name this person and you could win a free comb

Remember a while back when I wrote about the barber shop in town that displays its hair trimmings in the window? I finally got a picture last night of the bizarre goings-on in there. The hand-written sign on the man's head says, "Name this person and you could win a comb." Does anyone know who this person is? My guess is either Magnum P.I. or Richard Kiel.

letter from maman

I got this email from my mum today (she never e-mails) and I enjoyed reading it so much, I decided to post it. She's from England, by-the-way...

* * * * *

Papa and I watched 'The Queen' last night. Papa cried. I thought it was very well produced, and they seem to have pinpointed the characters to form. What I found poignant was the relationship of Charles to his parents. As a child, he had very little, if any, cuddle-time. Nanny was the one constant, while his parents went about their business of state and commonwealth. As an adult, he still feels the distance, coldness and ridicule for his so many inaptitudes.

The other scene that left a mark was Her Majesty, stuck in the river, having a little moment of sorrow, and, turning, there he was, the most majestic stag on the entire 4,000+ acre estate. She shooed him away with her scarf. She turned briefly, and he was gone. On hearing of his ultimate demise, she drove over to the next door estate, which housed the weekend business man who had shot the stag. The gamekeeper showed her the stag, hanging unceremoniously from a hook in the game room, head laid aside to later adorn the great hall of some cold castle. She gently touched his head, noticing that he had been wounded, not a clean kill, as with Henry's Anne. The stag had to be tracked for miles before he was finally put out of his misery. Here was majesty, tracked down and felled.

What strong abodings... Our house is full of ladybugs. Papa has painted the front door a delicious umbric red, and has been chopping and stacking wood. I have been gradually putting the garden to bed: tying up the raspberries, mulching them heavily with peat moss and leaves. I made the most delicious soupe a l'oignon last night, with a slice of toasted Ezekiel bread atop laden with cheddar cheese and popped under the broiler til bubbly and golden brown...simply delicious. Papa went crazy over it!

I tried to take the DogAge Test the other day, which is quite involved, and was almost at the end, where I would get the results for Sadie Wall when it suddenly disappeared, and was gone forever. It took so long to get that far, that I just didn't have the energy to go back and do it all again. They can get stuffed! Sadie is great. She spends her outside time pretty much creeping up on the squirrels as they feed at the bird feeders, then tearing madly after them as they scramble for safety in the retaining wall, or up the pine tree, screaming bloody murder at her for her impossible rudeness!

Latin goes well, and is progressing nicely. I am quilting a lot these days. Wait till you see what I'm up to now... It's a beautiful Sabbathday, so I must needs get me back into the garden... the lavender is in full bloom again! Crazy! Who would think it that it's late October, and 74 degrees F. Love to Colin...I'm really excited about our trip to England. Al of us! What a hoot!

Love, Maman xxx

sunday drizzle & romance

Lately, for us, romance is relegated to the weekend. I'm okay with that. It means that we can devote hours of quality time together and not worry about work or deadlines, presentations or drama, sleep or alarm clocks. It's just us. And the cats. And friends. And brunch.

This weekend, after spending an indulgent (but deserved!) Saturday evening at the Bearded Frog in Shelburne--where the best dessert was a Tahitian vanilla bean parfait with honeydew purée--we woke up Sunday morning to find that the wind had shifted ever so slightly. It was decidedly fall. A chill had settled in the air, and it was raining.

The perfect weather for sitting at the bar at Leunig's and sharing a cheese plate. This is the ultimate romantic date in my mind. Sitting at the bar makes it feel spontaneous--like the time in Paris, when it started absolutely pouring and we popped into the nearest café for warmth, and café, of course. At Leunig's, we get nostalgic when we hear the French accordion music, when we watch the barista steaming espresso behind the bar, and when we see the shoppers walk by with damp umbrellas poised and prim. It's Paris all over again.

This time, we got a fresh chevre rolled in chives, a smoked gouda, and a goats milk brie. They served it to us with plump grapes and berries, homemade cheese crackers, preserved cherries. And, of course, sliced baguette.

After lunch, we went to see a fabulously funny Britcom at the Roxy called, Death at a Funeral. A must-see if you haven't yet, and a wonderful finish to a wonderful day.

goodbye lenin, hello to a new idealism

Growing up in the American school system in the wake of the Cold War, I learned one version of socialism and it went hand-in-hand with the one version of communism: that "evil" political system governed by tyrant dictators and characterized in distopian novels as societies blinded by propaganda and idealism.

Communism and socialism were bad words, evoking images of mass communes, loss of individual rights, and lack of personal drive or responsibility. They still do, I believe, to an extent. In fact, it wasn't until I traveled to France and lived there for a while that I realized that socialism is a veritable and genuine way to govern a people, with the people in mind. I think with awe and reverence to the country's health care and educational systems, to their social welfare and work standards, and to their simple, old-world style of pace and priority. Americans like to call this "work-life balance."

Once I was given a first-hand view of the inner workings, my opinion of socialism shifted from that of stark government control to one in which human welfare--rather than personal success--was given utmost precedence. Granted, the system has its flaws and disadvantages. But what government isn't tainted when humans play a part? Just look at the current state of the American political system to be reminded that no government is immune from tyranny and imperfection. And that line between imperfection and corruption is blurry.

I'm reminded of all this, because I watched Goodbye Lenin again last night and realized that it has got to be one of my favorite movies of all time. The movie takes place in East Berlin during the deterioration the Soviet occupation and, with it, the Berlin Wall. In it, a boy named Alex must protect his fragile mother from learning that her beloved East Germany is no longer as it was. As a result, the boy is given the rare opportunity to recreate events not as they actually were, but how his ideals would have them be. The movie gives viewers a real perspective into the socialist political system of that time--what went wrong, but also, what went right and how things could have ended up if all of the pieces were in place.

Isn't that the point of an ideal? To be unattainable, but also attractive so that we are driven to them, even if in vain.

I feel, lately, that human ideals have run amok. We're no longer focused on what might be, because we're dragged down by what can't be or by what isn't. Maybe it's because we've all decide--oh, educated, collective We--that ideals are no longer important. Sure there are general political ideals and religious ideals, but what about the ideals of the people? We're realists now. And we're running the country.

But what about romance? What about compassion and storytelling? These elements should hold a place in all of our hearts, be we capitalists or communists, Muslim or Christian, American or French.

And remember, there's room enough in this world for everyone to have their own little version. Heck, if the American history books can do it, why can't we? So if you haven't yet, watch this movie. And in particular, pay special attention to the ending. There's a lesson there for all of us--to be believers.

making the most of being alone

What's the difference between alone and loneliness? It's all in your attitude. When you're used to always being around people and stimuli, it's hard to feel comfortable in your own skin. I think it happens a lot in this day and age. But, as much as I love being around people and having a social life, I've learned that my alone-time is really the best time to refuel and develop myself as an individual.

The trick to loving your loneliness is to make the experience as romantic, spontaneous, and sexy as possible. Sometimes it helps to pretend you're in a movie (think Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face), but don't you dare turn on the television as a distraction; T.V. is the number one killer of romance.

When I'm alone, I like to pretend I'm Audrey Hepburn. I'll pull my hair back in a tight pony-tail, put on skinny black pants and a tight, pretty top. I'll put on some French music--Charles Aznavour or Francoise Hardy--and let it saturate the apartment and float out the open windows. I'll dance around my bedroom or sit out on the porch with sunglasses, hot coffee, and a good book or magazine. I'll write in my journal or water my plants. These are things you can do when you're alone. When you're alone, you're on your own schedule. You can wake up on a Saturday morning and do whatever you want to do. Spontaneity is a key ingredient to romance.

* * * * *

I'm alone this weekend (Colin is out of town on a surfing trip) and I'm having a good time. The farmer's market opened today in downtown Burlington. I woke up this morning, did my Audrey Hepburn thing, and then walked down to see what goodies I could find during my favorite summer Saturday excursion.

The first farmer's market doesn't offer much in terms of produce, but I did find asparagus and farm fresh eggs for lunch (Mmm, maybe I'll make a quiche?). I walked by the multitude of multi-ethnic food stalls. There's a Bosnian vendor this year in addition to the Indian, Nepalese, Mexican... But I wouldn't be tempted; I already knew what I wanted for breakfast: a stuffed croissant from David the baker.

I always ask him, "Do you have veggie today?" Today he did: asparagus, artichoke, cream cheese, and wild leeks that his friend had given him. Holy cow. "I'll take it!" I said.

I picked up some unusual spiky flowers for my mother (can't remember the name!) and I was on my way.

En route to picking up some tickets for the Cabaret show tonight, I bumped into my good old friend Jewel and her husband Aaron. That's the ultimate in spontaneity and romance--bumping into old friends at the market. I showed them my purchases and Jewel invited me to her place next week to try some of her wild leek and asparagus quiche.

I just can't get enough of springtime! And my ultimate alone-time-morning.

stooge's intuition

As a girl, my sister Emma had an undying passion for the Three Stooges (she still does). As her little sister I was inclined to feel the same way. We would record the New Year's Eve Three Stooges marathons on T.V. and play them back in their entirety, finding hours of pleasure in their simple, black and white humor. It was silly really, but we loved them.

Our favorite stooge was Curly. He was the most sensitive of the three and bore the brunt of all the jokes and slapstick malice. When his character was replaced in later episodes by Shemp and other crackpots, the trio was never quite the same.

One thing about Curly, though completely dim, was his unusual sensory awareness. The scent of Wild Hyacinth, for instance, drove him absolutely wild. You could say it revitalized his energy, enough to help him win a failing boxing match. (He also goes flailing mad in a different episode every time Larry plays Pop Goes the Weasel on his violin. But that's another story).

The wild hyacinth bit always stuck with me. Ever since I can remember, and perhaps because of that very episode, whenever I see or smell the blossoming fragrant flower, I feel revitalized.

I was wound up today. So tightly wound, I could barely let any air in to breathe. I woke up on the wrong side of bed and never really made it to the bright side. No, it wasn't a good day. That is, until I was walking home from work. I smelled it even before I laid my eyes on it: a blooming patch of hyacinth, growing wildly in vibrant hues of pink, ivory, and purple amongst a junk pile of empty Pepsi bottles and broken tennis racquets.

It caused me to stop and breathe and smile. And all of a sudden I felt the urge to skip all the way home (I didn't because I had a blister) and yell out: "Moe, Larry! Wild Hyacinth! Moe, Larry! Wild Hyacinth!" I didn't do that either, because I'm sane. But I did think it in my head.

Now what's the thing that calms Curly down? Cheese.

Yeah, that sounds about right. This day might be looking up after all.

stranger than fiction

I didn't post last night because I was in my class building a sick flash web site. When I got home around 8:30, Col had a yummy dinner of flatbread, warm and ready, and a Netflix movie: Stranger than Fiction. I was a little dubious. Col's always trying to get me to watch strange movies. They often end up making my stomach churn halfway through and spurring some kind of argument between the two of us.

But he insisted, "You'll like it, it's a comedy! And Will Farrell's in it. Your favorite!" Say no more.

And he was right. Well, not about the comedy part. Well, sort of. It's not exactly laugh out loud funny, but it was one of the best movies I've seen in a very long time and not just because I'm a writer. It's about a man (Ferrell), who turns out to be a character in a novel and whose author is in the process of finding a way to kill him, while he at the same time and in the same city is trying to find the author and stop her from finishing the novel.

My favorite part of the movie is when Ferrell's character consults with an eccentric, coffee drinking, literature professor (Dustin Hoffman) to find out if the novel he's living is a comedy or a tragedy. Very clever stuff there!

the queen's scarf: 4 ways to wear it

If this is the year of the Queen, then it is also the year of the scarf in every form and function, and I couldn't be more pleased. Wear it well, Ladies! Four ways: long, short, back-to-front, twisted-sister.

the queen's scarf

I saw The Queen last night. Not in person, in the movie. Helen Mirren portrays with fervor a chill likeness to Her Majesty Elizabeth II in the aftermath of Princess Diana's death. I watched half with awe and half with sadness remembering the china bell my mother gave me years ago that had a picture of Charles & Diana printed on the front and a golden handle shaped like a plume. That bell broke with some irony shortly before the couple's marriage ended. But I lovingly glued it together and placed it in a box for safe keeping. I have yet to find that box.

Funny, as infatuated as I was with Diana and her stunning presence, I never once considered the Queen. She meant nothing to me, except for her small resemblance to my English grandmother, though not half as pretty. Queen means next to nothing in today's terms, but Princess. Princess is the stuff little girls' dreams are made of. Right?

Last night was different. I saw the Queen, for what it's worth, from a different perspective. From an empathetic--and sympathetic--point of view. I saw a woman who, when in her darkest moment, donned a gorgeous royal scarf and went to befriend a wild stag in the Scottish highlands. The scarf seems somewhat out of place in the otherwise stoic country-side and on the neck of such a somber lady. It, however, like the stag, has significance. As the stag seems to represent a glimmer of hope before embodying the Queen's broken spirit, the scarf also carries with it layers of symbolism. Like a printed veil, the scarf is a visual depiction of the Queen's fear and vulnerablity, while at the same time representing her strength and determination as one of the most powerful, albeit fated, women in history.

I'm sure that Princes Di wore many scarves in her shortened lifetime, and I'm sure she wore them beautifully. But this scarf, the Queen's scarf, is in a realm all its own.

And have you noticed? HM Elizabeth II is not the only Queen to grace the screens these days. A new enstated awe of the womanly monarchy is sweeping through our film culture. Does the scarf have significance beyond the English Isle? Who knows, perhaps Marie Antoinette wore a scarf to hide the forshadowing across her neckline.

/p.w.