D.C., Part 2, Highlights

Everything Saturday--see previous post

Lincoln Memorial and Jefferson Memorial--I love memorials and monuments and cemeteries and holidays, because they direct my thoughts away from myself (and I am one of my own favorite and all-consuming interests). I especially like the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials because I think they do a really nice job of conveying the idealism of early historical figures. The size of the monuments makes me feel like I, personally, am small and that there are things like freedom and truth that are larger than I am. I like that.

Arlington Cemetery--I visited my grandparents in Arlington Cemetery. It was late afternoon and hot and I was tired, though, so I didn't see much else at the cemetery. I'm a bad American. Not bad enough to sneak into the reception they were having for some military guys who had done something important (the refreshments looked really good), but bad enough not to go see the Kennedy Eternal Flame or the changing of the guard in favor of going home to watch Seinfeld and take a nap.


Folger Library--My first day in DC, I decided that I should visit the touristy attractions I haven't seen before, so I went to the natural history museum. Unfortunately, every single middle school child in America was also in the museum that day. I kept ahead of them for about half an hour, but then I escaped to the Hirshhorn. I (correctly) assumed that no middle school administration would dare to take hordes of 12-yr-olds to the Hirshhorn. Being on the Mall at all, though, was a trial, so I fled to the Library of Congress and the Folger Library (also middle-schooler free zones).

I love the Folger Library for the following three reasons:
1. They have an amazing collection.
2. They don't search your bag when you enter an exhibit.
3. They provide free audio tours on your cell phone. I think this is genius. The display cases are numbered and after you dial the main tour phone number, you punch in the number of the case you want to hear about.

This is the view from the Folger Library garden.

Seeing Friends--I had lunch with two friends from graduate school on Friday. We had only the very tiniest misunderstanding with our Vietnamese waiter. After that it was all good food and friends I love and baby squeezing.

Jaleo--This is a delightful tapas place in Crystal City. The names of all the menu selections are in Spanish. I pointed at what I wanted and used English descriptions (I'd like this--the beet salad), but Rebekah dove right in and ordered using the Spanish names (with a Spanish that has never been heard before and would not be recognizable to any native speaker). She is brave. The waitress, though, clarified everything she said by repeating the names in English. The best one was after Rebekah ordered the croquetas de pollo and the waitress said, "Okay, the chicken fritters?" I suppose, technically, that's what they are, but it sounded ridiculous.

D.C., Part 1, The Perfect Day

I was hoping to be mugged so I wouldn't have picture ID to board the plane this morning and I could stay with Rebekah, but, sadly, no one stole my wallet, so I'm back from DC.

This would be me falling off a wall near the Tidal Basin.

Saturday Rebekah and I had the loveliest day. It felt quintessentially MBC from start to finish.

The Eastern Market may be my favorite place in DC. Farmers' markets represent everything that's good and right in the world. I love the sense of community they promote, I love the varied demographics they bring together, and I love the fantastic food they provide. After we ate "blue bucks" (blueberry buckwheat pancakes) and grits at the market for brunch, Rebekah and I wandered through produce stalls and I ate a tomato sample that was so delicious I almost cried and considered burning down my grocery store at home for selling me tomatoes that taste like plastic.

This is me with the homemade pasta case in the South Hall Market. The stripes on the black and white ravioli come from squid ink. (I can't remember how I made myself sunglasses with my photo program last time.)

We ate dinner at Bistro Bis, a French restaurant near Union Square. I ordered a citrus, beet salad and lamb shank Bretonne and Rebekah and I shared haricot verts, macaroni and gruyere, and a strawberry and rhubarb tart. It may have been the most comforting meal I have ever eaten. I felt so nurtured after absolutely luxuriating in a slow dinner that was so carefully prepared. Gracious Living.

This is our strawberry and rhubarb tart. I don't know what the cheese in the tart was, but I would like to eat it every day.

We took a cab to Sidney Harman Hall to see the Shakespeare Theatre Company's first night of "Antony and Cleopatra." I ran into Michael (Sharon) in the lobby. [On a side note, for those of you who are Utah Shakespearean Festival fans, Michael's not performing with the Festival at all this year. He's not part of the fall season cast, which I find so disappointing, and I feel like the absence of one of my favorite Festival actors should be protested somehow. Maybe consider writing to your congressmen about this.] My play-going experience was only slightly marred by the fact that I had about 5 glasses of water with dinner, and at intermission I had to go sprinting across the lobby, knocking elderly women out of my way to reach the restrooms first. After the play, Rebekah and I met up with Michael and then ran to the metro in the pouring rain. I love the metro. And rain. And the theater. And good food. And farmers' markets. And being with friends.

This is me standing (near the lamp post--my black outfit blends a little) outside Sidney Harman Hall.

It was the loveliest day.

I'm Leavin' on a Jet Plane

I love airports. I'm absolutely enchanted by the unmoored feeling the airport gives me. I like knowing that if I really wanted to (and had my passport with me), I could suddenly decide to buy a ticket to Boston or Athens and go there instead.

I'm going to the airport in a little over an hour, because I'm trying something new. I'm taking an 11:30 pm flight to DC so I won't waste a whole day traveling and can maximize my patriotic good times. Right now, taking a red-eye flight seems brilliant and efficient. I'm hoping that when I get to DC at 8:00 am (6:00 am Utah time), it will still seem brilliant and not exhausting and ill-conceived.

The Random Post

Main Entry: random

Function: adjective

Date: 1632

1 a: lacking a definite plan, purpose, or pattern

People in Utah* really like the word random. They use it A LOT. I'm not sure why they love the word so much, because an awful lot of them seem unclear on the definition. They use it to mean unexpected or beyond comprehension. That ain't what it means, folks.

A few days ago I had this conversation at work:

Stylo Guy with a Girlfriend I Disliked on Sight (because I'm mean and dislike snuggly patrons): Are there any enclosed spaces other than Special Collections here? [subtext: because we want to go be loud and/or make out away from your prying eyes]

MBC: This is our quiet area, so group work and meetings aren't allowed in this part of the library. You can ask at the other reference desk to reserve a small meeting room or you're welcome to use any of the tables or seating areas in the rest of the library, if you need to talk together.

Stylo Guy: Huh. Random.

Not random! Carefully calculated and well-established policy to keep Stylo Guy and his Amazing Leech Girlfriend from bothering researchers and studiers. Not. Random.

*Before all the natives fuss at me, I'm perfectly willing to accept that it's not just Utah, but Utah is the only place where I have noticed it.

What We Talk About When We're Not Discussing The Unbearable Lightness of Being

So, you will recall the secret shame that is my love of The O.C. I got to the end of season 2 and then, after getting all addicted up, I was out of DVDs. We only had 2 seasons donated to the library. Fortunately, my boss owns the entire series, so I asked to borrow the final 2 seasons, which elicited this conversation:

Boss: Of course you can borrow the DVDs.

MBC: Evil cackle of glee.

Boss: I’m going to tell you honestly, though, that season three is no good.

MBC: I don’t care. I love it.

Boss: I know, right? Because, really, whenever Ryan and Seth are together in a scene, the dialogue’s great.

MBC: And I like the music. And Ben McKenzie is a looker. (Which made me sound like a 75-yr-old man. Oh, that Marlene Dietrich. She’s a looker.)

Boss: He is. (pause) Who’s your boyfriend?

This could mean so many things. Ben McKenzie? The real live boy trying to pursue me? One of the film boyfriends? A fictional character boyfriend? That guy I saw at the Blue Lagoon who I felt pretty certain would make a good life companion even though we never spoke and he got out of the water and got dressed right as I was coming up with a way to start a conversation with him in the hopes that he spoke English and wasn’t crazy, but then he left and my last view of him was as he stood on the concrete looking out over the lagoon steam in a pair of those great European shoes that just make an American girl want to cry?

MBC: Which one?

Boss: The one from Ella Enchanted.

MBC: Hugh Dancy.

Boss: Yeah, that’s not him. Maybe it was [Co-worker’s] boyfriend.

MBC: James McAvoy?

Boss: Oh, yeah. I just discovered . . .

This struck me as kind of a crazy conversation to be having with my boss. But it’s typical. It’s really typical.

Because I'm Smart (Again)

We have a new Italian restaurant in the area and it is delightful. I like Italian food but I don't usually like Italian restaurants. They tend toward bland, plastic-y pasta and a gimmicky atmosphere. This new restaurant, though, is an independent place owned and operated by a family from Florence. I love their homemade gnocchi. It is so soft. I think it's made by little Italian fairies and elves in some back room. Who sing songs while they work. And fill every bit of pasta goodness with LOVE. Kind of a magical Santa's workshop for Italian food.

Saturday night I had dinner with friends from work at this restaurant. When our food arrived, one of my co-workers ate a few bites and commented that this was the kind of food to savor and enjoy slowly. I nodded in agreement as I shoveled heaping forkfuls of gnocchi into my face. We waited half an hour to be seated and I was meeting someone to see a movie at 8:30 in the next town over. By the time we got our food, it was nearly 8:00. I wolfed down my pillowy soft pasta, made arrangements for someone else to pay my bill so I could leave quickly, and dashed out of the restaurant. As I was driving to my meeting place and wondering why I'd agreed to see a movie so soon after dinner, I suddenly realized that I had not. I realized that my movie didn't start at 8:30. It started at 9:30. Oops. I should have savored.

Thursday List

I am in a terribly good mood tonight, which could be the result of any of the following:

1. The sun has finally deigned to shine upon us.

2. Madame 3-yr-old made an appearance at the library today, wearing a pink tutu and black, knee-high, rubber gardening boots. And then she started talking with that sweet, earnest face of hers. She kills me.

3. Just the idea of making this strawberry panzanella from 101 Cookbooks (which is on the list for this weekend--just bought my strawberries) is making me feel giddy.

4. I attended a friend's art opening reception tonight, which combines three of my favorite things--friends, art, and cheese.

5. It is only SIX days until I fly away to the D.C. (please pronounce that as the D dot C dot, because that's how I spelled it).

6. I discovered the trailer for this film, a documentary about teenagers in Indiana. It looks very fine to me. I really hope it makes it to a theater in Utah.

7. I also discovered Hello Saferide, a Swedish music group. I'm not sure how I feel about this video, but I like the song ("Get Sick Soon"). I also like their song, "The Quiz." And the song "Something Pretty." Which is not by Hello Saferide. It's by Patrick Park. But I don't feel like making a number 8 on this list.

I recommend MEDJOOL DATES

These are my new best friend.
Medjool Dates.
They are so delicious.

I'm a little bit in love with stores that sell bulk items. (I'm talking bulk bins here, not 20 lb blocks of cheese, although those have their place, too.) Stores with extensive bulk bin collections are fantastic, because they allow me to buy very small quantities of items I don't normally eat. Like Medjool dates. I bought five Medjool dates yesterday so that I could put them in the most fantastic quinoa salad. My salad consisted of quinoa, chickpeas, toasted walnuts, dates, and cinnamon and cumin and stuff. Soooo tasty. I want to award myself a trophy for that salad. I win first prize for making myself happy with whole grains. And now I want to buy 20 pounds of Medjool dates and use them in all my cooking and make edible furniture out of them and talk about them incessantly, because I love them.

Bulk bin stores are also great because they usually provide grains and coconut and dried fruits at a much lower price than other stores, since you're not paying for the packaging. And because bulk bin buying is earth-friendly and all, bulk bin stores tend to be sort of hippie havens, fulfilling all your Burt's Bees needs (I don't have any such needs but I like to know that they could be met by my local bulk food store if necessary) and vegan treats and composting supplies and cheese-making provisions and the like. One of my favorite bulk bin shopping stores is Bloomingfoods in Bloomington, Indiana. It's everything a bulk bin store should be. The store I currently frequent for my Medjool dates and grains is strange. It's the kind of bulk store that believes with all its heart in weird supplements and living off drinks made from wheat grass and echinacea. I can't get behind that. It's the only place in town (that I'm aware of) that has bulk bins, though, so I slip in and out as fast as possible, stopping only very occasionally to speak lovingly to the Burt's Bees products.

[photo from "Medjool: A Date to Remember" Kitchen Window. http://npr.org. 17.10.2007]

Marmot Conversations Regarding Marriage

Sunday Dinner Conversation from the Marmot House

Madame 3-yr-old: Aunt, why aren't you married?

MBC: Well, I haven't found someone I want to marry.

Madame 3-yr-old: You don't know who you're going to marry?!
[The marmots do not seem to be entirely clear on marriage and courtship rituals outside the world of Disney.]

Sister: Sometimes it's hard to find someone to marry. Sometimes all the men you know are losers.
[Not that we're intentionally turning the marmots into little misandrists.]

Madame 3-yr-old: How old are you, Aunt?

MBC: Twenty-nine.

Madame 3-yr-old: Ohhh, that's old! That's very old.

Madame 5-yr-old: Well, it's not too old. It's not as old as Grandma and Grandpa.

Madame 3-yr-old: But you are old, Aunt.

Later, Madame 5-yr-old and I were discussing Life's Great Mysteries when she suddenly informed me that she loves her neighbor, Max. He's four. When he plays soccer (or does anything really), he springs along like a little gazelle. His parents are Austrian, so I imagine he's got the genetic makeup to be a little goat-herding boy in the Alps. Madame wants to marry him, but not until he's grown up. Since she's five, Madame figures that the year after she becomes a grown up, Max will be a grown up and they can get married. I'm thinking this is an improvement over Madame's previous plans to marry her father.

Because I'm Smart

Tomorrow is tax day, and I almost forgot to file my state taxes. I forgot even though I've been daily telling the public about why they do. not. need. the stimulus packet, if they're filing federal taxes and that no, they cannot have fifty-two copies of the state tax forms (in case they make mistakes) but they can have ONE and they'd better say Thank You for it (and mean it) because nowhere else in town has the forms, including the IRS office.

I forgot my own state taxes, because I filed my federal taxes in January. January was the Month of Financial Responsibility, so I read (part of) a Suze Orman book on finances and opened up a special investment account (with which I do not invest) and filed my federal taxes. And then it was February and all thoughts of tax preparation left my head. Fortunately, I remembered about the state taxes this weekend and completed and submitted them, even though this is the Month of Laziness and Illness. Now I'm eagerly awaiting my big state tax refund of, no joke, $3.00. Yay.

National Library Week

This week is National Library Week, so I will postpone telling you about Madame 5-yr-old's marriage plans (she has a spouse picked out) and about the party where I got to hang out with one of my favorite old men, to indulge in a little library love.

I have always been a library lover. I remember going to the library and getting stickers when I checked out my books before I could even read. When I was sick as a little girl, I remember my mom bringing me home library books about a lion who wore boots. I was in my school library when I saw The Challenger explode. In grade school I discovered a fantastic series of children's biographies in my public library and wanted to be Louisa May Alcott so that I could fight social injustices (she ran a halfway house when she wasn't writing). (This was followed by discovering books about blind kids and learning to write my name--actually the name Melinda, which I preferred to use when I was pretending to be blind--in Braille by poking index cards with a straight pin.) In junior high I started reading Agatha Christie and just about scared myself out of reading forever with And Then There Were None. (I still find the modus operandi of the murderer to be creepy, creepy, creepy.) One summer while visiting my sister at Penn State, I had the most serene afternoon sitting in the university library reading, while my sister attended meetings. I couldn't imagine feeling any more at home than I was that day in a library. I studied in the library in college. I got taken "husband shopping" in the library. When I worked a monotonous job, I got my books on CD to listen to from the library. When I go on trips, I drag my companions to see the local libraries. I currently have 64 items checked out of my library, and I have 39 items on hold.

I love libraries. I love what they represent and what they provide and what they want to be for their communities.

Happy National Library Week!

FACT: I love The Office

I appear to have (self-diagnosed) whooping cough. And the cold weather continues. And I ate something like 82,000 cookies tonight, which I now regret. And I'm going to have to make some phone calls at work tomorrow afternoon that are going to make the headache I've had for the past two days worse. All is well, though, because new episodes of The Office are one of my favorite forms of self-medication (with none of the ill effects of all those cookies).

Observations from the Dressing Room

I went clothes shopping this week, because my entire spring wardrobe makes me sad. I look at it, and I think, Whose blind grandma purchased THESE clothes? I don't want to wear any of them. (Actually, I'm jumping the gun, because I can't wear my spring clothes yet, what with all the snow and hail that continues to plague us.)

I don't actually do a lot of clothes shopping, especially since I rely heavily on the two major rummage sale extravaganzas in town (one's coming up very soon! whee!) to outfit myself (which might explain my dismay at my closet). I realized, though, that every time I do go shopping, I have these very same thoughts.

1. Why is it impossible to purchase a white woman's shirt that's not see-through? Do we not have the technology? I put the clothes on in the morning, so that I'm NOT naked. If I put on see-through clothes, I might as well not bother.

2. Vanity sizing. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Liz Claiborne. I have a strict One Trip to the Dressing Room rule, which means that if I pick up pants marked my size and then they're all vanity sized, they don't fit AND I can't go try a different pair, because it would violate my personal shopping code of conduct.

3. Spring and summer women's clothing is hard to find because the trends tend to fall in one of two camps:
-Clothes that scream I work on a street corner in the Red Light District OR
-Clothes that scream I live in Colorado City
I would like some middle ground.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm alone at my sister's house with her sleeping children. My sister called and left me a message on my phone at work tonight. She said that I sound mean and grouchy on my voicemail recording. I do not believe such a comment is in keeping with the spirit of sisterhood.  She was sweet and kind when I came over, though, and directed me to the chocolate, so I've decided there will be no reprisals for her voicemail comment.  I will wait to hide the silverware around the house when she is truly bad.

Alternate Plans

I was reading through old emails this weekend, which is creepy and makes me feel weird. I don't like seeing all those intimate notes from people I'm no longer in contact with. However, there's also a lot of fascinating information in the email remnants of my past life. AND reading the messages I sent to other people confirms that my current phase is one that I enter every blessed year. Namely, each spring I consider quitting my job (or schooling) to do one of the following:

a) Join the Peace Corps
b) Buy a mobile home and be a professional Dar Williams groupie
c) Buy a mobile home and start a Pie Mobile
d) Become a dilettante
e) Become a recluse in the English Lake District
f) Become the mistress of Pemberley (I'd forgotten about this one, until I found this email to my roommate Emily one summer:
Have I mentioned that I don't want to be mild-mannered MBC, the library science student; I want to be the mistress of Pemberley? If not, I do. If so, it is still the case.
g) Become a migrant worker (I'd also forgotten about this one, but I mentioned it frequently in college. From an email to Kenneth:
I think I should just forget about graduate school and become a migrant worker. I'm an excellent strawberry picker and I'm also becoming excellent at not fixing my hair.)

So far I've never actually acted on these impulses. Probably because I'm scared to drive a mobile home. One of these days, though, I'm gonna live the dream.

That's Service

One of my co-workers had a good idea this weekend. He proposed that we adopt the sales model of service in the library and approach patrons as they enter the library and offer assistance. This is actually becoming a popular practice in libraries. It's called roaming reference, and it doesn't work exactly like that but it is similar to service you receive in retail locations. I'm still resistant to the idea, because I personally hate to be approached in stores. Certain stores train employees to be helpful ("helpful") to a terrifying degree. I would rather employees be trained to pick up on my body language cues. For example, when I avert my eyes as the salesperson approaches, scurry behind a rack of clothes, and pretend to carry on a conversation with the mannequins, this indicates that I would prefer to browse without assistance and that I'm finding everything just fine, thank you very much.

The brilliance of my co-workers plan, though, was in the second half. He thinks we should approach patrons and, instead of asking what they're looking for, anticipate those needs. "Hi, can I help you find materials for a school report today?" Or for that other type of patron we see so often, "Can I show you to the bomb making resources, sir?" We aim to please.

If You Feel Like Being Sad

I discovered Alexi Murdoch two years ago on NPR's Song of the Day site, and I love his music. I recently rediscovered him, and I'm listening to a few of his songs (over and over again, as is my way) while I work. I can't believe how incredibly SAD his music makes me feel. I listen to "All My Days" or "Orange Sky" and suddenly want to start weeping over my circulation statistics.

Library Patrons

From staff meeting:

Co-Worker 1: Who are you talking about?

Co-Worker 2: The scary guy who was friends with the crazy lady.

Co-Worker 1: Oh, not the smelly guy.

Co-Worker 2: No.

Library patrons are special. There's the guy who thinks he's bionic. He informs us that he's cured everything except old age and viruses. There's the guy obsessed with birds who loves my supervisor's feet. There's the girl with the plastic spider ring who confided in me that she's married to Spider-Man. There's the guy who leans against the desk and asks me, "Now, in your opinion, as a woman . . ." You know who would have fit right in at the library? Charles VI of France. He thought he was made of glass and worried that people tried to stand near him so they could knock him over and break him. Special guy.

Men, Inconstancy of

I was talking with Good Attitude Girl the other night about the dating scene.

G.A.G: Have you thought of asking out X?
MBC: No, I haven't. I don't ask people out. It is not My Way. And I don't know X.

As we were talking, I realized something disturbing. In a recent 6 month time period, I was stood up THREE times. And here's the thing: these were all instances in which guys asked me out and then called to cancel as they were leaving town. They fled.

Let's recap:
1. Guys (more than one, not all the same guy) invited me to accompany them somewhere. They initiated the dates. It was not my idea to go out any of these three times.
2. I agreed to the dates.
3. They canceled on me (at least one of those times I was, admittedly, relieved).

I don't think this reflects well on me. It does explain a lot about my current relationship status. It also explains why I'm frantically looking for my DVD remote. Gotta get back to the men who are constant.

More Poetry

Can you tell that when I'm too lazy to take time to post something, I just give you a poem to read? Even when I feel like divulging social life information that would be more interesting than this. Can't though. Too busy watching The O.C.

This is my favorite poetry book. It's a compilation from the Favorite Poem Project.


And this is one of the poems I discovered in it. I especially like the image of the pants behind the desk.

From the Journals of the Frog Prince

In March I dreamed of mud,
sheets of mud over the ballroom chairs and table,
rainbow slicks of mud under the throne.
In April I saw mud of clouds and mud of sun.
Now in May I find excuses to linger in the kitchen
for wafts of silt and ale,
cinnamon and river bottom,
tender scallion and sour underlog.

At night I cannot sleep.
I am listening for the dribble of mud
climbing the stairs to our bedroom
as if a child in a wet bathing suit ran
up them in the dark.

Last night I said, “Face it, you’re bored.
How many times can you live over
with the same excitement
that moment when the princess leans
into the well, her face a petal
falling to the surface of the water
as you rise like a bubble to her lips,
the golden ball bursting from your mouth?”
Remember how she hurled you against the wall,
your body cracking open,
skin shriveling to the bone,
the green pod of your heart splitting in two,
and her face imprinted with every moment
of your transformation?

I no longer tremble.

Night after night I lie beside her.
“Why is your forehead so cool and damp?” she asks.
Her breasts are soft and dry as flour.
The hand that brushes my head is feverish.
At her touch I long for wet leaves,
the slap of water against rocks.

“What are you thinking of?” she asks.
How can I tell her
I am thinking of the green skin
shoved like wet pants behind the Directoire desk?
Or tell her I am mortgaged to the hilt
of my sword, to the leek-green tip of my soul?
Someday I will drag her by her hair
to the river--and what? Drown her?
Show her the green flame of my self rising at her feet?
But there’s no more violence in her
than in a fence or a gate.

“What are you thinking of?” she whispers.
I am staring into the garden.
I am watching the moon
wind its trail of golden slime around the oak,
over the stone basin of the fountain.
How can I tell her
I am thinking that transformations are not forever?

--Susan Mitchell