Girl Detective

Girl Detective

( 7:52 PM ) Girl Detective

I think most of us without nut allergies can agree that peanut butter is a good thing.

Yeah, people over the years have tried to do stuff to it, like Goober Grape, and I seem to remember a misguided series of Peter Pan brand flavored peanut butters--chocolate, cinnamon, there must have been more. But by and large, people respect peanut butter and leave it alone.

Until now.

Now there's a tasty new food product called pb slices. They're plastic wrapped slices of peanut butter, just like the plastic wrapped slices of cheese. Great for on the go, or wrapping around a hot dog or piece of fruit. The maker knew that his concept was a good one, and spent years trying to get peanut butter to behave like a slice. Goddess only knows what kind of preservatives and chemical goos were involved, but he eventually succeeded.

If you can call this success.

Oh, the horror. It burns; it burns.

( 8:18 PM ) Girl Detective

I went to see the new Harry Potter movie this weekend. I was looking forward to a fun movie that I'd heard good things about. I should've known that things weren't going my way during the previews.

First was a movie about an American girl who goes to England looking for her father, the man her mother won't discuss. She finds Colin Firth (talk about an Elektra complex), a snooty British prig, surrounded by the other snooty British prigs in his family. The American girl commits wacky hijinks, tries to fit in, fails, and learns that it's better to be herself. In so doing, she melts the chilly heart of her British father. This heartwarming, original little gem is called What a Girl Wants. I certainly hope that the girls of America want more interesting things than this crappy, cliched little Cinderella retread. Here are a couple things that I think would have been way more interesting when I was seventeen, or however old the girl in the movie is: a Hitachi Magic Wand, Bust magazine, books by Francesca Lia Block and fantasies about fierce snogs with Colin Firth.

Next was a preview for the new Jerry O'Connell movie. You know, the guy who was in Sliders, Tomcats, and Joe's Apartment. If you can believe it, it looks as if he's fallen even farther into hell. He stars as a dumb guy who, with his dumb guy friend, takes a load of illegal money to Australia and has to deliver it to the outback. Along the way, a badass kangaroo steals the jacket that the money is in, so he and his friend and a convenient blond have to track it down. Does it sound like the worst movie ever, yet? Did I mention that the kangaroo can talk?

My head was still spinning when the Harry Potter movie began. All too soon, I was introduced to Dobby the house elf, a large-eyed combination of Jar-Jar Binks and Elmo, who hasn't yet mastered the art of pronouns. Over the course of the movie, events and emotions were either glossed over or slammed home. Toward the end, I flinched with each sledgehammer plot point. My ass ached and I thought longingly of the things I could have done with the two hours and forty minutes that I would never get back again.

So don't say you haven't been warned. I should have listened to Pamie. Next time, I'll know.

( 9:11 PM ) Girl Detective

I took a writing class this weekend. The instructor is a local, critically acclaimed author. She had good rapport with the group and gave us good handouts and excellent writing exercises; I learned a lot. But three hours is a long time, so I noticed a few other things while I was there.

When we went around the room to introduce ourselves, there were several people who said that they were trying to write memoir, "because I think I have a pretty interesting life." As I surveyed the room of pale Minnesotans and thought of my own attempts to write about my own "interesting life" I felt humble and ashamed. Thank goodness for free, self-publishing on the web, because the odds of all of us getting someone else to pay us for our "interesting lives" struck me as pretty slim, right then.

During a long comment by a student, my attention wandered; and it settled on the shoes. For the most part, they were quite sensible: short boots, clogs, loafers, Tevas with socks. Then there was that pair, the "one of these things just doesn't belong" shoes: open-toe, cork-heeled platform sandals worn by a woman who apparently didn't get the memo that it's November in Minnesota.

The comment that had bored me came from a strange woman in the class, thought she wasn't That Person. My friend Trash maintains that in any writing class, there is always That Person. It doesn't usually take long for That Person to manifest. Sometimes there can be more than one of That Person, but most often there is a king or queen. In this class, it was the older man who sat three people to my right, and who typed on his laptop the entire time--when the instructor was speaking, when other students were reading, when we were on break. The typing wouldn't have been so bad, but he accompanied it by a breathy whistling noise. Over break, I debated whether to say anything, and if so how. I had a particularly bad experience giving constructive feedback last week, so I seriously considered just letting it go. But it was constant. And annoying. So I decided that I'd never see this person again and didn't have much to lose.

I told him the acoustics in the room were bad and that I was having trouble hearing the instructor, and his whistling made it more difficult. He smiled and nodded, said that it was a character flaw of his, at which I protested and said that was awfully strong, why not just a habit? He said he'd inherited it from his father, and then he went on. And on. Till the end of break. To me. But he remained silent for the second half of class, other than raising his hand to give sycophantic feedback to the instructor that he barely bothered to thinly disguise as questions. So in the end, I took one for the class. And it was worth it.

Wouldn't it be interesting if writing classes were like Survivor, so you could vote out That Person? Perhaps I'll bring that up on my next class evaluation form.

( 9:02 PM ) Girl Detective

For today's entry, I am borrowing my structure from modgirl.

Topic: I am a fucking idiot.

Today, I tried to give someone constructive criticism. I thought that talking about it in person would have more integrity, and be better than not saying anything then bitching and stewing about it on my own.

This was very wrong.

My husband G. Grod says that there's no such thing as constructive criticism--it's all just criticism, and no one wants to hear it. Therefore the only people who will hear it are those who have to, as in those who have less power than the person giving it.

Therefore, one should never, under any circumstances, attempt to critique those with more power.

And that is why I am a fucking idiot.

Constructive criticism: myth, or elusive reality? Discuss.

( 9:30 PM ) Girl Detective

You don't know it, but your home or apartment could be harboring a disaster waiting to happen. It's flammable. It sneaks up on you silently. It's a little known danger.

That's right, folks, it's lint.

Yes, actually, I am serious.

A few weeks ago, one of my colleagues said that her parents had their dryer cleaned out over the weekend.

"Cleaned out?" I asked. "Like how you're supposed to pull out the refrigerator once a year and vacuum the coils, which no one ever does and everyone seems to live a happy and fulfilling life anyway?"

Worse, she said solemnly. The guy from the electric company said it could have started a fire at any time. Do you want me to send you the link about cleaning your dryer?

Suddenly paranoid, I said yes.Then I told my husband G. Grod about it and it was a topic for about eleventeen weekends running.

What are our plans for the weekend?

We should clean out the dryer.

Uh-huh. And what else?

It seemed as if we were going to put it off for years. But then we went to Italy and Grod saw the cool, digital cameras that my sisters Ruthie and Sydney have, and decided he had to have one. (Yes, this is connected to dryer lint, hang in there.)

I responded that I saw no way that we could possibly rationalize a digital camera when we had a bajillion little things around the condo that we should fix that have been problems for the entire year and a half that we've lived here, like the window blinds that flake paint every time we move them, the mildewy shower curtains, the peeling grout in the shower, the light fixture that we kept banging our heads on, the bathroom faucets that hurt our hands to use, the shower fixture that didn't work (cleaning it didn't help), the kitchen faucet whose surface was bubbled and peeling.... Oh yeah, and the dryer that needed to be cleaned out.

Grod thought for a moment, then said, "You're right. We're going to Home Depot this weekend."

And so G. Grod and I prepared to commit home improvement for the first time in our lives.

We started by pulling out the dryer to find a thick layer of filth on the floor. We unhooked the tubes on the back (the extra-flammable plastic kind with ribs--thanks, former owner!) to find them clogged with lint. We tried to remove a lint screen on the back of the dryer (no, not the one in the front that you should empty with every load, I'll get to that in a minute) but it wouldn't budge. It was jammed with so much lint that its metal structure had disintegrated. Grod had to pick out bits and pieces with pliers, along with grapefruit-sized balls of lint. I thought I'd finish by cleaning out the lint filter in the front using the vacuum attachment, but it didn't seem to do much.

(I have another story that this happens in--it's The Stupidest Thing I've Ever Done, in which I tried to get something that had fallen down the drain in my sink out with my vacuum cleaner. This is not to be confused with The Meanest Thing I've Ever Done, which was to rip up my roomate's roses. Unless you're my sister Sydney, and then it was telling her that she was adopted. Which is kind funny if you ever see Sydney and me together, because we look rather alike. She doesn't find it funny, though, even twenty odd years later. But I digress.)

I fiddled and got out the screwdriver and undid this plate and that, then took off the lint trap cage to find a whole secret cache of lint, quivering in fear and rage that it had been discoveed. This ball of lint--which contained bits of sawdust?--was as big as my head. And I have a disproportionately large head, as an ex-boyfriend was once fond of reminding me. (And then he wondered why he became my ex-boyfriend. No one else did.)

Finally, the filth was cleaned up, the new tubes were installed, the back filter was replaced and the front filter was clean, so we hooked it all back up, ran a load of dirty towels through the washer and dryer, and were amazed. We had never in the year and a half that we'd owned this dryer had such a speedy drying. Of towels. On the first try.

We're now very happy with our new, safe, clean and efficient dryer. And the only things standing between G. Grod and a digital camera are half a dozen more home improvements. It's a marvelous incentive.

( 3:58 PM ) Girl Detective

In no particular order, a few of my new favorite things:

Hemp shower curtain. It’s naturally anti-mildew and doesn’t emit toxic fumes like vinyl ones do. Though nylon ones don’t, they still end up as landfill. The hemp curtain can also be tossed in the washer; and it air dries very quickly.

DKNY Soho jeans. With a little bit of spandex, so they look tight but are SO comfortable. My husband G. Grod loves these jeans so much he encouraged me to buy a second pair.

Frette wash cloth. I picked up one on my trip to Italy, and this is the ideal to which all wash cloths aspire. It’s soft, it’s pretty and even after many uses, it doesn’t get that icky, sour smell.

MAC eye make-up remover. I’ve tried others. Clarins. Clinique. Nars. Lancome. This is the best.

Jo Malone’s Lime, Basil, Mandarin fragrance. Fresh and different. Smells good and not perfume-y.

Dr. Hauschka Neem Nail Oil. My cuticles will now happily be able to survive the Minnesota winter.

Scrubs. The best show on TV. Funny, smart and engaging.

Hopeless Savages comics and graphic novels by Jen Van Meter, et. al. Great story, great art, and tremendous characters. It's about a family of musicians, ever so much cooler than the Osbournes. I love them even though I missed the whole punk-rock thing.

Our new light fixture. The guy who designed our condo made the curious choice of a light fixture in the dining area that fell at eye level and couldn't be moved or raised. My husband G. Grod and I hit our heads on it repeatedly for the year and a half that we've lived there (yes, that's a year and a half worth of "D'oh!s) and finally took it off and put on one that no one under eight feet tall will be in danger of bumping their head on. I can now stop cringing around the center of our place in fear of hitting my head. And it only cost ten dollars! Woo-hoo! What glorious freedom.

( 7:22 PM ) Girl Detective

I'm participating in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. This is a great site/event that encourages wannabe writers like myself to put the pedal to the metal and crank out 50,000 words of a novel in a month.

Does it have to be good?

No!

Does it have to make sense?

No!

Does it have to have a plot, be spelled correctly, or any other sign of writerly competence?

No! It just has to be 50,000 words.

So until midnight of November 30, I am one of several hundred people working to crank out my bad novel. Currently, I've got 27,587 words so I'm more than halfway. I've set myself a goal of 2,000 words a day, so if I can keep it up I will just squeak by. That's about eight double-spaced pages per day. It's not easy, but I figure at the end of this month, I'll have a rough draft of a novel. It might be crap, but it's somewhere to start.

Thus far, the novel centers around a girl named Sophie who is synesthetic; she experiences a collage of sensory impressions instead of just one at a time. High school is complicated enough with surging hormones, cute boys and annoying parents; synesthesia takes things to a whole different level.

What's really sad is that putting together that lame synopsis took me at least half an hour. And if I can't sum it up, how on earth can I be writing a novel about it?

Yet that's the beauty of NaNoWriMo. I don't even have to know what it's about. I just have to write my 50K. I'll sort out the particulars later.

( 8:26 PM ) Girl Detective

Normally, I'm not a Garrison Keillor fan--I find him rather unctuous.

But in the wake of the Minnesota election debacle, Garrison has written two quite strident pieces for www.salon.com. So strident, in fact, that I think he'd pissed off even the usually liberal Salon, because the photo of him they used to accompany the second piece does not show him in the best light; and he's not easy to look at on the best of days.

I love these pieces. My friends love these pieces. Because they are so full of the righteous anger and indignation that fills all Minnesotans who were intelligent enough and discriminating enough to see that Norm Coleman is the worst kind of politician: a pandering opportunist.

Somehow, the historically liberal and Democratic state of Minnesota voted in an assload of Republicans this year, and those of us still reeling from the tragic death of Paul Wellstone are wondering just what the hell happened. I'll stop trying to give voice to the gigantic scope of my disgust and betrayal. Garrison did it much better than I can.

So go visit Salon, if you haven't already received these links from a friend. The pieces are in the premium section, so these links will only take you to the introductory paragraphs. But they're more than enough to experience the power of focused, intelligent, justified anger.

The first essay:

http://www.salon.com/politics/feature/2002/11/07/minnesota/index_np.html

And Garrison Keillor's response to Republicans who didn't like the first one:

http://www.salon.com/politics/feature/2002/11/13/coleman/index_np.html

( 2:24 PM ) Girl Detective

I’m now returned from our two-week Italy trip, and I learned some things/formed some opinions that I thought I’d share as the last entry in this thread.

If you’re doing multiple cities in Italy, fly into the north and travel south, not vice versa. We spent nearly a whole day getting to the Milan airport. I’d much rather do that when I’m jet lagged than at the end of the trip.

Call ahead for reservations at the Uffizi in Florence!

Trips with multiple cities can be challenging and tiring even when things go well. Go to a few places and stay as long as you can.

Pack light. Laundromats are easy to find. Only take washable items that dry quickly.

Unless you’re looking to meet a lover, go for minimal makeup. Mascara, one lipstick and an eyelash curler were all I took.

Going to the Vatican in Rome? Go early, go at the off season and look into getting a private guide.

Got a pair of travel binoculars? Bring ‘em. They’re great in the Sistine Chapel.

Don’t take more than two pairs of shoes, one for serious walking and another that is OK for walking but a little dressier.

Bring dark clothes, dark socks and dark shoes. They won’t show dirt.

I like to bring books about the places I’m going to read while I’m there. There is a section in the back of the Rough Guide series that lists books, fiction and non-, about your travel destination.

Bring a notebook to jot down ideas, questions and impressions.

Read guidebooks in advance if you can.

Eagle Creek makes some really practical and well-made travel products.

If you wear both glasses and contacts, consider leaving the contacts at home.

Bring an extra bag—you will buy things there.

Bring ear plugs. We used them on the plane, on the train and at noisy hotels at night.

One of the most useful things I brought? A box of Target brand extra-moisturizing anti-bacterial moist towelettes. I used them on dodgy-looking toilet seats and when I wasn’t able to wash my hands.

Use your friends! I got some great recommendations from people, plus Modgirl lent us some great travel bags and a useful phrase book, so we didn’t have to buy all new stuff ourselves.

( 4:54 PM ) Girl Detective

While I was traipsing around Italy, I kept my eye open for what people were wearing and for fashion trends. Here’s what I saw:

Men:

Brown shoes, even with black or grey suits.

Women:

Adidas bags
Tight, tight pants
High heels with pointy toes
Long hair
Wide-wale corduroy pants, skirts and jackets
Camel-colored puffy vests and jackets

Before our trip, I thought I’d pick up a reasonably priced version of whatever bag the Italian women were wearing. When I got there and discovered that all the women were carrying Adidas bags (women of all ages and all walks of life), I opted instead for a fake Tod’s bag on the street. I didn’t travel all the way to Italy to buy an Adidas bag.

( 9:20 PM ) Girl Detective

After a fair amount of research, I brought two travel books with me on our trip to Italy: City Secrets Rome, edited by Kahn, and Rick Steves' Italy. I'd recommend both with qualifications, plus some significant reservations on the Rick Steves that I'm sure will set his fanatics to howling. And they are fanatic.

City Secrets is a collection of recommendations that the editor solicited from a group of architects, artists, scholars and more. It is unapologetically subjective, but because of this it shines. The book lists these peoples' favorite things--all the bits they loved without all the boring stuff.

While this subjectivity makes it intriguing and points out some truly wonderful things, City Secrets should not be your only guidebook. It doesn't list hotels, maps are small and incomplete and the information can be maddeningly scant: Why is this restaurant recommended? What is its phone number? When is it open? The anecdotal nature of the book allowed the editor to be a little lax with some of the helpful details.

The maps in Rick Steves book aren't much better; you should pick up a city map as soon as you arrive. His information is much more thorough, though he often misses some of the little gems that the other book highlights. His books were probably the most recently published out of the many options. Steves gives very practical advice and is not at all snotty. It's easy to see how he'd built up such a cult following. But the writing is often painful: "Venice is a medieval cookie jar..." and his recommendations and some of his commentary are decidedly middlebrow. He is up front about this; he admits he is looking for value, which sometimes comes at the cost of quality. It is important to read his recommendations carefully. Some things are recommended more highly than others and for different reasons, e.g. value, location, best of a bad bunch, etc. I lost my final bit of tolerance for the book's usefulness when we went to a recommended restaurant in Siena, populated almost entirely by American tourists, none of whom made the barest attempt to speak Italian.

Though he encourages people to do otherwise in the book, I think the downside of Rick Steves' accessible information on travel is that it enables people to be bad tourists. His nod can give a place success, causing the business to cater more toward English-speaking tourists until you might as well be travelling in America. He says that you should explore and try to speak the language, but his books are so useful that you don't have to, and we saw many who didn't. So I'd recommend his books for good general information, but consult others or explore for restaurants and sightseeing.

Here's a quick rundown of some other books I didn't take and why:

Eyewitness Guide: heavy and pretty to look at but low on useful info. A good after-trip book to remember what you've seen.

Blue Guides: detailed information for art buffs.

Let's Go: good if you're on a budget and don't care so much for creature comforts.

Rough Guides: I like their lists of books about the places, but overall I found much of the info similar in other books plus others were more up to date.

Lonely Planet: same stuff, different book.

I found Fodor's and Frommer's to be almost indistinguishable, and both were undistinguished. Next time, I will look into the Time Out guides, as long as they have a recent publication date.

( 6:55 PM ) Girl Detective

A two-week jaunt to Italy is a costly trip, no matter how carefully you budget. We planned our trip around smaller, more reasonably priced, one-star hotels. These have been characterized by friendly staff, simple but clean rooms and sometimes a shared bathroom. The latter seemed a small compromise to make given the low prices we'd be paying. As our trip wore on, however, the cracks in the plaster became apparent.

In the bedrooms, the beds were all short and uncomfortable. The pillows and mattresses were old and lumpy. The windows did not have screens, so mosquitos and flies were common.

The shared bath is a fine idea, until you have to go in the middle of the night, which you will, since you were drinking water and wine with dinner till 11 p.m. Worse, though, is when you have to go and someone else is taking a shower. The floor is only clean for a brief period once a day. After that, it's a slimy mess of dirt from shoes and water from the shower.

Another downside to these smaller, family-run hotels is that they usually aren't staffed after midnight. In a country where dinner usually doesn't begin till 9 p.m. and it can take nearly an hour to get the check, this is a problem. So the hotels either have a night key or a curfew.

On our last night in Venice, we had plans for dinner and drinks. The night guy gave my brother-in-law Tony the key to "the door of Don Juan" and showed him the night entrance before we left.

After dinner, my sisters and I decided to call it a night, but my husband G. Grod, my brothers-in-law Tony and G. I. Joe (with kung-fu action grip!) and my dad went on to the casino and took the night key with them. As we entered the hotel, the guy asked if the others would be coming back together and if they had the key. We said yes to both, he said they were the last ones out and that he was going to bed.

At 12:55 p.m., G. Grod called down from the street. He'd gotten bored and come back early, but the front door was locked. Could I come down and let him in?

I went downstairs, but the front door was bolted with a key that the guy had taken with him and I had no idea where the door of Don Juan was. I had no way of letting him in.

As I stood, looking through the door at Grod's tired and frustrated face, I came to hate the cheap, smelly hotel with its bad beds and silly rules. Grod had to made his way back to the casino, and I returned to our room, my head full of dire imaginings: Grod getting lost because he'd given my sisters and I his map earlier; Grod arriving back at the casino only to find that the others had left; Grod being attacked by a murderous dwarf in a dark alley. OK, I borrowed that last one from Don't Look Now, just one of many creepy Venice movies, but I couldn't think of any happy ones.
To my great relief, Grod arrived back safe, if more tired and cranky, an hour later. There is a balance to be had between cost and hotel comfort; and we had ended up on the short end of that continuum. Next time we travel, I will spend more on hotels. Showers and sleep are an important counterbalance to travel for me.

( 9:15 PM ) Girl Detective

Prepare yourself. I'm going to commit heresy.

I didn't love Florence.

Now, before your head explodes, let me explain.

Florence didn't turn out like I'd hoped. The night before we left Rome, though, my sister Ruth came down with a horrible cold and her husband Tony had to leave for business. As the rest of us took the train to Florence, I took out the Rick Steves' Italy Guide to read interesting and useful information, like how you should call sights like the Uffizi and the Accademia in advance to make reservations so you don't have to wait in line or fight crowds. Wish I would've read that one in advance.

No problem, I thought, we'll call when we arrive on Wednesday. We're staying till Saturday, so I'm sure we'll be able to get something.

My optimism was ill-placed. While we were able to make a reservation for the Accademia, we were out of luck for the Uffizi. We tried twice to make reservations in person. Each visit was fraught with crabby and unhelpful staff. Eventually we got a reservation, but it was for the following week, so we'd have to come back from Siena and then travel from Florence to Venice.

Our hotel was described accurately by Rick Steves as "ramshackle." The all-night noise from Vespas and nearby bar traffic made my newly raw sore throat all the more unbearable. To add to the festival of fun, when I rose the next morning, my face was covered with mosquito bites.

In spite of this less-than-auspicious beginning to our first full day in Florence, we trudged through the rain to see David at the Accademia. Once there, our reservation ensured that we didn't wait in line in the rain, but once inside, we could not avoid the thronging crowds of tour groups.

The Accademia, unlike the Uffizi, does not have a balanced collection. David is its star. There are some other things there worth seeing, like an unfinished Pieta perhaps by Michelangelo, but it is an expensive admission to get in, plus a long walk in the cold rain from where we were staying. David, though, was magnificent, in spite of having some scaffolding up around him for restoration.

It continued to rain throughout our time in Florence. We visited the markets but the merchandise all looked alike and we found no bargains.

If I return to Florence, I won't stay in the city. I'll rent a quiet place in the countryside from which to make day trips to Florence and other cities in Tuscany. While others swoon, I did not find Florence an end in herself. Some of it might have had to do with my cold and other frustrating circumstances. I did try, though, even reading the poetry of Dante that celebrates Florence as such a grand city. In the end, I was happy to leave both Dante and his city behind.

( 9:09 PM ) Girl Detective

Warning, this blog is not for the faint of heart. Or the prissy.

In Italy, I am much more aware of shit than I ever am in the States. My own shit, that of other people, shit on the streets and even airborne shit. The street shit is the most prevalent. Some dog owners clean up after their pets but many don't. The sidewalks are veritable minefields of shit bombs. Not only must you avoid the original pile, but also the subsequent mini-piles spawned when some poor person, probably in expensive Italian shoes, tramped through it earlier.

I didn't become aware of airborne shit till I was trudging the streets of Florence, in the grip of a terrible cold. A wad of oozy green pigeon poop landed on my shoulder. Well, better my shoulder than my head, I supposed. My sweater is washable and this is a perfect example of why only a fool would bring dry-clean-only items on a tour of Italy. Pigeons are everywhere. It's only a matter of time. So when you get hit, wait for the poop to dry and then just brush it off. Trying to rub it off with a tissue just makes it, if possible, more disgusting. Trust me.

Human shit is also much more up close and personal than it is in the States. Toilets have an absolute minimum of water at the bottom, which means that unless you have perfect control and aim (and if you do, I don't want to know about it) your turds are going to scrape the sides going down. Flushing will not banish these stripes; that's what the omnipresent toilet brush adjacent to Italian toilets is for. Is there something vaguely Marxian about producing a shit in Italy--can you take more satisfaction in it since you are forced closer to the means of production?

This whole "clean up after yourself" thing is given scant attention in most guidebooks, though. Thus many Americans, pampered by high-flow toilets, don't even think to look for the brush to finish the job. Several times I've cleaned up after someone else, presumably Americans. I prefer to think of these folks as ignorant rather than rude. In the former, it simply didn't occur to them that there was more to be done. In the latter, though, they assume that some other sucker (in this case, me. Grr.) would do it for them.

That's why, at our hotel in Florence, I felt completely comfortable using the bidet, in spite of sharing the bath with other rooms. I knew the other occupants were American and thus very unlikely to use something that would put them in such close contact with their own privates, and even--gasp--those of others. Most other people I've travelled with have looked at a bidet with a mixture of fear and wonder, so I felt reasonably assured of a pristine bowl.

Aside from the coffee and gelato, I think my third favorite thing about Italy is the bidet. It's so practical: for mornings in the winter when your skin is already cracking dry and a shower would only make things worse; after that morning constitutional when toilet paper doesn't quite get the job done; and how about after sex, when a quick sluice might be all you need?

A bidet takes up a bit more room in the bath, but think of all the water you could save. Perhaps it's my recent decision to grow my hair out, making it a pain in the ass to wash every day, but I find regular showers aren't all that. They take up time that I could happily be spending reading or writing. I vowed when I bought my first home that it would have a bidet. It doesn't.

I still hold out hope.

( 5:33 PM ) Girl Detective

Grey days are good for laundry.

My husband and I packed very light for our two week trip to Italy, taking one big bag between us, and a single shoulder bag each. To accomplish this, we didn't pack clothes for the whole trip, but instead planned to wash them in hotel sinks along the way. It took us some time to procure an Italian bottle of Woolite, however. When we finally did we discovered two drawbacks.

One was a sickly sweet smell that has pervaded the lower-end hotels in which we've been staying, and specifically their WCs. This Italian Woolite scent, nothing like the American one, seems to be a favored deodorant smell for the Italians. I've regretted again and again that I forgot the small bottle of Dr. Bronner's peppermint liquid soap as we rushed out of our apartment for this trip.

The second drawback was more serious. In the cool, somewhat damp October weather nothing dried, even my super-thin, $16 a pair, techno-travel underpants. The rooms we stayed in had no balconies, so we could not hang our laundry out to dry, as the rest of Italy seems to do. The air in the hotels has been still and close. So our bright idea of socks and underwear in the sink has failed and we're now completing our second trip to a lavanderia.

While some might think it a waste to spend a Sienese afternoon in such a way, I don't mind. The weather outside is chill, with a light, persistent snizzle of rain. Since I've been in Italy, I've found it hard to make time to read and write, and these breaks have been ideal. We have already visited the sights of Siena and wandered the streets . Tomorrow will be a long day, as we travel to Florence and the Uffizi museum, then on to Venice by train. I welcome this brief interlude, in lieu of an Italian siesta or the American push to tour through the afternoon. It has allowed me to stop seeing, or going, and just collect my thoughts.

( 4:21 PM ) Girl Detective

I had the great good fortune to dine with my brother-in-law Tony's family on our last night in Rome. They are a retired couple with three grown children, and their exact relation to Tony was a bit murky to me; someone's father was a cousin to someone's grandmother, I think. The vagary and distance were as nothing, however. They were thrilled to meet my sister Ruthie, who married Tony just over a year ago. In addition, they warmly welcomed me, my husband G. Grod and my father into their home.

The evening began with spumante and barbecue Pringles as Italian and English flew about the room and we became acquainted. We caught glimpses of an impressive modern art collection, which included a Dali and other colorful and distinct pieces, as we sat down to dinner. Our first course was a curly, tubular pasta in a simple, but delicious salsiccia sauce. This was followed by stuffed eggplants and tomatoes, then a fine scallopine. At our encouragement, our host brought out some local capocolla salami, which we appreciatively devoured. Desserts were delicious wine-roasted pears and an ethereal grape souffle. Both were accompanied by espresso and wine.

Over dinner, we learned that Tony had lived with our host and hostess over holidays while he studied abroad for a year in Bologna. Many funny anecdotes were shared about Tony's sleeping late and our host's impressive driving skills. For the benefit of my family, most conversations were conducted in English, though our hostess, sensing that I was trying to learn Italian (though not very successfully), began to direct small asides to me in easy-to-understand Italian. Tony noted later that she was instrumental in his finally becoming fluent in Italian when he'd stayed with them over a decade ago.

It was nearly midnight when we called a cab. The hugs and kisses as we departed were warm and happy. As we rode off into the night, I wished longingly for Italian family of my own. I'd most definitely enjoyed the privilege of sharing Tony's that night.

( 8:12 PM ) Girl Detective

At first, I simply thought that our hotellier in Rome was quite friendly. As we waited in the lobby, he'd strike up conversation. He asked where we were from, then said he taught at our local U. He also discussed his family and the property we were staying in. He said his grandfather had been a nobleman who was forced to leave the country and abandon his property, which included both the hotel as well as one of Rome's piazzas. His grandson, the hotellier, returned as an adult to claim the hotel property as part of the legacy.

My suspicions were aroused when he checked in a couple from a small town in Ohio who named a small college that was in their town. "Yes," our hotellier said, "I teach there."

"At both that small Ohio college and the U. where we're from?" I asked, trying to hide my incredulity.

"Yes," he said suavely. "I'm part of the guest faculty at a number of U.S. universities."

OK, I thought, that might be true. But over the next several days, as each of my family heard or overheard him elaborating on these stories, I began to wonder. If he's so smart and talented, and if his family is so entitled, then what's he doing at the front desk of this ramshackle, albeit charming, little hotel? Is he really the man he portrays himself as, or someone who gets his jollies telling whoppers about himself to an ever-rotating audience? I've known a few compulsive liars; and my spidey-sense was tingling. Then again, maybe I was just paranoid from all the warnings from friends and guidebooks about various scams, one of which I'd recently witnessed. Maybe he was a smart, talented guy of noble Roman parentage, who simply liked to talk about himself. A lot.

At the end of our stay, I knew these things. He was friendly, and his hotel was clean, reasonably priced and most conveniently located near the previously mentioned piazza. So while I still harbor some lurking doubts, he didn't seem dangerous, just weird. I would probably stay there again.

( 7:00 PM ) Girl Detective

I did not bring a camera the last time I was in Rome. People are astonished when they hear this.

"Did you forget it? Why didn't you buy one there?"

Their bemusement increases when I explain that I did it on purpose.

I was going to Rome for a four-week graduate class "Art and Vision." From the voluminous pre-reading, one fact stuck out. Tourists visiting museums will sometimes not even look at a work of art, but rather take a photo or videotape of it, then move on; the average time a visitor spends in front of a work of art is about five seconds.

I decided not to bring a camera to see if its lack would help me to focus on the art and to take my time. I'd also recently seen photos of a friend's trip to Paris. I was struck by how exactly they looked like the ones I'd taken when I'd visited over a decade before--one of her in front of the Eiffel Tower, a panorama taken from the top, one in the Louvre, etc. I realized that, by and large, most vacation pictures have no spark or originality. One might as well be at Disney's Epcot, where there are designated photo spots. One person's photos are interchangeable with those of another tourist. I wanted to do something different.

So on my last trip I bought postcards and wrote snippets of my experiences, like drinking a cappuccino in Florence while a pregnant cat sunned herself at my feet. I also included information I'd learned about paintings, sculptures and sights that I particularly enjoyed.

I felt like I got more out of this method and the recipients of my cards seemed to like them, too. I had the added bonus of not having to lug around a camera, keep it dry, worry about film, the flash, batteries, etc. My only regret was that I did not get cards to keep for myself. This time in Rome I did bring a camera and am taking photos, but not a great number of them, and certainly not in museums or when I see tourist after tourist being photographed at a particular location. Instead, I'm taking photos of my family in front of interesting backdrops and whatever else suits my fancy. I'm also buying scads of postcards, especially from the smaller churches. This way I'm getting a great image of a work I enjoy, I'm not damaging the art by using a flash, and I'm contributing to the upkeep of the art. My family is taking so many photos (my dad brought three cameras with him) that I certainly could have left mine behind again. But I appreciate having it on occasion, and it's a good balance for my new collection of art cards.

( 7:09 PM ) Girl Detective

Apparently, Halloween is M. Giant's favorite holiday. Last year, he showed G. Grod and I around the house, proudly displaying each weird little noise maker or jiggly spooky thing while his wife Trash rolled her eyes and kept up a steady stream of sarcastic mutters. So this year we decided to visit the house on the day itself to experience it all in its full, spooky-vision glory.

As we walked up the house, we kept up a falsely bright conversation, preparing to be scared. We made it all the way to the door, admiring the bones in the yard, but with no incident. We rang the bell, which played tinny spooky music that wasn't all that scary, then the door was opened by a hulking figure in an executioner's robe.

Who promptly threw back his hood, smiled and said, "Hi guys! Come on in."

It just wasn't what we were expecting. Maybe you have to be young and small to be a target of M. Giant's terrorization.

Or maybe, just maybe, he isn't that scary after all.

(He did turn back on the scary soundtrack after we arrived. We had to admit that we would have been unnerved had it been playing as we approached. We didn't blame the kids who were scared off by that. It had howling people and screaming babies and shit. It was really creepy.)

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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