My trusted highlander cabbie who talked even faster than he drove.  

But my sister is right in nudging me to be a little less trusting. Taxis are plentiful, passengers are not. If a ruthless driver smells cash, he (I’ve never been in a cab with a woman driver in Poland) can be unflinching in giving you the final inflated tally.

The same is true in Prague. BBC reports that the mayor there decided to test the vulnerability of the foreign tourist by disguising himself as an Italian and then hailing a cab:



His masquerade was so successful that he was overcharged by 500% on his first cab-ride.

Not many mayors could pull this off. Imagine our own (I did some crude “Italianizing” of the photo – sorry, my tools are few and my technological acumen is low; luckily the photo, borrowed from daveformadison.com, already had him sporting a pair of goggles):

Can I make an American of Polish descent look Italian? 

But why do this in Madison anyway? Our cab fares are already so inflated that any higher number on the meter would give the rider a heart attack. Mayor Dave can busy himself with more important things, like pushing ahead with the city swimming pool or increasing the number of affordable housing units.

Can I apply for the charge card of the celebrities, where you never have to pay the bill?

Yet another reader wonders why I passed the opportunity to blog about the Trump wedding. Not that Ocean is known for its society-gossip (please, no jokes about how I don’t know one Hollywood personality from another), but there was something especially compelling (therefore bloggable) about the idea of the richest man in the world getting married for free (as you’ll note here, most of the standard wedding expenses were donated, because Trump is so damn rich that he is a desirable candidate for free goods and services, simply for the publicity of it all).

My answer: I do not know sometimes why I do the things I do, nor what propels me to blog about the things I blog about. The Trump wedding would, indeed, seem like a good post candidate, especially since the Trumps are just about neighbors. [Indeed! As I posted earlier, I have a “second residence” this year in New York which happens to be very proximate to such luminaries as the Trumps. That makes them candidates for friendly, neighborly gestures, such as borrowing a cup of sugar from one another, or shoveling each other’s sidewalk. Or am I too *Wisconsin* in my thinking?]

In fairness, it is reported that Trump has refused the generous services of hairstylists, preferring to mess with his own coiffure. Luminaries have no shame.

Oh dear.

I just received an email from an Ocean reader who also maintains his own blog. Recently he linked to my post about the philosophers’ morality quiz. Today he writes: “According to my site meter, somebody found my website after googling "camic sex." I wonder what they were looking for.”

Now listen here, googlers, I am a respected member of the community. Yes, I occasionally throw around a word that is thought to belong to the “less than savory” lexicon, but why ever would you think that there is something googlable out there that would combine those two words?? I am so CLEAN (especially at the beginning of a new semester, when I know that more than an average number of prospective students are availing themselves of the google function in their search for any info about their future teachers).

[Yes, there are other Camics out there in this vast land. I doubt VERY MUCH that they are at the root of this search. For one thing, no other Camic on this planet blogs as a Camic. I checked.]

My response to the email? I wrote: At least they weren't googling "camic weird sex..." (The post included my name and a forewarning that the quiz contained questions about kinky stuff.)

Much relieved: my creative peak has yet to come

From Newsweek, with an Ocean point added:

1. Michelangelo completed his final frescoes, in the Vatican’s Pauline Chapel, at 75.
2. Benjamin Franklin invented bifocal glasses at 78 to help correct his own poor vision.
3. Giuseppe Verdi finished ‘Falstaff,’ his final opera, just eight months shy of his 80th birthday.
4. Georgia O’Keeffe continued painting well into her 90s, despite failing eyesight.
5. Frank Lloyd Wright worked on the Guggenheim Museum until his death at 91.
6. Martha Graham danced until 76, then kept choreographing 20 years longer.
7. Nina Camic began envisioning her magnum opus at the age of 51.

“For a better life, quit eating crap and train six days a week”

(-- Chris Crowley, 70-year old co-author of “Younger Next Year: A Guide to Living Like 50 Until You’re 80 and Beyond,” featured in this week’s Newsweek)

Quite a number of news sources are discussing the new eating guidelines published by the government just this week. And, Newsweek is devoting almost an entire issue to the topic of diet, genes and the Science of Nutrition.

But really, is anyone saying anything new about staying healthy? Oh sure, there are a few tweaks here and there on the advice offered a year ago, or even five years ago. But if we followed the advice of the five-year-old reports we’d all be fine right now. That broccoli may be super beneficial to some and only very beneficial to others – that’s scientifically intriguing, but if you are looking for tips on what will help set your life on a good course, for Pete’s sake, just eat your broccoli. And exercise. [Is anyone going to argue with “Harry and Chris” that “living a sedentary life is not just lazy, it’s lunacy?”]

Rereading articles on virtuous eating habits and an active lifestyle does serve a purpose (must get more of that broccoli!), but it is actually amazing how consistent the message has been for any number of years: more fruits and veggies, more grains, less fat, less sugar, get off of that couch... sounds as familiar as the commercials for Little Debbie cakes and snacks that are now making a comeback.

Pushing the boundaries

Of course, the British tabloids had a field day with the photo of Prince Harry at a costume “bad taste” party. His German military attire with a swastika arm band drew immediate criticism from the press and outrage from many. (A party-goer had a camera with a cell phone – ahhh, technology!) A personal statement from Prince Harry himself is expected. An emailer sent me a note this morning wondering what pushes a costume into the acceptable range? Obviously objects of terror are the stuff of dress-up: Satan, Dracula, a mobster – that’s expected. But Bin Laden? A Nazi? You’ve crossed the line. It was said today on the news that this event will be there to haunt Harry for the rest of his life.

So why is it that I wasn’t shocked to read the story of the costume? Is it because I think that the British tolerance level for offbeat jokes of this nature is higher than our own? Yesterday, as an addendum to my post on Blair's dwindling hair, a reader sent a link to a photo from the Blair campaign back in 2001, when the Tories attempted to discredit the Labor Party. Would this have been an acceptable campaign ad here, or would it have backfired? [I think the latter.]

January insanity

I am assuming that there are a handful of readers who do not live in Madison. Aren’t you the lucky ones! You are thus spared the freakish weather patterns that have confounded and confused everyone, even those who do not believe that one should ever take note of, let alone TALK about, the weather.

Normally, I take great pleasure in looking outside my office window. Here, take note of the view, while I am still reveling in the neatness of my office desk after the Great Tuesday Clean-up:

Take note: it's so *organized* !! My various little birds on the windowsill can't believe the transformation. 

But wait, zoom the lens a little closer: what’s that over there, across Bascom Hill?

It can't be... Umbrellas? In January? 

Do they look happy to you? 

It is January 12th and it is pouring rain outside. But we needn't go digging for our little Totes because the deluge is about to end. Tomorrow we start the plunge. I was to visit a friend in Minneapolis this week-end. Not anymore! The high there will be – 10 F! (In the negatives here as well.)

Listen, I’m all for bypassing weather talk. After the horrors of South East Asia and the disastrous flooding in Southern California, I want to do away with this topic. But my eyes keep straying outside to the flash of umbrellas... Yuk.

Do you wonder why a Wisconsinite has to find ways of amusing herself during this bleak and troubling month – with, for example, taking great pains to arrange the top of the shelf next to her desk, just so that the eye can roam to the warm, soft glow of the lamp over the two wooden figures from Poland? A pleasant distraction from the damp gray slush outside.

Office adornments: that's an etching of "Zelazowa Wola" (Chopin's birthplace, considered one of the three must-see places in Poland) in its new frame. 

I am open-minded, but what’s a Southern Living Party doing in a place like Wisconsin?

I got an invitation to a “Southern Living At Home” party. From what I can tell, you go to it for the purpose of socializing with like-minded people and acquiring “beautiful accents” for your home. I imagine the accents are somehow “Southern,” even as the attendees are themselves very “Northern.”

My impulse was to put this aside. The invitation has frothy lemonade in polka-dot glasses on it and candles and flowers in assorted containers. It’s just not me.

But then I thought: how rigid on my part!

And so I rejected the invitation NOT because it threatened to introduce Southern Themes into my home or office, but because I am done with looking at/procuring adornments. At some point one has to get to the substance of things.

Do your politics have to agree with the politics of the bus-driver?

No, of course not. But do you shop at stores that are owned by, say, someone with extremely divergent political beliefs (Whole Foods comes to mind)? I do. Do you go to gyms whose owners profess an ideology inconsistent with your own? But of course. Do you read and admire books written by authors with reputations that are nowhere near where you see yourself on the political spectrum? Sure!

Someone asked me today if I followed the politics of the author (Virginia Postrel) of the book I’d been amusedly blogging about recently. My answer: enough to know that she has taken some *interesting* positions on a number of political issues. That does not detract from, or even speak to her writings on the topic of aesthetics.

Ocean and its author do not discriminate on the basis of which ocean we’re talking about. We here even like an occasional sea once in a while (love that cold splash of the Baltic on the ankles, so long as we're in the middle of a heat wave). And lakes have a considerable amount to offer as well. So peaceful, serene (I'm thinking of little lakes). Not salty enough you say? But how else can you develop your palate if you don’t examine, swim in and savor all bodies of water? [I’m not a fan of excessive chlorine in swimming pools though, just so you know.]

UPDATE: Oh come on, I should NOT have to say this: obviously I avoid cosmetics that use animals for testing and I'm not a fan of sweatshops. And I draw the line at dealing with fascists, racists and many other extremists. So, not too much chlorine and no thank you to any of the above.

Ocean is providing an invaluable public service by letting the readers know that hair matters

I just can’t get enough of that book (The Substance of Style, see post below). It’s not that I need validation for the important things that I engage in each day (clean office, talk to colleagues...). It’s the idea that surface matters. It’s that there is this hidden little secret about life that we’ve all been loath to admit. There was a REASON why I was excited about finally framing my singular, lovely print of Zelazowa Wola today to hang in my office, and that I was tickled about picking up this little pot of lilies-of-the-valley for the spot right next to the clock, and why I was EXTATIC to learn that I would have my computer screen upgraded in my office to one of those flat skinny models… I am but a slave to aesthetics.

More importantly, I learned something that may help readers undersatnd why some politicians survive and others fade with the last strand of thining hair. [Why is Tony Blair’s popularity waning? It’s his hair. It’s not looking as good as it once did. ] I read the following:

The 2001 British election concentrated even more blatantly on the candidates’ looks. “The underlying topic of the General Election,” wrote a Tory commentator, “was not tax and spend, boom or bust, saving the pound and snatching Britain from the gaping, salivating maw of Europe, but hair, and [Tory candidate William] Hague’s distressing lack of it.” Hague’s looks were universally declared a major political problem, before and after he was troused by Tony Blair. “The general view is that he looks a lot like a fetus in a suit,” said an old friend and ally.

The hair is not holding up though. A Tory leader attacked Blair on the hair issue. “He’s losing it pretty rapidly and brushes it like a teased Weetabix.”

Don't know what Weetabix look like? Neither did I. Thank you Google:

Ireland, Italy, Norway, Poland -- which does not belong?

The answer is Poland. The remaining countries all have strict laws prohibiting smoking in public places. (Admittedly, they are the only EU countries that have complete bans on smoking in public places.)

The strictest laws are (as of today) to be found in Italy, where fines are imposed both on smokers (first fine was issued at 12:01 a.m. in a Naples restaurant) and on restaurant owners. In addition, secret agents patrol eating spots to catch those who refuse to comply.

Not surprisingly, passions run high on both sides of the issue. Clean air advocates were out last night, spraying with water those who lit up. Smokers, on the other hand, vowed to challenge the imposition of such hefty fines ($2600 for a restaurateur who does not report an offender). Already owners of eateries are reporting that patrons finish meals quickly, bypass the espresso and dash outside to light up.

And can't you just see it, this being Italy, the exaggeration of the issue, the display of tense emotion, the theatrics as you dash to take out your crumpled pack of nicotine and light up? [An Italian writer proclaimed: "I vow to continue to smoke cigars in public or move to Cuba, where you can smoke even in airports!"] This would have been the night to do some serious restaurant-hopping there -- with notebook and camera in hand for a blog report. The IHT story on the first cigarette-free day is way too brief and to the point. I'm counting on bloggers to pick up the slack.

Showing off…

People can get carried away with their clean-up projects. They can spend hours sorting through files, getting rid of dated texts, dusting, redecorating. Hours.

Then they can go up, seek out a colleague, drag her down to show off the freshly polished space, take in the compliments, gloat a little. Finally, they can sit back, listen to a CD maybe and forget about the fact that this is A Place of Work.

Really, hours.

Is happiness worth $4.95? How about $13.95 plus tax?

If a person gets up at 5:30 in the morning and quickly runs through the handful of sites that are standard reading material, then logs on to Time.com because she has seen that the cover story is on the new science of happiness, should one suspect that there are reasons for such earnest morning reading? If she is blocked from proceeding further because Time is selfish enough to require a commitment of $4.95 before it will divulge the secret to happiness, and she hesitates before moving forward, does that mean that a.) she is happy and thinks it’s not worth the money to find out what others are saying about happiness, or b.) she is so miserable that she is stymied and can go no further?

If her next activity is to pick up the book that she has been reading on the Substance of Style and flip quickly to the last pages where she reads “we [should] enjoy the age of look and feel, using surfaces to add pleasure and meaning to the substance of our lives,” is that not suggestive that she is searching for some deeper justification for then putting aside the computer and spending the next fifteen minutes or so deciding what she should wear to go to the office, where she intends to spend the better part of the day redecorating the place? [N.b., the book is $13.95 and it is worth every penny. If you ever needed someone to explain to you why dabbling in ornamentation, delighting in purchasing pretty things and finding pleasure in aesthetics in general is an important function of life, this is the text for you.]

Piercingly beautiful

There is a reason why this house is prone to icicles and I wont delve into the details, but I do want to note that if ever I feel inclined toward violence, I have the tools at my disposal all around this property. I reach over, I grab and I boing or pierce. Either way – destruction is within my grasp. And in case I do not finish off the poor victims with the ice dagger, I have ample ice on the steps for them to slip on. [I WILL get road salt later to melt the 6 inch layer of ice that has accumulated on my front step. Apparently I need something stronger than the wonderfully aromatic gourmet sea salt that I have been gently sprinkling on the step every now and then.]

See what I mean? 

...and if you still remain unscathed, I can drop one of these little guys inside your shirt for that nice trickle of cold ice down your back. Instruments of evil all around me. 

Blogophobic companies or loud-mouthed employees?

The debate about bloggers’ rights continues. Read about the conflict between the employer who doesn’t like being publicly discussed in an employee blog and the employees who feel unfairly treated for their blogging behaviors here.

The link lists organizations who have "fired, threatened, disciplined, fined or not hired people because of their blogs." Still, it is a partial story, as you’re left to imagine the transgression leading to the swift dismissal or disciplinary action. Without a doubt, some companies have taken a hard line with bloggers who publish their work stories on the Net. But is it really a revelation that employers tend to treat less-than-loyal employees harshly and at times unfairly? The more interesting (and pernicious) “discrimination” against bloggers, I think, is the more subtle reaction of co-workers or supervisors who are seeing a potential, yet to be realized threat, as if blogging opens the door for possible future negative rants against the organization, even though none have been posted thus far.

There are some people who just make you laugh and laugh

It’s important to understand that life is not all about laughter. Witty and clever exchanges, tease and banter – these are mere chocolate sprinkles in the cake of life (?!). Yet sometimes you wish for nothing more.

Thanks to the exquisite Althouse and the Tonya Show authors for this extraordinary day in Chicago.

[For the distantly positioned souls who do not understand the rhapsodizing about a trip down to Chicago, I want to explain that Madison is a great place to live in, but like every home base, it’s good to occasionally get the heck away from it, just to remember that the world has a long and varied perimeter.]

Oh, to preempt the questions about “what we did in Chicago” I just want to say that the trip was intense to the last minute. For example, I purchased two stools. One could argue that I did not need two law professors to help me in stool selection, but on the other hand, having their wise counsel made it oh so easy to pick exactly the right piece of wood to rest your derriere on.

Asian temple? No! The perfect stool.  

What’s cookin’ with the guy who first proposed marriage to me?

I blogged about him a while back, noting that when I saw him last year, he bore a remarkable resemblance to Omar Sharif (I posted a photo of the happy couple at the age of proposal -- Janek was 7, I was 6 -- here).

My ever-attuned-to-these-things sister (who lives in Poland) sent me the web address to his newest venture: an authentic restaurant-pub that he built in the mountains of Poland (there is an apartment for rent as well – rustic, but quite lovely). What makes it especially interesting is that it is very very close to the hauntingly beautiful *Alpine* valley of Rynias, about which I blogged just last month.

Here’s the link to Janek’s Szymkowka (I know, a mouthful for English speaking types) and just one photo from his site. We’re going to get on him to put up an English translation, but if you browse around, and find the photo "galeria," you’ll get a good idea of what it’s like.


To think this could have been my life…

What happens when an American travels to Poland, falls in love and marries a Polish woman?

For one thing, he inherits a Polish mother-in-law.

Oftentimes here at Ocean, you get to read about Poland as it is described to you by a Pole living in the States. How are things for an American living in Poland? Read the absolutely delightful observations of one such person here.

And note that in this post he describes the burning of gingersnaps by his mother-in-law, who seemed unaware of the fact that you can actually quite easily halt the burning process in a microwave once something starts spitting fire and smoke (for example: unplug the darn thing). Given that I have been twice this year alone accused of burning things for guests, I’d like to suggest that it appears to be in my Polish genes to set fire to food (unintentionally, of course).

[Thanks to my sister for the link.]

Where is the sex?? Where are the dead animals??

An emailer thought the philosophers’ quiz I linked to earlier today was tame and he wrote to tell me that any hopes of finding questions about weird sex or dead animals were soon squelched, since both topics were sorely missing from the 19 ho hum boring little Qs.

I went back and searched for the quiz that I remembered finding yesterday and indeed he is right. How many dang blasted philosophers’ magazine morality quizzes are there online anyway? Turns out more than one.

If you have the guts and the stamina, you can find the one with the, errrr, potentially offensive Qs here. It’s Saturday, it’s dreary outside, what, you have something better to do?

WERN is not getting any pledges out of me this year

…You’re just too dismal over there in Public Radio land. I gave you another chance this afternoon. I am dragging here today and I expect help from friends like you. Some pal you turn out to be. I, too, think Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet is lovely, but understand: I was in no mood for the Death of Juliet scene – a tear jerker even without the haunting melody, so why did you pick exactly that segment to play today at noon? Something chipper and bold like the Dance with the Mandolins would have worked, but no, you went for the drama.

Well you’re on your own now. I can’t deal with your perpetual grief music. And no, it did not help to run errands to the strains of Verdi’s Othello. [Yes indeed, I’m in the car, it’s 1 pm, and there it is: “Venga la morte! E mi colga nell’estasi Di quest’amplesso…” Let death come! Let it take me in the ecstasy of this embrace…]

WERN delivers

Don’t think that I didn’t appreciate the music selection on Public Radio this morning. Especially Chopin’s Sonata no. 2, third movement (“the Funeral March”). It really was just The Thing for the long drive from the airport home.

Snapshots without a camera, and a philosopher's perspective

I often think people have an intersting view of Madisonians. No, more: I think we have a skewed impression of ourselves. They think, we think we have it all figured out. The Madison way is the decent, the tolerant, the correct, the just way. We are a town of high principles.

Occasionally, street scenes can stump us though. Yesterday, on the median strip at University Ave and Shorewood Blvd, a man sat down and played in the snow. Oh, he tried to get up, but his shopping bag seemed to get the better of him, so he opted to stay put and toss snow around in the air. Some people slowed their cars down, thinking – he needs help, doesn’t he? But what kind of help? The choices were limited (thankfully?), because there is no place to stop at that particular intersection. That’s okay, we all have cell phones and so we can unburden our conscience and call someone else to provide assistance.

Or, take Basset Street (downtown). Driving there yesterday was a challenge as the street was littered with beer bottles. Maybe someone just missed the garbage can and threw their year’s supply too far to the right. Nonetheless, I have had five flat tires in the last two weeks (no kidding). Clean it up, people!—I thought. Or, should have I pulled over and picked them up myself maybe?

I could go on with these vignettes from my day, but posts need to be short, so I’ll let it go with those two little moments from one short drive downtown.

Now, over at bernalchemist, the author speculates about the implications of the BBC quiz on reasoning and gender from an earlier Ocean post. If you’re having issues with that little test, try the Philosophers’ Magazine quiz on morality here. It’ll take ten minutes and the graphing of the outcomes is a bit odd, but the analysis, especially comparing your score with the average, is provocative.

So much talk of morality these days! Go ahead and answer the questions [warning: if you’re going to be grossed out about matters of weird sex, or dead animals, or both, don’t bother. Oh, I know, that statement merely tantalized 90% of Ocean readers. I’m only providing a disclaimer for the 10% who think this to be a gentle kind of blog.] and let me know what you think. Madisoninans – don’t cheat! There are no “right” answers!

Gray skies, gray moods

The thing about living in Madison is that when you’re in need of a boost, you can go have a bowl of mussels for lunch at the Marigold Kitchen. Then you can go home and sleep and call it a day.

In a warm broth, with garlic toast. 

How to make a singer out of a musically-challenged type

[UPDATE to the paragraph below: In answer to the Q about the general quality of singing at the Kid – it is quite high. Rare is the bird who’ll go to a karaoke event knowing that s/he cannot carry a tune. For him/her, there is now hope.]

I have gone (as a tag-along) to two or three karaoke events organized by the Sociology gang in Madison. I’ve not gone the last couple of times. I did not think I swore off because of the quality of the singing of *some* of the participants. Still, the following article in the WashPost intrigued me. Maybe I should make an anonymous gift of the described device to the person most in need of a vocal boost? At the very least, let me provide a link (carryatune.com) and maybe chance will have it that someone will read about it, invest in it and we will see a new era in karaoke at the Kid. [Karaoke participants: please send emails expressing gratitude to my above address.]

Positively pretty

Early morning mist, cold temperatures, backyard pines. And I don’t even have to leave the bedroom to enjoy it all. What a deal.

A lazy person's early morning walk: throw open the window, take in the view, breathe in the fresh air, and pace back and forth a few times.

Return to sender: address unknown

When you are up at 2 a.m. mulling things over, unwilling to call it a day, what better activity is there to fill the empty minutes than leafing through the newspaper from your “home country?”

One lead story today from the Polish Gazeta Wyborcza *addresses* the issue of undeliverable mail. Not just any mail, but specifically – letters written to God. It appears that such letters all make their way to a postal station that processes undeliverable mail. Here, mail to God is sorted into two piles: “return to sender,” or “place in trash can.” Even where there is an address (typically: “heaven”), the postal service ignores it.

Is this fair? Mr. Nawrocki, the postmaster of this particular station, *believes* that it's not. He notes that letters to Saint Nicholas are forwarded to a place in Finland (have we really established that this is where Santa vegges in the off season?). He is suggesting that perhaps some organization should take on the task of dealing with God’s mail and provide answers to some of the questions posed by the writers.

Now wait a minute. I’m not sure if the NYT Ethicist would pat Mr. Nawrocki on the back for that idea. I mean, if I were to write something to a God, I’d want it to go to a God, and if no such Holy Body claimed my letter, a substitute NGO would not do. Of course, being technologically on top of things, I’d first get the correct address. Googling hasn’t gotten me one thus far, but I haven’t bothered going beyond the first screen. [A preliminary search also revealed that God does not have email, but then, the posting on this is ten years old. Things may have changed.]

I wonder, btw, what the postal rates should be – international overseas? Domestic? Free of charge? These are difficult questions. I am not surprised that the newspaper ran it as one of the lead stories for the day.

Help me out, dear readers!

I spent much of the afternoon playing with expedia.com. I have a bunch of trips coming up and I was trying to book good fares for all of them. This of course, required careful planning and so I took out my calendar to fit things in neatly and conveniently.

In opening the pages of my date book, I came across this note to self for February 8th:
--> yeah! 03.

I have no idea what this means and I have no recollection of writing it. Is it someone’s birthday? Anniversary? Did I commit to a wedding? A party? It seems festive and spirited, but what is it?? And does it block the week, the day? What's with that arrow? Am I coming home from somewhere? If so, where will I have traveled to? There isn't a departure noted in the days preceding that.

Write and tell me if you know or have any clue as to why February 8th should be in any way significant. You will get such a prize for your efforts! Far better than any old Virtual Kewpie Doll.

Ode to the little one who is leaving all too soon and who went for a hike through the Arboretum with me this morning

(she sings this so beautifully, but this one is for her)

...For you, the sun will be shining,

... 

...To you, I'll give the world
to you, I'll never be cold...

... 

... 

And the songbirds keep singing,
Like they know the score,
And I love you, I love you, I love you,
Like never before,

... 

... 

... 

...like never before.

Only one person on this planet would keep me company when I asked for it, during a two-week midnight marathon of gymming

…and not make fun of my lesser endurance (which is quite lesser)
…and talk to me when I felt like talking (which was often)
…and let me watch the food channel when I felt like watching the food channel (sorry, it was so interesting!)
…and leave when I was ready to leave (you would have stayed)
…and return the next day, and the next, and the next (no matter how late).

Only one – you know who you are. I wont be able to continue this marathon. It would be too lonely now that you’re off and away. I’ll have to take up fencing or skateboarding or something.

But I’ve loved these days…

Get a load of that snow!

Years of conditioning had me out of bed before dawn to check on school closings. As so many times in the past, all schools reported closings except for Madison’s public schools. There are arguments to be made on both sides of the issue, but they no longer concern me. It was merely a point of curiosity. And I was anxious to play the role of the benevolent neighbor, the one without kids needing to rush to make it to school and without my own pressing time issues. I wanted to repay past favors and shovel sidewalks of proximate kind souls.

[Blogger ethics are nothing compared to intricate shoveling ethics: you absolutely are the rudest person if you stop at your property line and do not shovel up to the neighbor’s driveway – like my neighbors to the south who are considered utter pariahs for their selfish property-guided shoveling practices. And, if you have time, you shovel your neighbor’s walk. If you are feeling so generous that your heart is bursting at the seams, you may, every two winter seasons or so, do the walkway up to their door as well. But you are never ever obligated to touch their driveway, unless they are elderly or feeble or incapacitated. Otherwise, shoveling someone’s driveway is an embarrassment of riches – you’re overstepping the boundaries of camaraderie.]

I was too late. The sun had not yet risen, but the shovelers were out there already and so we shoveled en masse, with jocular shouts to each other, in the way guys talk when they are trying to be friendly. Yes, that’s right, guys. For shoveling has remained a task for men. Guys grill and guys shovel. That’s just the way it is in America. [Before I get barraged with emails telling me I am grossly exaggerating, let me just say that I am simply reporting what happens around me: absolutely no woman shovels on our long block if there is a guy in the house. This is true even though in three households we have stay-at-home (or work at home) dads and in most households both the man and woman work.]

It took an hour to clear the walkways and driveway. 

Into the void

It is nothing short of eerie to sled at night when snow and clouds swirl in the blackness around you. Luckily I had a couple of innocents with me who were willing to chance everything and be sucked into the void along with me. We all survived, but just barely.

The blog author, about to risk her life in the plunge into nothingness. 

And in the meantime, what are folks up to in Crystal, Minnesota?

In Crookston, Minnesota, they’re shivering (see post below). In Crystal, they’re creatively fighting boredom. Here’s the finished product, all made out of post-its (via boingboing and gprime.net):

Reader tells me it could be worse outside…

(Questions, continued:)

And would you be wearing shorts shoveling in Crookston?
Yes…

Give generously, continuously, in many ways, to many places

A story appeared in Le Monde today announcing that Médecins Sans Frontières is putting a stop to any more donations for tsunami victims (the organization is overwhelmed by the magnitude of donations thus far). MSF is also reminding the public that sudden and profound disasters of this nature ought not take attention away from ongoing disasters elsewhere (“les victims des conflicts oubliés, ” victims of the forgotten conflicts). Europhobia suggests that if you feel moved to donate to tsunami relief, you may consider splitting your gift between victims of that catastrophe and those currently starving in Africa. Not a bad idea.

Shoes and socks we need not wear, Hey la dee ay dee ho!

Rumor has it that you went to the grocery store in mere gym shorts and a sweatshirt, even though we are in the middle of a winter storm. Is this true?
Yes.

And is it true that you just shoveled your driveway in similar attire?
Yes.

…and that you have been going in and out of public places dressed in such fashion?
Yes.

Do you know that it is currently 17 degrees F in Madison?
Yes.

How do you explain yourself?
Hearty Polish peasant stock.

Winter gardens revisited

For all my complaints about winter gardens, am I not moved by the prettiness outside as the snow falls and promises to accumulate into beautiful pristine drifts of white fluff?

I do love snow. Here is me, in the snow, back in the fifties, in the Old Country:

Wooden boards, brown laced-up shoes, white snow.

But it is all so temporary. Checking wunderground.com I read for next Tuesday:
Mostly cloudy with a 30 percent chance of rain. Highs in the lower 40s.

Mud and puddles, coming your way, followed by a burst of the Wisconsin special: an Arctic chill over a barren, snowless landscape.

Like I said, forget the disguise, the white blanket that hides the truth. Winter gardens = ugly.

You again?

Having lived in this town now for 25 years (yikes!) and having moved two kids through the public school system from grades one through twelve, I feel like there are a fair number of people here that I know. Indeed, I have been told (shouted at, in fact): you know more people in Madison than you know in Warsaw, Poland, your *beloved homeland,* don’t you? DON’T YOU?? I’ll at least say that it’s a tie.

So two days ago I ran into a former neighborhood friend whom I haven’t seen for a long long time (she’d moved to another neighborhood). We stood between the grind-your-own- peanut butter and the pick-your-own-dried-herbs sections of Whole Foods and chatted for a long while.

But then, lo and behold, I was waiting at Brocach for my dinner companions to arrive and there she was again – sitting next to the only other free table in the room. Do I go up and awkwardly catch up on the last two days? Do I tell the maitre d’ to please seat me anywhere but close to her? What’s the right and proper thing to do? God, I hate these socially awkward situations!

And what sex is YOUR brain?

God, it's awful grading all those exams. Today I got so bogged down with a bluebook that I began to question my innate ability to process some of the text that is presented to me for evauation. To reassure myself that I am still a thinking individual, I went to the BBC website, to see what updates they had on human intellignece.

Of course, I got distracted by little digressions and eventually I clicked on to this little gem:


Go ahead and take the test (courtesy of the Science Museum in London), but remember that it is a timed test so don't ponder your answers for too long. Then write and tell me if the gender of your brain matches that of your reproductive system.

Illusions, delusions and other such nonsense

When I work hard at them, my flower beds look stunning in the summer. All that color, texture, shape – splendid.

Gardening experts have said that after the flowers wilt, dry up and eventually shrivel into gray heaps of dead leaves and ghostly seed pods, you can let them alone and admire them in their skeletal form – they will delight you all winter long in their interesting “winter garden” presentation.

Oh, how good we are at talking ourselves into liking what is before us!

I suppose it’s like having your backyard look out on a cemetery. You can tell yourself that you really enjoy all that history, all the crosses and tombstones, right there, so inviting, so unique.

For me, a “winter garden” is more like a tableau of what life would be like after a nuclear explosion: brittle, burnt, lifeless. [Is this what would be referred to as naked art?]

My winter garden exists for two reasons only. First, I haven’t the time nor inclination to take a hatchet to it and clear it completely of debris before the frost comes. Secondly, once snow falls, the dead plants keep the ground temp steady, especially during early spring with all that Wisconsin weather merry-go-round as the days go from cold to warm, to cold again.

In other words, I save my illusions and delusions for other areas of my life, where I imagine that I am seeing continuity and beauty and never-ending potential. My garden, on the other hand, is not beautiful in the winter. I’m with the one honest farmer who tells it like it is: it is an ugly garden. It’s over and done with and will not look good again until next April when the first buds break ground again.

One small corner of yuk.