Friday Fluff (sort of)

This survey comes from here. Thanks to so many who've pointed the way. You know who you are.

Weirdo Survey

How tall are you barefoot?

Five feet. I'm tidy that way. It also means people assume that I don't mind always riding in the back seat. (I don't, actually, unless you count the time I rode from Boston to Cape Cod in the space behind the only two seats in a  friend's Kharmann Ghia. But I don't like my compactness being taken for granted, as though my inability to see properly at concerts, or that my movie-viewing can be screwed by about 60% of the population that sits in front of me, can be exploited so that someone can assume shotgun.)

Have you ever smoked heroin?

You can smoke heroin?

Do you own a gun?

I'd prefer a bow and arrows. Cooler, and I could ride the train with them. If it had to be a gun, though, I'd prefer a ray gun. With a green ray.

Rehab?

Not for me. Although given my budget, almost every place I've lived in, yes.

Do you get nervous before

Everything? Yes.

What do you think of your friends?

Some are awesome, some are infuriatingly boring and too eager to get old, most are less available than I'd like; all baffle me by hanging around.

What's your favorite Christmas song?

"Papa Noel" by Brenda Lee. Because everything's happier with Cajun.

What do you prefer to drink in the morning?

Coffee. Not only do I like the taste, it gets me hyper as hell. My co-workers would like to thank Juan Valdez.

Do you do push-ups?

I do, actually. My wrists hate it, but I just yell at them like a drill sergeant for being pussies. YOU WILL DO TWENTY MORE MODIFIEDS! DID YOU SAY SOMETHING? NO? I DIDN'T THINK SO!

Have you ever done ecstacy?

You mean Ecstasy? Do you do drugs you can't spell? Because that could be a problem.

Anyway, No. The idea that something, in addition to killing me, could suddenly make me want to touch people I don't regularly, or worse, have them touch me,  freaks my shit right out.

Are you vegitarian?

Yes, only on my world we spell it vegetarian. And yes, I live a full, full life without bacon in it.

Do you like painkillers?

Only when I'm in pain. Like from too many push-ups. Addendum: OK, I'm not a pill-popper, but I can't say enough good things about ibuprofen, because I remember when it was only available by prescription, and as an adolescent girl whose periods had her almost incoherent with pain, I would have had a totally different attitude about menstruation if I'd been able to toss back a couple of ibuprofens. Seriously, I look at the bucket of Walgreen-brand ibuprofen in my bathroom cabinet and wish I could time-travel them back to 1975. Why didn't I get a prescription? Ah, that would've entailed discussing Personal Issues with family members. 

What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?

I don't have one. I have no ability to shift into Guy gear.  Seriously, I once saw a friend deduct about 50 points off her IQ to flirt with guys. Holy crap, it totally worked; they were eating out of her hand (and she is not particularly pretty). I was amazed at how easy it was, and knew I could never do it, because then I'd have a guy who was interested in that shit and I could never forgive him. 

What time did you wake up today?

6am, when the cats hit the "Find" button on the cordless-phone base, and I thought for sure a bomb had been planted in my house. 

I didn't say I was fully awake.

Current worry?

Biggest worries are tied between:

1. What I can see right now is what my life will be.
2. Mitt Romney will become the next U.S. president. I cannot emphasize enough how much of a disaster that will be. He was my governor in Massachusetts, y'all, and the guy is an empty, soulless suit.

Current hate?

Bedbugs. Don't ask.

Do you own slippers?

I own flip-floppy things that I use as slippers, yes.

Do you burn or tan?

I tan with sunblock, burn without. And may be looking at my second patch of basal cell carcinoma, so add small-c cancer to that.

What songs do you sing in the shower?

Tonight it was "Poker Face" by Lady Gaga. Sometimes "Teenage Dirtbag." I don't sing a lot in the shower or tub, actually. Walking down the street, sure. 

How many TVs do you have in your house?

One. 

Do you wish on stars?

I don't see enough of them, frankly. I tend to look for portents, Greek-myth style. One dead pigeon has me on Red Alert all day.

What song do/did you want played at your wedding?

My marriage (long over) was in a registry office, and I played a soundtrack in my head called, "Holy Shit, What Am I Thinking?" I don't plan to re-marry. But if I were to, it would be "You Just May Be The One" by The Monkees. Maybe I'll put it on a mix CD for someone someday...

What song do you want played at your funeral?

My funeral should be the one thing I don't have to worry about; let someone else throw the party and buy all the Trader Joe's frozen hors d'oeuvres. I'd prefer that my friend Jenny G DJ, though; the gal is amazing.

Do you love someone?

Yep. You know how in classic Star Trek Nurse Chapel had that lame unrequited thing for Mr. Spock, and everyone thought, "God, Nurse Chapel, get over it already; he's never going to be in love with you unless you can get him back to that spore planet, and even at that, you'd have to beat that totally hot blonde hippie chick to the punch"? Pretty much something like that.

http://www.funsurveys.net/view-survey.php?id=56

Montreal

I recently came back from spending a week in Montreal with my best friend. He was there on a two-week reconnaissance mission, as he and his BF are emigrating from the UK once all the final paperwork is in. The plan was to capitalize on the fact that we'd be not only on the same continent for a change, but a mere ~2 hours by plane apart, and grab some catch-up time.

The last time I'd been in Montreal was right about the time of the 1976 Olympics, when I traveled there by bus with a junior-high-class contingent. All I remember was lots of Olympic souvenirs and being the only one in the entire group willing to admit I liked brussels sprouts. For some reason, the memory of incredibly self-conscious me taking a stand and refusing to back down on that important issue, finishing every last globe of delicious sprouty goodness while my peers made gagging noises, has stuck with me.

Cut to the present: The Olympic Stadium and I are a little worse for wear, still gamely holding our chins high despite being less shiny and new than we once were, our parking lots holding fewer visitors.

OK, I think I've brutalized that comparison as much as I need to.

Montreal is a French First city. As in, French First is the law. Starbucks Coffee cannot be Starbucks Coffee; it has to be "Cafe Starbucks Coffee." You see how this works? So yes, I was expecting an attitude that was pompous, condescending, and unjustifiably self-important. In other words, a French attitude. One that sneered at my attempts to pronounce "Rue" (Roo!) and made me beg for a dry croissant (Cwassint!) while pretending to not be able to understand me through my crude, disgusting American accent.

I shined up my own attitude to a blinding gloss, checked it with my bag, and headed to The City Formerly Known as Mount Royal. And you know what? The people were absolutely freaking cool.

Here's what I noticed about the people of Montreal, and I mention the following for no particular reason other than their contrast with what I'm used to made them noticeable to me.

Women in Chicago: Fat. Loud. Fashion sense of a prison matron. Shittons of bad makeup, and long hair worn either back in a ponytail with a hair elastic, or straight with no style whatsoever. A preponderance of That Color Blonde.

Women in Montreal: Small, slender, generally fit, all ages. Often with no makeup, or with very little. Hair generally long, usually pulled up and held in a loose coif with a decorative hair clip or colorful scarf.  Friendly.

Men in Chicago: Fat. Loud. Baseball cap/T-shirt with sports logo. Big sneakers originally designed for athletic activity, which in their case constitutes trotting from the hot-dog stand to the stadium toilet.

Men in Montreal: Small, slender, wiry. Great legs. Plain clothes, no logos. Polite, friendly, well-spoken.

Coming from a city where the Holy Trinity of cultural activities is Sports, Beer, and Overeating,  and where adolescence seems to have no definitive end, I was pleased to see that my notion of adult behavior wasn't some Utopian fantasy. (Disclaimer: I'm not saying that the city is perfect, or is without its jerkfaces. But the fact that only two people in an entire week stuck out as jerkfaces says something, because I interacted with a LOT of people, and even the jerkfaces were probably unbalanced. I actually had a panhandler apologize to me for his terrible English. Not that it wasn't part of his goal of getting cash, but still.)

French: I can read signs in French. I can usually parse the meaning through a combination of my knowledge of Spanish, the single semester of French I took in college, the Latin I took in High School, and context. No problem. However. Understanding spoken French is tough, and pronouncing it is just awful. I'm a great mimic, but trying to figure out whether that e sounds like an a or a u results in me sounding like I'm having a stroke while choking on jelly babies.

Fortunately, there is something about my "bon jour" that signals instantly that I'm not a French speaker, and the other person would immediately and cheerfully switch to English. No attitude, no condescension. All I had to do is utter two words, and the Pity English was whipped out. (Although there was the unfortunate incident at a cafe where I was not with Sven -- who speaks excellent French--   and persisted in speaking French, after which the cashier took my debit card and made "sorry" gestures while rattling on in French. I didn't know whether there was a minimum, or what, but I grasped that I needed cash, which I didn't have.)

"I do not have cash. I return, thank you," I said in French, and left.

I did not return. Hell, no. Embarrassment, c'est moi.

Other Things:

People did not walk around on cell phones or texting from handhelds. These were very rare.

Most bike-friendly city in North America. I wasn't beeped at once on my rental bike, which was one of 3,000 - three thousand - available at bike stations all over the city.

Men flirted with me. As in, smiled at me from across a cafe and gave me The Nod. Young baristas came by to make sure my coffee was OK, smiling at me meaningfully and saying "awesome" into my eyes when I assured them it was delicious.

"What the heck is going on?!?!" Sven asked one day. "You have been checked out three times just walking along this train platform!"

"I don't know," I said, "but I'm not questioning it."

There seems less of a generation gap: women stay fit and dress in decidedly un-matronly ways, and young people didn't ignore me. At a used-clothing boutique staffed by twenty-something women, I was shocked to have them invite me to the festival they were having at the store that weekend, with live music and performances. In the U.S., the most I get from that age range is a stiff "let me know if I can help you," and then a decided avoidance. The generations seem to mingle and enjoy each other more.

No logos on clothing.

Black folks were African, Haitian, etc. The women tended to wear their hair natural, so no elaborate plastic pineapple hairdos. No prevalent obesity. The men were likewise fit and attractive and I did not once see any one's underwear, praise God.

Montreal was not that exciting, to be sure. I'm not into French pop culture, etc., But it showed what can happen with a more mature, courteous sensibility.

I approve of this for Sven. I approve very much.

Dear Pretty Girls

Just for once, I would like to hear one of you say, "Yep, I'm a knockout. I know it. I admit that being pretty makes my life easier in ways you will never know. Jobs will be more plentiful, more people will want to be my friend, the network I can draw on will be huge, and there is no social gathering I will attend where at least three men don't try to get my attention."

Pretty Girls, I am tired of hearing you blush and smile and say, "Ohhhhhh, I am NOT pretty." I am tired of hearing you say that while your online photo shoots indicate that you know exactly what you're leveraging. I am tired of hearing you say that when we go to social events together and men talk to you as though you're alone. Tired of it as I struggle for ten minutes to get a bartender's attention while a stranger has your drink purchased almost before you even arrive. I am not one of those people who believe that life is fair and that, deep inside, Pretty Girls must truly be unhappy in order for the universe to balance. Because you know what? Deep inside, I'm unhappy. And I'm not pretty. And I don't have the guy. That particular guy. You do. So don't insult me by pretending that you're just like me. Don't tell me how much you hate your nose, or wish you had my eyes, because we both know you don't. We know that you would never trade places with me in a million years, and if you could at least show some honest gratitude for the completely unearned hand you have been dealt, I would respect you so much more.

Pretty Girls, fuck you.

Sleepless in Chicago

Know what makes me tired? Meeting people, making friends, putting the not-insignificant amount of effort and emotional investment it takes to incorporate them into your life, and after you've come to think of them as a friend, a real friend, after you've allowed yourself to trust it and feel invested and dependent on that relationship as a part of your emotional landscape, they pull the rug out, fold it, and take off. Not physically, of course, but you start to notice that they way that they apportion their time (which let's face it, nobody has in abundance) now does not include you as a priority. Which kind of sucks when you DO count them as a priority.

I've lived in Chicago for almost seven-and-a-half years now, and I have been picked up, played with, and put down again by more people than I can count.  The reasons vary, but as in Boston, it's usually because they started dating (and threw their friends away); or got married (and threw their single friends away); had kids (and made new friends with other parents); or already had a full complement of friends, so although you met and you hit it off and you started to hang out, they realized they were overextended with their current roster of friends/commitments, so last in, first out; or just decided that this other person they met was simply more interesting. Or that when I no longer lived next door/a few blocks away, it was too much effort. (THAT one always blows me away. I moved all of two miles away from people I knew when I lived in my old place, and they just disappeared.)

My best friend (OK, I have been best friends with this person for seventeen years. It has been almost ten years since we lived on the same continent, and we talk pretty much every day. Because we're friends, REAL FRIENDS, and THAT is what I'm talking about) blames social media and the apparent abundance of everything, customized and available at a click."Nobody has to stay put or make things work," he says, "because they think there's always something better further on." I wonder. All I know is that social media just lets me  watch what people do with the people with whom they do make an effort. With pictures.

Am I a perfect person? Nope. Am I high-energy and therefore a bit of work? Yep.  But guess what: everyone is work. Every. One. So after assuming that friendship involves compromise, I reach out, I bend. I see movies I might not simply because a friend wants to and I see it as friendship time. I find the  things we have in common that we can enjoy. I try to tolerate differences of opinion without being insulting. I allowed myself to be driven to Amish Country in Indiana on a Sunday, which is pretty much one of the the saddest, most boring things I've done, when what I'd originally tried to do was organize a hike in a beautiful state park.

I've tried. I've tried inviting people to see live bands. No. See plays. No. Hike. No. It's always, "I'm too tired. I have to clean my house. It's too hot/cold.  I made other plans. I don't like theater seats, although I inexplicably have no problem with movie theaters."

I'm tired of being the initiator.

C-- was pretty much my best friend here, and then just stopped calling me and began spending time with another woman who lives in my complex. So now they're friends ("Well, Joy," you say, "can't the three of you hang out?" Well yes, we could, except I'm never invited. I live across the courtyard from this woman. We can look out our windows and see one another. So it's not like the idea of including me must never cross their minds. )  J--- is an unhappy transplant who is game to do things, but whose job requires her to go to places like China for weeks or months at a time. Kevin was my dinner/ theater buddy, but he's been out a couple of times with a woman he's interested in, and it looks like she's his new theater buddy. Another Yoko Ono breaking up the band.

I hate being replaced. I really do. I'm fed up with being expected to be OK with being demoted, being relegated to being a backup plan. I don't forgive that. I used to, I used to be that needy that I did, but I don't forgive that any more. I remain cordial, but once I've been thrown away, I'm done. Call someone else when your husband doesn't want to go to the fiber fair, or nobody else will see that French flick with you. Learn to do things alone. I have. I'm finding the company better.

Because it's Fun!

I've been trying to do more of the things I did before I gave up my car. One of them is hiking: here in upstate Illinois, the closest thing to a hill is the handicapped ramp at the local bank. "Hiking" in the forest preserves near the city pretty much means a stroll along a flat crushed limestone path and a stop at SuperDawg after.

 So it is that outdoor enthusiasts pack into vehicles and drive several hours to where glaciers tore slowly over the land, leaving mountains and valleys behind.

The hike was in a national forest just over the border in Wisconsin. The temperature was supposed to be in the 90s, and the hike was about 9 miles. Hikers. We love exhaustion.

 I'd been able to arrange a ride through the group online chat board with a new member, we'll call him Steve. Another member, let's say Tim, was also meeting us at the El stop to the north of me in a tony suburb, where Steve would pick us up.

We met as planned and piled into Steve's Mini, me in back, of course, because I'm short. (When I die and my life flashes before me, much of what I'll see will be the backs of heads and car seats. And live bands, but only one or two members at a time,  usually from the waist up, seen from around the side of someone's shoulder.)

The ride began well, with a unanimous vote for The English Beat on the stereo/iPod mind meld. Then Steve and Tim quickly realized that they were both forty-something single dads with kids and ex-wives who insisted on being residential parent.

It was love.

They bonded breathlessly over discussions of child support, dating, women, custody schedules. I tried to contribute to the conversation, but they pretty much just ignored me. As in, talked right over me.  So I sat back and let the bromance bloom. They moved on to jobs, since both work in IT-related fields, and the talking was nonstop. To each other, that is; I was still a non-entity.

At one point, the subject of division of labor in a marriage came up, and I tried valiantly once more to be social by offering the story of my friends, Jane and John. I call it the Post-It story, and it goes like this:

Jane and John have been married for about 10 years and have two little boys. John is a programmer; Jane is a director of IT at Harvard Business School. Bright, resourceful people. Jane told me of feeling angry that she did more than her share of work around the house, but realized that it's easy to feel that of course you do more, so she wanted to see whether reality bore out her impression.

So she and John tackled the problem using a white board and Post-It notes. They divided the board vertically into two halves, one for each of them. They then wrote on Post-Its every job associated with running the house, from making dinner to sending out thank-you notes. They then put the Post-Its on the board, placing them on the side of the person who did it most, and then further up vertically depending on how much effort/time the task took.

When they were done, they stepped back and it was clear that Jane did more by far. John agreed that he needed to step up to the plate.

Now, the response to this story from people I've told is generally along the lines of "How cool that two people worked to resolve conflict in a cooperative, creative way rather than bickering."

This time? This time, as I explained how they placed the notes, Tim cut me off with a disparaging snicker. "Why don't they just write a fucking program?"

"Or just do the fucking work?" Steve laughed back.

I said, "Well, I guess the point was.."

I was cut off again. "Geez, how hard is it to figure that out?"

I stopped talking. Completely. Sat back, put on my sunglasses, watched the scenery. It's at times like this that I sense God leaning down and saying, "Joy, see what I have to work with? You're not single because you don't deserve something good; you're single because you don't deserve something bad."

Steve seemed to realize they were being rude and made the kind of attempt that cancels itself out.

"Well...I guess if it works for them.. (snicker) even though the rest of us think it's way too fucking complicated!"

Sitting there, I thought, "Am I going to say this? Hmmm. Yes. Yes, I believe I am."

Leaning forward between the two seats, I said quietly,

"They're still married."

On the way home Tim got a ride closer to his home and I spent 1.5 hours with Steve and his ADHD, listening to the story of his new tattoo (which is OF COURSE of a Chinese character), his confession to his ex-wife that he'd sought the services of "Professionals" when the sex had left their marriage, and being forced to listen to not just folk music; lesbian folk music. And I do not lie when I say that he'd mentioned a men's drumming circle previously.

It was the mother of all cliches.

To be fair, he wasn't a terrible person, just very needy and immature and trying to find out who he was after 15 years of an unhappy marriage, and I can understand, even if I found him kind of pathetic and ridiculous.

I hope he and Tim call each other for a second date.

And the hike? Flying colors, baby. Thank God for hydration packs.

Tell it to the Wine Guy

Yesterday as I was getting off the train at my home station, I saw a neighbor of mine. This happens more often than you'd expect, and it's not a happy accident for me.

The neighbor is a tiny, balding, wizened brown man, probably in his early 60s. He works for the city, is apparently a lawyer, and chuckles constantly and maniacally, which has the odd effect of making me want to punch him until he stops making any noise at all. 

Because I was once president of the condo board, there are people who seem to think this makes me their mom in perpetuity. This man in particular seems to think that any time he meets me is an opportunity to make some comment/complaint about things that bother him, all the while chuckling for no reason I can see. That my existence is not given over to listening to his petty complaints seems never to cross his mind.

The current president, a friend, had told me that he'd given her an earful about the noise made by the masonry workers. Now, notices were sent out regularly well in advance of the work, and communication was excellent. This man pays attention to nothing, choosing to complain instead.

My heart sank as I saw that he saw me (I have been known to dash down the stairs and sprint up the street in work clothes just to avoid this man before he sees me).

We said our hellos and proceeded down the steps.

"You know that work they are doing on the building," he began.

Here we go.

"Yep," I replied.

"It is very, VERY loud."

"Well, it's masonry work. Sure."

"There is such noise! It had my head rattled!"

[what I didn't say but so very much wanted to:] "Perhaps if you weren't such an old drunk you would not feel the need to sleep in until 10 on a weekend."

[instead] "Having the building fall down would be much louder."

"Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee."

"Hey! I have to stop here to pick some things up. Good to see you!" and I stepped into the local wine shop.

"Hello!" said the guy working. "Let me know if I can help you with anything."

"Actually, I'm just using you. I'm avoiding a neighbor. I'm going to hell, I know."

"No, I've been there. You hang out as long as you need to."

I looked into the sparkling wine case at a particular beverage, made in Michigan, called "Sex."

I pointed. "I was going to get that for a guy friend as a little suggestion. But he has a date tomorrow with a fitness instructor." 

"Oh, I'm sorry. Well, maybe it will go badly."

"Actually, I want it to go well. I want them to get along. I know he and I would not make a good couple at all, and this woman and he have things in common, so they'll have things to talk about. It's just..."

"It's just annoying."

"Yes, that's it exactly! It's annoying."

"Well, you can always get the bottle for yourself."

"Yeah, kind of tired of having Sex by myself."

Tonight was Kevin's date. I hope he had fun, I hope she wants to see him again, I hope he wore the shirt I suggested because he looks great in it. I know how tough it is to be rejected. He's socially awkward, and I'd like to see him be able to make a life with someone.

But it is indeed so. very. annoying. 

Mama Cass and I

 This is one of my long weekends. I'd decided before summer got going that I was not going to hoard vacation days for an unseen purpose; I was going to treat the summer with the school-holiday reverence it deserved. My trip to Montreal as already accounted for, so I took my remaining vacation days and spread them through the summer so that I'd have a number of three-day weekends.

It's one of the best Ideas I've ever had. Seriously, three-day weekends are better than one big vacation. No pile of work the day I return, and my weekends feel really restful and full without being rushed. I have time.

And I've returned to considering my original reason for moving to Chicago: in Boston I'd gotten fed up with being alone all the time, doing things solo. I figured that in Chicago, if I were going to be alone I would at least have more things to do.

So I'm trying to put aside the difficulty I've had in keeping close friends. Oh, I meet and make friends, but they drift off or are already overextended with existing social commitments. I thought C-- was going to be my best friend here but she has inexplicably stopped calling and started hanging out with a neighbor of mine. There's no hostility, and we see each other still sometimes, but I feel like I've been broken up with and I'm not sure why.  It all feels very Middle School.

So I took a hard look at what was making me unhappy, and at the heart of it is that I've been asking people to be something they're not. Getting angry because people don't want to try a suggestion or enjoy a radio show or have any political passion or come see a live band is pointless, but that's what I've been doing, and it's been making me crazy and angry. I remembered that my goal is not to change people but to just do what I like, even if it's alone, and that will make me much happier. It's arrogant of me to expect people to change to please me, but it's also OK for me to go my own way when I can't get some compromise.

So Saturday I went to the shelter and hung out there. It was a good day, and I helped a woman deal with some rabbit questions and convinced her to transport her rabbit in a carrier (we had some donated) and not on her lap in the car (!!!!)

I need some new clothes, so I went to a for-profit thrift store that was open until 9 pm and tried on a lot of stuff, most if it unsuitable for me. In the Girls' aisle, I saw a  ton of dresses that I thought The Girl (twin) would like. As I poked through the dresses, I thought about how much fun it would be to take The Girl shopping -- she LOVES clothes, and I know she'd have a blast. I thought how satisfying it would be to have a simple interaction that allowed me to please someone, and how hard it's been to please someone or impress them. To feel remarkable.

This morning C, K and I walked to the farmers' market, stopping at the Twins' house on the way so I could deliver my goods. Their dad was on the porch, the front door open. I stuck my head inside and could hear the kids' voices upstairs.

"Dad!" called The Girl.

"Hey! What's happening?" I called up.

"I'm calling my Dad."

"He's on the porch. What do you need?"

"I need my bum wiped."

I trotted up the stairs. The Girl stood, bottomless, in the hallway at the bathroom door. The boy was also on the landing. I offered to do the honors, and then I got to see their beds and received a detailed explanation of how The Girl's music box worked.

The boy demonstrated how he could put his head in the laundry basket.

I told them I had some stuff for them, and we went downstairs and sat on the bottom steps while I handed out the clothes. The Girl went to show her father, and the boy sat with me.

"I'd have preferred toys rather than clothes," he said matter-of-factly.

"I know, Pal, but I was at a clothes shop, not a toy store. Still, you got a couple of cool shirts. A crocodile and a bug!"

He laughed and we went outside. The Girl was trying on her dresses; they were a little large and, as I suspected, the non-pink was not a hit despite being covered in apples. The other dress, though, large purple/pink flowers on a white background, was a success.

"The flowers match my shoes!" she exclaimed. (The shoes were, of course, pink.) She decided to wear the dress until her mother came home, to show her.

In the front garden, the boy took me on a tour of various herbs.
"That's thyme. And that's thyme. And that's thyme. Thyme, thyme, thyme. This is basil. And this is weeds (pulling leaves)."

Dad called out to explain that the plant in question was not in fact a weed, but Japanese shiso, and could he not pull any more. He complied.

The Girl came up to me, folded her arms, and said, "I have to tell you something. Sometimes my shoes look orange. I don't know why."

I said that color is indeed a funny thing sometimes, and she nodded sagely.

We took our leave and went to the farmers' market, where we picked up our CSA and other things.

Ok. I have to say this: I love supporting local farms. I love locally grown. But good Lord, FOUR DOLLARS for a handful of potatoes? Seriously?? My major beef with farmers' markets is that I could not afford to buy all of my produce there, and I don't mean I could but would not want to pay that much; I mean I literally could not afford to buy all of my food from a farmers' market. It's sad when the farmers' market is a luxury and Whole Foods is the staple. Nine dollars for two pints of blueberries. Six dollars a pint for raspberries, which grow like frikkin' weeds, for crying out loud. Don't even get me started on zucchini.

OK, I'll stop now.

I'd woken up with a pretty bad headache, my stiff-neck legacy from running last Thursday. I've always had neck issues, and have worried that my neck would be the thing that kept me from running. But tonight I was feeling better so I took a run along the sidewalk along the lake. It's a gorgeous view. I took it slow, warmed up, and then I was just fine.

When I'd tried to talk to C--about my recent running experience, I got the usual: she hates running outside, she hates the variance in the weather, she hates..... and I understood that a lot of people are just afraid of taking a risk or challenging themselves. Which is certainly their choice to make, but then they feel threatened when someone else shows that it can be done, and they get defensive. So instead of "go Joy, good for you," I get to hear all the reasons why they could NEVER do (insert what I consider a really cool activity here, including biking and camping), and the disapproval in their voice that I would.

As I ran back along the lakefront this evening, Mama Cass sang "Make Your Own Kind of Music" from my iPod:

You're gonna be nowhere
The loneliest kind of lonely
It may be rough going
Just to do your thing's the hardest thing to do
But you've gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along.

When I'd finished my run I was sweaty and happy and feeling great. I'd done two miles and it wasn't hard! Mama Cass is right: dancing to your own song alone is better than standing still with everyone else.

Dancing in your pink shoes that look orange sometimes.