I don't care for Wonder bread.

We were chatting with a neighbor today. He needed some info on a roofer we’d used. Can’t remember the sequence of discussion, but some people just like to ramble and from amongst his ramblings I gleaned the following:

He’s originally from Ohio and likes the homogeneity of that part of the country. He prefers to live among people who look the same. He does not relish the multi-linguisticity, multi-ethnicity, and frequent appearance of turbans that occurs in many parts of Maryland such as near D.C. and Columbia. When he eats out, he prefers to patronize the same place repeatedly, provided they do not use any seasonings he would consider exotic. When a friend bragged to him about being on a safari in Kenya he did not understand what there was to brag about or why anyone would want to be there. He can’t see the point of a 50 foot long living room furnished with 4 wide-screen LCD tvs.

We agree on one of those points--and I’ll give you a hint--it comes near the end of the paragraph.

This was an interesting juxtaposition to the other notable personality which impacted my day. It was the first day of third-semester Spanish at the Community College. When my new prof, Thomas (Tomás) Edison entered the classroom, I smiled almost from the get-go. He was funny. He was smart. He was enthusiastic. And when he described (en Español) how much fun it was to leave the homogeneity of Southern Indiana (where most of his education happened) to immerse himself in the relative diversity of the Mid-Atlantic, he won me over as a teacher.

I mean absolutely no disrespect to the first individual mentioned in this entry. He implied, and I inferred, no animosity toward people of varying ethnicities, it was just that his personal comfort zone was sameness. But how much more delighted I was by the African-american teacher, encouraging us to seek pov-expanding experiences, and look for opportunities to employ new languages.

making a hat.

I’ve given up on the sweater I started a couple years ago. Too big, too complicated, and I don’t like the pattern that much anyway. But the urge to knit still kicks in occasionally. So I’m taking the same yarn, and making a hat. I’m on row 8, counting...knit...purl...knit...purl, 2, 3, 4...knit...

Jeff: Where’s the normal remote?

Me:...purl...knit...I don’t know. Under furniture.

Olivia: Use the silver one! Should I take keyboarding or marine biology?

Me: ...knit, 2, 3, 4...It doesn’t matter. Whichever you want.

Gabe: Look at all the salsa recipes I downloaded!

Me: ...purl...

Olivia: Gabe! you can’t waste all that paper!

Jeff: I don’t know where the buttons are on this remote.

Becca: Mom, want to buy me this stuff from Athleta?

Me: ...purl...knit...why do you need 15 salsa recipes?

Jeff: Does anyone know where the normal remote is?

Olivia: What do you think I should take?

Me: ...knit, 2, 3, 4...it doesn’t matter, you’ve covered all your academic requirements, right?

Gabe:...peach salsa, mango salsa, tropical salsa, apple salsa...

Olivia: You hate me?

Me: ...knit...purl...not that I know of...

Jeff: This remote doesn’t work.

Dog: ARF!

Me: ...purl...knit...somebody wanna let the dog in?

Becca: Mom! Gabe has me in a headlock!

Jeff: What happens to the normal remotes anyway?

Olivia: Gabe! Pick up your papers!

Dog: WOOF!

Me: ...knit...come in, hurry up...purl..

Door: SLAM

Gabe: How do I make the printer stop printing copies of mango salsa?

Jeff: How does anybody use the tv without the remote?

Olivia: Fine! I’ll just take stupid keyboarding since you hate me!

This pattern on this hat could be weird.

I can do without Walt.

For several years Jeff went to exercise class, M, W, and F, 7a.m., at SportFit. That it was held at SportFit was really incidental, since the real glue that held the little group together was sweat, camaraderie, and an ex-Seal instructor.

A few months or so ago, the SportFit powers that be concluded that the tenacity demonstrated by this doggedly faithful little group of 4 to 8 wasn’t enough for them to keep such a sparsely attended class on their schedule. It took Jeff a while to notice that he really needed to cancel his SportFit membership so they would stop debiting his card monthly, since he didn’t use their facilities for anything else, and since he’d just signed up for a substitute exercise class at the Community College.

Lately I’ve been kind of control-freaking my way into managing some business that I use to leave to him (and blissfully never thought about,) and I can no longer ignore little things that pop up on his credit card bill--like a monthly SportFit debit. Yesterday he dropped in at the front desk to cancel his membership. “Oh, said the girl. “Walt’s not here right now. Walt has to be here when you do that.”

Today, I called SportFit. “He can come any day between 10 and 3 to fill out the cancellation form,” said the dude, “but since it’s already after the 10th of the month the cancellation won’t take effect until the next billing cycle.” IOW, there’s going to be a debit for SportFit at the beginning of February whether I like it or not, but I’d be danged if there would be one for March.

So, before lunch, I went to the SportFit counter with Jeff. I hung back a bit, feeling like I ought to be rhythmically smacking a billy-club with a chain against my palm. Jeff says he wants to cancel his membership. The girl says “Walt’s not here right now.” I say “Walt wasn’t here yesterday either. But you can still get us the form we need to fill out.” The girl looks a bit miffed, but picks up the phone and says “Chris, there’re two cancellations out here.” Oh, so that’s why the lady with a baby is standing to our right. We’re not the only one’s who refuse to accept “Walt isn’t here right now,” as a valid reason for getting stuck with a March debit.

Then, amazing enough, Walt waltzes in. Walt signs the form. Jeff signs the form. I stick the form in my purse, because there are two things I know better now than I did a couple years ago. One: Don’t sign up for automatic credit card debiting unless you really really need to, and two: Keep papers.

A beau bow.

No-one would accuse Rhode Island Avenue in College Park of resembling Diagon Alley. It has that typical bleak, inner D.C. Beltway, post apocalyptic, 60’s style panache, and is the site of Gailes’ Violin Shop, where the inside is better than the outside.

This time I went for a bow. And I wanted it to be a good bow, which put me at a slight disadvantage since I wouldn’t know one if I saw one.

So, I figured what I would do is walk up to the counter, trying to ignore all the music books whispering ”You need the Celtic fiddler’s book o’tricks...you know you do,” and ask the scary counter lady, who unquestionably would scoff if she knew what a pretender I was, if I could see some nice bows please. Then she would duck back a room, where Mr. Gailes’ and the grey-bearded, other smart-looking man were tweaking violins and grab a fistfull, and I would embarrassingly scratch out a few notes on my fiddle, hoping for invisible help from the invisible bow muse.

But, actually, she disappeared a bit deeper into the back than that, reappeared with nothing, and said she had a room ready for me.

And a nice room at that, with a special fold-down table on the wall--really rather like those diaper changing stations, but instead of Little Tikes plastic it was wooden, with a velvet-lined surface. And there, on the fancy fold-down table, was a special velvet-lined, slotted box holding an array of 15 or so assorted violin bows.

I smiled and thanked her, trying to look either smart or talented since I doubted I could look both, as she left and closed the door.

Here’s what I was hoping would happen as I looked at those 15 bows (which were probably snickering at each other like 7th graders waiting to see whether their substitute teacher can summon an ounce of authority.) I was hoping that when I picked up the right one, blue sparks would shoot cunningly from its tip, as if to say you have chosen well grasshopper, and when I placed it daintily against my fiddle strings I would realize that I was Bonnie Ridout afterall, or at least Charlie Daniels.

Not surprisingly, there were no sparks. But I was hopeful that that room was at least a little soundproof as I put each bow through a bit of Sheebeg Sheemore or Gilderoy. Ultimately, I chose one on the basis of feel and dumb instinct. The weight, the balance, and other senses which I have no particular reason to trust, but I chose one.

The two smart-looking men in the back oohed and ahhed a bit that I had chosen such a fetching and clever bow which turned out to have been made in France or thereabouts, 100 years ago or thereabouts. But then, it would have shown poor business skills on their part so say “you picked that? Hah! What the hell, ring’er up.”

I told the scary counter lady that I hoped the room had been soundproof, and if not, my apologies, and she quite charmingly confessed to having recognized many of my tunes and “enjoyed my selection.” No-one ever referred to my selection before, so again, I note that the people at Gailes’ violin shop at least know what to say.

So. I have a lovely old bow. And a lovely old fiddle. And lovely old fingers. The latter have some work to do.

teacher!

I've been on the lookout for a fiddle tutor, and after a bit of scouting, I've landed a spot on the roster of a young lady who teaches right at the Severna Park Music & Arts where Gabe takes drumming. That she looks half my age is probably nothing I should mind. There's no denying I squandered my best neuronal development years where music and language are concerned, but I will go with these words from RENT. There's only us, there's only this...forget regret, or life is yours to miss...no other road, no other way...no day but today...

truth.

For the rare person and several wafting dust motes who noticed that I went on a bit last week about a book called Expecting Adam by Martha Beck, you may be wondering why I’ve removed all references. I loved that book while I was reading it. It made me laugh and cry at the same time, and for several days after I finished I would have told you that it was one of the best books I’d ever read.

In fact, I loved it so much that I wanted to see if other people loved it as much as I did. So I started reading Amazon.com reviews. And most loved it, even if with slightly less fervor than I. But some didn’t. Some knew more about the author’s life and subsequent work than I did, and some included information that I tracked down to verify.

And now I’m left with what I’d call a trust issue. I loved the book partly because I believed, and the author insisted, that the events she was recounting were true as depicted. Now I have reason to wonder if she embellished flagrantly, completely fictionalized for the purpose of book sales, or is possibly just not stable.

One could argue that it doesn’t matter. Did I love the story? Is that not enough? For example, another book of which I’m very fond--Life of Pi tackles the very issue of whether the literal truth of a story even matters. But Life of Pi did not purport to be the author’s memoir.

I’m left with a sense of responsibility toward my readership. There's no question that I like to spoof, embellish, and bullsquat. But even dust motes deserve the truth if you say it’s the truth.

seasoned, with that trendy distressed patina

This weekend’s Parade newspaper-insert ragazine largely features Gail Sheehy’s ode to Baby Boom womens' new way of inhabiting the ages from 40 on. She calls us “Seasoned Women” and tells us in anecdotal vignettes and quick-read boxes what we offer to the world and what we want in return.

I hope I don’t sound like my usual cynical self, because I don’t mean to. I do want the stuff she’s telling me I want, and I agree wholeheartedly that “finding a new dream in midlife is about finding a new concept of oneself in the world.” It’s just kind of freaking me out a little that my personal new concept is a darn good hider. Oh, we will coax it out sooner or later, me and my friend Anxiety-monster. And then we will live in a harmonious trio which has room for purpose, wisdom, and the steady, calming practices of twitching in bed, and zoning out on crossword puzzles.

Did I miss a new rule?

It is not surprising that, in my important role as bipedal ATM, I would sometimes run out of cash. Often, therefore, I have nothing but 3 nickels and a penny in my wallet when it comes time to pay for the carry-out pizza, or the caramel latte and the vanilla steamer. At times like this, I am grateful that almost anywhere takes credit cards nowadays. But here’s the weird thing, and maybe it’s just my imagination. You hand over the card. The counter person hands you a credit slip to sign which--because you are at a food establishment--is identical to the sort you’d get at a full-service restaurant. In other words, it prints your cost with two blank lines underneath--one for “tip” and the other for “total.”

I don’t think the pizza guy expects me to tip him when he hands me my food and I hand him cash. There’s not even one of those little tip cups on the counter which have become so ubiquitous at everywhere from the snowball stand to the coffee shop.

But there’s something about being handed that credit card slip to sign, with the tip and total lines sitting there looking suggestively blank, that makes me imagine a scowl flitting briefly over the counter person’s face when I hand it back, signed, totalled, and tipless.