redeem the experience was to re-gift the items to someone else who’d appreciate them. I passed them on to a friend and renewed my resolve, yet again, not to go whoring after free gifts with purchase.

It’s been three months now. So far, so good.

( 5:38 PM ) Girl Detective

I grew up in a very small town in the middle of America. It wasn't even big enough to be a town--it only qualified as a village. For many years, there were twice as many churches as stoplights. They're now in a dead heat and it's anyone's guess whether traffic or god will win out over time.

Every 4th of July there is a village fair with rides, games and a parade. Aside from a quick, wedding-centric trip when my younger sister Ruthie got married last October I hadn't been back for over two years. When I learned that both Ruthie and our younger sister Sydney would be there, I decided it was time for a visit.

The night before the parade I learned that our father, a member of the group that hosts the fair, had sneakily volunteered my sisters and me to judge the floats. Apparently the same bloody-mary fueled people had been judging for years and perhaps it was time to bring in some new (and less tipsy) perspective.

It was already oppressively hot at 8 a.m. as we drove downtown to perform our civic duty. We were instructed to rate the floats on originality, quality and adherence to theme, which was "Honoring America's Heroes."

Over the course of the next few hours I saw an interesting variety of things.

A mini-version of the Vietnam memorial detailed the local boys and men who had fought. It reduced Sydney, whose husband is in the army, to tears.

One church's float had a bible quote on one side that went something like "He died for our sins. It is Him we must worship. Because of him all brothers are saved." He, Him and brothers were all highlighted and in italic. I felt sad for all the sisters who seemed not to have been saved.

A scrapbook shop had a tiny but exquisitely done float with multiple displays, photographs, decorations and texture. Its take on the theme was that heroes are in every family and that scrapbooks honor their memories. The woman blushed as we exclaimed over the detail. "Thanks so much," she said softly. "It's my first year, and I think I went a little bit nuts."

A huge papier-mache sub sandwich (or "hero") had "Let's Roll" lettered on the top bun, which raised and lowered with some pneumatic contraption. There were kids dressed as ketchup, mustard and relish bearing placards with lines such as "Our heroes cut the mustard" and "Ketchup to our heroic standards." A woman in a bathrobe, wearing face cream and curlers under a shower cap carried a toy baby and a sign that read "Mom's [sic] are heroes too!"

A group led by someone called Brother Zed carried signs like "The unrighteous will burn in hell." The women wore long denim skirts and long-sleeved shirts. Sydney informed me that the women only wear shoes outdoors; when they're in the house they have to go barefoot. The children with the group looked pale and solemn, unlike the many other smiling kids throughout the parade.

Other things we saw on floats included flowering shrubs, a bluegrass band and little kids dressed as police, doctors, nurses and firefighters gathered around a large, blond, bearded man dressed as Jesus.

The floats tended to be either very detailed or nondescript, so deciding on winners wasn't difficult, though Ruthie got mad when we didn't give an award to the Jesus-and-the-rescue-workers float. Once finished, we joined my husband G. Grod in the stands where he'd been patiently saving seats for almost two hours. Relieved of duty, he wandered off for a corn dog that he would come to deeply regret at 3:30 the next morning.

The parade stirred up ambivalent feelings for my hometown. I loved the opportunity to see and hug many of my friends and their kids. I felt pride seeing a high-school friend who won a medal in last winter's Olympics lead off the parade. I enjoyed talking to the people on the floats like the shy woman from the scrapbook shop. But I felt uncomfortable around the religious conservatism and the sexist stereotypes that I saw.

Both sisters admonished me for being so judgmental.

"But we're judging the floats!" I protested.

"You know what I mean," Sydney glowered.

And I do. My father is a little too fond of saying "Everything in life is a compromise," but he's got a point. My hometown is affordable to live in, and it has good neighborhoods for families, a good pizza place and friendly people. There isn't a big creative or liberal culture, but that's why I live a few states over, though my cost of living is a bit higher. The parade showed me both the things I like and dislike about my hometown. It reminded me that if I focus on the dislikes, I miss out on the good stuff. Which is true of life in general, and something that I clearly need some further practice on.

( 7:07 PM ) Girl Detective

The sun shone, the birds sang and the wind stirred ripples on the pond. It was a lovely day for a wedding in California.

As you approach the lawn, you hear the jazz trio's skillful rendition of Let's Get Lost. You wait in a brief line for freshly prepared sushi and rolls before you reach the well-stocked bar. As you move out into the sun, you see several people you met at dinner last night, all of whom seem pleased to see you. Everyone agrees that the sushi is delicious.

After you've chatted for some time, you wander over to the pond and its mini-waterfall to take some photos, then make your way to the patio where the reception meal will be held. The R & B band is setting up their equipment and the lead singer, dressed like J. Lo, is checking the mic.

You notice each place setting has a printed menu as well as a harp holder tied with a periwinkle bow for your name card. On the back of the card is a message from the bride and groom; the harp holder is a gift to you, to hold photos or other mementos, in appreciation of your presence at their celebration. It says you will receive another gift later.

You can't help but notice the dessert table. There are several confections, each one a work of art. There are two towers of croque-em-bouche, made entirely of French cream puffs. The wedding cake is elegant in smooth ivory fondant icing with delicate dots. There is a passion-fruit tart, a mixed-fruit tart, a pear tart, an apricot tart, a hazelnut cake and individual petits-fours. You wonder how you will manage to try them all.

People begin to take their seats. As you join your table you notice that you are seated with many of the people you made friends with the evening before. Conversation flows easily and the two children seated at the table are cute and engaging. The father of the groom and the father of the bride give eloquent, loving and brief tributes to their children and thank you for coming to share such a wonderful day.

Each course of the dinner is more delicious. The salad has crisp, fresh greens that are probably locally grown. It is dressed skillfully with a light vinaigrette. The sorbet floats in a pool of champagne and is followed by a delicious entree. One of your neighbors cannot decide whether to get the filet mignon or the sea bass. You and your husband are hard pressed to recommend one over the other; they are both quite tasty as well as beautiful to look at, as is the vegetarian entree that someone else has chosen.

After dinner the band begins to play and dancing commences. A coffee bar opens and though you are loath to fill up, since you know you will have a challenge at the dessert table, you join the steady stream of guests who have an iced cafe mocha with whipped cream. You dance and then are invited by your new friends from the table to see some of the rooms, since the bridal party is staying there, courtesy of the bride and groom.

First you go to the Polo room. There is a saddle and polo hat on display as you enter. The prints on the wall are hunting scenes, small and tastefully done. The decor is leather and dark greens and browns. Next, you are shown the Don Quixote room, which you enter by a door hidden in a panel in the estates dining room. This room has a lofty ceiling and, as several people have told you in hushed and reverent tones, two bathrooms. Sadly, the Tiffany and Taittinger suites are unavailable for viewing but you are assured that they are sumptuous and spectacular.

After a brief tour of the grounds and some dancing, you notice that the dessert table is open. You try to hang back politely, but end up at the front of the line anyway. You request a cream puff and are given three. You'd also like to have wedding cake but are feeling abashed at being given the flower from the top of the cream-puff tower, so you settle for a petit four.

After more dancing, you return to the desserts and have a slice of the passion-fruit tart and of wedding cake. As you are complimenting the man who is orchestrating the reception on how lovely everything is, you jinx him so that he has much difficulty in cutting the tart. You decide to be less effusive, at least until you get back to the table and try the passion-fruit tart which is sweet, tart, creamy, moist and quite delectable.

There is more dancing and then waiters move about the tables distributing yet another favor: Kinder Surprises. One of your new acquaintances tells you excitedly that they contain toys that are so much better than those found in Cracker Jack. You unwrap the foil to find a chocolate egg, which you squeeze to reveal a yellow and orange cylinder. Inside is a multi-piece toy with detailed instructions. Yours is a rolling yellow robot. Your husband's is a unibrowed caterpillar housed in a tape dispenser. All the guests become obsessed with putting together their toys.

You watch the sun set over the mountains and you join the rest of the guests at your table, who are lolling happily and playing with the toys. A young child moves furtively from table to table, surreptitiously snatching unattended toys, then collecting them at a back table. The band promises three times that this next song will be their last. On your way out, you receive a meticulously wrapped package, inside of which is a beautiful natural paper photo album, in which you will store your memories of this lovely day and all the treasures and joy that you had in it.

( 1:32 PM ) Girl Detective

A construction detour recently changed the path I take to walk to work. After a few days, I noticed something strange in front of one of the buildings I now pass. On many days, though not all (and I can’t speak to weekends), I would see a lone person standing outside the front door. Usually it was a woman, though it was not usually the same person two days in a row. The people looked quite similar to one another. Each was dressed casually in functional, though not fashionable, clothing. They all looked to be between 40 and 50 years old, wore glasses, and had pale complexions and mouse-colored hair. Each of them also carried a backpack and clutched a thick bundle of worn pamphlets. They would meet the eyes of the people who approached the building but never speak to anyone, though I felt entreaty in their gazes as I walked by, as if they desperately wanted someone to ask what they were doing. I found these people more curious each time I noticed one of them.

Who were they, I wondered? My first theory was that they were representatives of a religious group of some sort, handing out propaganda. This didn’t seem quite right, though. Most religious people on the street don’t hang back and wait to be approached. They either proclaim for the general public or approach individuals.

The answer came when I noticed two people standing in front of the building: one of the quiet, pamphlet-clutching, mouse-colored people and a younger woman wearing shorts and a yellow tee that read Clinic Defense.

Mystery solved. I now knew not only what the pamphlet people were doing but also what was in the building. I’ve noticed since that the Clinic Defense people are not there as often as their counterparts. They are evenly balanced between males and females, more culturally diverse and younger. Representatives from both sides seem to share the front of the building politely, but I haven’t ever seen one speak to another. I have also never seen anyone enter the building, so I don’t know if the polite façade ever dissolves. As far as I have seen, each person stands quietly, a mini-testament to the freedoms of speech and belief.

( 3:15 PM ) Girl Detective

The first stop on our trip was a wedding in Carmel, CA, where Clint used to be mayor and everything costs about 50% more than it should in the real world. We walked to the beach. We had afternoon tea with scones, cream and jam. We stayed in a dog-friendly hotel and enjoyed the weather, which was nothing like the muggy heat-fest we'd left behind. At first the weather was rather cool, but as soon as anything having to do with the wedding began, it became perfect. Sunny and 70ish with a bit of breeze. OK, sometimes it was a full-on wind, but still.

After having attended umpteen weddings, studied religious ritual in graduate school, attempted then abandoned a book on wedding ceremonies and survived a brief career as a wedding planner, I fancy that I know a little about weddings.

But other than a minor Glamour don't from some guests--a few women wore nude stockings with open-toed shoes--it was a lovely ceremony. The historic church had a soaring ceiling. The soloists were accomplished and the music selections were familiar without being trite. The couple was introduced at the end using both their first names, to emphasize each person along with the new family name.

As we exited the church, the sun shone and the lemon trees swayed in the breeze, which wafted the scent of roses. Tourists stood back politely and smiled at the wedding party. The universe seemed to be smiling on the couple.

And all this was before we departed for The Best Wedding Reception Ever.

( 10:12 PM ) Girl Detective

G. Grod and I just returned from an ambitious trip across much of the western U.S. We hung out in two different time zones before returning to our own. Before we left, I was in a pre-vacation frenzy. It must be wrong that vacation, supposedly a relaxing thing, gives me such anxiety. In spite of having done dozens of things, there were many still undone and not-to-be-done. I knew I should let go of these and relax, but knowing it and doing it are two different things.

It baffles me what I feel I should accomplish before I depart. There is packing, of course, but not just of clothes. There are gifts, bathroom stuff and accessories. Which purse; which pair of shoes; which necklace goes with which cute top? In theory I'm a practitioner of voluntary simplicity. In practice it's times like this that indicate that I've got a long way to go.

Here's what my to-do list included:

1. buy sunscreen
2. buy shower cap
3. buy top coat
4. buy film
5. call friends in case I never see them again
6. email other friends
7. apply for new part-time job
8. paint finger- and toe-nails
9. choose magazines to bring. Options include:
a. Vogue
b. Real Simple
c. Natural Health
d. Gourmet
e. Yoga Journal
f. Rain Taxi
g. Sight and Sound
h. Bust
i. House Beautiful (I borrowed this one from work)
(can you tell that I have a slight problem with magazines?)
10. choose books to bring. Options include:
a. Stranger Things Happen by Kelly Link*
b. One Hundred Years of Solitude by G. Garcia Marquez
c. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
d. The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron
e. Yoga Basics
11. straighten hair
12. bake cookies
13. clean out fridge
14. bring wheat-free recipes
15. pack a snack bag for the plane which includes:
a. pink lady apples
b. Cape Cod classic chips
c. B. T. McElrath passion-fruit truffles
d. peppermint patties
e. more B. T. McElrath chocolates
f. water
16. pack pair of Levi's 560 jeans for my sister
17. pack the bras I bought her that I found on clearance
18. make sure all outfits and shoes can mix and match
19. clear off dining-room table
20. blog
21. locate labyrinths where I'm going
22. laundry
23. buy shirt and tie for husband
24. balance checkbook
25. clean office

As you can see, I went off the deep end. Why do I feel the urge to accomplish these things before leaving town? What is the madness that drives me? Is a primordial urge to get my ducks in a row in case I don't return? Is it boring obession/compulsion? Am I just a freak? Is this a vestige from my peripatetic childhood, and am I trying to control the movement somehow? I think it may be a little bit of everything. No one thing drives the frenzy. I just wish I knew how to stop it.

Other than with drugs, I mean.

*For the record, I've been a Girl Detective since childhood--long before I found out about this story collection. It's a fabulous story and a fabulous book.

Girl Detective the person is a titian-haired sleuth, intent on fathoming the mysteries of the world at large, with particular (and some might say obsessive) attention paid to the mundane details of female life.

Girl Detective the weblog is not about girl detectives; sorry if you came here looking for that. It is, however, an homage to the inquisitive nature, untiring spirit and passion for justice that marked these great literary heroines.

Girl Detective the weblog is a forum to practice my writing. It is about whatever strikes me on any given day. I am a woman writing for other women. If guys find it interesting, bravo. If not, that makes sense, but don't complain.

All material here is copyright 2002-2004 Girl Detective.

I was pregnant. Now I've got a baby.
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