Girl Detective

Girl Detective

( 9:36 PM ) Girl Detective

After a hard day at work, many people come home and pour themselves a drink. I'm not much of a cocktail person, so I whipped up a quick snack: kadota figs with goat cheese and cracked pepper, and salami schmeared with cream cheese, wrapped around a baby dill pickle. Yes, one of those things seems not like the other. Figs are a seasonal indulgence. The pickles in salami are a guilty pleasure.

I discovered the pickle/cream cheese/meat product as finger food at parties when I moved to Minnesota. It was strangely addictive. The usual recipe is to take thinly sliced ham, slather with soft cream cheese, roll up dill pickles inside, then slice into fat coins of cardiologist's nightmare.

I invented my own twist on it when I had some leftover sliced salami. I put a stripe of cream cheese down the middle of a salami circle, put a pickle in the middle, folded the corners up, and voila--a bastard cannoli.

Yum.

Speaking of other unholy combinations, my most recent favorite movie snack is popcorn (unbuttered) with Junior Mints mixed in. The salty/crunchy of the popcorn is a perfect counterbalance to the creamy/sweet of the candy.

On most days, it looks like I've come far from my adolescent diet of ice cream, cookies, pizza and subs. My current diet is mostly wheat-free, organic and locally grown. On some days, though, I head pell-mell for the guilty pleasures. I think it provides a balance of sorts.

( 10:07 PM ) Girl Detective

I went to see the new Hiyao Miyazaki film, Spirited Away, this weekend. It is a beautiful film with a strong eleven-year-old heroine. She finds herself in a mystical world inhabited by spirits rather than humans. To survive, she must work hard, as well as keep her wits about her and her spirits up. In the meantime, she helps others achieve their independence, stands her ground in the face of scary things and rescues more than one person. Spirited Away is animated and has a girl as its main character, but don't be fooled into thinking it's just for kids. There is much here for audiences of all ages to savor and enjoy.

I've been a fan of Miyazaki's films since I watched My Neighbor Totoro, the story of two young sisters who go with their father to live in the Japanese countryside while their mother is in the hospital. The girls encounter a variety of strange and benevolent creatures in and around their new home. Their new acquaintances help them cope with the fear and uncertainty about their mother's illness. What amazed me most about the film was that it was truly for all ages. It wasn't a movie that kids would enjoy but adults would be bored by. It also didn't have the racism and violence that many of the Disney animated movies do.

Miyazaki is one of Japan's best-loved filmmakers. Miyazaki is often called the Japanese Walt Disney, but I think this is an insult to the former. Rather, I think it's more accurate to call him the Kurosawa of animation. His films are lyrical, timeless and engaging, though difficult to find. He has worked on more than a dozen films, as writer, director and animator. His films have had tremendous popularity and financial success in Japan.

After the record-breaking performance of Princess Mononoke, Walt Disney acquired the rights to that film and others. The plan was to release Princess Mononoke stateside and then to release new English-language dubs of each of Miyazaki's previous films on video. Alas, a too-limited release and poor marketing hobbled a film that was already a difficult sell because it was animated but featured themes too dark for small children. Princess Mononoke was not a success in the U.S., and the plans to release the videos were shelved.

Princess Mononoke was to have been Miyazaki's last film, but he decided not to retire and Spirited Away is the impressive result. But I worry that once again a limited release will hamper the success of this film, and that adults will stay away because of the prejudice that animation is only for children. I've read that the plans for dvd and video release have been green-lighted, and I hope that Spirited Away can garner the success in the States that it deserves, in order to make all the movies by this master available to enjoy.

Here are the films that are currently available. Each of them is a gem, but the ones that are not readily available are wonderful too. You can help to ensure that they will be available by going to see Spirited Away and buying these others. I recommend them all highly.

Princess Mononoke: dvd and vhs
My Neighbor Totoro: vhs and dvd can be ordered
Kiki's Delivery Service: vhs
Spirited Away: in theaters now

( 9:15 PM ) Girl Detective

I just finished Jane Eyre for the first time. As I mentioned in a previous entry, I am annoyed that I've gotten this far into life without reading it. My earlier life is the poorer for its lack. I haven't taken a decisive stance on the ending, though. Warning: spoilers ahead. Do not read if you haven't read Jane Eyre and you might want to.

Part of me liked that Bertha conveniently burned down the mansion and died, while Rochester became maimed and humble. Thus when Jane returned to him, he was free (by the church's and society's standards, at least, at last) to marry. She now had money and sight while he did not (ooh, it's Lacanian--she had the gaze, she had the power.) The class disparity became more balanced and she was able to have love and marriage, on her terms.

On the other hand, Jane could have said, "Screw this" and taken off with her new money to do good in the world and never loved again. She could have become a tough, smart, independent woman.

While part of me thinks this latter idea is cool, I'm not sure I can subscribe to it. If it were me, I'd get lonely.

( 7:59 PM ) Girl Detective

Wednesday night I just have three words:

Birds of Prey.

Yes, I know, about half the reviews say it's awful. But the other half says it's great and that it has potential. I think that the awful reviews can be attributed to the severe lack of camp appreciation that pervades our culture. It's why a show like the Tick died so quickly last year.

People don't get camp anymore. It makes them uncomfortable. They prefer the West Wing.

But it doesn't premiere till next week. And I think I'm going to give MDs a miss, in spite of the dynamic duo of Fichtner and Hannah. Instead I'm going to watch some of the Cary Grant movies that our Tivo has recorded. Good Tivo.

| ( 7:51 PM ) Girl Detective

Postscript to Tuesday television:

I can't for the life of me recall why I thought I needed to watch Smallville. Perhaps it's because last year I thought Clark was cute. This year, I've come to my senses. Good god, he's a child. Perhaps even young enough to be my child.

But they really lost me during the season ender. Lana is driving back from the bus station, gets blown off the road by wind, gets out of the truck, sees twisters heading her way, THEN TURNS AROUND AND GETS BACK IN THE TRUCK.

No. No no no no no. No. See, with a tornado, you NEVER get back in the car. I grew up in Ohio and even I know you don't get back in the car. You look for shelter (that cellar where Pa Kent got trapped was ideal) and lacking that you lie in a ditch.

Nothing in the season opener redeemed this rampant bit of idiocy for me. So I'm done. Basta. It's Buffy for me on Tuesdays.

( 7:36 PM ) Girl Detective

After much studying of the various reviews (TV Guide, Entertainment Weekly and the Strib's recap) here is my decision on the Tuesday lineup for fall television:

Buffy
Smallville
(Life with Bonnie as a backup)

By the middle of last year's season I'd given up on 24, and though I've enjoyed the few episodes of the Gilmore Girls that I've watched, it hasn't wrapped itself around me and made me come back again and again.

The premiere of Life with Bonnie was good, but the parts on the mock talk show (I'm pretty sure that if I have one adjective that modifies an open-ended compound that they should be connected by an en dash. Did you know that? It's such a stupid rule. Completely non-intuitive. Which is why I didn't follow it. That, and I'm not sure it's true and don't have time to look it up because I have to go watch Buffy.) were much better than the parts at home. I didn't like LwB enough to tape it while we Tivo Buffy.

Tune in tomorrow. Same blog time. Same blog channel.

( 5:50 PM ) Girl Detective

One of the interesting features of the Site Meter at the bottom is that it lets me know how people were referred to my page. If they just typed the address in the browser, like all you loyalists do, then there’s no entry. If they came from another site, like Velcrometer, it lists that link. But the most fun is that it names the words someone typed in at a search engine and then got to my site. Often, my site is far down the list. I'm surprised by the visitor's tenacity--I usually quit after about five screens. Also, I’m amused that from the gazillions off options they had to look up something like "cake articles from Shirley Corriher’s Cookwise" that they’d choose my site. I think I’m seeing the benefit of having a good title.

Without further ado, here are the most recent search words whose authors wound up here:

annual bedside astrologer (Ah, the girlhood thrill of that January issue of Cosmo.)

Coraline class rev Neil Gaiman

Marc Jacobs bag (I’m thrilled to be on the 6th page of this list. I love those bags!)

Here’s one from someone new to search engines:

any type of article explaining why we shouldn’t go to war with Iraq.

Last night, I was the first site on the list. Rather sad, since my site didn’t actually say why we shouldn’t. But now I will. Dear President Bush, I know why we shouldn’t go to war with Iraq: war is bad. You’re welcome. Sincerely, Girl Detective.

Donate plasma. I’ve noticed that I’ve had frequent hits from similar searches. I hope that people read my cautionary tale and don’t do it for money.

Vomit girl public

Passed out girl movie

I’d like to have something more edifying than Cosmo, body fluids, drunks and Iraq, but at least it amuses me. I hope my site amused them.

( 8:06 PM ) Girl Detective

Friday night--Firefly
space cowboys, hookers and more
Joss, I wince with pain

My strong feelings for the premiere of Firefly could not be contained. That haiku just popped out.

I know from long experience that shows with good pilots can quickly go bad. But what about shows with bad pilots? How often are they redeemed? I'm having trouble thinking of even one example.

Firefly is set in a future world policed by an authoritarian military group. Mal, whose unsubtle name is awkwardly explained just in case you didn't it, is the captain of the Serenity, a ship more than a little reminiscent of the Millennium Falcon. Mal reminded me unpleasantly of a cross between Jason Bateman and Bruce Boxleitner, two actors that I wouldn't miss if I never saw again. He has boyish good looks, a roguish nature and a conscience that pops out occasionally. His ship houses a ragged band of outlaws, each of whose token quirks are introduced perfunctorily. Should be especially creepy: the weird sister who has disturbing torture dreams. Is in fact especially creepy: her brother the medic, played by an actor doing his best Crispin Glover imitation. Crispin Glover as a medic? Aaaah!

Since I wasn't entertained by the cheesy plotline about stolen drugs, I instead marvelled at the soundtrack which veered between twangy western music (I kept ad-libbing in my head "Wanted, Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi) and Loreena-McKennitt-like celtic numbers. Additionally, I appreciated the bit part of the bad guy's thug, played by some guy who went to the same high school as my husband. I was mildly amused when he got sucked into an engine and died a grisly death. While the show seemed to be striving for the same clever, semi-camp as Buffy, it was saddled with so much dreck that it needed to embrace full-on camp but never did.

Since we have Tivo, it won't be much trouble to watch it again. But unless things pick up right quick-like, I'm not sure I'll be around for much longer. There are other shows that will demand my time, perhaps even ones with good pilots.

( 8:32 PM ) Girl Detective

I attended a wretched presentation tonight given by a representative of Real Simple magazine. Overall, RS is a great publication: good writing from a variety of sources, interesting articles about things that I'm interested in (labyrinths, tinted moisturizers, bags, closet organizers, and other much more edifying stuff) and gorgeous photography. I sometimes think it walks a funny line between true simplicity and faux, though, when the costs are high and the time/stress saved are little. I'm reminded of the shop called Scrimpers in Margaret Atwood's Robber Bride that sold expensive kits to dry your own flowers. I think there's a little bit of evil Martha that sometimes lurks threateningly in the pages.

The hors d'oeuvres were beautiful and tasty, the display of not-too-expensive home and gift items was interesting and attractive, but the speaker blew. No reason to put too fine a point on it. She sucked to such a degree that it was almost painful to watch. She was reading from cards, and at one point stopped in the middle of a sentence as she flipped a card. She stayed glued to the podium, never varying the pace of her droning delivery. Feeling bad for her, my friend and I asked a few questions, but her responses were short and unhelpful. What was she doing in front of a crowd?

Her ineptitude was especially frustrating to me because I've done a lot of teaching or training prior to to my current job and I miss it. When I saw this woman make a complete hash of it, I decided if she could get her job, there had to be others out there, so it was time to dust off my resume.

But before I get to it, I'll share are some of my resume recommendations:

1. Never include dates for school, and never include months for job intervals.
2. Don't go below 12-point type.
3. Ivory or white paper only.
4. Never more than one page. Ever.
5. Bullet points are good.
6. Use action verbs.
7. Don't include a personal interests or hobby section.
8. Quantify if possible.
9. Make it tell a story. Mine says that I like writing and teaching.
10. If a job doesn't fit, leave it off. As soon as you can leave off those early, irrelevant jobs due to the one-page limit, the better.

It's been over two years since I looked at my resume. Perhaps nothing will happen and I'll learn I'm happy enough in my job. Or maybe something will change, and I'll have that crappy speaker from Real Simple to thank for motivating me.

( 9:34 PM ) Girl Detective

Dammit.

Warren Ellis' blog Die Puny Humans is listed at the top of Blogger's Blogs of Note list.

Warren Ellis is a paid author with a cultish following. He doesn't need more traffic. I seriously considered smacking down fifty bucks for his oversized, hardcover, kickass Authority graphic novel today. Instead I spent ten on the SPX anthology, the best comic buy of every year.

Like the SPX authors, it's the small blogs that need the plugs. The ones whose authors toil daily to slowly garner a tiny cadre of loyal readers.

My husband G. Grod reminded me that since Warren is a famous author, at least in the comics culture, that it would make sense that his blog was one of note. "Now, if they ever have a list called Blogs of Need, I'm sure you'll be right there at the top."

I don' t know whether to sigh, or snarl.

| ( 9:19 PM ) Girl Detective

I went to a lovely reception tonight featuring Mark Bittman, a.k.a. the Minimalist cooking guy who writes for the New York Times. There was lovely food, which included salmon cakes on cucumber rounds, shrimp, vichyssoise, as well as grilled fruit on skewers. Mr. Bittman demonstrated how to cook fried noodle cake with sauteed beef in a soy sauce/butter reduction sauce.

All of this was charmingly and competently done. I have nothing bad to say, and nothing funny happened so it makes for terrible blog material. Which is not really what I want when I get home late and still have to cook dinner.

But I'll share two questions that were asked, plus his answers and my answers. Not that I'm smarter than the New York Times cooking guy, but I've got something to add and his reception didn't seem the right place or time.

Question 1: My cookies always turn out flat? What can be wrong?

Mark Bittman's answer was very focused on baking powder. Are you using it? Are you mistaking it for baking soda? Is your baking powder old?

My answer: Go buy Shirley Corriher's book Cookwise, which details the chemistry for cookies, and gives a variety of recipes ranging from thick and puffy to thin and crispy. Sadly, she doesn't address the challenge of making wheat-free cookies. The best wheat-free cookie still isn't all that good. I miss wheat. At least until I cheat and eat it anyway. And then I just regret wheat.

Question 2: What are the three mistakes that beginning cooks are most likely to make?

Mark Bittman's answer:
1. Spending too much on cooking equipment
2. Not using a good knife
3. Being afraid to use high heat

My answer:
1. Picking too-complicated recipes and buying expensive ingredients listed at the end of recipes or as optional that are used only for garnish and will languish and rot in your fridge.
2. Buying full-size containers of spices that you don't yet know are random and rarely used.
3. Thinking that things like garlic salt, bottled garlic, anchovy paste and cheap parmesan are useful and convenient. They're toxic. Stay away.

So again, I'm not trying to second-guess the cooking guy. These are just things I'd like to add since I wasn't able to have a conversation with him. He's helped a lot of people see that cooking doesn't have to be high-stress, scary and expensive. I would never second-guess that. I had to learn it the hard way.

( 8:23 PM ) Girl Detective

I'm not sure what this blog is known for, but I'm dead certain it's not trenchant political commentary. Maybe there's a first time for everything.

There's been some interesting talk that Bush's threats to go to war with Iraq are really a means to the end of getting the UN and Iraq to do what he wants. This article from Slate notes that the more convincing he is about wanting to go to war, the more likely the UN and Iraq are to cave and the less likely that we'll actually go to war.

This sounds very sensible. I suspect that W's advisors have worked this out, but haven't told him. I'm betting he's still on a need-to-know basis. So rather than explaining to him that he needs to pretend to want to go to war in order not to go to war, I think they've told him "War: full speed ahead."

And hey, lookie. It seems to be working.

| ( 8:09 PM ) Girl Detective

Friday night my friend modgirl and I scored free tickets from work to a museum cocktail party, which we attended with my husband G. Grod. Modgirl and I were not feeling shy. She had on a little black dress and sassy wedge shoes with comic-book decorated straps. I had on high heels and a little teal dress so clingy that I had to try on two different slips and three different thongs to avoid the dreaded VPL--visible panty line.

Modgirl had heard that there was a Vespa scooter in the house and was on a mission to find it. We went down to the basement only to find it was on the top floor. When we boarded the elevator, I recognized a woman who was standing talking to her friends. I caught her eye and said hi.

She paused, looked blank for a moment, then smiled and laughed. "Oh, hi! I didn't recognize you with your clothes on."

The other ten people on the elevator turned to gape.

I laughed too, then explained that we took yoga class together.

( 9:06 PM ) Girl Detective

When geekjoy goes bad.

I am sitting in the laundry room in the back, on the computer. Out in the living room, my husband G. Grod makes periodic loud whoops of delight, yells of encouragement, and strangled sounds of pain. The Eagles are on Monday Night Football.

We live in Minnesota. There aren't many Eagles fans here, so he watches alone. I don't think this is good for him. His ability to watch football in company is atrophying and I'm worried that he may never gain it back.

I think G. Grod needs to find someone to watch the games with. (I don't count. I like football fine, but I don't love it and he doesn't curb his behavior around me.) It shouldn't be that hard. We have a nice apartment and a large television. But without a mitigating balance, I fear his football id may rage out of control.

Aaah! There he goes again. Now he's cackling maniacally.

I think I may have to do an intervention.

| ( 5:10 PM ) Girl Detective

Saturday I’d planned to go to a new yoga class until I woke up and just didn’t feel like it. Going to the class would mean having a late breakfast and getting a late start to the day, plus rushing or skipping parts of my normal routine. Upon analysis, it seemed as if going to yoga would paradoxically make me more stressed and less balanced. I opted to skip the class and go out for breakfast instead.

While I was waiting to pay for my double-short latte and éclair, I picked up the magic 8 ball on the counter and asked it, "Should I have gone to yoga?"

"Signs point to yes."

What? I’d thought I was making the be-nice-to-myself choice, so I asked it again, being more specific. "Should I have gone to yoga this morning instead of coming here for breakfast?"

"It is decidedly so."

At this point I became upset. I couldn’t undo my choice and scrap breakfast and go to yoga. Also, a nagging fear began to grow. What if not going to yoga somehow set off a dreadful chain of events in my life? What if there would be repercussions to the éclair? Morbid imaginings continued to plague me for several hours.

And by now this scenario should look like one of those Highlights games, "How many things can you find wrong in this picture?" Here are the ones I can think of:

-Taking a yoga class would be more stressful to me than not.

-I talk to magic 8 balls.

-In public.

-I believe what the magic 8 ball says.

-I get upset FOR A PROLONGED PERIOD OF TIME when one tells me something I don’t want to hear.

-It didn’t simply occur to me, as it did later when I was shamefacedly relating these insane shenanigans to friends over dinner, that it doesn’t take a rocket scientist--much less a scrying tool--to determine that going to yoga is better than going for an éclair. Which I shouldn’t be eating anyway because I’m on a wheat-free diet.

Thanks to the ridicule of my friends Queenie and Blogenheimer, who augmented that which my husband G. Grod had been liberally heaping upon me all day, I was able to laugh at myself and stop with the morbid imaginings.

But I can’t help but be comforted by a fuzzy memory that magic 8 balls will only tell the truth to their owners. Can any of the rest of you help me remember where I got this? I don’t think it’s the Simpsons. I suspect it’s from one of the John Bellairs books with Lewis and Rose Rita, but can’t be sure. Please write if you know the origin for this bit of trivia.

( 7:01 PM ) Girl Detective

M. Giant wrote last week about his theorem for finding lost stuff. I always say the prayer to St. Anthony. I'm not Catholic and I don't know who told this to me, but it goes "Tony, Tony look around, something's lost and must be found" I then add what the item is. I've had tremendous success with this method.

The worst thing I ever lost was an expensive piece of jewelry my dad have given me. I'd been at an outdoor wedding and at one point reached up and it was gone. I was sick about losing it, not least because I'd never quite gotten around to insuring it like my dad had told me I had to.

I said the prayer dozens of times, looked all over the wedding field and even in a sheep pasture, and then gave up because it was dark and went home. My husband G. Grod and I went back the next morning and looked around but had no luck. Then I waited forty-eight hours and called my dad.

His first words? "You insured it, right?"

Argh.

I had to admit that I hadn't. He got really quiet in that sad kind of way that's so much worse than the angry way.

The next Sunday morning we got a call. A guest at the wedding the following weekend had found it and turned it in. I got to meet him when we went to pick it up, and I was gushing in relief. I also sent up quiet thanks to St. Anthony for good measure. And as soon as I was able, I insured it, and I haven't had a problem since.

So perhaps the Girl Detective method for lost stuff is that if you insure it, you won't lose it. Our life insurance guy says that he's never yet had a claim in all the years he's been selling policies, so apparently for him this even works on lives, not just belongings. But outside of insurance, I've had great luck with the St. Anthony prayer, so keep it in mind the next time you lose something, big or small.

( 10:39 PM ) Girl Detective

Gael at Pop Culture Junk Mail wrote on September 8 about her emergency room visit and how no one looked like Noah Wylie and therefore ER was a fraud. (I don't need any convincing that ER is a fraud. Once I got my doctor dad to watch it, and he sat grumbling through the whole thing, "All wrong! That's ridiculous! This is terrible!") But my most recent trip to the emergency room featured very good looking doctors, so perhaps Gael just got a homely hospital.

A few months ago, my husband G. Grod had a series of stomach troubles that would wake him up, then go away after about an hour. One morning he woke me at 3 a.m. The pains were getting worse, he said.

I was surprised at how calm I was. I got up, put on some clothes and checked the yellow pages for the closest emergency room. I asked the garage attendant if he could confirm how to get there, and when he couldn't I told him that it would probably be a good thing to know in the future. Grod directed and I drove; we found parking right in front and went inside. The woman behind the desk took Grod's information, then told him that it was probably gallstones.

The first doctor we saw had shoulder-length blondish hair and looked rather like Amanda Peet. She brought in a mobile echochardiogram machine, smeared goo on Grod's ribcage, waved the wand around and found nothing. She then called in her supervising doctor, who had close-cropped blond hair and chiseled cheekbones. He poked and prodded, asked more questions, then they departed and Vince the nurse arrived to take some blood. Vince also thought it was gallstones. He looked like Jack Black minus fifty pounds. He said we would have to wait till the results of the blood test came back. While we were waiting, Doctors 1 & 2 brought in Dr. 3, the ER supervisor, a balding, muscular man who looked like Skinner from the X-Files. He asked Grod some more questions, double checked Dr. 1's results and was there when Vince came back to say that the blood tests were negative. By this point, two hours had passed and Grod was feeling better. They gave him some stomach medicine, told him it might be sludge or small stones in the gall bladder and that he should follow up with his family doctor.

We left just before 6 a.m., about the time our alarm would have been going off. It was a tough day at work, though not as tough as getting Grod to make a doctor appointment (though of course when he did they didn't find anything and the stomach trouble eventually went away on its own.) Our experience at the emergency room was quite good. We got fast and thorough attention (3 doctors and a nurse!) and all of them looked like they could be on television. I would definitely recommend our county medical center for all your pre-dawn emergencies.

( 10:13 PM ) Girl Detective

Where was I a year ago today? Getting my annual at the gynecologist's office. So I have nothing profound to say about 9/11 and I'm not even going to try. Go read Sars.

***

My husband G. Grod has often chastised me that I don't save my work often enough when I'm typing on the computer. It's just that I become so excited about a topic that I get on a roll and forget to save. Then I go to do something like print and poof, it's gone. I yell for Grod, he comes in, does stuff, I stand around looking concerned, get bored, leave, get a glass of water, come back and voila, there's my piece, back from the ether.

I don't think he's actually doing me a favor with his technical wizardry. There are no consequences. I never lose anything for long. I panic, yelp, and he fixes it. He's my postmodern knight in shining armor.

Last week, I actually deleted my blog template. Normally I leave template-tweaking to G. Grod but he was busy watching football. I figured, how tough can it be? I just won't touch any of the code.

I went in, edited, and then saved my changes. I felt particularly proud of this, since it showed I was learning in spite of never having had bad consequences. When I went out to announce how pleased with myself I was, however, Grod blanched. "You did what? Did you save?"

I wondered why this suddenly had become a bad thing. Turns out my browser can't quite handle template edits. Poof. Gone. Grod has done all the edits in Windows rather than in Linux.

As usual, though, he came in, fiddled a bit and I was up and normal with the template. Again, no consequences, though this time with different behavior. I think I'll stick with trying to save more frequently, though, since the template thing is a browser fluke.

( 7:01 PM ) Girl Detective

It's attention deficit day for me. I can't seem to hold a train of thought, so bear with me.

I recently wrote a haiku for haikutown.

Girl in orange dress
Clutching a stuffed purple frog--
Snapshot in summer

I saw the little girl when I was riding the bus one day, and never knew what to do with the image. A haiku seemed the perfect place to put her.

***

The situation with Iraq disturbs me for a variety of reasons, but mostly for a petty one. My family has been talking about a trip to Italy for ages. It finally looks like it's going to happen, but a brother-in-law is in the service, so I'm worried that if Bush keeps talking smack to Iraq that our plans will be foiled again. Yes, yes, I know that there are many worse things than a cancelled trip--I already admitted to being petty. I was just looking for an excuse to use the phrase "Bush talking smack to Iraq".

***

I'm reading Jane Eyre for the first time. Newsflash: it's great. I feel like a giant idiot that I've never read this before. And how many other books are there out there, lurking with greatness that I haven't been able to get around to? Gah. I can't believe I spent all those years reading crap. Why didn't anyone stop me? Say anything? The funny thing is that I read Wuthering Heights when I was about ten. I went through a brief period of reading stuff like that because it was banned. Then I started in on Judy Blume's Forever, and Wifey, and it was a long slow road through literary hell for the next dozen years or so.

***

It's here!

After haunting the magazine rack for weeks, I finally found my annual obsessive guilty pleasure, the Entertainment Weekly fall television special. I will comb through it again and again and attempt to tease out the perfect fall viewing schedule. I still feel smug about the issue years back when they gave the nod to Chicago Hope over E.R. and I didn't believe it and watched E.R. for three years while C. H withered and went away.

Over the years, though, the situation of finding a hit they don't call and liking it and having it be a hit anyway hasn't happened that often. Instead, they'll recommend it, I'll watch it, like it and then it'll be cancelled. The victims over the years have included My So-Called Life, EZ Streets, Sports Night, Freaks and Geeks, Undeclared and the Tick. So I try to stay away from these as well. I'm not always sure it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. The hurt from My So-Called Life and EZ Streets still burns.

( 6:57 PM ) Girl Detective

I'm in the middle of watching the third season of Sex and the City on dvd, and, as I did when I watched season one and season two, I want what those women have.

Not the shoes. Not the clothes. Or the parade of men. (Though I wouldn't mind Carrie's writing job that manages to pay both for her cute NYC apartment as well as her considerable shoe habit.)

What I want is the friendship. My favorite part of the series is the relationship of the four women. Through breakfast, lunch, dinner, drinks, nights out, nights in and phone calls at all hours, they comfort, cajole and mock one another. I envy this support system. I moved to a new city after getting married, and nearly all of the friends I've made have been friends WE have made. While I do have girlfriends, I usually see them with our respective significant others, and the dynamic is simply not the same.

So I'll ask a Carrie Bradshaw-like question: does marriage preclude having a passel of sassy girlfriends?

I had such a thing before I moved. At a friend's potluck dinner I brazenly invited myself to join her women's book group before such things became so common. I quickly became friends with others in the group and a few of us would meet for weekend breakfast. We would have coffee, juice, breads, cheese, olives, artichokes, fruit and any number of other yummy things as we talked about books, grad school, work, cute boys, cute girls and anything else. But one by one we moved away. Seeing similar get-togethers on Sex and the City reminds me of how much I miss those breakfasts. And while I'm still in touch with the many girlfriends who are now scattered across the country and the globe, email and phone conversations can't touch the immediacy of sharing things in person.

Perhaps for me it's not marriage that precludes the group of girlfriends as much as it is circumstance. Being coupled adds a layer of inertia that I didn't have when I lived alone--I don't feel as driven to get out of the house and interact. Additionally, I'm no longer a smoker or a drinker, so that standby of after-work cocktails doesn't quite work for me. So if I'm going to build a community of girlfriends here, it's going to take some work. I watched season one and season two and thought the same thing but never did anything about it. Perhaps season three is the charm--the impetus I need to be more deliberate about spending time with smart, fabulous women.

I think I'll go watch another episode and firm up my resolve.

( 3:48 PM ) Girl Detective

Have I ever told you the story about how I broke up with my ex? Met my husband? Visited an astrologer? If not, then you're luckier than poor M. Giant. He, my husband G. Grod and I went out for dinner on Friday. Afterwards, conversation started innocently enough. At some point, however, I lost the ability to stop talking. I told one story, was reminded of another, and in the midst thought of yet another, digressed and then returned. It was like verbal hypertext, emphasis on hyper. I eventually wound down, but not before I'd subjected the very polite M. to more than anyone besides me should probably know about my life. And it's not even as if I have a plausible excuse, like being drunk (I'd had only water) or even buzzing on sugar (we didn't have dessert). So my mantra for the near future comes from that great guru of balance, Denis Leary: "Shut the fuck up." But it would be a shame to let my festival of raconteurism go to waste, so here is the tale of why I avoid astrology.

Soon after I asked G. Grod to marry me, I decided to consult an astrologer for an auspicious wedding date and time. I got a recommendation, made the appointment, and told her the birth dates and locations for G. Grod and me.

When we met, we began by selecting the wedding time, which ironically turned out to be 5pm on a Saturday in October, something we were already considering. After that, she began to look through my chart for the upcoming months.

In the midst of a sentence, she stopped short and wrinkled her brow. "Oh. Hmm."

"What is it?" I asked, as the silence lengthened.

"Well, you have a very strong aspect here."

I waited, but she did not continue until I asked her to do so."Some people die under this sign."

So much for a professional bedside manner.

She looked up and then smiled brightly. "But then again, some people just get a toothache, so it's impossible to tell."

She changed the subject and I was loath to continue, so I let her finish her analysis. I thanked her and left.

I lived in mortal fear for the next two months. I didn't mention this to anyone because they would tell me to stop being ridiculous. The day arrived, and my parents and my sisters were all flying, my sister's husband was stationed abroad in the military, and I had to drive to and from the airport in sleeting rain over a bridge that made me cautious in normal weather.

Nothing happened. The day passed. A week passed. I didn't die. No one I knew died. Or even got a toothache.

I decided I was too credulous to dabble in something so interpretive as astrology. I took the charts she'd drawn up, the books I had and other various papers to the recycling bin. I've been a happy non-believer ever since.

( 5:50 PM ) Girl Detective

Oops. Thought of one more thing I don't belive in: dry cleaning.

I'll update the previous entry, but thought that those of you who are keeping up might not want to miss one little moment of obsessive weirdness.

( 9:29 PM ) Girl Detective

A few days ago I made a brief, non-comprehensive list of things I didn't believe in. In case you think I'm some sort of credibility black hole, I thought I'd balance out the blog by adding a short list of some things I do believe in:

yoga

labyrinths

double short lattes

sushi

Netflix

the color orange

most artists who sing on Bloodshot Records

Laura Mercier Dry Rose lipstick (better than MAC Twig. Really)

Francesca Lia Block books

some of the things that Warren Ellis says

my new glasses

baby ducks

Tivo

( 9:08 PM ) Girl Detective

Yesterday I got a blowout from Mick and spent the rest of the day happy and feeling good. He took his time, used lots of goop and wielded two small electric appliances. The result? Glorious. I've had blowouts over the years from other men--Giovanni, Roy and one guy whose name I don't even recall, but Mick beats them all.

I'm so glad I asked that woman at work last year who did her hair.

A blowout is the meticulous process of straightening one's normally wavy or curly hair. Some famous blowout veterans include Teri Hatcher, Gillian Anderson and Gwyneth Paltrow. Gwyneth has said that straightening her hair is a key element for her to feel good about her appearance.

I got my first blowout from Giovanni. The haircut was far more than I could afford at the time, but the result of the blowout was mesmerizing. My hair shone; it swung; it swooshed softly as I turned my head. With a round brush, a hair dryer and a lot of patience, my hair stylist had helped me to a place I'd never been before.

The reactions to a blowout are positive and immediate. Ever had a haircut where no one notices you've gotten it done, or if they do they don't compliment it? Not with a blowout. This is a mixed blessing, though. It's great to hear that my hair looks good, but depressing to know that obviously it doesn't look that good every other day when I do it myself.

I have actually accumulated the tools to do it myself--bottles of styling goop, a paddle brush, a round brush, a good hairdryer and a flat iron. But it's a big production and I never achieve the same results that I do in the hands of a trained professional. So I save the home attempts for special occasions between cuts, and then prolong the life of each professional blowout as best I can.

That's where the dirty little secret about blowouts comes in. When other non-blowout vets compliment me in the days following the style, I say vaguely, "Oh, it's easier to do it myself right afterward." It is possible to prolong the experience, but only by not washing my hair. In the beginning, I'd go for two or three days. It's not as easy as it sounds, because even going outside or exercising can produce enough moisture so that the curls spring back into action. My all-time record is eight days. And I'm not ashamed. I think it's my duty to honor all that carpal-tunnel inducing work that my stylist did.

( 9:39 PM ) Girl Detective

Everyone has their pet peeves. I just happen to have more than most.

The other night G. Grod and I were invited over to Blogenheimer and Queenie's for dinner. When we arrived, Blogenheimer played the gracious host and asked what I wanted to drink. I replied water, no ice. See, I don't like ice. I don't think beverages should be served cold. I like drinks that don't give me brain freeze immediately and that don't develop a watery layer after sitting for any length of time.

This prompted G. Grod to form a brief list of other things that I don't believe in, upon which I have expanded:

pizza delivery

valet parking

diet soda

shopping at outlet malls

navy blue

"Fade into Me" by Mazzy Star

chicken bones on the street

Garrison Keillor

deep dish pizza

baseball

talking to people in the morning before I've had proper coffee

cilantro

dry cleaning

( 8:19 PM ) Girl Detective

I had such good intentions for this weekend. I was going to get so much done. But then Saturday I began to get crazy with it, so on Sunday I just let things go, then friends called asking if we wanted to go to the last day of the State Fair. While saying no probably would have been kinder to our stomachs, we thought we should get out of the house and socialize.

This trip to the fair was slightly less food-centric than the last one. We began at the food building with fried cheese curds and birch beer. We stopped by the home improvement pavilion, where an eager man kept trying to talk to me about re-doing my kitchen. I smiled brightly and escaped.

We had some official sustenance, a breakfast burrito with eggs, cheese, salsa, peppers and onions. We washed it down with root beer, then armed ourselves with fluffy cotton candy for the walk to the light-rail car, which was open this time but not much more interesting.

We stopped by the baby animal barn and visited the lambs, piglets, chicks and duckies, the latter of which were by far my favorite. Before going to the big animal barns, though, we got some roasted corn and lemonade.

We decided to visit the goat barn and not the others. The goats were full of personality (not like the giant pigs, who are so fat that they just lie on their side and wheeze--very distressing) and one even tried to take a bite of a passing stroller to the mom's horror and the child's delight.

Next was the dairy barn, with the butter sculpture busts of the dairy princesses. The sign said that each princess got to take hers home. What would one do with a larger-than-life likeness done in butter from a block that originally weighed 90 pounds? Have a corn cookout and have everyone dip the roasted ears in the bust? Put it in the freezer and cut off hunks as needed--a nose, an ear, a lock of hair? We pondered these possibilities over a chocolate malt shake, then made out way out into the sunshine.

Our last food stop was supposed to be for mini-donuts, but our friends were determined to use a coupon from the book they'd bought earlier in the week, so we enjoyed an espresso granita as well.

Full and happy, we threaded our way through the crowds to the exit. So this weekend was by no means the productive one I thought it would be, but I can catch up on all that other stuff any time. We watched five movies, I read some of my book and had an impromptu visit to the fair for one more serving of mini-donuts for the year. It was a great way to end the summer.

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.

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