Friday, October 31, 2008

Halloween Ritual

Last night, I went to the grocery store to buy some things for dinner and found myself surrounded by shoppers whose carts were loaded with giant pumpkins. The pumpkins were strangely uniform in size, perhaps the size of large buckets. When Andrew came home last night, he said he exchanged some pleasantries with our downstairs neighbors, who said they’d be carving pumpkins on Halloween.

I realized I was witnessing a Sacramento ritual: on-Halloween pumpkin carving. It makes sense, as I learned the hard way. In a land without fall or cold weather, it makes no sense whatsoever to carve a pumpkin more than one or two days in advance, lest it quickly sag with mold. I remember pumpkins sitting on our porch for weeks in Pennsylvania; yet here, passers-by were probably pointing at our early-bird pumpkins in confusion and disapproval. We weren’t in Sacramento for Halloween last year—we were in Pennsylvania preparing for the wedding—but now we know.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

A Rare Cloudy Day

It’s a cloudy day. Cool, damp, but not chilly—60 or so. Our pumpkins are long gone but other houses have Halloween decorations in their yards and windows. The squirrels in the tree outside are getting bolder; each day when I go outside, more and more dirt from my flowerpots is scattered over the terrace. Each pot is full of deep-dug holes. I’m not sure if the squirrels are foraging for something or burying something they’ve already found or feasting on the roots of what had been my newly-growing poppies. Today I went outside and found that a wooden birdhouse—left here by the previous renter, sitting on the railing of the terrace—had fallen into the neighbor’s yard. It hadn’t been particularly windy last night, and I suspect the squirrels got a bit overzealous in their explorations. It feels like the start of fall, albeit a bit late, coinciding with my birthday rather than preceding it.

Yesterday I celebrated my birthday by watching Obama’s prime-time program (prime-time being 5pm here in PST); Andrew and I went to dinner at an Indian restaurant then headed home for the carrot cake cupcakes Andrew had made. Last year, I nearly forgot about my birthday, with our wedding just days away; hard to believe a whole year has passed.

For steadfast readers of Skipping Town--this is my 300th post. I wish I could mark the occasion by, say, spontaneously moving to London or something equally dramatic, but...Maybe by 400. We shall see.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Melt Candle, Pour Over Pasta

Last night I made us a hideous dinner. Every fall Trader Joe’s puts out a “pumpkin butter,” and, in a flier, provides instructions for making an easy pumpkin cream sauce. How delicious, I thought—a rich pumpkin sauce over tortellini.

This was not the case. Imagine going into a Dollar Store and selecting a pumpkin-scented candle—the kind of cheap candle whose scent results in an instant headache. Now imagine melting that candle down, pouring it over pasta, and eating it. I’m not exaggerating when I say I got an instant headache—that horrible, chemical sweetness seemed to claw at my eyes and head from the inside. I shudder even now. Awful, awful, awful.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Weekend in Obama Country

“Obama better get his ass into the White House. Not just his ass—his whole being.”

Such was the comment I overheard this weekend from an Obama volunteer shortly before leaving Chicago, where I had spent three days with Rachael, Barbra, and Michelle for an all-too-rare get-together. We’d chosen Chicago since it’s the most central location we’d actually want to go to (Nebraska would be more central, but…). Subconsciously, however, I’d argue that we chose it because it is Obama-land. And though going away for the weekend meant prying myself away from CNN and political news for a couple of days, my addiction was at least somewhat fed simply by knowing we were among like-minded company. There was one lone McCain supporter trying in vain to pass out leaflets along Michigan Avenue; but everyone passed him by without even a glance.

Andrew has said that one of the best parts of living in Sacramento is that it has made me more open-minded about other places we might one day live—a change, apparently, from my nowhere-but-NYC mantra that had been my previous belief. He’s right; living out West has made me eager to move back East, if only as far East as Chicago—anywhere, anyplace, as long as we’re somewhere where we can watch SNL when it’s actually L. I’d never given Chicago much consideration, despite having visited a few times before, until now. On Friday and Saturday, we shopped and strolled in and near Wicker Park; lunched at a hole-in-the-wall Costa Rican restaurant; saw a Dorothea Lange photography exhibition; looked around the public library. The streets in Wicker Park reminded me a lot of Park Slope; the El took us everywhere we needed to go; and it was, true to form, windy and chilly and utterly fall-like.

Saturday night we got tickets to a dance performance, a series of works choreographed by people who had been taught or influenced by a choreographer named Gus Giordano. We were outsiders at the performance—it seemed like everyone knew the dancers—but it was fun to see nonetheless. What made it memorable, however, was an appearance by one of Giordano’s most well-known protégés: the founder of Jazzercise. She appeared onstage in skin-tight black leather pants and a silver lame tank top, extolling Jazzercise’s success around the world (who knew it was global?). Her reason for being there was to solicit donations for young dancers, and to do this she put forth what I can say with all honesty is one of the worst—if not the worst—analogies I have ever heard. I’ll paraphrase it here:

“We’re all tired of hearing about Joe the Plumber. But I’ll tell you a story about Al the Electrician. Al came to my house to re-do some lighting, including some recessed lighting in the kitchen. When he was finished, he gave me the bill, and it worked out that he was earning $75-$100 an hour! But then I turned on the lights—and those recessed lights just transformed the room. It’s like these dancers. They’d like to be earning $75-$100 an hour too, and they shine just as brightly. So give them what you can.”

Recessed lighting = promising young dancers? It was remarkable.

Sunday, we saw a searing Jenny Holzer exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art and had lunch at a Thai restaurant; then everyone trickled home. I squeezed in one last photography exhibition—Indian-American family life in California and elsewhere, at the Chicago Cultural Center—before heading to the train. Even without a Jazzercise-founder sighting, I’d go back to Chicago anytime. The people on my plane home cheered when the pilot announced it was in the 80s in Sacramento, but I closed my eyes and savored my last few hours of warm sweater, cozy socked feet, and wind-blown hair.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Five-Minute Fast

Last night, around 9pm, Andrew declared that he was renouncing all political news for the next seven days. No political websites, no CNN, no We could discuss the events of the day, but I would have to act as a human news feed to get him up to date. I declared his fast cowardly and irresponsible--the news can be riling, circuslike, and absurd, but for this election, I feel it's important to follow all the crazy twists and turns. Andrew disagreed, so I proposed an analogy: it's like foregoing the baseball game in favor of simply glancing at the final score. He declared my analogy irrelevant. Nonetheless, I had my doubts that he could actually go through with this little idea.

Indeed, his fast lasted only until around 2pm today, when he was pressured at work to read a Larry David blog entry on the Huffington Post. It was all downhill from there, and we've spent the evening--appropriately--flipping back and forth between CNN and the Rays/Phillies game.

I understand his impulse--this 24/7 news is exhausting, draining, infuriating, stressful, all-consuming; but I think at this point the only thing to do is go all in. Accept that these next two weeks will be a blur of news and more news. Accept that of all the high-alert highligts of each news cycle--Michelle Bachmann the nutcase! the $150,000 wardrobe!--will, when all is said and done, boil down to just one or two punchlines that will have real longevity. (My money's on "I can see Russia.") And accept that the word "maverick" will, in true Pavlovian style, forevermore activate a kind of shivery chill of horror. Hopefully it will be a horror of what might have been.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Mold Problems

It’s no secret that I hate hot weather, and no secret that one of my most grievous complaints about “NorCal” is its lack of—or at least its severely delayed—fall. What is perhaps a secret is that part of my utter hatred for all of this heat and unpleasantness is the fact that everything—everything—gets moldy. Put a new loaf of bread on the counter and it’ll be moldy within a week. Put a bag of tomatoes there on the counter and they will be fuzzed with mold overnight. Put a pot of rice by the sink and not get around to washing it for twelve hours and it will have transformed into a pot o’ mold. The point is not that we should be more careful about putting things in the fridge and doing our dishes expediently. The point is that mold is disgusting and has made far too many appearances in our overheated kitchen.

I remember, as a kid, doing a “mold experiment” by tacking to the wall plastic baggies of various food items, then tracking the onset of mold for each item. In a controlled situation, I can see how mold might be an interesting phenomenon to witness. In an uncontrolled situation, where any innocent lifting of a bread loaf or vegetable bag might send one shrieking and gagging into the next room, not so much.

The worst part? Our lovely carved pumpkins are now moldy and bug-infested thanks to California’s pathetic version of fall weather. I would give anything for a sweater and a cup of hot cider right now. Alas, it is 87 degrees. I know I’ve been here for over a year now, but this strangely unseasonable season still disorients me—a kind of jet-lag all its own.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Weirdest Dream Ever?...

Listening to other people recount their dreams is about as interesting as sitting in traffic. However, I will recount another, from last night, because it is just too weird to ignore:

I dreamed that Sarah Palin had disinterred the body of M.F.K. Fisher because she wanted to "see her face." I was with a large 'rally,' watching this event. I saw the corpse, its flesh black and rotted, strips of cloth hanging from it in Halloween-y fashion, being pulled by Palin from the grave.

In the same dream, I was gathered on the seashore with a large group of people, watching Obama in the water, wrestling with a giant red crab. He held up part of the crab's claw triumphantly. He hadn't hurt the crab, but had achieved his goal. Though he was in the water, he was wearing beautiful suit pants and a white button-down shirt.

I cannot even begin to interpret the Palin dream. I'm actually a little freaked out by the extremely strange, dark twistings of my own subconscious. M.F.K. Fisher, a food writer, lived in Glen Ellen, one of our favorite places here in California; but why she made an appearance in my dream, and what interest Sarah Palin could possibly have in her is beyond me.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

An Addiction Worsens

Yesterday, Andrew returned home from work to find me sitting on the couch, simultaneously flipping between MSNBC and CNN and frantically surfing a variety of websites to see if any headlines had changed.

Last night, I dreamed about Sarah Palin. I was at a Palin rally; Palin was standing on top of what looked like a tall water tower, tossing armfuls of things down to the crowd--candy, foam footballs. I caught one, and tossed to Andrew, who was sitting not far from me. I looked around at the screaming crowd and began to weep in fear and despair. In front of me, a man turned around. He was Russian; he, too, was crying. He sat down next to me and gave me a strangely shaped silver teapot, then asked me to write down what he was saying: he would return to stay with me for one month. His name was Celian. I was, understandably, confused and alarmed.

I can't bring myself to think about this election--but I can't stop thinking about it. I can't be hopeful--but I can't let myself consider any alternative. I know I'm not alone in this. And there's nothing to do other than just take a few deep breaths and wait it out.

Thursday, October 16, 2008


Despite the fact that it’s in the 80s outside, it’s still mid-October, and so last night Andrew and I managed our lingering debate-fueled aggression by carving the pumpkins we bought at the farmer’s market on Sunday.

There’s something soothing about carving a pumpkin, even though the act itself—wrenching a sharp knife dangerously through thick pumpkin rind, scooping out the slimy innards—isn’t by nature too relaxing. It’s such a specifically fall activity, emblematic of all the other cozy vestiges of the season—hay bales, Halloween, Indian corn, gourds, apple-picking, hot chocolate, wool sweaters, warm blankets. The final three items are not realistically part of a California fall, but I can dream…

Our pumpkins came out splendidly, Andrew’s with a toothy grin, mine with a wide smile. We arranged them on our terrace, their glowing faces visible from the street. I haven’t seen any other jack o’lanterns yet in Sacramento—surely I’m looking in the wrong places. But I like to think that ours mark our household as one where fall reigns supreme.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008


It’s back in the high-80s. Southern California is being devoured by wildfires. Sacramento’s GOP leaders have come under fire for not removing a “Waterboard Obama!” graphic from their official website. The county party chairman said that people can make up their own minds whether it’s offensive or not, and that it’s all a matter of interpretation.

Pray tell, where on earth do Andrew and I live??

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

What Is Good? What Is Evil?

“So, what’ve you been up to?”

This question was posed to us Sunday afternoon by the cashier at Trader Joe’s, as we waited for our credit card to be approved.

“Oh, not much,” Andrew said. “Relaxing.”

“Just a relaxing weekend,” I said.

“So what’d you do?” the cashier persisted.

After exchanging panicked glances (okay, only my own agoraphobic glance was panicked), Andrew said, “Well, we went to Ikea. Bought a lamp.”

Unbelievably, this was not the end of the exchange. “I’ve never been to Ikea,” the cashier said. “I should go.”

“You really should,” Andrew said. By this point our receipt had long since printed, yet Andrew found himself becoming tangled in a rather lengthy explanation of Ikea’s layout, prices, and weekend crowds. “You should go,” he concluded.

“I really should,” said the cashier.

Outside at last, Andrew and I remarked on the utter awkwardness of the exchange. This isn’t the first time this has happened—it’s happened to us before at Trader Joe’s, and at the co-op as well; perhaps it’s a California thing to pose such oddly specific questions: “What’ve you done this weekend?” “What’d you do today?” It only takes one overzealous cashier to push things further: “What are you thinking?” “Are you happy?” “How have you come to this point?” “Why, really, are we here at all?”

Monday, October 13, 2008

No More "Used to Know"

I was thinking about my college graduation recently, for a couple of reasons: first, because of my upcoming ten-year reunion; and second, because, thanks to Facebook, a window has opened up into the lives of people I believed I’d likely never see again after I packed the trunk of my car with my plastic milk crates and textbooks and diploma and headed on to the Next Big Thing.

But over the past few weeks, thanks to Facebook, names from the past have resurfaced with cheery “Hi Margo!” notes along with their requests to add me as a “friend.” I’m happy to accept their requests—these were, after all, people I was once friends, or at least friendly, with. And it’s undeniably interesting to see where people have ended up, what they’re doing, how they’ve changed. (That this is just the sort of information that presumably draws people to reunions—and that attending a reunion is likely something I will never do—is a contradiction I’m content to live with.) But a strange sense of collapsing time and space accompanies every click of the “Accept” button.

Isn’t there a case to be made for closing certain chapters, entering different worlds—in other words, moving on with one’s life? What Facebook does is bring the past right up into the present, melting both together into a kind of netherworld where you never lose touch with anyone and never say goodbye. There is no differentiation between the people in my “friends” collection: the people I haven’t spoken to since high school are mixed in with Andrew (also a “friend”) and the friends I email and see regularly. Being suddenly faced with regular updates about these people I used to know is strange, like reentering a party ten (or fifteen) years after leaving it and realizing that everyone is still there, just older and a little more care-worn than they were before. Was I sorry to leave that party? Not really, but I suppose joining Facebook is an admission of curiosity, or at least a passive agreement to be drawn back in.

Presumably, the people who are friending me have searched for my name on Facebook or have been alerted to my presence there by Facebook’s “People you may know” suggestions or have spotted me in other people’s friends collection. Am I what they envisioned when (if) they thought “I wonder what Margo’s doing now?...” It works both ways—I, too have been someone other people used to know. And it’s strange to think about these people formerly from my past trying to identify pieces of the me from the past with the me from the present.

The fact that these questions have been plaguing me suggests that I am not approaching Facebook in the proper frame of mind; and I’m sure I’m reading too much into it, looking for meaning and nuance where only “status updates” and “news feeds” exist. But that’s fine. Reading into things like Facebook and becoming mired in what they mean on a deeper and perhaps irrelevant level is probably unsurprising—or not—for both the people who used to know me and the people who know me, really know me, now.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Where Summer Never Dies

It’s windy outside. Windy and cool. I’m wearing a sweater; my hands are a bit cold as I sit here and type. I hesitate to even hope that this could be the start of fall: California has a way of teasing us with fall-like weather, only to then ratchet up into the 80s again with a cruel, sunny laugh.

If we didn’t know any better, all the signs would point to fall. The farmer’s market on Tuesday was overflowing with squash, every kind of squash imaginable, gold and green and orange, their heft and shape the very essence of October. Apples, too—bins of them, apples for eating and baking; we’ve seen advertisements for pick-your-own apple orchards, and pick-your-own pumpkins. The stores are filled with Halloween candy and costumes and orange-and-black decorations.

Those things fit on a day like this, gusty and chill. On other days, our world here seems as disjointed to me as seeing Christmas decorations in September. I compared it earlier this week with culture shock—things are not familiar, and though unfamiliarity can be interesting and exciting, sometimes you just want the things you know, the things you consider home. I want more than anything to make butternut squash soup, or carve a pumpkin, or go apple-picking—but I refuse to do those things when I’m wearing a tank top and shorts. It’s just not right. Not natural. It feels like a weak facsimile of how fall should be. My fingers are crossed that this today marks the start of fall as we know it, as it ought to be. In the meantime, wildfires are once again raging in this state where summer never dies.

Thursday, October 09, 2008

Just Oats

In my haste to get back to writing Palinisms on Monday, I forgot to include one of the more amusing parts of the Patriots game in my post about San Francisco. Indeed, the fact that this game was in San Francisco guaranteed that it would be just a little bit different than games anywhere else.

The stadium was full of the usual array of football jerseys, caps, etc., a wide selection of beer offerings, and the standard lineup of hot dogs, burgers, nachos, and other sporting-event snacks. We were surrounded by fairly normal football fans at the beginning of the game. But then our attention was drawn to a rather motley crew that had entered our section: two men, a woman, and a little girl. One of the men, the woman, and the little girl were more or less unremarkable. The other man, however, was wearing a tall, pointed wizard’s hat topped with fresh flowers and was carrying a “wand” made from a long, thin, fresh-cut tree branch. As he walked to his seat he waved the “wand” toward the field, announcing that he was casting a spell against the Patriots.

The group sat right in front of us, which gave me a perfect opportunity to notice the man’s remarkable pants. He was wearing what appeared to be blue hospital scrubs to which he’d sewn long, torn strips of various calico fabrics. The strips waved in the breeze.

Unfortunately, this picture does not capture the pants. Just the hat. And his interesting, unseasonably warm coat.

During the game, the man began snacking on what appeared to be a small bag of oats. He nudged the woman to get her attention, then handed her a business card that read “JUST OATS” at the top. Whether it was his or whether it came with the oats, I’m uncertain. JUST OATS does not, to me, seem like the most promising business, but it’s California, after all, and in a way it’s elegant in its simplicity. “What’s your line of work?” he might be asked one day. “Oats.” “Oats?” “Just Oats.”

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

Palinisms VI

The idea of other countries looking at Sarah Palin or her fans as representatives of the U.S.

Sarah Palin’s idea of a “maverick.” Also: any term forever ruined/contaminated by its association with or usage by Sarah Palin.

Sarah Palin’s theatrical and nauseating version of “folksy,” characterized by phrases like “you betcha” and “darn right.”

Sarah Palin’s prissy, annoying grimace that photographers seem to love capturing.

What Sarah Palin’s doing to the poor crazies too ignorant to see it.

What many liberals might soon need, solely to listen to rants about Sarah Palin.

The final state of any family forced to watch its matriarch stir a Florida crowd into a homicidal frenzy.

Tuesday, October 07, 2008

Palinisms V

A wild accusation delivered out of hate, small-mindedness, and desperation.

What a wild-eyed crowd of scary right-wing crazies is whipped into when listening to a barrage of accuPalins.

The ugliest political mud I’ve ever seen slung, courtesy of the “Christian” Sarah Palin.

An alternate name for a beautiful state that now has a horrific and perhaps permanent association (i.e., contamination) with Sarah Palin.

Mentally unbalanced. That goes for both of them.

Sarah Palin’s claim that “the heels are on, the gloves are off.” See also: nausPalating.

Sarah Palin’s shrill, “folksy,” fingernails-on-a-chalkboard screech.

Lord of the Palins:
A frightening image of what could happen when an insane, ignorant crowd gets riled up by a dangerous leader.

Palinheit 451:
Sarah Palin’s favorite temperature.

blood Palssure:
What increases when creating daily Palinisms.

Monday, October 06, 2008

Palinisms IV

A lie shouted to a crowd in Sarah Palin’s shrill “folksy” drawl.

A transparent attempt to make light of one’s dismal, embarrassing interview performance by making jokes about it to the press.

Pit Palin:
An animal trained to deliver the attacks that no one else is willing to.

Trying to evade a difficult question by declaring that your “maverick” status exempts you from having to answer it.

A nightmare about or involving Sarah Palin.

Switching the order of the newspaper sections so that Sarah Palin’s face isn’t what you see every time you walk past the coffee table.

Et Tu, San Francisco?

Andrew and I spent the weekend in San Francisco, one of what should be a series of small weekend trips to break up the weeks that remain before Japan (six weekends to go!). We drove down on Friday and met up with some of Andrew’s friends from business school who had come to the U.S. for a wedding and some vacation. We went with them to an Oktoberfest in the city, complete with German music (the band, oddly, played the Chicken Dance several times—like a wedding nightmare), German food (sausages and more sausages), and beer. Elaborate balloon-hats in the shape of beer steins were being created and handed out. There were some German costumes worn by the most dedicated Oktoberfest-goers. I will say that Andrew was sporting a beer-stein-balloon hat by the end of the evening.

Saturday was a shopping day, and I found a few sweaters and a dress, all in the name of strategic packing for Japan. We took a long walk through North Beach in the evening; and after a leisurely browse through the City Lights bookstore, we had a lovely Italian dinner, sitting outside and people-watching. We had a drink at the San Francisco Brewing Company before calling it a night.

Andrew had convinced me to go to a football game with him on Sunday, 49ers vs. the Patriots. I thought it might not be so bad, sitting outside in what had been predicted to be cool fall weather, perhaps drinking some hot chocolate, wearing a warm new sweater, and reminiscing about my high school marching-band days. This was not the case. It was blisteringly hot outside (et tu, San Francisco?), with unrelenting, cloudless sun, and I came away with a significant burn. Andrew has taught me well in the ways of baseball, but my conversion to willing-football-game-goer is going to be much harder to bring about. On an interesting note, we saw several people on two different occasions being escorted out by security, with at least one person in handcuffs. Getting that worked up about a football game is something beyond my comprehension, but I gawked happily nonetheless. In the picture below, taken before the game started, you'll note my somewhat wary expression, as well as smoke from team-entrance-announcing fireworks in the background.
As always, we were reluctant to leave last night, and drove home in rather glum silence, cheered only by a quick stop at In N' Out for dinner.

Friday, October 03, 2008

Friday Twitters

We’re leaving for San Francisco in just a few hours

It’s supposed to be cold there—my kind of weather

Andrew’s making us go to a football game on Sunday

The tickets he bought just arrived by FedEx

What would happen if the tickets somehow became “lost”?...

The tomato tarte tatin last night was not a success

Luckily we were both too worked up over the debate to feel very hungry

Time to put my contacts in

It’s actually not sunny here today. Weird.

I'm going to try out my new Japan shoes this weekend in SF

Palinisms III

A painful, lingering clenching in the stomach that comes from anticipating, watching, and then stewing over a debate involving Sarah Palin. The debache may render one unable to eat.

Any behavior undertaken in a serious public forum that is best reserved for pep rallies, such as giving a “shout-out” during a vice presidential debate.

A wink delivered without losing one’s train of thought in a serious public forum.

A loud, shrill proposal, in a serious public forum, to call one’s opponent by his/her first name.

Swiftly drawn delineations between groups, such as hockey moms and East Coast elites, intended to convey the moral superiority of one group over the other.

Thursday, October 02, 2008

Thursday Twitters

Thursday twitters, Thursday jitters

So much could go right…or wrong...with this debate

1.5 hours to go

I watched two squirrels leap from the roof of our house into the tree by the terrace

I just chopped up olives, red onions, and fresh thyme in preparation for tonight’s tomato tarte tatin

We were planning to go to the gym tonight, but I’m afraid we forgot that The Office is on

Finally, I found the puff pastry in the freezer section—it was there all along

It’s cooler today, in the high 70s

We’re going to San Francisco tomorrow, where it’s rainy and cool—bliss

Andrew has selected three stocks for us to invest in

Last night I went through a whole pile of magazines and tore out the articles I wanted, then put the magazines in recycling

Whenever we have old magazines from which I haven’t torn out articles, we leave them at the gym

There’s a stack about a foot high right now—we get a lot of magazines

When we read reviews of hotels we know we’ll probably be fine if the reviewer can complain only about the room service

More Palinisms…

The nervous, sickening, heart-rate-raising anticipation of watching a Sarah Palin interview.

animal comPalin:
Any animal that could be cruelly shot and skinned by Sarah Palin.

A trip to a remote place taken solely to escape news about Sarah Palin.

Any newspapers you’d like others to believe you’ve read consistently, but which you’ve never read at all.

Any preposition used in a way that is grammatically incorrect and painful to the ear.

The panic that arises when you’re publicly confronted by an important question to which you should, but do not, know the answer.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

Wednesday Twitters

Just ate two chocolate chip cookies

If you rule out the “media elite,” big-city folks, and the “Georgetown cocktail party circuit” as unfit to have opinions about Sarah Palin, where does that leave us?

Andrew car-pooled today

Andrew had to get several fillings replaced yesterday

Sometimes we speculate that the dentist replaces our fillings just for something to do

I need to buy rice

This morning the New York Times and the Financial Times were secured with two rubber bands instead of one

Last night we looked at pictures of a bunch of Tokyo hotels online

Trying to find the subway stops for the Tokyo hotels on the Tokyo subway map is like searching for a needle in a haystack

It was in the high-90s today

I miss fall

Having something to plan—a wedding, a trip to Japan—helps me not to think about missing fall

CBS is supposed to be showing more Palin footage tonight

Last night when I left the gym Andrew was unexpectedly there to pick me up

What a nice husband

Just took a sip of water


Last week, I was reading something, somewhere, on one of the many sites I scan obsessively every day, about new words we might take away from this election, much like “Bushism” is one of many we’ll take away from the Bush years. The suggestion was exPalination—a rambling, nonsensical explanation that goes on and on and has absolutely no content.

I propose these as well:

The inability to stop watching Palin interviews and reading Palin-focused news, despite the fact that doing so is painful.

The powerful desire to style one's hair in a Sarah Palin up-do, don an asymmetrically-buttoning suit jacket and rimless eyeglasses, and make endless homemade video-parodies of Sarah Palin.

Seriously. I feel the pull. The words and convoluted sentences are literally forming on my tongue.