I think these are wild strawberries growing in my front yard. As they could also very easily be something poisonous, I certainly did not sample them.

And somehow, Anne climbed up the frame and into the roof of the carport. I'd rather not have to call the fire department to ask for assistance with this one.

Wild Kingdom

Every morning when I get out to bed, three cats all rush to the kitchen from wherever they had settled in for the evening. Contrary to popular belief, they bypass the food dishes in favor of the far window that looks out the driveway. The resulting excitement revolves around a woodpecker's decision to build a nest in the framework of the carport. As soon as the window is open, two cats will pack themselves in on the narrow sil, leaving one to pace around back and forth on the floor until a coveted viewing space opens up.

The woodpecker is entirely undeterred by this wild kingdom peepshow.


Oh, and something did this to an unfortunate tree across the street. Yeah for living in the woods.

Social Engagements and a Neglected Apartment

I'm the type of person who really needs a balance between the social and the anti-social. In addition to a slew of college-entrance exams, and in the hopes of somehow finding the magic cure to not knowing who we were, a whole host of personality tests were administered to us during our formidable teenage years. The lack of accuracy of these tests is best demonstrated by the experience of a friend of mine. She took a lengthy test that was meant to pinpoint careers that fit her personality. Her result? Mortician. What has she really done? She's traveled the world, lived in dozens of places, and works in marketing. In my own case, no test was ever able to tell me whether I was more inclined to be around people or whether I was better on my own.

Last week was the classic example of this carefully crafted equilibrium being entirely thrown for a loop. For about five or six days running, I was rarely home. Each day, I had a different social event to go to and different people to meet. The engagements ranged from a small birthday dinner for a close friend to a surprise party where I had been asked to appear as a pilgrim for the guest of honor. Two things resulted from this: exhaustion and a very messy apartment.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment. Even in its cleanest state, it still is small. The morning after my last social event, I woke up with barely a clear square foot on my floor or a clear place to sit on my couch. In the interests of getting to work on time, I forwent contemplating the state of the place. I turned on the car--a must-do for us in northern New England, I got dressed, I made coffee. I was half a minute away from walking out the door to head to work when the phone rang.

It was my landlord. I had announced about three weeks before that this would be my last month in this apartment. After a long search, I found a new place that addressed some of the shortcomings of my current living space. He said he was going to advertise the apartment, and he would let me know if anyone wanted to see it.

And someone did. That afternoon.

Suddenly, I had an "Oh, shit" moment on my hands. I hardly knew what to do. The apartment was in no state to be shown by anyone's imagination, unless the purpose of the visit was to feature it on a TV show with a "don't try this at home" theme. I had no choice but to call my boss and explain that I would be late.

I spent two and a half hours cleaning. You wouldn't think that you would need that kind of time for a one-bedroom place, but it had devolved to such a state that under normal circumstances, I probably would have divided the work over several days. You also notice several things that would have passed before, but to the landlord's eye, may have been signs of a bad tenant. In order to get this done, I actually had to change back into what I wore to bed--not wanting to wreck a nicely-put together work outfit. Because of an ambitious plan to clean up a classroom at work, my broom and mop were not present, so I had to use a brush and dustpan to get the bits and pieces off of the tile in the kitchen, and then, pull out a replacement sponge for the mop I didn't have and clean the floor on my hands and knees. I didn't stop the whole time, and I probably dropped about 5 pounds in the process.

In the end, for the first time, the apartment looked like a showplace. The landlord noticed nothing amiss. And, I had a whole lot more time this weekend to myself than I had originally planned for.

I probably wouldn't have turned out to be the "spontaneous" type if there had been a test for that.

Chocolate Squares

Someone should have alerted the brilliant team at Ghiradelli that advertising the new line of peanut butter filled chocolates may not result in the boost in sales they are aiming for at the moment.

Delight in Old TV Favorites Resurrected

My parents have the ultimate cable television package--something that I would have to give up meat products and alcoholic drinks to afford. When I visited for Christmas, I discovered the Fine Living Network, and this particularly excited me because two old favorites are on the regular schedule there: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and the original Iron Chef.

Both of these shows take me back about four years. When they were regularly broadcast on main TV channels, I was still at Plimoth Plantation, I was living with a boyfriend, and I hadn't continued my education beyond a BA yet.

Queer Eye provided hours of entertainment for me and instruction for my significant other. I think he watched mostly to pick up grooming and dressing tips. Additions to his wardrobe included new underwear and button-down shirts with stripes. He also became conscious of his nose hair, and the fact that stray strands should be removed.

I never liked the new, American version of Iron Chef. The whole campy, flamboyant flavor of the original is captivating, and Iron Chef America never caught on to this fact. I also prefer the Japanese Iron Chefs to their American counterparts--when you watch, you get to see their talent without that annoying dose of American "I know I'm going to win" arrogance.

There's a vote for mindless entertainment for you. And yes, both of these shows are recorded daily on my DVR.

I am also particularly excited by the apple pie in my fridge right now.

That Knock on the Door

At this festively political season of the year, no place of residence is safe from the multi-front attack by canvassers, enthusiasts, and volunteers. As we speak, there is a small delegation from the local Obama camp, whose office is adjacent to my place of employment, wandering around the neighborhood. For a solitary moment, they stopped outside of my building. I was planning my defense. I was comfortably situated on my couch, a plate of breakfast on my lap and curlers in my hair. I figured that I could just avoid answering the door, but the fact they could easily see right into my front window would have probably encouraged them to up their efforts to get me up to listen to their practiced schpeal about their chosen candidate.

I must extend warm thanks to my next door neighbors. In their patriotic desire to support Barack Obama, they acquired a sign from the aforementioned office and placed it right in front of the house. Upon first glance, the building looks like a one-family home rather than a modified three-apartment structure. The canvassers took one look at the sign, figured the people inside were already collective Obama supporters and therefore, speaking to them wouldn't accomplish their goal of convincing people to vote for their candidate. They moved on to another, less fortunate set of individuals.

A Job Well Done

Thanks a lot, Anne.