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Thursday, October 31, 2002 ( 4:03 PM ) Girl Detective There’s a relatively new scam going on outside the Coliseum in Rome and it’s a pretty effective one. Groups of three or four men dressed in ancient Roman costumes (I can’t vouch for the historical authenticity) stake out areas on the perimeter, then approach tourists. They kid around with them, then ask if the tourists want to have their picture taken. There is much laughter and clowning about at first. One of costumed men then takes a tourist’s camera and takes some photos of the group. At this point the scam becomes apparent, because the man holding the camera asks for payment (I don’t know how much but I assume that it’s a lot), then withholds the camera until the tourist coughs up the cash. We witnessed three German men as they were in the middle of this scenario—one of them grinning hugely as a man dressed as a gladiator held a wooden sword to his throat and hammed it up for the camera. Once the photos were taken, though, the laughter and camaraderie ended. Money and camera were exchanged and the Germans stalked off with scowls. A few moments passed, then the scammers began to smile again and approach other tourists. We did not see anyone else take the bait, or we’d have warned them away. It was easy to see how a jet-lagged visitor wandering around Rome might be duped into thinking these genial and good-looking men might be actors employed by the site to entertain people while they waited in line. But the change from amusement to predation was swift and pitiless. It was a jarring reminder to take care. | Wednesday, October 30, 2002 ( 7:36 PM ) Girl Detective One of my favorite things about Rome, in addition to the coffee and gelato, is the number of small churches that house pieces by artists such as Caravaggio, Bernini and even Michelangelo. These churches are easy to find and walk to, don't charge an entry fee, and are most often not crowded. Best of all, they usually allow people to get very close to the art, which is necessary to fully apprehend all the gorgeous detail. The one catch is that the paintings are unlit. They often have vending boxes that trigger temporary lighting. The light never seems to last long enough. It feels like barely a minute, though it may be longer. At one of the churches, San Luigi dei Francesi, the box required exact change in order to illuminate the three paintings in Caravaggio's St. Matthew cycle. There was quite a crowd milling about the church, but as soon as my brother-in-law Tony deposited a coin, they stopped milling and flocked to the paintings--either too cheap, too poor or cursed with inexact change to pay themselves. While paying for light is inconvenient and annoying, I am happy to contribute both to the church that houses the paintings and for their upkeep. But beyond annoying were the more than a dozen people, in three or four separate groupings, who took advantage of the light but neither thanked us nor reciprocated. The group was of all ages and nationalities--an elderly couple dressed very nicely, a group of German teens, a young couple and some others. I would say that they flocked like moths to a flame, but moths are drawn by instinct to the sun. There was something altogether more opportunistic about these people. Their behavior was more like that of rats or vultures--scavengers who skulk in the shadows, waiting for others to provide. While the art was breathtaking, the human behavior toward it was discouraging. I found it an uneasy juxtaposition. | Tuesday, October 29, 2002 ( 6:44 PM ) Girl Detective I'm trying to stay on my wheat-free diet in Italy. This is rather difficult, what with all the pizza, pasta and pastries and such, though not that much more difficult than it is back in the States. I've been ordering lots of risotto and omelettes. After our exhausting Vatican trip, I found a nearby restaurant recommended by my guidebook, the mostly useful City Secrets Rome. I have yet to understand the street numbering systems here. Just because I know what the number is doesn't make it much easier to find--there's no reassuring opposite sides with even/odd and streets don't always process in numerical order. So I was pleased when I found the restaurant, though we were adjacent to a noisy street. Still, we were sitting, which was a big improvement after being Vaticanized. The menu was in both English and Italian. One option was "Omelette to your taste". I looked around the menu for possible ingredients in other dishes listed so I wouldn't order anything they didn't have, then have to do a guessing game with the waiter. I wanted to be prepared, since waiters at the outdoor trattorias tend to have a lot of tables and not much time for indecisive, stumbling tourists. I thought ruchetta e parmigiano (arugula and parmesan) sounded good. When I ordered, I spoke first in Italian because I am trying to learn what language I can while I'm here. The waiter stared back at me blankly. I repeated myself in Italian. Still nothing. I said it in English, then he shook his head and began to exclaim in Italian. My brother-in-law Tony translated: "In all the 28 years as a waiter, I've never heard such a thing. My grandmother would be shocked. Shocked!" He then asked me clarifying questions. Did I want the arugula on the side? On top? Inside, I said. He shook his head in disbelief but took everyone else's order and departed. My omelette was delivered with chopped arugula both in and around it and a generous sprinkling of parmesan. When our waiter returned, I told him it was quite good and thanked him for his trouble. He shook his head again and began to expound, some of which I understood, much of which I did not, about how ruchetta is for salads, not to be cooked. Spinach and artichokes, now, those are good omelette ingredients.He warmed to his topic and became completely incomprehensible even to Tony, who speaks Italian quite well. Something about an eye of a chicken, or a chicken weeping or some such. He left finally, and in the end, I don't care what he said. It was a damn tasty omelette. | Monday, October 28, 2002 ( 8:49 PM ) Girl Detective Today I was in hell. I'm sorry; did I say hell? I meant the Vatican. My guidebook, the mostly useful City Secrets Rome, recommended that we arrive an hour before the Vatican opened, not to avoid the line outside but rather the crowds inside. We were advised to enter early and then race ahead of all the slow-moving gawpers to reach the Sistine Chapel. This approach would earn us about 30 quiet minutes before the madding crowds descended. Sadly, we'd been out late the night before for dinner, drinks and gelato (the delicious tartufo from Tre Scalini on Piazza Navona--chocolate ice cream covered with chunks of crushed chocolate, enclosing a surprise cherry--mmm) so we didn't get the early start we'd hoped for. We began the morning with excellent coffee at Sant' Eustachio but then experienced a series of delays. By the time we arrived, it was about 9:15 a.m., half an hour after the doors had opened. We gamely attempted the recommended "sprint" in spite of our late entry; it was challenging both for its length and complexity. Additionally, it required extreme agility in dodging tourist groups both large and small, nearly all moving with bovine slowness. Arriving finally, we found throngs of people jockeying back and forth unexpectedly and all too rarely looking above to the magnificent ceiling. We found a quiet spot and after craning our necks for some time found ourselves being pushed toward the exit. We resisted, again on the advice of the book, and doubled back to the chapel entrance to find the Raphael Rooms and the Fra Angelico chapel. After pushing upstream against the surging crowd, we met stony-faced guards who would not allow us to go backward and who pointed us vaguely forward when we asked about Raphael. Dejected, we plunged back into the Sistine crowd for a second time, then asked every guard we passed. Each, as if trained in the art of obfuscation, would gesture vaguely ahead and say that someone there could help us. As we went further into the museum, admiring the particularly vivid Caravaggio of Jesus being taken down from the cross, it became clear that the Vatican was a one-way affair. There was no doubling back and no choice in what you see. It's as if you have no free will at all. As we reached the end/beginning, we decided to try again. Once more, we bobbed, weaved and sprinted ahead of the goggle-eyed masses. Everything was going well until we no longer saw signs for the Fra Angelico chapel. We'd missed it again thanks to the less-than-helpful Vatican signage that ignored nearly everything but the Sistine Chapel. Attempts to double back were again met with grim disapproval and authoritarian finger pointing in the inexorable direction of the chapel. We did finally reach the Raphael Rooms, only to find them obscured partially by scaffolding signaling restoration. No wonder they hadn't registered the first time we'd run through. While the crowds and the scaffolds made it difficult, Raphael's philosophy fresco was impressive nonetheless. Lingering to appreciate it, though, was nearly impossible so we plodded ahead. The chapel, although breathtaking, has a somewhat deadening effect when forced upon you for the third time. On our way out we did have a chance to see some Bernini statuary in various stages of degeneration, with wire and bundled twig skeletons, as if someone were performing an autopsy, so our extra circuit was not unjustified. If ever I visit the Vatican again, it will be early in the morning, out of season and perhaps with a private tour guide who is familiar with the layout and can help navigate the obscurities while avoiding both crowds and the boring stuff. Whatever the cost, I think it would be worth it. | ( 8:48 PM ) Girl Detective For all of you who were hoping to hear more from Trash (as was I), she was not a delinquent guest poster. She encountered technical difficulties and did not have the administrative access (or the benefit of my husband/tech support G. Grod's technical wizardry) to surmount them. But we're back and the blog is repaired, so we may well be hearing from her again soon. | Sunday, October 27, 2002 ( 8:29 PM ) Girl Detective I'm now back from my trip. I had a good time and am almost recovered from jet lag just in time to go back to work. While I didn't make time to frequent the internet cafes in Italy, I did take along a notebook and managed to do a fair amount of writing, some of which I'd like to post here. So the upcoming entries will be written in the present tense, even though they already happened. *** Right now I'm winging my way across the Atlantic ocean, about to embark on a family trip to Italy. I'm seated between my husband G. Grod and my dad, and we're meeting my sister Ruthie and her husband Tony once we get to Rome. My other sister Sydney and her husband G. I. Joe (with kung-fu action grip!) will be joining us in a week in Siena. This family trip to Italy has finally come to fruition after being talked about for years; and I feel woefully unprepared. I suggested a family trip after I studied for a month in Rome during '96. I loved it, but found it depressing to experience so many cool things and not have someone I loved there to share them. After years of discussion, we were finally able to coordinate seven peoples' schedules and make reservations. My husband G. Grod and I figured we could spend the month prior to the trip learning some Italian, reading guidebooks to make plans and making sure that we packed light enough for a 2-week, 4-city trip but comprehensively enough to cover options like a nice dinner or cool weather. Then my work went kablooey. So rather than the leisurely, careful planning I'd hoped for, I had to snatch moments here and there. As the time to leave approached, I was disappointed about not having learned some basic Italian, but I felt pretty good about our packing plans. That is, until I didn't get home from work till 7:30 p.m. last night and we didn't get back from dinner till after nine. As I tried to focus I found myself becoming more and more incoherent and finally gave up around midnight. I woke at six this morning and tackled my bathroom bag, which was fraught with too many decisions. Contacts or not? Makeup? How much? What happened to that sample of body wash that I used to have? Pathetically, this took over an hour. After a shower and breakfast I finally finished, moments, before the phone rang signalling the arrival of our shuttle. G. Grod, just closing up the suitcase, said we should bag the shuttle and take a cab though it would cost twice as much. I, filled with the delusional mania of the sleep deprived on the verge of vacation, said we'd be right down. Five minutes later when they rang again I said the same thing and we bolted out of the apartment and down to the shuttle. As soon as I was out the door, I realized Forgotten Thing #1: bras. Bras? How could I forget bras? Dammit. Once in the shuttle and en route, Grod noted that he'd forgotten to pack a light jacket. I had left the itinerary and travel articles that I'd been saving for years on the kitchen counter. On the plane we realized we'd forgotten the trail mix we'd bought as a plane snack, as well as an empty bag to bring things back in and a fancy air compression bag we'd bought to keep our luggage bulk down. Somewhere over Canada I recalled the liquid soap I'd meant to bring so we could wash socks and underwear in the sink. And once over the Atlantic I remembered sunscreen. By the time we factor in the costs of buying things to replace what I've forgotten, like bras and sunscreen, and the lost cost of having bought stuff specifically for the trip that we won't use, they will far exceed what the cab would have cost. Plus, we're pretty sure but not positive that we remembered to lock the door and close the window we left open last night. I've had to apologize multiple times to a very cranky husband. But I keep reminding myself: two weeks in Italy. Stop agonizing over what can't be changed. And I've done a pretty good job of it so far. I just hope we remembered to shut that window. | Friday, October 25, 2002 ( 9:57 PM ) Girl Detective I'm back. And the first thing I heard upon re-entering the States was that Paul Wellstone had been killed in a plane crash. While I'd made it home safely, someone else didn't. He was one of the good guys. While not a perfect politician, he was one who tried and had both heart and humor. The world is a poorer place for his passing. I'm sad for it tonight. | Monday, October 21, 2002 ( 3:29 AM ) Girl Detective This is Girl Detective, reporting live from Siena, Italy, having all sorts of trouble with this damn keyboard and running out of time on my internet cafe card. Can you tell that the left shift key is not where iàm used to? Sorry, no time to correct. Iàm sick. yes, sick with a terrible cold. I seem to have come down wiht the dreaded Black Plague that decimated Siena back in the day, Sore throat, runny nose, fever and headache. I have not been ill in over a year but once I get to Italy, BAM. What perfect, hellacious timing. 37 seconds to go, so more another time. Ciao! | Wednesday, October 16, 2002 ( 10:33 PM ) Girl Detective I think I broke my ear last night. How is that for a first sentence? Hi, I'm Trash, friend of Girl Detective and G. Grod, spouse of M. Giant. With Girl Detective on a whirl-wind tour of the world, or at least some of the interesting parts, I am attempting to hold her spot, so to speak, until she returns. Worry not, she will re-take her throne as soon as she returns. That said, let's return to the topic at hand. I think I broke my ear last night. I realize that it is rather unusual to break one's ear. I also know that, should anyone be able to do so, that person would be me. I can do serious harm to my body like no one else. I am graceful only until it is important for me to make a good impression, at which time I trip (usually while holding a large bowl of soup, an antique vase, and sometimes a cat) and somehow manage to both twist my ankle AND spill hot soup down the back of my own shirt. The only bug that is continuously attracted to me is the bee, of which I am (of course) deathly allergic. And I am the only person who can sustain an ear infection -- without noticing ANY of the symptoms -- until my eardrum bursts, rendering my left ear deaf forever. Yes, I am unable to hear out of my left ear, or at least unable to hear more than 20 percent of what I am supposed to hear. It doesn't bother me, and most people have no idea because I try to walk on their left side and I am good at nodding and looking as though I understand. In fact, it comes in pretty handy at times, like when M. Giant wants to listen to The Who (which I abhor) in the car. If he is driving, I simply open the passenger window and voila! No music. It is also convenient at bedtime, because if I lay on my right ear, the world becomes silent. No screaming cats racing up and down the stairs in search of God-knows-what, no strange sorority house neighbors having a late-night party, no bothersome morning alarms. Pure Silence. Which sounds perfect, until you somehow manage to sleep wrong on your right ear, bending it into a shape never intended in the womb and resulting in a day of odd, searing, shooting pains on the right side of your head. Yes, that's correct, searing pains. I even asked a coworker if my ear was still completely attached, or if I had broken off part in the middle of the night. She assured my that I was insane and sent me on my way. So tonight I have to attempt to sleep on my left side. Now, most of you know what it's like to try and sleep on your *wrong* side. Now imagine sleeping that way with a brass band playing next to you, because that's what it now sounds like to me. Restful. Lucky for me the pain should fade some time in the middle of the night, and hopefully my unconscious self will roll me over and block out the noise. Here's hoping I don't break my other ear. | Friday, October 11, 2002 ( 10:06 PM ) Girl Detective Sorry, sorry, sorry that I haven't been able to post till just this minute. G. Grod and I are about to leave on a trip. Normally, I would have been fiendishly planning, making lists of possible outfits. Instead work has been crazy busy so I have been obsessively shopping without making plans to pack. So here I sit, tappity, tappity, straight into blogger, no safety net and not one damn thing packed. Argh. Normally, I would have been writing all sorts of stuff. I wanted to write the story of how I proposed to G. Grod, talk about Birds of Prey (which didn't suck, by the way) and perhaps do something on the obsessive shopping streak. Instead, I have to go pack. So all those stories will have to wait till I return. If all goes according to plan, there will be a special guest blogger while I'm away. I've invited my friend Trash to do what she will on the blog. It should be a good time, so be sure to check back next week. And when I return from my trip, I'll be sure to have lots of stories to tell, and I promise to try and tell them Sunday through Thursday evenings so you can read them at work. Good night. | Wednesday, October 09, 2002 ( 9:27 PM ) Girl Detective A while back I mentioned that I would no longer be watching Smallville. This was before my husband G. Grod pointed me in the direction of Television Without Pity's forums, specifically the one for Smallville called "Homoeroticism, Yay!"After spending some time there, I realized my mistake. I'd been watching Smallville as if they were playing the story straight (sorry for the pun) and it was pretty dull stuff. But once I was clued in to the homoerotic subtexts (which now were so obvious that I wonder if they really can be subtexts) then the show became much more entertaining. For example, last week's episode followed the "freak of the week" pattern that Smallville beat past death during its first season. An attractive woman came to town seducing then marrying Lex Luthor. She secreted pheromones, which made her irresistible to men. Yet when she tried her wiles on Clark, he was immune. The straight reading is that it's because he has superpowers. The homoerotic reading asks the question--what kind of man is immune to a sexy woman? This episode also featured the two female characters, Lana and Chloe, saying that they didn't want Clark to come between them. A straight reading would interpret this metaphorically, but I think the homoerotic implication of a literal interpretation is pretty clear. In this week's episode, Clark's friend Pete finds the missing spaceship that once brought Clark to earth. In the ensuing drama, Clark admits to Pete that he's an alien. Pete becomes upset and feels that Clark has been lying to him, and feels uncomfortable about all the times they've hung out together. Read straight, Pete's upset at the lie. Read homoerotically, though, it's as if Clark has admitted to Pete that he's gay. Buffy the Vampire Slayer played the same sort of thing for laughs when Buffy "came out" to her mom that she was the slayer, but Smallville's turn has much less tongue-in-cheekiness. In this episode, Lana is trying to escape her aunt's new boyfriend and Chloe says that she can sleep over any time. Interestingly, there have been very few opposite sex interactions between the characters this season--the girls are hanging with the girls, the boys are with the boys. In next week's episode we'll see Clark's alter ego, who looks like a gay biker. So I regret thinking that Smallville was bad. It seems to have taken a very interesting and entertaining turn. While it would be nice if there were more openly gay characters on television, I'm intrigued by Smallville's take on this. There are so many hints that I think it's impossible that the homoeroticism isn't meant to be found. So if you're looking for more gay characters on tv, tune in. Smallville is a hotbed of raging teenage hormones and gay innuendo. It's a delicious combination. | Tuesday, October 08, 2002 ( 7:38 PM ) Girl Detective G. Grod and I went on our first date a week after we met. In the aftermath of my broken engagement I had been on a few dates but nothing clicked. There were two people with whom I thought I had a spark, but then they didn't spark back. I went out twice with another guy, wondering why I didn't feel a spark until I learned that he was way older than the mid-thirties that I'd originally pegged him for. Forty-nine, in fact. Once I realized that he was a contemporary of my dad (the red Porsche he drove should have tipped me off) the lack of chemistry made much more sense. After our night in the bar, however, I knew there were sparks with Grod, so I was looking forward to the date. We went to see Get Shorty, then got a pizza and came back to my apartment. The pizza was terrible, but it was my own fault. For some reason sun-dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts sounded good to me that night. We left most of it uneaten as we talked and he prowled around my living room, checking out my books and cds. He seemed especially pleased to see my graphic novels, including Watchmen, Sandman and the Dark Phoenix Saga. We talked about comics, then moved on to music and picked out some cds to shuffle. We stood in the middle of my living room swaying to the music. As he leaned down to kiss me, I realized with a jolt that it was actually happening. I was about to kiss someone new. One of the things that had kept me so long in the previous relationship was that I had thought I couldn't do any better. The ex and I had been good friends and shared a lot in common; naively I thought that was enough. I didn't feel a strong physical pull toward him, and in fact had often secretly felt that we didn't kiss well. It was as if our mouths did not fit one another. Marrying him would have condemned me to a lifetime of ill-suited kisses. So it was with both excitement and trepidation that I reached up to kiss G. Grod. My trrepidation evaporated instantly. Our mouths fit so perfectly I could almost hear an audible click as they met. I felt an intense surge of gratitude that I hadn't settled for that previous, close-but-not-quite relationship. It was followed by a wave of excitement, not just for the moment but for the possibility. Maybe this wouldn't be the person that I'd want to kiss forever, but his was the first new kiss I'd had in years. And it was good. Seven years later, it still is. | Monday, October 07, 2002 ( 7:28 PM ) Girl Detective My husband G. Grod and I started going out after I met him in a bar and started flirting with him under false pretenses. I was not at the bar randomly. It was a party for a friend I'd worked with until I'd quit my job for grad school. I'd recently been through an ugly break up and felt like it was time to start dating again, if only so I wouldn't feel so hideously depressed and resentful whenever my next-door neighbor and his girlfriend had howlingly loud sex. My friend had promised to set me up with a guy who'd just begun working at the office before I left. He was a charming, good-looking, pre-med student. As I entered the bar, wearing my new favorite sweater and a thin coat of hopeful lip gloss, my friend broke the bad news. "He said he can't come till late. I made him swear that he'd show up." Crushed, I knew that my neighbor's vociferous bonking would be especially depressing that night, until my friend went on to add, "But this guy next to me is named G. Grod, and when you walked in the door, he perked up and asked, 'Hey, who's that?'" I glanced over to check him out. Dark hair, ratty t-shirt and pretty cute. I introduced myself and asked if he had change for the jukebox. He did, so we went over and began to pick out songs like Dusty Springfield's "Son of a Preacher Man", TLC's "Waterfalls" and Al Green's "Let's Stay Together". We struck up a conversation and were soon joined by others at the party, one of whom was a woman from my book group. The three of us talked for quite some time before she left, saying she had to be up for work early the next morning. I found out later that Grod thought we were both cute and was flirting equally with both of us. I didn't notice this because I knew two things that Grod did not. One, she was a lesbian and two, that she usually dated African-Americans, so though he didn't know it, Grod wasn't even in the ballpark. We continued to talk and he asked for and I gave him my phone number. As he prepared to leave, the friend who'd meant to set me up with the other guy and then tipped me off to Grod thought that he was getting away, so she offered to buy him a drink. He obliged and we talked some more, though I was secure in the knowledge that he had my number. As he tried to leave a second time, someone else offered to buy him a drink. He got a cup of coffee (long drive home), finished that and when he tried to leave again, and before she offered again, I assured her that he had my number and that it was ok for him to leave. As he finally began to leave, he took my hand and said that he was really glad he'd met me. And he kept holding my hand. He paused, I looked at him and he still didn't let go. Finally, I gently detached his fingers from mine and said that I'd had a good time too and that I hoped we'd talk again soon. I went home that night with a manic emotional buzz. I hardly noticed my neighbor's screaming orgasms as I emailed half a dozen friends, including my sister who I was flying to see early the next morning. "I met this great guy tonight! We didn't even kiss, but I think there's potential." I saw that other guy, the cute pre-med student, a few weeks later but barely paid attention. By that time I was deeply infatuated. And here we are, nearly seven years later. Not too bad for a bar pick-up. | Sunday, October 06, 2002 ( 9:43 PM ) Girl Detective I missed posting last Thursday because my husband G. Grod and I went out for dinner to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary. We had a spectacular 6-course tasting menu, all the better for occurring after a particularly trying day at work. We got home late and then continued to bask in the romantic glow. After that, it was too damn late to blog. I picked Grod up in a bar on a night I was supposed to be fixed up with someone else. That was nearly seven years ago. We have been together ever since. Our wedding was a mix of convention and non-, influenced largely by the fact that I'd been engaged previously to someone else, planned a wedding, then called the whole thing off. My close brush with a big mistake caused me to re-examine many of the assumptions and prejudices I'd held as I moved into a new relationship and eventual engagement. Grod and I married in Philadelphia, where I'd lived for eight years before moving to the Midwest. The ceremony, cocktails and reception were all held in the same club, on the 52nd floor overlooking both downtown and the Delaware River. I wore a pale green, silk taffeta dress that I'd bought off the rack at a local discount outlet for under $200. (The original price tag read $1090.) This was just one detail, among many, that made our celebration personal and different. We wrote and conducted the ceremony ourselves with no officiant. Pennsylvania's long Quaker history enables couples to get a Quaker-type marriage license. You don't have to have a Quaker ceremony, or even profess to be Quaker; the only requirement is that the couple does the actually marrying and doesn't just use the special license so that their friend Joe or Uncle Bob can perform the ceremony for a hoot. Though our ceremony was non-religious, I did base its structure on the Episcopal Church's liturgy, since so much of the modern wedding ritual comes from that history. While we did many things differently, we used the traditional words for the vows, so that everyone there who was married or would be getting married would have a constant that could link all our ceremonies together. To begin, we processed to the front of the room--he with his mother and step-father, me with my parents--to music written and performed by my aunt. His attendants preceded him; mine preceded me. We began the ceremony by introducing them to the assembled guests so that everyone would know who was standing up with us. We also asked that our guests--including our photographer--not take photos during the ceremony so that everyone there would be able to be fully attentive and present. We wrote the program ourselves, using quotes from Shakespeare and a format like a playbill. We wanted to emphasize that the wedding was a performance, one that had been done before and that would be done again. We had performances within the performance. A friend of mine sang "I Will", which she had selected for us, then a friend of Grod's played "Thank You", which Grod had selected and that very few people recognized in an acoustic version. I'd given my friend Thalia great stress when I'd asked her not only to read during the ceremony, but to select what she'd like to read. Her selection, which she said later she'd agonized over, was taken from Hans Christian Anderson's "The Snow Queen" and suited us perfectly. During the ceremony we asked for and received the support of our parents as well as that of all those present. When we had exchanged vows and rings, everyone there pronounced us married, so that the guests were not mere witnesses but active participants in our marriage. As we filed out, with our attendants now paired to reflect our newly joined communities, Grod and I took a planned detour to a private room. I had wanted to have some time for us after the ceremony, both for practical and personal reasons. On a mundane level, I wanted to be able to have some food and drink before the chaos of the photos and the reception ensued. The site coordinator had brought us drinks and a selection of appetizers, including the sushi that was devoured in no time flat next door by Grod's Lutheran family and friends who were all excited to try it for the first time. More importantly, though, I'd wanted a few moments for us to be together and to let the enormity of what we'd just promised sink in. This latter was more important to me than to Grod. In his mind, we'd been married since I'd proposed and he'd said yes, maybe even before. I, though, felt like the wedding ceremony had made it concrete in a way that it hadn't been before. So Grod attacked the sushi while I took deep breaths, then laughingly joined him. Then we both filled our lungs before opening the door and, hands joined, moving forward into the whirlwind that was the rest of the evening. The reception was fairly conventional--dinner, dancing and dessert. It was a fun party, and while there were certain things that didn't come off as well as I'd have hoped, overall people seemed to have a good time. But it is the ceremony that I remain most proud of and about which I would not change a thing. We, with the help of many loved ones, pulled off a beautiful ceremony, one that reflected the tenuous balance between real and ideal. This balance continues to inform the daily adventure that is our marriage. | Friday, October 04, 2002 ( 6:50 PM ) Girl Detective Cosmetics gift postscript I came home and unwrapped the gifts. There were a few useless perfume samples, the usual Lancome swag (oh, look, Sugared Maple again, just like I've been getting for HALF MY LIFE), some other interesting looking things. And. Creme de la Mer. OK, they're teeny samples, but. Creme de la Mer. Face cream and eye cream. Creme de la Mer. I am SO loving this gift. | ( 9:43 AM ) Girl Detective Shopping kismet Kismet means fortune or fate. Where did I first learn the word? From Beverly Hills 90210, when Brenda met Dean Cain in Paris and pretended to be French. She spoke with an abominable French accent which Dean had to be brain dead to believe. When they found each other again in Beverly Hills, Dean told Brenda that it was kismet. She stupidly did not believe him and kept pining after Dylan. I think we can all take a lesson from this. When kismet hits you over the head, pay attention. Career pitfalls are likely to follow. Yesterday I decided to pop in Neiman Marcus. I received quick, friendly, helpful service from a very nice woman who helped me earlier this spring when I went on my last cosmetics bender. As she rang up the Kate Spade travel vanity and the hair brush, I told her that I had stayed away during the cosmetic event because I hadn't needed anything. While I wasn't getting a gift now, I at least was buying things I wanted/needed. She did a quick survey behind the counter, and said that she happened to have an extra leftover gift right there, then tucked it in my bag. So what's the moral to my story? Good things come to those that wait? If I buy it, gifts will come? I'm not sure, but I'm thrilled at my happy ending. | Wednesday, October 02, 2002 ( 6:09 PM ) Girl Detective I wrote previously about my struggles with cosmetic gifts with purchase. I was very proud of myself recently that Neiman Marcus had their semi-annual beauty event and in spite of multiple emails and calls, I did not even venture into the store and so was not lured into buying things just to get the gift. Now imagine how annoyed I am at myself since I'm contemplating buying two things from Neiman's that would have put me well over the minimum amount needed to get that cool bag full of bonus items. I have some consolation in that I didn't know that I needed (ok, need is a very silly verb when talking about the cosmetics department at Neiman's, I know) the two things that I'm thinking of buying, so I would have bought other things to get the gift, then been less able to justify the things I'm thinking of buying now. If only I could have known what I want now, then. What do I want? A Mason Pearson brush and a Kate Spade travel bag with stuff. I am suspicious of the latter. It seems like the kind of thing that my brain is yelling "I wannit, I wannit, I wannit!" but that a few weeks from now I'll wonder, "Did I really need to blow $60 on that?" The brush, though, is an investment that several knowledgeable friends have assured me is worthwhile. In the interest of keeping my cosmetic habit under control, I'm ruminating over these purchase ideas for a little while. In the grand scheme of things, these are small indulgences. I know myself well enough, though, to know that one small indulgence at Neiman's is a very slippery slope. But it sure looks like a fun ride from here. | Tuesday, October 01, 2002 ( 7:30 PM ) Girl Detective OK, I'm back on the new TV season. Wednesdays By the way, Birds of Prey, which is a Wednesday night show, does not premiere until next week on October 9. Sorry if I made it sound all "run right out and watch it now." I'm sure that was very disorienting. I have heard that Fastlane is a good guilty pleasure, but it's not on this week. And next week I'll be watching Birds of Prey. I did watch MDs, though, and it didn't suck. William Fichtner was cute, John Hannah's accent was sexy, and the other characters were all ridiculous caricatures. They have an attractive Asian woman playing the John Carter part from ER. You know the part, it goes like this: "Oh, I'm a brand new intern. I don't know what I'm doing and yet I'm accidentally looped in to work with these talented, charismatic and rule-breaking doctors. Wow, that was cool! I'm so proud to be a doctor." I'll give this show one more try. I feel like a true sampling would be three shows, but I just don't think I have the patience for that this season. Thursdays Scrubs may be the only thing I watch on Thursdays. I'm kicking myself that I didn't watch this funny show in re-runs this summer. Fridays Firefly week 2 didn't impress me. Still the silly western theme, bad music and the stiff and not that interesting captain. I felt like I was watching a low-rent episode of Babylon 5. I may watch the movie that was supposed to be the pilot if the show's still on later this season. The pilot of Robbery Homicide Division, starring Tom Sizemore, was pretty good. Visually interesting with a complicated, not-too-hackneyed plot. It's also good to see Mario van Peebles getting work, too. This one's worth watching again. Sundays Since Simpsons and Malcolm have their typically late premieres, for now I'm watching Boomtown, the cop/crime drama shown from multiple perspectives. (It's like Rashomon, all the articles say, as if most of the TV watching public would know what that meant. I can't really talk, since I haven't seen Rashomon, but I do know what it means. And I will watch Rashomon, eventually. But I have a hard time believing that more than a small fraction of people know what that reference means.) Mondays It all looks like crap. I'm not watching TV on Monday. And I've already talked about Tuesdays and Wednesdays last week, so there it is--my scientific analysis of what to watch this season. I hope this helped. | |
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