Shhh

I am escorting a visitor through the school. I don't know him, so we're not saying much. This makes the loud squeaking of my shoes embarrassingly noticeable.

Me: This gives you a chance to listen to my squeaky shoes, which is good.

Him: I have some squeaky shoes too.

Me: I always forget that they do this until it's too late. I should just replace them.

Him: Mine are really nice shoes actually, it's just that they squeak. (Pause) They're not really worthy of the name "sneakers."

And next up..."Grandpappy's Mitzvah"

On Monday, there was a special activity day at school and I spent an hour of the morning with a group of students who were playing Bluegrass. I sang along as gamely as possible despite 1) not being a very able singer, 2) not being able to read music, and 3) never having heard of 80% of the songs. Still, the melodies are fairly simple and the song titles, even when unfamiliar, are generally pretty genre-appropriate. They have to do with family, God, journeys, love. So, when Courntey called out the name of the next song, I was taken aback. I leaned over to Zach. "What did she say? There's a song called 'The Mensch on the Hill'?"

Turns out there isn't. It's "The Mansion on the Hill." The good news is that means "Mensch on the Hill" is still available. In fact, I believe the whole genre of Yiddish Bluegrass is wide open. Knock yourself out.

Postcard from a Foreign Country

Two things are simultaneously true today that are normally mutally exclusive: it is 6am and I am up. This is unaccountable. Typically I would be up at six o'clock in the morning only if I had jetlag or needed to get to the airport. Today neither is true and yet, after lying awake since 5:23, I decided to give up the charade and actually get out of bed. Now here I am, with one tiny lamp on, listening to The Cure's "Pictures of You" on auto-repeat, waiting for the kettle to boil. Upstairs, I hear my neighbor's shower; across the street, I see a lamp on in the upstairs apartment--signs of life. These other people are citizens of the early morning. Me? I'm just visiting. Tomorrow there will be no pot of tea, no pre-dawn sky. Tomorrow there will be 48 minutes of the snooze alarm followed, quite possibly, by profanity, like every other morning. Meanwhile though, the weather continues fine. Wish you were here.

One week old

2008 is now a week old. How's it been going for you? Well, I hope. And may it continue so for us all.

After a month of writing nothing, it's best not to try to accomplish too much. We're going to start small. Hair shall be the topic.

1.
For 2008, I have embraced hair dye for the first time in my life. Hair dye for me falls into the category of Things I Was Meant to Have Experimented with as a Teenager, but Never Did. I have always been content to let my hair be the color it was when it grew out of my head. That is, until so much of it grew out of my head white at a moment when dating was destined to begin anew (again). I am hoping that this level of vanity may spur me to actually start swimming again, and thus address other unfortunate aspects of aging, but so far it's extended no farther than my darker locks. Interestingly, my ex-boyfriend does not like the new look, but perhaps this is symbolic--a clear sign that some future, as yet unmet, boyfriend will find it exceedingly attractive. As I was walking toward my building recently, my next door neighbor whistled at me in an appreciative manner, so I remain hopeful.

2.
A colleague's 8-year-old daughter walks unexpectedly into the faculty lounge.
"Oh! Hello there. Are you still on vacation?"
"No."
"Really? What are you doing here then?"
"I have lice."
"Oh. I see. How long will you be out of school?"
"Until it's gone."


Um...if your child is not allowed to go to school because she has lice, does it make sense to bring her to your workplace, which, just to be clear, is also a school?

I think we all know the answer to that, my friends. The last time I had lice was 13 years ago, but the memory is all too vivid.

Wishing you a vermin-free new year filled with passers-by who think you look pretty hot.
Love,
Kari

Assorted

I'm back. Did you miss me? What am I saying? Of course you missed me. Well, I'm sorry , but it couldn't be helped. Since I was last here, I have been to Paris and back and also turned in my accursed Dante research paper. Is it a good paper? No. Not particularly, but it is a done paper. A nothing-I-can-do-about-it-now paper. And second only to a work of complete genius, that's my favorite kind of paper. All this to say, I've been busy.

No doubt there will be forthcoming Paris stories, but for now let's just say that due to a lapse in packing attention, Marja somehow managed to come to France with neither her pants, nor her socks. This meant that she spent our four days in the dress and tights she'd worn on the plane and...looked fabulous ALL THE TIME. It was really a remarkable thing to witness.

In more current news, last night while I was in the living room contentedly decorating my wee, yet costly, impulse-buy Christmas tree, my kitchen sink was ever-so-quietly filling with foul water that had been mysteriously regurgitated through my disposal. When I went in to make dinner, it was a nasty shock. Turning on the disposal made the water level rise alarmingly rather than lower. A plunger, even when wielded by a strong neighbor, did nothing. At an inch and a half from overflow level, I called the landlord who came and bailed the water into a bucket with the intention of doing further repairs today. All was well until the upstairs neighbor took a shower and the water crept back up the drain into my sink, filled with a revolting sort of silt that I can only hope the neighbor had not just washed from his body. The good news is that now I know how to fill my apartment with the delightful aroma of vomit without having to go through the exhausting process of actually vomiting. Woo hoo.

Speaking of the aroma of vomit, apparently an ice show is coming to town: Brian Boitano skating his heart out to '70s hits by Barry Manilow. Which, incidentally, Barry will be on hand to perform live. How is that a real show?