I cooked last night.

Not exactly headline news, I guess, but it feels like it. I haven't felt like bothering, putting on the apron and rolling up the sleeves, in a while. But this neighborhood is starting to feel neighborly, and this apartment with the boxes mostly unpacked and the art and curtains hung is starting to feel like home, so perhaps it makes sense that I'm finally able to relax enough to want to dabble in foodplay. (If only I could get my office finished now, so that I could finally "relax" into doing some real work!)

Dinner kicked off with an Elderflower Gin & Tonic, borrowing a recipe from the fabulous website of St~Germain (see St~Germain Gin and Tonic). Only I didn't have St~Germain, because coughing up $30 for a liqueur I won't use daily isn't something I've been able to do lately (although buying the liqueur for its bottle is something I would be guilty of), so I used the cheapo IKEA (at $6, I think) Elderberry Flower Syrup. After I handed Dave his and we both sipped, I said, "Hey, not bad, right?!" And Dave said, "That's . . . lovely" with surprising reverence in his voice.

Dinner continued with a Martha Stewart watercress-and-green onion soup. Can't find the recipe online to link to it. Basically, it was this:

5 C water
1 vegetable bouillion cube
1 chicken bouillion cube
2.5 C roughly chopped watercress
5 green onions, chopped (I would eyeball this, though, depending
on how much you like green onions)

Boil the water. Add the bouillions. Add the greens. Simmer for 2-3 minutes. Serve with Martha's crazy homemade croutons, using whole wheat bread and gruyere. Or, alternately, get lazy and get out the box of croutons you bought for salad last week.

Dinner then concluded with this Real Simple (and really simple!) Garlicky Broiled Salmon with Tomatoes recipe. It was deeply yum.

Dessert was intended, but I was so full I had a foodbaby bump, so I had to nix it.

What Thursday looked like; also notes on "Nights in Rodanthe."

The day I had Thursday was not the one I meant to have. I thought it would go like this: respectably productive writing day with Krissa, with miss nahe also getting her playdate in with mister nanito, leaving at 5pm to come home, drop off nahe, and head into the city with Dave to see Porochista Khakpour, a fellow slc alum though not someone I knew well, read from Sons and Other Flammable Objects at the Asian American Writer's Workshop. I thought then that maybe we'd grab a glass of wine, maybe something snacky or something sweet, head back home, and turn in early.

Instead, this is what happened. The dogs had a fabulous playdate and I had a lovely time laughing and talking story with Krissa, drinking strong coffee, and opening and closing Windows documents. I find that I'm rather rusty at it, the practice of regular writing corroded from disuse during the holidays/ Vermont residency/ Hawaii + Dave's 30th birthday/ fire/ homelessness + couchsurfing/ search for a new home/ packing + moving/ unpacking. I don't mean I'm rusty at writing, per se, because I've been pretty faithful about blogging, journalling, and Julia Cameron's "Morning Pages." I mean fiction, I mean creation, I mean imagination. I mean either revising from any of the eight or so short stories in various stages of undress or the novel that has now been plaguing me for going on eleven years, or writing anew, following creativity prompts or brainstorms or crazy notes scrawled in the margins of notebooks, magazine articles, and my dreams. And after an afternoon of delightful company, I indeed left at 5pm and spent an hour and a half trying to get home. It's harder to get from Krissa's to home, now, and vice versa, a thing not likely to help us with scheduling our writing dates amidst us both holding down jobs and grad school educations. I was supposed to take the D or M to Atlantic and walk home, or the D to 36th, transfer to the R to 4th Ave./9th street, transfer to the F to Smith/9th Street, transfer to the G to Clinton-Washington. It's like a spoonful of alphabet soup, that: the D to the R to the F to the G, all just to get in the vicinity of home. By the time I arrived back at the apartment, Dave was still a few minutes away from being ready to go and we had less than 30 minutes to get into the city.

Also, did I mention that, nice playdating aside, Nahe was being a beast all day long? She was having some GI issues, she objected strongly to being in her carrier for longer than 3.5 minutes, and when out of the carrier she was constantly whining, barking, pulling, lunging, the whole circus act.

So. When I got home, it was all I could do to hand Nahe off to Dave and go lay face-down on the bed for ten minutes--until I didn't feel like strangling someone or screaming at the top of my lungs. And so, so easily, I gave up on the reading.

Instead, Dave took me out to dinner at The Smoke Joint, where we indulged in their two-can-dine-for-$23, supplementing the copious amounts of food with a side of homemade mac-and-cheese and two beers. It was delicious and a downright ridiculous amount of food for $23 (not incl. the price of the side and beers).* We also ordered two giant chocolate chip cookies to go. When we got home, I wanted to complete the "indulgence of self"** after a hard day, so I decided to snuggle up on the couch with one of the Blockbuster Total Access (similar to NetFlix) that we had lying around: Nights in Rodanthe.

Big mistake. HUGE.

That movie was one of the most horrible movies I have ever seen, and I am not exactly a harsh critic. I am pretty easily pleased with movies. I am also the most ideal target audience, sighing and tearing up and so forth as if on cue. But Nights in Rodanthe was painfully bad.

The basic premise is that Adrienne Willis (Diane Lane) agrees to housesit her friend's inn for a weekend while she thinks about whether or not to let her cheating husband come home. Dr. Paul Flanner (Richard Gere) is the only guest scheduled to stay at the inn that weekend.

Can you already figure out what's going to happen with a wild guess? Probably.

But let me tell you more: Both Adrienne and Paul are tightly wound and unbalanced individuals. Adrienne's main goal in life is to be a good wife and mom, Paul's is to be a good doctor; in differing ways at differing points, each feels like a complete failure at said goals. Adrienne's husband has cheated on her but is now asking to come back. Her kids want him to come back, and she feels like a bad mom because she doesn't know if she wants to get back together with him. As for the good doctor, he has inadvertently had a patient die on his table and has come to talk with the family about their loss.

Adrienne and Paul forge a near-immediate bond that is inexplicable, as if throwing two unbalanced individuals in an inn is enough to make them fall in lust. Adrienne helps Paul to understand that the widower just needs for the doctor to know who was lost in surgery that day, that she was a beautiful individual; Paul helps Adrienne understand that she shouldn't tape together the tatters of a marriage just for the sake of the kids, that she can have much, much more than that.

Then, there is a storm. It rages, just like the turmoil inside each of them.

{SOUNDS OF MAYUMI THROWING UP, VIOLENTLY}

So what? They oof. They get less tightly wound. They fight. They make up. Then Paul decides to go help the indigent in central America, where his estranged son is. They start a mad affair of love letter writing. Incidentally, these letters are so melodramatic and awful that I began to laugh uncontrollably. Dave fell asleep. The letters go on for months and months, until finally Paul is due to arrive back to Adrienne's house and begin life with her. Can you guess what happens next?

Yep. He dies.

What the FUCK! I mean, I could kind of see it coming, because that's just the note of sacchrine awfulness that had not been hit, but still. C'MON! The tagline is "It's never too late for a second chance?" And the second chance is that these two people manage to have a "relationship" for exactly one weekend, write each other some letters, and then the filmmakers kill him off, and she's supposed to stoically on, her second chance had?

JUST PLAIN GODAWFULNESS. And that is all I have to say on the subject.

---
* You have till April 2 to take advantage of these prices.
** Sorry, Khaliah. Thanks for letting me borrow your phrase.

Dine in Brooklyn, Indeed!

Whoa. How did I miss this? Between March 23 and April 2, it's Brooklyn's restaurant week, and you can get 3-course meals for $23. There are even a handfull of restaurants where TWO PEOPLE can dine for $23. Talk about recession special, people. Get out there and bring your wallets with ya.

See here for the full list of participating restaurants, and if you're my neighbor, see CHB for the list of Fort Greene/Clinton Hill specific restaurants.

(Thanks to Clinton Hill Blog for the tip!)

Gettin' all academic and shit.

Can I just say that I am very proud that I found a legitimate way* to integrate the words "fly motherfucker" and "holy shit" into my most recent critical paper?

---
* At least I think so. Perhaps my advisor will have a different opinion.

Wrist-slapped.

I just rightly got reprimanded by a friend for not calling him back. After, I am ashamed to admit, several phone calls.

In my defense, though, my cell phone accidentally got packed in the pocket of my green wool coat, and it took me a week before I could even figure out which box the phone was in. I even tried calling the phone, but evidently coats make a box sound-proof.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is what is my deal with the phone, why do I hate it, and why do I avoid it with such fervor so as to piss off beloved friends? Why do I look at my voicemail box and see any number higher than one and immediately put off checking my voicemail? What is my problem?!

I'll write you a letter, though, with ink and paper and a stamp and everything, though, but pick up the phone ... {{shudder}}.

Addendum to the 2009 Resolutions: Answer the damn phone and return phone calls.

Internet round-up: for the ladies, single and coupled.

Caterwauler over at Vacillations links to Z. Z. Packer's funny article about meeting and marrying her mister, who some of her friends refer to as "Mr. Packer."

Wife over at The Famous Chronicles quotes from Lea Lane's article at the Huffington Post on why she's alone.

These are two great articles about why being married or being single is so right, respectively, for these individuals. I'll admit to sharing more of the feelings in the Z. Z. Packer camp, but only because of the happenstance of life. I could just as easily see myself identifying with the Lane article; in particular, these two reasons--"I'm alone because I can be" and "I'm alone but not lonely"--struck me as spot-on.

I'll never forget a certain friend who told me, many years ago, somewhat opaquely that one must be able to walk inside oneself for hours and meet no one else. I'm finally seeing through to what she meant, I think. Something about how you must be self-centered in the best possible connotation of the word--okay with yourself in your own skin, fascinated by your own self, able to entertain your own self, concerned with and delighting in your own relationship with your own self. You must (as Lane suggests) be able to be alone and not be lonely before you can ever worry about joining your self to another self. These many years later, knowing finally a bit what she meant, I'm finally nodding my head in agreement. Here's to you, RJS. You were right.

(Thanks to Caterwauler and LVH for the tips.)

. . . onto an incredibly dorky evening.

Ok. Potential problems I foresee.

· Book heights are not all the same, and neither are my shelves.

· Adding new books will require shifting entire collection, if organization is to be kept as is.

· Need a separate space for all UNREAD books in my collection, until I get 'em done, son.

· Some like to be with their own kind, like our embarrassingly large collection of Lonely Planet/Frommers/Travel for Dummies books, and like all my Hawaiian mythology books.

· Continuing to do this without wine in my system.

· Or food. Food would also be a good idea.

I’m thinking I should have waited on this until I could get my very own fancy Librarian-in-progress (that is, Krissa) to come over, so we could wrap our mutually dorky heads around this mass. Hmm.

Onwards! WINE!! Leftover Hawaiian chili!!!

Incredibly dorky afternoon.

This is going to make me sound incredibly dorky, but I have spent the last three to four hours logging my home library into LibraryThing and arranging books into piles.

And I'm not even half done.

The husband wants me to finish unpacking the boxes, and unfortunately that menas dealing with the fifteen boxes of books still packed. Just open up the boxes and throw the books on the shelves for now, he says. You can organize them later, he says. Two ideas that make me itchy with neuroses, says I.

But straight up "dealing with" fifteen boxes of books ain't easy.

In the past, I have organized the books first by genre: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, plays, reference books, children's books. I then subdivided into smaller categories. For fiction, this meant dividing by world region of the author: Hawaii, the Caribbean, African American, Asian American, Latin American, and uhhh Caucasian American, I guess, haha. For nonfiction, I divided by subject matter: personal essays, travel books, mythology, history, anthropology/sociology, philosophy, and so forth. Poetry and children's books went by what books looked pretty next to each other.

But the more I myself think about those questionable lines between genres, the less I want to separate them this time around. I want to throw the writers in all together, equating them on my shelf as I do in my head, saying Shakespeare is as dear to me as When the Shark Bites by Rodney Morales, putting Kaui Hart Hemmings next to Hemingway, if that's how the alphabetizing goes. I don't want to sit there scratching my head wondering if Victoria Redel's Loverboy is a novel or poems; whether Garrett Hongo's Volcano is essay, history, or poetry; whether Rolling the Rs is novel or short stories or collage or all three; and what the heck to do with all three of the books about Barbie, which came from an sophomore-year obsession with the anthropology of the doll.

I don't know that what results will be at all practical in terms of accessing books--what if I can't remember an author's name, but can remember a title? What if I can't remember either, but I know what the thing is about?--but I think I'm going to give it a shot. (I guess I can always look up my books at LibraryThing.)

Perhaps it seems strange to obsess over this so. To which I would say, Hello. Have we met? My name is Mayumi Shimose Poe, and this is what I do: obsess over the strangest, littlest things . . . and delight in doing so.

"Slanties."

Calling a new take on ancient Inuit eye protection "Slanties" is just fucked up. I don't care how catchy you think it sounds, just don't go there.

What is it with the slant-eye faux pas in pop culture today? First it was Miley Cyrus and co. posing with their fingers pulling their eyeskin, now it's slant-eyed sunglasses.

And it's rumored we're in a postracial world? Please.

People say it's all in fun, don't be so sensitive, we're being ironic, et cetera, but notice that the people saying it are the ones who belong to groups of power who aren't singled out for their physical characteristics. People who don't have easily characterized skin or eyes.

(Thanks to Racialicious for the original tips about Miley Cyrus and "Slanties.")

Why Auntie Marialani* might not make it out to celebrate St. Patty's Day at the bar with her friends.

Eh, Auntie stay busy cooking Surfrunner's rendition of Zippy's-style chili. With more veggies and leaner beef, but with the bacon and the beans left in. With the increase in ginger, because Surfrunner says so.

Auntie stay cooking da chili for, like, the fifteenth time since Surfrunner posted it on her blog back in September 2008. In that post, Surfrunner thanks AlohaWorld, the place from which she modified the Zippy's-style recipe, "for being a fabulous source of local recipes for this homesick girl!"

Well, in turn, Auntie ovah hea tanks Surfrunner for posting her version of the recipe, and for being a fabulous source of friendship for Mayumi and Dave, who are much homesick for HER.

---
* And when I say "Auntie Marialani," I mean it. Miss Thang here in the kitchen thought it was a good idea to cook dinner while drinking a . . . (cough, cough, few) . . . glass(es) of wine on a pretty empty stomach, consisting of one bowl of cereal around 10am, two giant mugs of coffee, and three very fine pieces of 70% fair-trade dark chocolate.** Auntie is tipsy, quite.

** Can you even have footnotes in footnotes? Hmmm. Well, it's happening, people, because I have to tell you that today I discovered that Choice Greene (and for that matter Choice Market) are two blocks away from me, roughly! Holyshit!! So I bought myself a--I am not kidding, unfortunately--$6.50 chocolate bar and started breaking off and devouring tiny pieces on my very short walk home.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

The one-thirty-secondth or less smidgen of me that is Irish is smiling on you.

On the dearth of Clinton Hill offleash dog parks.

I was mean mommy today.

When Nahe and I walked over to Fort Greene Park this morning, I had forgotten about the 9am golden rule—that is, that before 9am and after 9pm dogs are allowed off-leash in the park—and so (a) there were a glorious amount of dogs of all sizes, shapes, and ages and (b) the majority were offleash.

And then there was Nahe.

Ever heard the expression chomping at the bit? Or the other one, frothing at the mouth? Well, I now know where both originate. She was doing both, as well as this curious circus-dog act of hopping forward on two legs toward the other dogs, kind of like an overeager sorority girl on spring break, tequila-sauced and doing the limbo despite a too-short skirt. Even more remarkably, she was doing this hop while snarling and wagging her tail so fiercely I thought it might fall off her ass from overuse. No one can say my girl can’t multitask.

And I can’t let her offleash. Believe me, I wanted to, especially as she kept tripping me in her excitement and the strain on her gentle leader makes her eyes squish together such that complete strangers on the street stop to tell me that I’m hurting my animal. (To which I want to comment back, ever so politely, it’s not a fucking muzzle, it’s a vet-approved gentle leader, it’s supposed to teach her not to pull at the leash, and if you don’t think she needs it, YOU finish walking her.) I used to take her to Hillside Park pretty much daily back in Brooklyn Heights, and she loved bounding through that acre of dog-designated park, chasing and barking at every single other dog that came through its gates. She is a social butterfly when you let her offleash. But I am too afraid that should I let her go in a park without a bounded gate, all it will take is one dog exiting the park for her to end up getting hit by a car on DeKalb, or one squirrel for her to take off running and fail to heed our calls and then she’ll end up in Coney Island or the Hamptons or something.

I know this is small scale on the range of possible animal cruelties but it’s made me grumpy all day. In the coming week, I may have to prioritize walking Nahe down to the C train and training it back to High Street so she can visit Hillside again. I miss seeing her happy doggy smile.

Ridiculously catchy: the filet o' fish song.

What the ... ? : male Swiss ad team takes on o.b.

When I first saw this ad, I was surprised o.b. wanted men to handle their advertising.

Then I was more surprised that this ad made it pass quality control.

Then I gave in and had a good laugh.

(For more on this and another shark-infested menstrual ad, see copyranter.)

(Thanks to Adrienne for the tip through Google Reader.)

"For a new beginning."

FOR A NEW BEGINNING
In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.
For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.
It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.
Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is one with your life’s desire.
Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

--From Benedictus: A Book of Blessings, by John O'Donohue (Bantam Press 2007)

This is the e-mail my mother sent me about a week ago, only I haven't had e-mail access and hadn't dug it out till today. What a beautiful way to start a Monday in a new home, unpacking and dealing with catching up my personal and work e-mail, eh?

Thanks, Mom!

About Me, 2009: edited, updated, but you know still the same ole me.

I'm a writer, editor, and procrastinator extraordinaire . . . not to mention one hell of a foxy, fancy lady. And SHHHHH . . . I am also a superhero, Superwife, whose powers are granting domestic bliss and bequeathing chocolate souffle cakes to the afflicted and whose superoutfit consists of an apron . . . and only an apron.

I arrived in the wonderful world of bloggyness circa March 2006 via Friendster and have been an addict ever since. A year later I signed my lease, gut-renovated, and moved into this space here on Blogger, where I've continued to tinker, but for the most part have been quite happy with the square footage and amenities. Although I arrived in cyberspace years after the trendsetters deemed blogging to be rather passe, per usual I arrived on my own damn time: late, but I'd like to think fashionably so. We at May in the Bay became mayumishimosepoe.com in early 2009 while homeless due to an apartment fire; it seems that while husband, dog, and I were stuck couch-surfing through our friends’ homes, I was determined to shore up the foundation of my cyberhome.

I will say it again later, but it bears noting now: I really, really, really like lists. This is both warning and show of self-awareness.

I blog about whatever the hell is interesting to me, including but not limited to creative writing, my dog, love and marriage, friendship, books, stuff I like to cook, stuff I like to have other people cook for me, people that are awesome, blogs that are awesome, quotes that made my day, horoscopes, yearning and ennui, movies, advertising, anthropology, science stuff, politics (pointedly, about my love for OBAMA), photos taken by me or my husband, race and racism, travelling, and stupid memes that sucked up my time and will now suck up yours, mwahahaha. I try to keep it kind but still speak my mind; I encourage you to do the same if you comment in this space.

These are all my names: Clarissa, Mayumi, Alohilani, Kaleilikokalehua, Shimose, Avery, Poe. I've also, at various points, answered to May, My, Yums, Yumi, Maybe, Miami Mice, Sweet Pea, LBJ.Lo, Peanut, and Poptart.

I am 1/2 Japanese, 3/8 various Caucasianness (Irish, English, German, Scottish, I believe), and 1/8 American Indian. My husband is 1/2 Filipino, 3/8 Hawaiian, and 1/8 Chinese. This means that when we have children someday not too far in the future, they will approximate a summit meeting of the United Nations.

I live in Clinton Hill/Brooklyn, New York, by way of (most recent to least) BrooklynHeights-Burlingame-Pacifica-NewYorkCity-Astoria-Bronxville-LosAngeles-Honolulu-Sacramento. And what they say is true: You can take the girl from the islands (Oahu, Manhattan) but never the islands from the girl. I live with the best husband and best puppy in the world, and we are determined to prove to our friends that while this video is alarmingly accurate, Brooklyn is not the place where married people go to die.

I like alphabetizing; aprons; babies; Bang! (the card game); blogging and reading blogs; books, all the time books, books of every way shape and form; BROOKLYN; brunching (always); bunnies; cocktail hour; coffeecoffeecoffee; cookbooks; cooking elaborate meals with good friends; correspondence, kicking it old-school style, with pens and paper and stamps, remember that shit?; crème brûlée; dance movies; eggs benedict; filing; friends, new and old; languages; lists; magazines; mah jongg; New Yorkers; organizationalness; picnic baskets; PUPPIES!!!!; real jewelry; rib meat that falls off the bone and into my belly; sake; shiny objects; singing in the shower; Tahitian black pearls; tattoos; tea and tea accoutrements; the written word; travelling, esp. internationally to pretty cities or, alternately, island countries where they put umbrellas in your drinks while you lounge on the pristine beach sand; Vermont College of Fine Arts; Wii (esp. bowling, at which I excel); wine tasting (Napa, Long Island); writing me some fictions; and xmas tree ornaments.

I love my husband, her highpuppyness Nahe, my rabbit Lapa (R.I.P.), our families, and our friends, who continue to spread themselves across the world, and I have a complicated but nonetheless deep affair with New York city.

I am determined to keep it real in 2009, and so my New Year's Resolutions were limited to: 1. make a good dirty (gin) martini, 2. make my own creme brulee, and 3. don't be so hard on myself. So far, 1. and 2. have been waylaid by the aforementioned apartment fire and subsequent move to Clinton Hill that commandeered my February and March, but 3. has been going great and I have high hopes for all three by December 2009.

I adore the idea that you never know where or how you’ll end up.

I entertain the idea of having children, but when I hear about childbirth/breastfeeding from those in the know and remember my goal of being swimsuitmodelthin before getting pregnant, I also think deeply and with much fervor about adoption.

I have dreamed of living in Tahiti and Tokyo and Aotearoa, but the more I get bogged down with Being an Adult I think northern California, New York, and Hawai'i might be as exotic as it gets; as I get more humble in my old age, that horrifies me less than it would have previously.

I have hoped, feverishly, of having money and fame and books published, but I’m learning not to knock the simple gifts of being as happy and as swaddled by love in many forms as I am today.

I've wanted to be all of the following (see also here): a ballerina, a marine biologist, a writer, an editor, a publisher, a tambourine girl in a band, owner of an indie tea shop, hip-hop video ho, lyricist, a teacher, a weekly columnist, an advertiser, a painter, a restaurant owner, a pastry chef, a model, and a jill of all trades in service to my Uncle who oversees this business, this business, and these festivals. My life and those of my friends continually astound me and remind me that anything is possible. It's all about clearly and thoroughly visualizing exactly what you want and being willing to put in the work to get there . . . and about being careful about what you wish for. So, don't be surprised if someday I blog about my upcoming tambourine girl gig or the delicious treats I am now making at my new job as a pastry chef-cum-model-hiphop video ho.

And, finally, thank you--YOU--deeply, for spending some time out of your day with me. I welcome your (preferably nonanonymous) comments* and your return visits.

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* Although I do reserve the right to ignore any that are vicious in spirit or straight-up spam.

The late David Foster Wallace to Jonathan Franzen, in 2004, on his third, incomplete, as-yet unpublished* novel.

"to get the book done he would have to write 'a 5,000 page manuscript and then winnow it by 90%, the very idea of which makes something in me wither and get really interested in my cuticle, or the angle of the light outside."

--The New Yorker, March 9, 2009:58. (From "Life and Letters: The Unfinished: David Foster Wallace's struggle to surpass Infinite Jest," pp. 48-61)

Boy do I know what he was talking about.

---
* According to The New Yorker, Little, Brown has plans to publish the partial manuscript in 2010.

What to do when someone says they want to be an "Indian" for Halloween.

* Make fun of their heritage, too, like the time Wife, who grew up on a ranch, went as an "Indian" and I, who am 1/8th Native American, went as a "Cowgirl." (Just to be clear, Wife and I agreed upon this ironic exchange; neither of us are assholes.)

* Alternately, you could read this very thoughtful article at In the Fray by my friend Suzanne and then act, accordingly, like a grown up.

I'm ba-aaaaaack . . .

Well, kinda at least. Internet is up and running. The apartment is slowly getting more unpacked. There are paths--multiple--between the boxes now! I can wear clean clothes and cook my own food and shave my legs, amazing! But I am about a week behind on my Google Reader updates and on the other blogs I follow and on my e-mail.

More importantly, I'm also behind at work, so don't expect me to become suddenly prolific again.

'Course, as soon as I say that, you know I'll be probably using this blog to avoid working. :)

Update on the move.

Oh, Internet! I want to HUG you right now! It has been an eternity!! ... of four days without you.

Right now I'm having an afternoon cafe date with the husband, whilst little puppy is anxiously whining in her crate, poor dear. But the cafe au lait and lemon bar (me) and the soy chai latte and sweet potato cheesecake (dave) are delicious, the WiFi is swift and free, and I just checked my work e-mail for the first time in about a week ... and miraculously the shit has not hit the fan, nor have I missed any important deadlines. Life is sweet.

The settling in is going, though slow. We live right now in a maze of boxes, but every now and again through the labyrinth I again spot the potential we saw in the apartment when it was empty and large. Housewarming parties to come in the spring.

Also? Fort Greene Park ROCKS.

More later ... once Time Warner sets up our cable/Internet tomorrow afternoon.

On Becoming Jane.

This is a bit embarassing to admit but I really, really liked Becoming Jane. Maybe because Ann Hathaway is so delightful. Maybe because James McAvoy is hot. Maybe because you know it's going to be hot when two will-be lovers hate each other from the very start. Maybe because I do so love a saucy young female character. Maybe because it gave a face and a heart and a past full of intrigue to a very, very talented young writer. Maybe because I was rooting for the characters and became invested deeply. Maybe because I liked the tie-in of the beginning of Pride and Prejudice, that that great tale is borne from the experiences of her own life. Maybe because I liked hearing why and how Jane chose to give her characters the stories she did, the idea that after some significant troubles she would give her characters every single thing they wanted. Maybe because I was impressed by how little Jane took to run away for the rest of her life--an amount that wouldn't have seen me out of town for even a weekend. Most definitely because much later in life, when they accidentally reencounter each other again, Jane discovers that Tom has never forgotten her, or their love, and has actually named his first-born daughter after her.

Holyshit, did I bawl.

Embarassing, yes, but nonetheless true.

Current shelves.

From my **newly updated** Librarian list in the sidebar:

I'm currently reading:

* A Place Where the Sea Remembers (Sandra Benitez)

On the shelf next:

* Leaving Atlanta (Tayari Jones)

* The Umbrella Country (Bino A. Realuyo)

* The Electrical Field (Kerri Sakamoto)

* The Guardians (Ana Castillo)

Dude. Krissa wasn't kidding when she said the Brooklyn Public Library system is pretty cool (though somewhat less extensive, when compared to the Manhattan collections). The whole thing where you request a book and it comes to whatever location is closest to you . . . ? Awesome! Somehow I didn't really believe it would work, but when I went today to the Brooklyn Heights branch to pick up the book they were holding for me, I actually waltzed out with five of the books I had requested. Ironically, none of the five were the one I was notified to pick up, so maybe they need to work on their notification system, but I am not complaining, because I have a wide, wide world of books to dive into now, and I cannot wait!

(Only, I kind of have to move apartments and unpack first.)

Thank GAWD for the return of science and reason; a.k.a. Obama scores another supersexysmart point with me.

Today, President Obama lifted Bush's ban on human embryonic stem cell research. According to Obama, his administration will “make scientific decisions based on facts, not ideology.”

Next up? Yo, science people, please find a cure for Alzheimer's and diabetes, both of which loom ominously over my family tree.

Did I say this yet? No! I didn't!!

WE GOT THE NEW APARTMENT! YAYYYYY!!

Next week, we will be moving to Clinton Hill. (To be clear, we're still renting.)

We're pumped! No more fire-tinged building. No more still-smoky apartment. No more inconsiderate landlord and bad management.

Incidentally, anyone thinking of moving to a certain building on Montague Street between Clinton and Henry, above the now-forever-closed laundromat and the eyeglass store, don't do it. There will be quite a few vacancies shortly, I think, but for good reason. I won't print the address or the landlord's name, because I'm not a total bitch, but we were really, really unhappy with the apartment for most of the time we lived there but we stayed for the neighborhood. It took a year and a month to get a leaky fridge replaced, over a month to get a hallway light replaced, a month to get the heat/electricity/gas/water back on so we could live in our apartment . . . only to almost get kicked back out by the city inspector because the window to the fire escape was boarded up, meaning if there had been another fire, we could have been toast. Correction: Dave would have probably figured a way to kick through the boarded window, but if I were alone, I would have been toast. Unless the management changes hands, or a live-in super becomes an option, I would NOT recommend moving in.

Anyway. New chapter. New page. And on top of that it's spring today, folks. Just look outside. New beginnings everywhere. Green sprouts through the dirty snow and birdsong everywhere.

Clinton Hill? We're ready for a new adventure. Please open your arms to us. After the month we've had, we need a hug.

Dreaming in paint.

Meant to repost this article sooner, as a link to the beautiful project artist Jeff Scher completed of his wife featuring watercolor after watercolor of her sleeping. The many, many paintings over many, many years in many different styles and colors--of her in different positions and at different ages--have been arranged in a cohesive fashion such as to suggest the movement of one very long sleep. It is beautiful, and that is all I have to say.

Thoughts on Google Books.

There once was this little company that decided it could.

It could revolutionize Internet search engines. It could make an excellent e-mail program. It could blow Yahoo and Mapquest maps out of the water. It could make an idiot-proof blogging platform. It could create a way of streamlining the many news sites and blogs we all read daily. It did all those things and more, and it did them well. Then it decided it wanted to digitize and make available every book in the world--"famous or not, in any language, published anywhere on earth."

This was when the little company that could overstepped its bounds. The New York Times recently provided a good overview of the situation.

Google was recently sued by authors and publishers who rightly claimed that scanning books for free use in their entirety on the Internet was violating copyright. As a cheapskate, I love Google Books! As a writer/editor and hopefully future author, I'm afraid I'm with the plaintiffs.

The case was decided in favor of the plaintiffs. As part of the settlement, Google agreed to set up a system by which users will pay to read books online, with both Google and the copyright holder getting a cut. Authors/copyright holders also may "opt out of the whole system if they wish."

Which leads us to the next point. Google must now, in good faith, contact every single author of every single book it's trying to digitize and inform them about their books project--and allow them to opt out, if they wish. But, however, first Google must find the copyright holders, many of whom may not be online and/or may be difficult to track down ... so it started taking out ads in the newspapers of every single country in the world.

That Google is in the position of paying for so many print ads “is hilarious — it is the ultimate irony,” said Robert Klonoff, dean of Lewis & Clark Law School in Portland, Ore., and the author of a recent law review article titled “Making Class Actions Work: The Untapped Potential of the Internet.”

Love the irony.

We may finally have a non-white President, but we're far from "post-racial."

This entire article at Racialicious, which discusses a photo of a bookstore window with books about Obama aside one about apes as well as an artistic rendering of the White House amid a watermelon patch topping a newsletter from the Los Alamitos mayor, makes my skin crawl.

It makes me grind my teeth and positively itch to punch someone--mind you, not just anyone, specifically these assholes who must live under a fucking rock.

Reposting: "Ten Commandments for the Happy Writer."

That Nathan Bransford. He sure knows what he's talking about.

Where I would like to be this summer for my VCFA residency. Pretty please.

Quote of the day: Reason no. 51 to love New York, according to New York Magazine.

"Because we blazed the trail for gay marriage."

The article goes on to detail the story of Richard Deitz and Ronald Madson who, in the summer of 1970, spotted each other on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and then met in front of what is now Design within Reach. They dated, got serious, moved in together, and in 1986 became part of a case with Lambda Legal against the Board of Education regarding domestic partnership rights. In 1993, the case was finally decided in favor of the plaintiffs (Lambda Legal and the same sex couples), granting some benefits for same-sex couples.

Deitz and Madson did not marry at that point, even symbolically, because they already felt committed and didn't want to "ape heterosexuality." Says Dietz, "Marriage was a closed club. There was nothing attractive about it to us."

However, when Governor Patterson announced he would recognize marriages from other states, they decided to take the plunge. Congratulations to them!

Now for awesome quotes:

Dietz: "To know a couple who have been together so long can be inspiring, espeically because we look so marvelous. If we looked haggard, it wouldn't be so inspiring."

Madson: "And then it was over. We're married. It's two in the afternoon. What now?"
Dietz: "Now we just wait for death."

BAWAAHAHAHAHAHHA!

Crime in Brooklyn Heights.

One of the things I loved about Brooklyn Heights was feeling safe walking around by myself, as a woman and occasionally at odd hours (coming home late from the city or having to walk the puppy). But I guess it just goes to show: nowhere is totally safe, sometimes you are just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and all you can do to up your odds of avoiding crime is to stay vigilant and when necessary RUN AS FAST AS FUCK. All four crimes reported on the 84th Precinct police blotter happened within a few blocks of my home. I'm so glad that in my remaining weeks here I can now worry about being beaten on a busy street in broad daylight, my building being broken into (oh, wait, that already happened), or getting punched in the face and mugged.

Let me just save you crooks some time: I haven't got anything worth stealing. I totally cannot afford living in this neighborhood and in fact will be moving out shortly, so please go easy on me. Thanks.

84, Charing Cross Road.

I blame Krissa for the fact that I was up till 2am last night. Dave and I turned in for the night a little after midnight. Within seriously five minutes, man and dog were snoring at my side and feet, respectively. I thought: Well, I'm not that tired. Well, maybe I'll just read a little of this here book K. loaned me to see if it will help me sleep. FAILPLAN.

84, Charing Cross Road is the heartwarming collection of correspondence that begins between a struggling American writer, Helene Hanff, and a used-book dealer in London by the name of Frank Doel. The simple search for a few "antiquarian books" (p. 1) in the fall of 1949 leads to a twenty-year long friendship, which opens outward to include Frank's family and co-workers in the shop. The slender volume is filled with lively book talk, a little smack talk, and a genuinely warm friendship between people who incredibly never manage to meet in person.

Besides just liking the book, it made me want to start up correspondence again. You know, like postal mail correspondence. Kick it old-school and give people something to look forward to from the mailman besides more bills. What do you say, Internet? Let's unplug and pull out the stationary!

Speaking "Snacklish."

The New York Times recently reported on Snicker's new ad campaign that creates an entire Snickers lexicon. By no means as complicated as, say, pig latin, the language merely replaces letters of words (taxi becomes "snaxi") or entire words that begin with the same letter ("For instance, the basketball great Patrick Ewing becomes Patrick Chewing"). According to company executives, "the Snickers language will resonate with 'young adults who are texting each other . . . making up their own words, their own shorthand.'”

But I'm not sure it exactly works: as a functioning language or as an effective ad campaign.

Personally I liked the previous ad campaign better, the one featuring a Viking and a pilgrim (and sometimes other characters) on a road trip quest for a "Feast" (which in this case meant a Snickers bar).

Open letter to Rihanna, on your romantic reunion with Chris Brown.

Rihanna:

WTF about you getting back together with Chris Brown?

Please read the recent post over at Racialicious (and associated comments) about how standing up for yourself and getting out of a vicious situation is not undermining men of color and does not make you a sell-out to your race. Racism is bad, but so is sexism. Honey, if YOU--with your beauty, fame, career, and presumed self-confidence--cannot stand up for yourself in a relationship, it does not bode well for the rest of us.

If a man hits you, EVER, no matter what reason, no matter how sorry he is, nothing else matters. Get the fuck out.

Sincerely,
May in the Bay

Horoscope roundups.

Astrobarry says . . .
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): Now would probably be a very good moment for reminding those who depend on you as their 'rock', to consistently and reliably show up and do what you're supposed to, that you are also a plain old human being like the rest of us…and may occasionally need to be treated with softer gloves. Even as you read this, I'm sure you're continuing to put in your expected efforts at the relatively high level you've been toiling at for the past several weeks—only, by this point, you're growing increasingly unsure that what you're actually doing is coming across right, making the appropriate grade, or amounting to anything at all. Your self-doubts may escape from inside you, making their way out into the public ethers, so that other folks are likelier to catch a whiff than they ordinarily would. 'Isn't that horrible?!?' you might exclaim. In fact, Taurus: No, it isn't. It's totally and completely okay to let some of your private questioning out into the open air. Indeed, it's much healthier than, say, squelching your emotions beneath an impenetrable mask of 'nothing ever gets to me'. Your vulnerability to worry, especially of the sort that floats aimlessly around your psyche without a single obvious cause, is heightened. And when mentors or trusted colleagues detect worrisome thoughts seeping out from you, it presents them a chance to give you the explicit reassurance all of us human beings, at one time or another, require from others…so that we may still keep on going when we aren't able to muster it for ourselves.

Free Will says . . .
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): When Ireland's top bookmaker first opened the betting on the existence of God last September, the odds were 20-1 against, and quickly rose to 33-1. But more recently they've been down to 4-1. Is this evidence that the Supreme Being is close to a big disclosure? Is some concrete proof about to appear? If I were evaluating the state of your imminent destiny, I'd say yes -- maybe not in a way that would satisfy a raging atheist, and maybe not with the blatant splash of an obvious divine intervention. But don't even dismiss those possibilities, Taurus. It is the season of miracles and epiphanies for you. You should expect sublime help and inspiration.

Susan Miller says . . .
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): a bunch of crap about March being tough for Tauruses that I refuse to read or believe. February was hard enough. So, take that, Susan!

I SAY:
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): While the ashes settle from a February that, how should I say, burned you, Taurus, I remind you it is the Chinese year of the ox (Bos Taurus) and you must do as your kindred: keep plodding forward. Try not to lock horns with those in your path, just because you’re still put out from February. The rest of the year is a bit smoky and difficult to read but, even through the haze, I can see only good things coming your way: fame! fortune!! riches!!! all your dreams coming true!!!! Also, constant heat, hot water, and working kitchen equipment. And also approval on the apartment in Clinton Hill and a dog run for Fort Greene Park. I know. It is rather miraculous that I can see all these things despite the aforementioned haze, but that’s because I’m really good at what I do. Words of caution for you this month? Do your work. Also, never pass up the opportunity to pee or have sex. You never know when you might wish you had just done it.

Redacted.

By the way, I had to republish that last entry because it said something snarky about a certain other dating maven, but I'm trying to work on my web manners in 2009.

Quote of the day: On "cleansing the palate."

"New rule: relationship sorbet = sucks, but sexual sorbet = good."

--Brooke-Lynn in Brooklyn, on the use of a new person to "cleanse the palate," as it were, from an ex. Her blog is awesome, a refreshing blend of humor and seriousness on everyone's favorite subject: "Life, love, and the pursuit of happiness in Brooklyn, NY."

Watch out, Carrie Bradshaw, because Brooke-Lynn can actually use the Internet and cell phones.

Quick update on the home situation.

We're back in Brooklyn Heights. With gas, heat, water, a stove, and a brand-new fridge, and everything. I am completely frazzled and behind at both work and grad school stuff. Nahe refuses to let us leave her home alone--possibly because, you know, the last time we did it, the building caught on fire with her inside.

We're also saying goodbye to a nabe, because Brooklyn Heights and we must part ways. Oh, sweet Brooklyn Heights, with your picturesque streets that made me mind less walking the dog, with your two off-leash dog runs, with your delicious Noodle Pudding and Red Mango and . . . Wait. Chin up, girlfriend. Your building was on fire and your landlord was a jerk about it. Also, how is it that Brooklyn Heights is the only nabe that didn't get the memo that, hello! recession! economy = bad! time to lower the freakin' rents!!

Anyway. In a few days, we're supposed to interview for the apartment we're hoping to move to in mid-March. Then there's packing and moving (actually we're coughing up the dough to have someone do both for us) and then the unpacking and nesting, the latter of which, if you know me at all, could take MONTHS. I do like to nest.

Short version: don't be hurt if I'm not returning your phone calls. I am giving myself permission to be a jerk for as long as 2009 is an asshole.

Ok, I'm officially giggly, stupid, and TIRED.

I actually wrote this as the title to my VCFA critical essay on Stuart Dybek's short story collection I Sailed with Magellan two minutes ago without realizing it was rather tasteless:

Structure in “Breasts”: An Examination.

Time to go to bed, perhaps? Revise when fresh and rested tomorrow maybe?

Or not. Maybe I should leave it in for shits and giggles.