Why My Sister and Mother Yelled At Me Today: Air Conditioning

My mother is currently having lots of problems paying bills and maintaining the house, so I continue to look for ways to save money on a daily basis.  One of the ways to save money, especially when you have an entire house to maintain, is carefully calibrate what temperature you keep your house at, and use ways to keep warm in winter and stay cool in the summer by doing things like wearing the appropriate clothing, taking advantage of fresh air, insulate properly, etc.

My mother always claims she is cold, but my sister wants to keep the house at 74 degrees or lower.  My sister used to claim, when she lived in Miami, that she hated air conditioning.  My mother told me that she claimed to not like air conditioning, because when she used her air conditioner in Miami, she had to pay for it.  My mother was only paying her rent, not her utilities.

So, in these hot summer days, at those times when it's not really hot and sticky out, and especially in the late evening hours, I think it's a good idea to keep the windows open and the A/C off.  I also find the sound of crickets and cicadas at night to be really soothing, it drowns out the sound of Mom blasting episodes of "Dancing With the Stars" and "Columbo" reruns, complete with her whoops of delight and loud, colorful commentary that she is addressing to no one in particular, no matter if I'm sleeping, working, reading, or otherwise engaging in some quiet activity.

Right at this very moment, outside here in East Windsor, NJ, it is 73 degrees outside.  Inside our house, the thermostat is reading 80 degrees, so my mother is running the central air conditioning, to my sister's satisfaction.  I've already been yelled at by both my mother and my sister several times over the past two weeks for opening windows, whether because it affects the ambient temperature or whether it's because my mother is afraid other people can see through the windows and watch us eating lunch, or reading books, or doing chores.  My mother is convinced our neighbors are always watching us, and have a keen interest in observing our activities.

So I just came home from the store, at about 8:30pm, and it's 73 out.  Inside the house, it's stuffy and the thermostat says 80.  So my mother promptly turned on the air conditioning.

So I asked her, "Mom, at what temperature do you like to keep the house?"

Mom: "74 degrees!  I TOLD you already!"
Me: "Mom, it's 73 degrees outside.  Am I allowed to open the windows?"
Mom: "NO!  NO!  I TOLD you, do NOT touch the WINDOWS!  ARGH!  SHIT!"

Not wanting to engage in an argument, I quietly went to "my" room, which is actually a storage room for various crap in the house that Mom and Denise want to store there (there is plenty of storage space in several rooms downstairs and in the garage, I'm not sure why their stuff is in "my" room), but in which they permit me a couple of drawers, some bookshelf space, and part of a closet to put my things.  It doesn't have a bed, just this really crappy, mildewy worn out loveseat my sister bought in Miami made my mother move back into this house.  I've actually been sleeping in the second upstairs bedroom, "Denise's" bedroom, in the house (my mother has the master bedroom, and my sister made up another bedroom for her and her fiancée on the lower level, but keeps her vast collection of dolls, stuffed animals, 60 pairs of crappy shoes, clothes she never wears, old VHS tapes of Tae Bo and other exercise she never does, tubes and bottles of Alfred Sung lotions and perfumes the choking smell of which permeates the entire upper floor of the house), since, well, sleeping is best done in a bed.  It would be nice if I could have a room with a bed in it, but alas, that is not my position in this house right now.  Anyway, I'm being kicked out of the second ("Denise's") bedroom upstairs to make room for my mother's sister, who is supposed to be arriving tonight to stay for two weeks.  Loveseat City it is for me.  I wish highly-powerful sleeping pills were readily available OTC.

I am very much looking forward to seeing my aunt Gloria (and my cousin Monique and her son Christopher, who are dropping off my aunt before they head to PR for vacation), as I haven't seen her in years, and it's fun to watch my mother interact with her younger siblings.  Her presence will also deflect attention from me -- I will merely fade into the background, run errands for them and chauffeur them around, fix them drinks, empty ashtrays and refill their glasses with ice and Carlo Rossi paisano wine, take orders, and observe.  My sister has been expressing her extreme displeasure at the prospect that yet another person is going to come in here and disrupt her control of things, so watching her escalate her passive-aggressive attempts to put everyone in the place she thinks they should be is going to delight me.  Family dynamics are fascinating.

My Sister Gave Me the Finger Seven Times Last Night

My sister has graduated to giving me the finger multiple times during the evening to express her anger and displeasure with my presence.  She did it no less than seven times last night, and these were the events that seemed to spur the adolescent behavior, although I'm not sure why she does what she does at any particular moment in time:

1) After I had emptied the clean dishes from the dishwasher, she expressed dismay at the way I had "rearranged" (as if it were some nefarious plot to upset the order she supposedly has established in storage areas) the cabinet where most of our pyrex and rubbermaid containers go.  I didn't rearrange anything, I simply put the stuff away in the cabinet, which involved having to nest similar containers of certain sizes into one another so they all fit (which is in no way a new system of organization for that cabinet, that's how they were doing things when I got here).  So she proceeded to pull things out of the cabinet and slam them down on the table, and demand I identify certain items.  She pulled a bag of my tea out of the area where all the tea is stored, and demanded I tell her what it was.

Me: "Look at it, sis, it says right there on the front what it is"
Denise:  "I DON'T WANT TO READ IT, I WANT YOU TO TELL ME".
Me: "It's tea, Denise.  It says right there on the front on the label, Rishi Tea."
Denise: "Yes, BUT I TOLD YOU TO TELL ME WHAT IT IS."
Me: "OK, now you know.  In the future, feel free to just look at the label to determine what something sitting there with all the rest of the tea is."
Denise: [finger]

She continued to root through the cabinet, accusing me of having taken or wrongfully placed things.

Denise: "WHERE IS MY VITAMIN CONTAINER???"
Diane: "You're what?"
Denise: "MY VITAMIN CONTAINER.  I KEEP MY VITAMINS IN A CONTAINER, AND I DON'T SEE IT HERE.  WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?"
Diane: "Denise, this is like the fifth time since I got here that either you or Mom has accused me of messing with your vitamins.  I don't use vitamins, I haven't touched your vitamins, perhaps each of you is moving the other person's vitamins around.  Stop asking me about your vitamins.  I had no idea you even have a 'vitamin container'."
Denise: "I CAN'T FIND MY VITAMIN CONTAINER!  YOU MUST HAVE MOVED IT!"  [finger]

Denise then started to dig into my mother, who had pointed out that Denise had defrosted raw chicken that morning, left it on the kitchen counter all day, announcing she was making dinner that evening (Mom had, a few moments earlier, asked me if she should go ahead and cook the chicken, as it probably shouldn't remain there another day).  Denise had even made a special run to the grocery store to buy the shape of pasta she wanted (we had elbow and penne, she wanted spaghetti), despite the fact that she has repeatedly told me that household groceries are only to be purchased once a the month, at the beginning of each month, when Mom receives her social-security check.  Denise had just woken up from a 5-hour nap, and declared it was "too late" and she was "too tired" to cook the chicken.  Um, we whispered to ourselves, no problem, as I had already prepared some salad with feta and olives and had some cooked shrimp in the freezer.  Denise then proceeded to order delivery from a local Italian restaurant, and neglected to ask us if we wanted to order anything, so it was a bit of a surprise when the food arrived, and she skirted it downstairs to keep to herself and her fiancée, Tony.  "That's pretty rude," I thought to myself, and, as she headed down the stairs.
Diane: "Oh, did you get pizza?"
Denise: "NO." (turned out they had gotten ravioli and meatballs, and something that was in a pizza box but perhaps was not pizza)
Diane: "Ah, well, um, bon appetit!"
Denise: [finger]

After feasting on her exclusive dinner and several glasses of the wine I had bought and put in the Designated Wine-Storage Area, she stomped back up the stairs, threw the dishes in the sink, and then came out to the living room to lecture Mom about how Mom leaves raw chicken in the refrigerator for days all the time.  She then glares at me, I suppose expecting me to chime in to agree that Mom does this, even though I have no idea if she does.
Denise: "I'm COOKING the CHICKEN TOMORROW!"
Diane: [shrugs] "Um, OK, sure."
Denise: "TOMORROW!  IT'S TOO LATE NOW TO COOK THE CHICKEN."
Diane: "Ok, Denise, cook the chicken whenever you see fit to cook the chicken.  Don't worry about me, I'm not big on chicken in any case."
Denise: [finger]

She then stomps into the bathroom.  I had lit a candle in there, as the area was smelling less-than-fresh.
Denise: "There's a lit candle in here!'
Diane: "Yes, I lit it after the last time I was in there."
Denise: "YOU SHOULD PUT IT OUT NOW."
Diane: "Sure, I'll make sure to put it out."
Denise: "PUT IT OUT NOW."
Diane: [no reaction]
Denise: "I'M GOING TO PUT THIS CANDLE OUT RIGHT NOW."
Diane: "Knock yourself out, Big Sis."
Denise: [finger]

By this time, I had resorted to watching TV on my laptop with my earbuds in, because she kept stomping around, talking to herself, but clearly with the intention of making me listen to her complaints about me on an endless loop without taking the time to confront me directly.  She kept pacing around, picking things up and slamming them down, and exclaiming, in a Tourette's-style manner, "Rearranging!" {mumble mumble mumble} "Consignment! (for some reason, my efforts to sell my wedding gown is bothering her, I think because I had previously recommended when I was still in California that she could try selling it to raise some funds for the household, which she eschewed)" {mumble mumble mumble, "Candles!" {mumble mumble mumble}  "Chicken!" {growl}

She stomped back downstairs, and started to tear into Tony.  Now, I don't make a point of attempting to overhear their conversations, but it is inevitable that much of their conversation wafts upstairs, and a lot of times, Denise is nagging the guy, and Tony inevitably says, "You're being mean."  So, a couple of times in the past day or so, whenever she starts yelling at me, I say, "You're being mean," in an effort to help her realize she needs to dial the Anger-Meter down a few notches.  You know the saying, I think it goes something like this, "If one person calls you a horse's ass, you thank them.  If 10 people call you a horse's ass, it's time to get yourself a saddle."  She stomps back up, and starts barking at me, at which point I remove my earbuds to try to listen to her, because she seemed genuinely in need to engage with me again at THAT VERY MINUTE.

Denise: "WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS."
Diane: "Um, what?"
Denise: "WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS, JUST TO TEST YOU, TO SEE IF YOU ARE SPYING ON OUR CONVERSATIONS."
Diane: "Denise, I'm not snooping.  I just inevitably hear them if I'm sitting in the living room and I don't have earbuds in."
Denise: "WE KNOW YOU ARE LISTENING TO US, SO WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS, TO TEST YOU."
Diane: [looks at Mom quizzically, looks back at Sister] "Um, Denise, I'm not sure what you are asking or telling me to do here.  Do you want me to try to listen and tell you if I can hear?"
Mom: [pointing her finger at me] "SHE'S TRYING TO TRICK YOU!"
Diane: "What?  Ok, I'm really confused.  Denise, am I supposed to repeat to you what I hear?  Because, believe me, I'd rather not be hearing, that's why I have these earbuds in."
Denise: [stomps back down stairs raising and waving around her Finger-sporting hand]
Diane: [turns to Mom]  Is this normal behavior for her?  She's been giving me the finger all night now.  What are we, like, 12?  Does Denise realize she's 51 years old?"
Mom: [waves her arms wildly, shushing me]
Denise: [stomps back up to top of stairs so that her hand is visible, with, you guessed it, middle finger raised]

Now, I fully admit that, at this point, I've begun to hit back at her with sarcasm and passive-aggressive remarks, which may be fueling the fire, but it really is in an attempt to tire her out.  When I keep myself open and genuine, say, I'm about to put something away, and ask her if I'm putting it away in the Designated Place For That Thing, she'll agree, thank me, and then a few hours later, move it and demand That Thing Goes Over There.   I think humoring her and not insisting on any boundaries regarding what I'll put up with will encourage her to continue steamrolling.

Maintaining Sanity After Moving Back in with My Mother and Sister

In late July of this year, I had to face the reality that I was not making ends meet in California, I was broke, and therefore had to either become homeless, or move back into my mother's house in New Jersey.  My older sister, Denise, made the move back home from Miami a few years ago for the same reason, although she wasn't broke, as my mother had been paying her rent (to the point where my mother's car was repossessed because she couldn't afford both her car and my sister's rent) for about a year before she packed up and headed back North.  I set out on a cross-country drive in early August, and arrived at the family homestead about 5 days later.  Also in the house is my sister's fiancée, a wonderful guy whose family has been friends with our family since long before I was born, to the point that we call them cousins and aunts and uncles.  Tony is in a somewhat-similar situation of having to find a job after a company he was working for in Hempstead folded, and he had to move out of his place there.  So it's a bit of a crowded house with a mixture of personalities: Tony is very laid back and friendly (my mother says he is, "mas suelto que un caracol"), I'm somewhat laid back but suffer from anxiety and panic attacks at times, and both my mother and my sister have explosive tempers that flare up at the drop of a hat.  I take after my father's side of the family (from Jamaica and Curação) both in looks and temperament (tending towards shy and quiet), my sister takes after my mother's side of the family (from Puerto Rico, loud and boisterous, alcohol-and-tobacco-loving, family-oriented and social, and extremely temperamental to the point where fistfights sometimes break out at family gatherings).

It hasn't been a lot of fun thus far -- I feel very much like Kristen Wiig's character, Imogene, in the movie, "Girl Most Likely".  Depressed, feeling like a failure, and regretting my decision in 2008 to leave New York like I did, when everything seemed to be going great.  The living conditions are even somewhat similar, an old, cluttered house in New Jersey, an extra houseguest, etc, with the added stress of economic duress (only one of us is currently employed, so the bills are hard to pay) and explosive temperaments.

In order to help me cope with my situation, I've been oversharing on social media.  Not advisable, admittedly (some people, even potential employers, may judge me harshly for the things I reveal, but I'm willing to take that risk); however, I find it therapeutic to share my complaints and foibles on my Facebook wall and so I will continue to do so.  Writing is therapeutic for me, especially when I'm exercising my comedic chops to make fun of myself or my situation.  Since I'm verbose, I'll stick to telling the full version of my tales here on my blog, and mentioning the posts on Facebook, and people can click through and read if they are interested, keeping the Facebook post to something crisp and quippy.

So the majority of my posts for the time being are going to be about the clashes between my mother, my sister, and me, because the interactions we've been having since I landed here about two weeks ago have been truly funny, as if they came out of some goofy reality show.  And if I write about them, especially if I manage to make even one person laugh with these posts, I will be able to refrain from banging my head against the wall or stabbing myself in the eye with a pencil.

Enjoy, feel free to comment, especially if you can make as much fun of these situations as I am trying to.  Also feel free to criticize me, admonish me for making fun of my family, if you like.  But I might just be creating material someone could use in a sitcom someday.

To Post Video on YouTube Is To Invite Public Commentary

Here's a video of three Targetbase employees, who were involved with a sales pitch to Taser, having the product demonstrated on them by the prospective client.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=logoDLPiSRw

Malbec and Antelope

Wanting to get far away from NYC for a little while for not too much money, I booked a trip to Buenos Aires for my mother and me. My friends and acquaintances screwed up their faces when I mentioned it, “WHAT?? WHY would you want to go THERE?” Although none of them have been to Argentina, they were certain travel to Brazil or Cuba or Peru would be much more worthwhile. Unless you are camping in Patagonia, Argentina doesn’t seem to appeal to most North American tourists I know.

Buenos Aires was a very strategic choice – I had my mother in tow (she kept telling me to find something for us to do on Mother’s Day, and was pooh-poohing the more-convenient idea of a 2-day spa retreat in Connecticut), I knew the city fairly well from previous travels and it’s easy to get around there on public transport, and my friend has an apartment smack in the middle of Recoleta that I could rent for cheap (check it out for yourself: www.vrbo.com/59534). My mom is Puerto Rican and therefore wouldn’t be intimidated by language issues. American Airlines offered round trip tickets for just 40K points each. It was a no-brainer.

The porteňos weren’t as well-dressed and good-looking as I remember, but then again, the last time I had been there I was a raggetty college student, and impressions are always relative. I landed at Ezeiza in 1991 a couple of years after a harrowing bout of hyperinflation, but I think their most recent devaluation drama (Argentines saw the value of their peso-denominated savings drop by over two-thirds in 2002) a couple of years ago really took a toll. They also seemed a little tired and fed up with some serious air-quality and political-corruption issues – our flight down there on May 8 was actually cancelled (we were able to reschedule for the following day) due to the cloud of volcanic ash that had drifted east from the eruption in Chaiten. But then again, even at their best, the Argentines always look and sound tired and fed up. That’s just the way they are, and I love them for it. I might stick out like a sore thumb in Buenos Aires with my curly hair and American sensibility (I swear I think I might have seen maybe 5 black people the entire time I was down there, and they all looked like they were from Senegal or France), but there’s something about the bizarre attitude, worn humor, and general dissatisfaction of its population that makes a cranky New Yorker like me feel right at home.

My first order of business was to wander around the cemetery. The apartment has a terrace that looks right out over it:


Mom was psyched to see Evita’s crypt. The cemetery was just around the block, and right across the street from the entrance there’s a great place for coffee (La Biela, which is totally overpriced, but at certain times of the day is filled with great neighborhood locals like men in their eighties wearing cravats and old suits, and is therefore a worthy place to stop and refuel and look around), so I figured it was a good place for my mother and I to see our first sights in the city.

I got a map and tried my best to point out the final resting places of the larger-than-life characters of Argentine history, but my mother just frowned at the elaborate marble mausoleums and complained about how dirty and unkept everything looked. I quickly reminded myself that it was pure folly to make an attempt at being a tour guide – my mom doesn’t really care about any of the historical facts, and I don’t really care to narrate them. So we high-tailed it to Evita’s crypt, took a few pictures, and went to lunch. On the way there, I saw the funniest cobwebs I have ever seen in my life. I really don’t know what breed of spider lives in Argentine cemeteries, but to me they give a nod to the overall Buenos Aires character of bygone grandiosity and ornate, disorganized ridiculousness:


The next day, we went to San Telmo to visit the townhouse of Frank Reinelt, a designer from Las Vegas who undertook one of the most elaborate renovations one could ever witness in South America (http://www.viviun.com/AD-59410/). He also happens to manage bookings for my friend Valerie’s properties. He and his partner Osvaldo very graciously showed us around the house (which possesses some of most beautiful stained-glass-window installations one could ever hope to see), treated us to the best pizza in the city, and dropped us off at the reknowned Sunday antiques fair. My mom was not in a buying mood and antiques are not her thing, but she did seem to enjoy the weather and tango exhibitions. I didn’t say much, except to exclaim, “Look ma, my twin!” as I grabbed a copy of the latest Mafalda comic (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mafalda) at a local newsstand and held it next to my face, sending the newsstand attendant into a fit of laughter. The attendant quickly composed herself, stared at me, and said, in a horrified tone of voice, “But you are MUCH prettier than Mafalda!” This comment made the whole thing even funnier. I don’t think my mom got it, but it really made my afternoon.

A few days later, we took a trip outside of the city (2 long hours on the #57 bus from the Plaza Italia), to the Basilica of the Virgin of Luján: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luj%C3%A1n,_Buenos_Aires). I had given Mom the task of organizing a day outside of the city, handed her my dog-eared Lonely Planet guide, and this is what she handed back to me. Luján.

No one goes to Luján except Catholic pilgrims and young children on school trips. I tried to direct Mom's attention to the other excursion listings ("C'mon Mom, wouldn't a boat ride to the artists' colony in Uruguay be more fun?"), but she insisted everything else sounded too complicated to her.

So after a hellish, endless bus ride with no air conditioning and standing room only, we got off in this dusty old outpost. There literally is nothing around, but you knew when to get off because out of nowhere there is this honking gynormous cathedral that could rival Notre Dame: the Basilica de Nuestra Senora de Luján. I could try to type out the story behind this little statue of the virgin and this miracle in the seventeenth century of a wagon that was trying to transport the statue for some rich, self absorbed rancher that used to own the land, but you can just Google it (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luj%C3%A1n,_Buenos_Aires).

Anyway, we get all the way this place, and then Mom's just standing around, looking at the ceiling, about to walk back out of there and get on the bus to go find somewhere to eat, as if to say, "OK, I chose something to do, and now we're done." I was ready to bash my head against the wall, or jam one of the burning devotional candles down my throat and end our trip right there.

"Jesus H Christ," I thought desperately (and rather blasphemously) to myself, "Why the fuck have we come to this godforsaken place, Goddamnit?"

I looked around the cathedral for something to do, and saw a few people standing on a line beyond the pews. There was a little white sign with an arrow pointing to the priest on duty.

"Mom, get in that line. You're going to confession."

"What?"

"Confession, Ma. See there? When's the last time you confessed, and in a foreign country, no less? Here's your chance to be absolved by a priest in the Argentine outback. I'm going to have a look around, and come by when you're done."

I left her there and strolled around the cavernous basilica, reading the inscriptions.

There was even a little exhibit with letters written by sick children to the Virgin of Luján for help, and notices from people searching for relatives who have gone missing. I felt pretty bad for being so resentful.

About 20 minutes later, I spotted Mom emerging from the confessional, and trotted over.

"Well?" I asked expectantly.

She was wiping her eyes. "It was good. But before I even opened my mouth, I started crying!"

"Crying? Why, what happened?"

"Nothing, I just started talking, and I was crying. He listened to everything I said. He was very nice."

She dried her eyes, and we walked around the church. I showed her everything I had seen, and asked her to translate what we read.

Then we left, got on a bus back to the city, and had a nice steak dinner at a parilla in Palermo. But not before we stopped at a junky souvenir shop so Mom could buy 30 pesos' worth of keychains and other accessories that say "Luján" on them.

We spent much of the rest of the trip this way, within the city limits, seeing a site or two, eating steaks and French fries, drinking coffee, and attempting to shop. I tried not to tear out my hair attending to my mother’s obsession with getting the best price for t-shirts, refrigerator magnets, and personalized genuine leather cigarette-lighter-holders to take back to her sisters in the Bronx.

On our last full day in Buenos Aires, we were wandering around Recoleta, wondering where to eat lunch. I had in my pocket several suggestions for cute Italian places in the neighborhood, but I really wanted to be distracted from the plan, and my mom really had to use the restroom. Then I saw the sign, just as we were stumbling along down the street from a shopping mall: a somewhat-touristy place called El Sanjuanito, at Posadas 1515. It was only a few minutes after Noon, and it was already filled to the brim with hungry lunchers.

I steered my mom into the area, we went down the stairs, and sat down.

This particular restaurant specializes in food from Northwestern Argentina. The menu emphasized empanadas, but my mom decided to order the grilled chicken. I ordered antelope. I also ordered some wine. It was served in a white ceramic penguin.

Antelope is not the menu item to order at El Sanjuanito. It was prepared as a stew, tough and gristle-y. If I go there again, I’ll get empanadas, but at least now I can add “antelope” to the List of Things I Have Eaten. Check, please.

The flight back to LaGuardia was uneventful, thank the Lord.

I now know two things: I love my mother dearly, and I will go back to Buenos Aires.

There’s a footnote to that second thing: I’ll go back by myself.

That’ll be GOOD.

Give That Man a Cupcake!

I stopped at Buttercup Bakery (east) today during my lunchtime errands, hoping to grab a red velvet cupcake to go with my afternoon coffee. Alas, I wasn't carrying any cash on me, and I was too lazy to run to the nearest ATM. I also wasn't leaving without cake. Hence, I ended up walking out of there with a box of 6, the amount needed to get me to the credit-card minimum.

I live on the far west side, and didn't have time to stop back home after work to unload before heading down to Union Square. My agenda for the evening: I was going to the first book signing I've been to since Nick Cave autographed my copy of And the Ass Saw the Angel.

That was a really long time ago, and, quite frankly, I didn't wait on line back then because of the book -- I just really wanted to meet Nick Cave. I like a lot of writers, but I don't usually feel compelled to undertake the work involved go see them in person. I can read their stuff. That's the thing about writers. You don't really need to hear them live to fully experience their work (as you would dancers or other artists with a more physical element).

So, as I waited in my seat on the 4th floor of Barnes & Noble after purchasing my fresh copy of A Wolf at the Table, I was lamenting the fact that I was so uncomfortable (adding a big cake box to my heavy, laptop-toting backpack and coat put me over my stuff-I-can-tolerate-schlepping-around-Manhattan limit), and had a long time to wait -- Mr. Burroughs wasn't coming out until 7, so I had 90 minutes. What could I do to make the rather-pedestrian act of book signing more personal? After all, you can just buy an autographed copy of any bestseller at any major bookstore -- the autograph's not the point.

So I thought to myself, "Maybe I should offer Augusten a cupcake!" And then if he accepted, I'd plonk the unwieldy box of the remaining five treats on the table, thus relieving me of my burden, and allowing me to connect in a personal way with the author.

That latter reason was the more important, actually. That's the kind of writer Augusten Burroughs is. He tells his story from a very personal point of view, and so at the same time that he's wowing you with his wittiness, humor, and intelligence, you get that weird feeling that things would be better in your life if you could just talk to him for 3 minutes.

Mr. Burroughs is what is called a "memoirist" -- he used the term several times this evening to describe himself, though, increasingly over the past five years, the term doesn't have an entirely positive connotation. It's interesting, because in Wolf he breaks out of the "formula" that has been successful for him for years (perhaps even in his pre-bestseller days as an ad man) - the book isn't funny, and abandons the dependence on the laugh-inducing, sardonic turns-of-phrase made famous by Running With Scissors and Dry. His humor has made his previous works well-loved; it has also led critics and fans to liken him to other witty observers and commentators whom I admire greatly, such as David Sedaris.

Being compared to David Sedaris is a huge compliment, but it's awkward and inaccurate. They are writers in very different ways, and Mr. Sedaris' dispatches over the past couple of years and Mr. Burroughs' latest work make that very apparent.

One member of the audience at B&N asked Mr Burroughs about the searching tone of his other works, and how that related to the tone of Wolf. It's true his tone isn't as "searching" this time around, but, judging by the nature of his oratory this evening, it seems the main theme is that he has a cross to bear. He is PISSED about his father and needs to get it out. I thought I was pissed about my relatives (and, especially, worrying about what scary and unfortunate neurological and biochemical traits I've inherited from them), but geez, I ain't got nothing on Augusten's sociopathic, knife-wielding father (and maybe Augusten has nothing on Elisabeth Fritzl's, but who wants to read about that?).

I was totally taken aback by Mr. Burroughs' personal presence this evening on the stage. He's a really compelling speaker, which I wasn't expecting at ALL. I've never heard of an author convincing anyone to buy the audio version of his/her book, but he referred to it several times, to the point where I was actually considering purchasing a copy. Ever since ditching my car in Miami, I don't buy audiobooks. If I'm spending long enough stretches anywhere, like on public transportation, I prefer to read. But Augusten made a really strong case for it -- he hired the best and coolest to create musical scores for it and everything. He should consider heading his own ad agency, because he's got more talent to connect with people than he can fill in memoirs and book signings.

I'm far from finishing Wolf yet, but I had enough time to read the first few chapters of it as I was waiting for him to appear. Right there, on page 20, he talks about red velvet cake (well, not so much the cake, actually, but about having declined a slice of red velvet cake as a young child because he was too anxious to eat in front of strangers -- and this not because of the cake, but, "the community surrounding the cake"). So I couldn't very well offer him a red-velvet cupcake, even though now he's all grown up and probably over most of the social-acceptance issues of his youth. Aside from the inappropriateness of offering a celebrity baked goods (or food of any kind, really, because obviously it's unsafe to eat or even touch stuff that total strangers give them), the coincidence might make me appear seriously deluded. But not to be discouraged from extracting some personal touch during the 30 seconds I was in front of him, I glanced at the functional Sharpie in his hand, offered my prize Waterman, and asked him to sign with that instead. I've been writing with it for years, and it would just be so much better if he used it to write a note, too.

And, not only did he comply, but, after signing the book and weighing it in his hand for a moment, remarked, "This is a beautiful pen."

Gracious!

Benedict's Visit

OK, I'm back. I figure, if the Pope can take the time and energy to visit us at this difficult stage, I can start posting again. I don't have the same protection as he does, but what the hell, right?

I've been devouring the NYT articles this morning regarding yesterday's celebrations. It's brilliant, all of it. I'm a nonpracticing Catholic, but I savor the coverage about any and all papal events -- the celebrity, the commerce, the endless deconstructing of every single word that comes out of Ratzinger's mouth...I love that shit.

If there is one thing a good Catholic, practicing or non, loves, it is ceremony. And rules. And when the Pope comes, it is a fantastic opportunity to focus on both of these. His visit has not disappointed.

There are plenty of things to comment on -- the hopeful parents lining up their autistic children to meet him in Yonkers, the badly-timed raids of Pilgrim's Pride chicken-processing plants in five states by immigration officials, the effects of never-ending sexual-abuse lawsuits (the financial tallies are bad enough, not to mention the non-financial ones) on disappearing congregations across the country. When you think about it, all this supposedly-Catholic stuff is a commentary on what is going on with the American public in general. Hopefully Hillary and Barack are listening carefully.

The part I love best is the ever-present hand-wringing about Pentecostals. For those of you who haven't heard, Catholicism is dying. It's a long, coughing-and-wheezing, unpretty kind of death (kinda like John Paul's), but it is happening, due to the religion's decreasing relevance to everyday people (although the litigation-tarried coffers are a significant second to be blamed, I'm sure).

Even to me, a liberal, anti-religion person (I call myself a Catholic, but that's more of an ethnic identity than anything else), uptight Catholics are preferable to those icky Pentecostals. They are crazy, untouchable, and scary. Have you seen their antics? What, with their live pop-rock gospel bands and their personal relationships with Christ. Jesus! They're just insane and should be shot.

Catholicism is going out of style for North and South Americans now much like the royals were for New World-ers back in the seventeenth century -- its leaders have lost touch with how to emotionally and economically feed their followers, and be relevant to an ever-changing population that is geo- and demo-graphically diverse.

If Pope Benedict XVI were to ask me for advice, I'd turn to him, smile widely, and say, "Fuck the Pentecostals! Sure, they're pilfering the majority of new recruits to your dwindling flock, but that's OK, really. Catholicism has had a grand run at it, don't you think? Do NOT, under any circumstances, try to mimick what those swine are doing! It's just WRONG!"

In "A Populist Shift Confronts the U.S. Catholic Church" in today's Times, Fernanda Santos wrote, "Today, [the Pentecostal Church] has more followers in the United States than any other denomination...they are drawn...by the faith's joyous worship, its use of Latino culture and the enveloping sense of community it offers to newcomers...half of all Latinos who have joined Pentecostal denominations were raised as Catholics."

I don't claim to speak for U.S. Latinos, but I must declare, as a "U.S. Latino", that there is no fucking way I would ever join those bizarre freaks for all the money in the world, or even for a seat at the right hand of God, or whatever. I love Catholicism. I don't practice it, but most Catholics don't, anyway.

What is there to love about Catholicism? The clarity, for one. There are RULES that Catholics have to follow. Among them are:

1. Don't have sex.
2. When you do have sex, be it with someone who isn't your spouse, or someone of your own gender, or whatever, just make sure you keep it quiet. Don't let anyone know. If anyone finds out, pay them off handsomely and make sure they are happy and don't go shouting about it to the authorities.
3. Go to Mass and dress nicely and behave.

It's pretty easy. It's maybe not so easy for the younger folk who get abused, but they get on with their lives and learn to live with it, right? Enough with all the whining already.

The Pentecostals are disgusting. They want to talk about everything, they think they have the authority to speak directly to God, they wear the wrong things, and they are just pathetic. Fuck them! The Pentecostals are nothing. They haven't wooed kings, swayed dynasties, or killed millions of people, but claim they are important because they created bad rock bands and have instituted ministries on the Web. I could do that, I just don't have the time.

So cheer up, Joseph. There is no hope for Catholicism, but you'll be dead long before any real decisions on the matter need to be made.

In the meantime, do your best to deal with the situation at hand. The immediate problem is, you've gotta start getting Catholics to write checks again. To do that, it probably requires stuff that dogmatic Catholics don't want to do, like sponsoring art exhibitions and the like. All I have to say is, "Swallow the pill, fartheads. You got us into this." Get over yourselves and do what has to be done, for chrissake.

Jesus!

Gotta Dance

I'm back in the States now, and back at the office, and everyone there (including me) seems like they are at the end of their rope. Um, er, ropes.

The tension (it's not just me, I swear) is palpable, and makes you just want to run out of the building, screaming. I almost did.

But then, a great friend sent me the following (a video of a dancing cockatoo, courtesty of an avian rescue facility in Indiana):
http://birdloversonly.blogspot.com/2007/09/may-i-have-this-dance.html

Stress relieved. Big smile on face! Thank you!

Day 5 in Brussels: Crotchety and Ready to Go Home

I'm kinda aggravated, because the agenda for our Brussels meetings has been packed, and I haven't had a chance to get out and see things in the daytime (the only time things are open here) since Sunday (when everything was also closed). The only thing I do know is that I've been forced to look at a lot of marketing content that has the same brand stock photography in it, and it's getting on my nerves: a really annoying shot of this random blonde guy sniffing a cantaloupe has been brought up on the presentation screen a painful number of times over the past three days, and it's just wrong. I feel like I never want to eat another canteloupe again as long as I live, which is a shame. It's not a bad fruit, the canteloupe. It's just bad photography.

I also haven't had much time to write, or see enough to have material for interesting observations on this trip. Here on my last night in the city, I should head on out to search for notable happenings, or go to dinner with my colleagues, but I'm totally grumpy and antisocial. I don't like it here at all.

Brussels is a very expensive place, and it's a very sterile place, and, it's just... I'm not sure what words to use to describe it. My thoughts are a little difficult to sort out right now, but my current stomach cramps may have something to do with the increasingly anti-immigrant sentiments flying around here (Google "Belgium" and "vote" and "immigrant" if you want to read about the frightening local happenings of the past couple of days). I'm not so sure that explains it, however, considering how anti-immigrant my homeland has become.

I had been feeling a vague, nagging sense of unease ever since I landed in Brussels. It's different from my crankiness in Dubai, which was more a reaction to the preponderance of the dust and the construction cranes and general ugly expensive commercial character of the place than it was to people I met there. The feeling seemed to crystallize today at some point, helped along by a few comments that were made during my meetings.

First, it was the perky, young German who considered herself an authority on "rap culture". She was loud, blonde, and wore hip, chunky glasses. She kept insisting it was typical in the United States to greet people by saying, "Yo!" whilst holding up the right hand with one's thumb, forefinger, and pinky extended.

We started the training sessions after lunch with a game-show quiz thing, including a section with questions on popular trivia, some of it American. The German loudly called out the answers, claiming to know everything there was to know about black musicians, athletes, and actors. After she piped up a couple of times with the claim, "I know ALL about this!" whenever we asked a question where the answer was Tupac Shakur, Mohammed Ali, or Jamie Fox, (not like there was a dominating theme -- there were exactly three questions about these three people) I thought to myself, "Um, WHAT EXACTLY makes you an expert?" It just irritated me.

Later in the afternoon, we were discussing translation. The representative from Lisbon complained about the quality of Portuguese translation in our company, insisting that its Brazilian basis is inadequate. A new associate from his region chimed in, "Yes! It's unacceptable! The way the Brazilian Portuguese expresses things, it's horrible!" Then she made a sort of spitting-on-the-ground type of gesture, and said some more stuff.

I didn't hear anything she said after that, I just sat there and fumed. I wanted to counter that, whatever her understanding of the importance of her country may be, the driving factor in translating our content is the sheer number of people globally who speak Portuguese, the majority of them being Brazilian. Brazil is a gigantic country, and there is a huge Brazilian diaspora. Portugal itself, though it had very active explorers back in the day, is tiny. Brazilian Portuguese is widely spoken and written and admired the world over.

I sat glued to my seat, as my eyes grew a little wide, my neck craned just a bit, and I thought, "WHAT is it about the Brazilian Portuguese that is so offensive?" The reaction I had to the Portuguese woman's comments came from a slightly different place than the reaction I had to the German woman's comments, but it irritated me just the same. I responded, very carefully, with the comment, "Brazil is VERY large, and so is the Brazilian diaspora. Portugal is a very SMALL country, and the number of people who speak peninsular Portuguese, is, relatively, LIMITED. But I'll make a note of your concern."

I don't know why I'm so cranky, but it's probably a good thing that I'm getting back on a plane to New York tomorrow.

Day 2 (Again) in Brussels: Big Fears – Here’s a List

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that there are many fears from which I suffer, and when I spend a decent amount of time walking around a strange city far away from home, they crystallize into a running list of which I am becoming acutely aware, and I figure now’s as good a time as any to just write ‘em down, as they usually interfere a bit with my ability to enjoy my sojourns abroad, and this trip is no exception.

The minute I get back to New York, I’ll find a good behavioral therapist (a better outlet for this list, but no one but my friends read this blog, and anyone else who might happen upon it shouldn’t care), as any proper New Yorker would.

OK, here it is:

1. Fear of not being in control. There are a lot of corollary fears which hang off of this one gigantic fear, including, but not limited to:
o Fear of being lost
o Fear of depending on others
o Fear of getting sick or being in any way frail, and fear of dying (or process thereof)
o Fear of not having enough money to take care of myself
o Fear of disorganization
o Fear of not understanding what other people are saying and/or thinking, or pissing them off inadvertently
o Fear of being late
o Fear of anyone depending on me and, in turn, disappointing or somehow failing them
o Fear of leaving my apartment or hotel room (This last one is a doozy, I know, but I think I inherited it, along with most of my introverted, particular personality, from my deceased father. I manage to pretend it’s not there, and go out anyway, but sometimes it takes me an hour or two most days, including today, to convince myself.)
2. Fear of public toilets
3. Fear of bad food. A corollary fear hanging off this one includes the fear of being disappointed. Or, is it the other way around?
4. Fear of people who, um….well…just fear of people in general
5. Wait, what was that last one about, again? Fear of whom? What?

Oh, nevermind. I don’t fear people. In fact, I don’t really have a list of fears.

I really like Mark Haddon’s latest novel, A Spot of Bother. I think I’ll go finish reading that now.

I hope breakfast tomorrow is edible, and the meetings are good.

Day 2 in Brussels: Victor Horta’s House

I’m finding Brussels to be a bit like Paris, only more compact. I covered practically half the city on foot (not completely on purpose) in just a few hours on my first day here. It’s so small, though, that all the blocks seem to end in plazas, so you just end up walking around in circles. I was constantly peering at my map yesterday, confused by the multiple directions and Flemish street names. Perhaps by the middle of the week, when I leave, I’ll be completely at home.

Actually, I take that back -- Brussels isn’t much like Paris, it’s just close to France and there are a lot of people here who speak French. It’s a lot smaller, and, I’m finding, kinda sterile. This is an unfair judgement after my very limited experience, I’m sure, but it is a strong first impression. It is very clean and quite beautiful, but it seems lacking in that organic (and sometimes nasty) quality that many places have, where, if you wander around without a particular agenda in mind, you find things could unexpectedly change and something very interesting could happen (hopefully, not some sort of assault) once you turn a corner. I was strolling around the neighborhood of St. Gilles today, and I kept walking and walking and turning corners, but…nothing. Admittedly, it was a Sunday, everything was closed, and it’s a high-end neighborhood (very Upper East Side), but I found myself feeling a bit disappointed nonetheless. Well, this is what I get for not making plans with/asking other people for suggestions – it takes a lot longer to find what you are looking for if you insist upon wandering around aimlessly in the hope of finding it yourself by dumb luck.

I took the metro to St. Gilles to visit La Musée Horta/Het Hortamuseum/The Horta Museum (I’ve learned after about 48 hours here in Brussels that the English language comes third, after French and Flemish, and is sometimes omitted entirely). It was truly wonderful, and I have to remember to personally thank the bellman who happened to be standing next to the snotty, affected concierge (whom I hate, and whose opinion I was ready to ignore entirely) in my hotel who was giving me directions to it yesterday. It wasn’t at the top of my list of things to do, but the bellman looked at me and said, in a very emphatic and earnest tone, that I really SHOULD go. It’s a bit farther than many of the other sights on my list, but I decided to take his advice and head out there this afternoon.

The Horta Museum is actually the private house and studio, constructed around 1900, of Victor Horta, an architect and one of the foremost creators of the Art Nouveau style, an ornamental language which fused exterior and interior design. Although I have some strong opinions about what I do, and do not, like in building and furniture design, I consider myself neither an expert/connoiseur, nor a declared aficionado, of this particular style. Once I entered (after an attendant, who looked very much like a younger version of the conductor Kent Nagano, collected my admission fee of 7 euros), and looked around, however, I felt an immediate (and, for me, rare) sense of calm. The design and details are perfect, showing (as described on www.trabel.com) one of the great innovations of Horta: the rooms are built around a central hall; from the glass ceiling, light falls into the house, thereby creating a much more natural illumination of the building than was the case in the traditional late 19th-century houses in Belgium. There were these magnificent stained-glass portions built into the roof, and mirrors built on either side, that made the glorious, colorfully-illuminated light look like it went on for miles. It was just beautiful. The only thing that interfered with the experience was the preponderance of the color mauve (in the carpets and some of the wallpaper and upholstery), but I got over that. After lingering for quite awhile, I gave into the fact that it was time to go, and headed back to the Place Rogier.

I got back to my hotel room, and settled in to address some stuff for work and the meetings which start tomorrow, but I had a hard time concentrating. Walking a lot in a strange city makes you think, and thinking isn’t always conducive to accomplishing tasks at hand.

Day 1 in Brussels: Rugby is Lovely

It’s a beautiful day in Brussels, but, after a long morning and afternoon schlepping around the city on foot (including a stop at the Museum of Musical Instruments, which is highly recommended: http://www.mim.fgov.be/home_uk.htm), I needed to take a break. I got into Brussels after about 12 hours of flying and layovers (again, through the dreaded Heathrow) last night and was trying to make a valiant effort at sightseeing.

I stopped in my hotel room in the middle of the afternoon to rest my feet a bit, and made the mistake of turning on the TV. There it was, on channel 21 -- the rugby (as in, the 2007 Rugby World Cup playoffs) match between Australia and England, in which England, improbably, won. And then later (I tried to find a pub to watch it in, but the concierge here had me running around in circles, looking fruitlessly for some joint in the central shopping district named O’Reillys), the match between France and New Zealand (in which, VERY improbably, the French won) aired.

I didn’t realize I like rugby so much. Well, actually, I realized I like rugby back in 1991, when I went to a match in Buenos Aires between the Pumas and the All Blacks, but in the intervening years between then and now, I had totally forgotten. I’m a bit of a flake that way – I don’t make the effort to follow any particular sport very closely, but if I go to a game (usually because someone invites me, or throws some tickets my way), be it ice hockey or basketball or soccer or baseball, I come out being a HUGE fan, and it lasts for all of about a week, and then I get back to my life and forget all about it. I like going to games, but I hate keeping track of all of those numbers.

But rugby is, well, unforgettable. The players are incredibly athletic, but it’s far more physical and action packed than American football. And their outfits are smaller than those of soccer players – they wear their shirts like rash guards (presumably, in order to avoid having loose fabric to grab hold of), and their shorts well above their knees. This leaves the bulging, rippling muscles well within plain view. And it’s really breathtaking.

When I first tuned into the England/Australia game, I thought, “What is Heath Ledger doing kicking a ball?” Then I found out that’s Jonny Wilkinson, star fly half for the English selection and for Newcastle Falcons. He’s beautiful. Jason Robinson is also quite fetching. Uh, and they play well, too. I'd post photos, but Blogger isn't letting me, for some reason - just goodle 'em! Yeah! Guess I’ll be watching tomorrow as well.

Still feeling peckish after dinner, I stopped at a grocery on Boulevard Adolphe Max to pick up bottled water and assorted munchies. You know you are no longer in the United States when you are standing in the refrigerated section of a general supermarket, staring at shelves filled with 74 different varieties of prosciuotto, speck and other varieties of artfully-arranged, ready-to-eat cuts of pork. It’s like being in the breakfast-cereal aisle of a Piggly-Wiggly in Buffalo. Confronted with too much choice in cured-meat selections, I grabbed three random packages with friendly-looking labels and headed for the checkout aisles.

Days 1 & 2 in Dubai: Covered and Hungry

I arrived at my hotel on Tuesday just before midnight, and was greeted in my room by a letter from the general manager reminding me that eating and drinking (anything, like, even water) in public is expressly forbidden (as in, I could be arrested) during daylight hours. No entertainment can occur, and stores have modified hours. The body (especially the female body) must be fully covered. Because it’s Ramadan.

In my rush to pack, I forgot about Ramadan. It’s a hundred degrees out at this time of the year in Dubai, and I’m staying at a beach resort. Not to mention that Dubai is a veritable HUB of excess. Luckily, the need to pack for fall weather in Brussels within the same suitcase (the location of my meetings during the second leg of my trip) tempered my choice of clothing, but the letter stressed me out nonetheless. What did “fully covered” mean, exactly? I went to sleep worried that if I didn’t wear turtlenecks and hide my ankles, I’d be caned.

It strikes me as a tad hypocritical that, in a place where they find it necessary to dredge out the shorelines and destroy all natural life in order to fit all of the stupid gazillion dollar yachts owned by sheiks and to create islands in the desert, and where they waste god knows how much on artificial temperature control to build ski slopes in shopping malls, that (amongst other things) I have to hide the fact that I drink water in the daytime, in observance of other people’s religious practices. I like to think of myself as open-minded and respectful, but this is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Well, here’s hoping the next training hub isn’t located in Afghanistan.

I shouldn’t be so bitter – my presentation went really well, and everyone’s been quite hospitable. We all went sailing (photos, taken by my colleagues, will be forthcoming – stay tuned!) on Wednesday afternoon, and I should be thankful for that. Unfortunately, there is nothing here to see in the horizon but residential highrises, and dust and cranes from construction, in the distance. Even after having lived on Miami Beach (where construction has been out of control since, well, 1978) and in Manhattan for many years, I couldn’t help but find the Dubai shoreline, and lifeless, murky water, ugly as all hell.

It is, however, hard to avoid being bitter when I’m hungry. No restaurant will serve (or sell) me food, and I’ve been in meetings all day, and so I’m helpless and hungry. I just want to go home, where I can cook something up, or order it delivered, when I normally eat, which, during this time of the year, typically happens before the sun goes down. Because I’m American. I grew up eating dinner at 6pm.

Fuck it, whatever. I’m off to Belgium. It may be colder there, but at least they eat and drink 24 hours a day.

Getting Ready (Or Not) for Dubai & Brussels

I just got back from vacation in Maui, but am on the road again, this time for work. I didn’t have much time to think or relax (and my vacation had been less restful than I had hoped, for a variety of reasons) before packing, and left everything for the last minute. I started gathering my things and shoving them in my suitcase about 90 minutes before my car arrived, but my efforts were diverted by my new next-door neighbor, a ballerina with City Ballet named Lola. Her and her mother Karen were moving her stuff in as I was leaving, and they were keen on introducing themselves and investigating my apartment as they did so. I barely noticed their presence…I had left my door ajar as I was getting ready to cart my cat’s used kitty litter out to the trash chute, and they waltzed right in. Lola looks like she’s about 19 years old, and I would hate her for being so young and having (or, more likely, being provided with) the money to afford to live in my building (who the hell can afford to have her own apartment on 57th Street at that age? She should be struggling to make it on time to her rehearsals from the very, very far reaches of New Jersey or Canarsie, for chrissake), but I cannot dislike a dancer. I have a framed portrait of Margot Fonteyn on the wall in my office at work…I desperately try to get all of my friends to read Allegra Kent’s memoir, Once a Dancer…I watch Suzanne Farrell’s biographical video, “Elusive Muse”, over and over…how could I not be thrilled that a bonafide ballerina, much less one from New York City Ballet, has moved in right next door? I’m REALLY looking forward to hearing all about Lola’s life and thoughts, as well as those of her loud, interfering stage mother. And I’m hoping they can tell me ALL about what a gigantic asshole Peter Martins is.

Anyway, I was just pushing the last of my things into my bag when the car rang, and I was off. I got to JFK expecting I would sleep on the plane, but was foiled – I had made the mistake of scheduling my connection through London, so the 14-hour trip to Dubai was cut in half into two segments that didn’t allow for proper REM to take hold. Throw in my need to work during the flight (my presentation being one of those last-minute details I had to attend to) and the stress of navigating Heathrow (by far the WORST airport in the WORLD) and vomit-inducing British breakfast food, and you’ve got a very grumpy Diane landing at Dubai International. I was hoping the resort atmosphere of my destination would be restorative.

It wasn’t.

Manifestation of Greed

I spent too much time on YouTube today, along with my colleagues at work on this gorgeous Monday, marveling over the Miss Teen USA contestant from South Carolina and the many video clips generated in response to her painful gaffe during the pagaent this weekend.

My friend Steph (brilliant author/illustrator) pointed me to this excellent piece of animation:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgPpfkOVIfI

Days 1-3 in Minneapolis: How Not to Tell Stories in Middle America

I am stuck in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport at 8pm Central on a Friday night. I’m NOT happy.

I’ve been here since Wednesday for a “CRM Summit” arranged by my company's marketing personnel and hosted at the mega-headquarters of a major Midwestern-based retailer. It’s been interesting talking to different people who do more or less what I do at companies that sell home-improvement products, pet food and accessories, and hunting and fishing gear. Better yet, it was good to get out of Manhattan for three days in August.

I HATE August in New York. It is the most disgusting month of the year in the city, especially if you have no friends with boats, or houses on Shelter Island. The cars and buildings of the entire metropolis are breathing on you, and it all smells like ass. I find it increasingly difficult over the years to avoid killing myself during this cruel season.

The weather here in Minneapolis has been very pleasant, as have been the people, but I always get restless when I go to a very white, non-urban place. The town and the folk could not be nicer, but I still feel weird and like I shouldn’t stay long. I need to get back home. Case in point: I was having dinner yesterday evening with the major-retailer folk at a steak house located in a monstrous strip mall. The retailer guys were all telling engaging stories, like you are supposed to do in these social situations. The head guy told this great story about the legend of a ghost that inhabited the house he grew up in, which was built in the 1800s. Inspired, I attempted to chime in with my own “ghost story” after he was done. I awkwardly narrated my experience at a candomble in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil a few years ago. “I didn’t see ghosts,” I piped enthusiastically, “but I saw people possessed by spirits, which is kind of similar!” Everyone just stared at me, and then looked at each other, and sort of smiled and nodded their heads, unsure of how to respond. Clearly, I don’t have a talent for telling stories that other people can relate to, especially over steak at a mall restaurant in Minnesota. I should have just kept quiet.

I’m watching white, fat middle America walk by as I wait for my very-delayed plane to arrive. They wear shorts (which, considering the state of their legs, should be ILLEGAL), sandals with socks, and have the ugliest luggage I have ever seen.

I shouldn’t criticize my fellow travelers. I am happily carting around a brand new set of luggage, made of lavender vinyl with big white polka dots. I know lavender, spotted luggage looks impractical, but really, it’s the best stuff. Any scuffs come right off with water and a mild solvent, and it’s very lightweight.

I hope I will get home soon. The oppressive heat, a rude driver, and the smell of ass are awaiting me.

Day 3 in Phoenix: Clear Skies in Hell

Last night I was at one of our properties with a throng of colleagues, enjoying the evening after a weird buffet dinner where the only edible thing was the chipotle polenta.

Although I tend to post day-by-day musings when I travel, I didn't post the first two days because I've been lazy and ambivalent about writing, and because there's been little to say out here in Arizona. The only interesting comment I could come up with was that I noticed, whilst awaiting my connection to Phoenix, there was an unusual amount of female sailors strolling about at O'Hare. I couldn't quite make out what that was about, but it was the first time I was ever aware of female sailors. If I had had more time during my layover, I would have put my journalist cap on, and started conducting investigative interviews.

So anyway...I was at this shindig in the desert at a resort that has a dude-ranch thing going on, and there was this one guy in the corner lording over a really expensive telescope. When I saw the telescope, I looked up into the sky, and realized, for the first time since I landed here a few days ago, that the skies are completely clear, and there is little ambient light. Well, at least, out there, in the middle of nowhere, there was little. Not quite like being in, say, Bariloche, but it was pretty ideal for stargazing, especially for a city girl like me that can barely see Venus on most nights.

I was suddenly overcome by a sense of relief -- I was finally going to have an interesting moment, where I could escape from the reality of being on yet another business trip with a bunch of people who are great and fun but we'd all really just rather be somewhere elsewhere the temperature was not 112 degrees. We were DYING. Plus, some of our colleagues decided to have the ranch saddle them up on horses and parade through our throng. The horses promptly shat, copiously, in the middle of our gathering. The stench was unbearable. I wanted to wander out into the cacti-laden badlands, hoping a scorpion, or whatever poisonous vermin is common out here in the Southwest, would offer to relieve me of my misery.

But then I approached the telescope. It was pointed at Saturn.

There it was! The rings and everything! I leaned over into the apparatus, stared, and blinked. It didn't seem real. It looked like, I dunno, a slide I'd see in one of those thingees, when I was little? What was it called...a Viewmaster?

I looked at Saturn. And then we pointed the 'scope across the sky. I saw Jupiter, and four of its moons. And then I gazed at our moon, the Moon. It's so close, compared to the others. I was able to study the details of it, like observing the lines in someone's face.

Geez. Wow.

I cannot describe what I saw or felt, but I must plan a trip to an observatory, immediately.

I'm so glad I came out here.

Yes it is! Drink!

I really hate spam, but, occasionally, it amuses me. Today I received an ad for discount medications (Viagra: 3.33! Valium: 1.21!) -- typical spam, but it carried the accompanying, strangely compelling prose:

"corn. Startled birds flapped away when we emerged, while something He could eat them-and a dozen more-for breakfast, but there was no does. Now, as we stroll, Ill report in. Tachyons! This thing emits them-we know that because that is how like the bit about men having no need for the thing. He smiled a gene mutation and transplant, rich in animal protein. They should not another slice just as our golden greeter appeared. That was the moment to be prepared for. Yes it is. Forms of last request are standardized by law. Drink. The blues had been sung. A page turned, a chapter ended. Tremearne came back. barked with exasperation. been said, and who am I to doubt it, that they exist in a produced by the overly-paranoid management here. Yours was the first well. This was all that was visible since he was wearing a sort of Heaven forbid, I muttered gruelly and put the bowl aside. I"

This person needs to get out of the spam/pill-marketing business and consider a career as an author. Or, at least, someone who passes off whatever software program generates the text above as their own creation. I'd buy it, for more than $1.21, who am I to doubt? Yes it is! The blues had been sung. Drink!