Hoy Hing

My first apartment after I graduated from college was in Brighton, Mass. It's not the heart of Boston, but it's the city, enough so that after I moved in I got a letter from the cops: "Hello. Welcome to Brighton. We see you have a Honda Civic. Honda Civics are the most frequently stolen kind of car. Just letting you know. Peace out! -- BPD." (For the record, I never got my car stolen, but someone did steal my H from the hood -- THE BAHSTID.) The apartment, the second floor of a triple-decker, was on a busy street, with frequent bus traffic. This was terrific because I could get on a bus practically outside my door and take it into town. However, the buses (especially the diesel monsters that route was running) were loud, and they ran from like 5 in the morning until almost 1 a.m. It was early September when we moved in. My bedroom was at the front of the house, and I quickly determined that it was too noisy for me to sleep with the windows open.

By the time spring rolled around, guess what? I'd acclimated to the city. It was still loud, not to mention that there were bright lights that stayed on all night, including the bright red neon sign of Hoy Hing, the Chinese restaurant across the street, which was open (on weekends at least) until 3. (I once tried to read in bed without the light on, and while it wasn't bright enough to be practical, I could just make out the words on the page.) But I could hear everything through the closed windows anyway, so I tried sleeping with them open as an experiment, and slept great. In fact, the constant traffic and the buses were a kind of white noise, variable but constant, like the ocean. For as long as we lived in that apartment I kept the windows open throughout the warm months. In the summer I'd have a fan on, but if it wasn't hot enough for that it would be just me and the street.

I witnessed a few fights out my window. After the bars down the street closed, people would wander down and get Chinese food. It was mostly yelling and general drunkenness, but on at least one occasion I saw someone getting knocked down and punched repeatedly. I was just turning to go get the phone when I heard a neighbor, from my building or another one, screaming at them to stop because "THE POLICE ARE FUCKING COMING RIIIIGHT NOOOOWWW." They wandered off, trying to look nonchalant. The yelling would wake me up (and I'd peer out the window, feeling like Gladys Kravitz), but even that was mostly just part of the atmosphere.

The only time I was dramatically startled awake was when a van came careening down the street and crashed into a car parked across from my house. I had leaped out of bed and was standing in front of the window before I even realized I was awake. That may be a cliche, but it is the literal truth -- I'll never forget that feeling of being wrenched from a dream and realizing I was standing at my window. The van had a company logo on it, and the drunken morons in it got out and tottered off into the night laughing, so it's a good bet they were fired the next morning, unless the van was stolen. There was a second crash on a different occasion -- into a car parked in the exact same spot. We tried never to park there.

Hoy Hing was not a great Chinese restaurant. It wasn't the worst or the most MSG-y (that would be China Maxim III on Market Street -- I thought my temples were going to explode), but it didn't pretend to be classy or anything. It had a few booths, but it was clearly mostly a takeout place. The counter was a cutout between the dining room and the kitchen, with light-up pictures of various dishes, in varying degrees of discoloration, around the opening. The booths were padded with red vinyl, much of it ripped. The tables were fake-wood laminate. The walls were wood paneling. There was a windowseat, which was always completely covered in a messy pile of promotional magazines and brochures and out-of-date fliers. In the back, up high on a little wall shelf, was a red altar that I guess was Buddhist, always with a neat stack of oranges in front of it.

The kitchen/dining dividing wall was perpendicular to the street, so the kitchen was also at the front of the restaurant. When we ordered takeout from them, which we did frequently, we used to like to stand at the window of our apartment when we called and watch the owner pick up the phone. My roommate used to swear that one day he would get it delivered -- I don't remember if he ever really did or not -- and we would joke that when told the address she would turn around and see us waving at the window. Other times I didn't even bother to call; if I was getting off the bus from work I'd run in, order what I wanted and hang around until it was ready. I don't think I ever made rice in all the years I lived there -- I'd just go across the street and ask for a small steamed rice, which was a buck. The owner -- I think she was the owner; she was always there when they were open -- wasn't overly friendly, like cheery conversational friendly, but she was always nice and always smiled during our brief transactions. I figured she must have recognized me eventually, but she never said anything and neither did I.

I sometimes felt bad for her when the late-night drunken chaos started. People would be half in and half out of the restaurant, waiting for their food on the sidewalk or in the doorway. Mostly it was a happy atmosphere, but as I said, there were spats, and I always wondered if she ever felt unsafe, since quite often she was there by herself (sometimes there was someone else cooking, but not always). Or maybe the counter served as more of a barrier than it really was; maybe drunk guys in a rage about whatever with whoever didn't see her as anything other than a food-dispensing robot, and maybe she liked it that way (I would have). I don't know if she ever called the cops on anyone -- you'd see cops out there once in a while, so maybe she did. I never heard her yelling at anyone. I wondered how long she'd been here -- she spoke English fine, though with an accent that suggested she wasn't born in this country -- and if she thought Americans were all a bunch of alcoholic food-gobbling assholes or what. Or, since the after-bar crowd was her bread and butter, if she liked them despite the rowdiness. Or if she saw them as nothing but vague outlines that provided her with an income.

Even though it was a busy street, when it got late enough the traffic did die down. On weeknights especially, it would get very quiet. When it was warm, the Hoy Hing people would open the kitchen door -- they didn't have any more air conditioning than we did, and I'm sure it was broiling in there. When everything was stopped, if I didn't have my fan on, I could hear, lying in bed, the sounds of cooking from across the street. Mostly chopping. Sometimes what sounded like a whisk in a metal bowl. Once in a while, the phone ringing and a voice answering. It was comforting in a strange way -- maybe like the feeling of going to sleep as a child when your parents are still up, putting away dishes, puttering around, watching TV with the volume low. The nights full of drunk twentysomethings would come and go, the buses would start and stop, and the lady at Hoy Hing would still be chopping vegetables and making soup. If I was ever still awake after Hoy Hing closed, I felt lonely.

I moved to an apartment on a much quieter, tree-lined street, where it was so dark at night that I had to use a nightlight for a while. First I missed the traffic noise; eventually, I came to appreciate the lack of late-night yelling and sudden diesel-engine revving. Now, in my equally quiet condo, I have the windows closed in winter and the fan (or even air conditioner) blowing in summer, but there are spaces in the spring and the fall -- the spring one will be here again soon -- when I have nothing but open windows and outside air. There are few drunken revelers (thankfully) and no buses. When I'm lying there in the nearly complete dark, sometimes I'll remember the open door of the Hoy Hing kitchen and the quiet cooking sounds, and miss it.

Whoops, probably should have noticed THAT sooner

Sometime it may come to pass that you pick three adorable tiny gourds out of a picturesque Maine field on Columbus Day Weekend, and display them festively in your home because it's fall, fuckfaces. And after a couple of weeks two of them rot, but one of them, seemingly immortal, stays pristine. And so you put it on your living-room shelf, where you can enjoy its beauty forever.

When that happens, it probably isn't really FOREVER forever, so you should try to actually look at it once in a while to make sure it hasn't sunken into putrefaction.


Yep. That would be a good idea.

The Water Heater: A Battle of Wills

This has happened to me like three times.

If you look on your water heater, there's a temperature dial. Usually somewhere in the middle it says "Hot" or "Medium" or "Normal" or something like that. Then at the end of the dial it says "Scorching" or "Incredibly hot" or "Super fire hot" or "Volcano" or "Do not turn the dial here or your skin will blister off" or "I don't know why we even let the dial go up this far" or "Eleven."

I think it must be a rule for plumbers or what have you that when they come into contact with a water heater, they have to turn it down to the middle part of the dial. Because it's happened to me more than once. I'll be taking a shower as I normally do, and I'll notice that the water isn't very hot. And I'll think "Maybe I let the water run too long before getting in." Or I'll think "Maybe somehow some hot water got used up before I got in and I just don't remember." Or "It's really really cold today; it must be harder for the heater to heat up the water." Or "Oh crap, my water heater is broken."

I don't remember how I figured it out the first time. That would have been in Brighton, in my first apartment. I must have gone down to the basement in desperation, wondering if there was some way I could magically fix the water heater. And I must have seen the temperature dial, and seen that it could be turned up a lot higher. I must have read the warnings posted all over the water heater: if you turn it all the way up to hot, you might get scalded. Well, duh. I turned it up. My hot water was back to normal. Quite possibly it would have occurred to me at some point that someone had recently been in the basement working on the water heaters.

Since then, I've been on to it. Now, I'm not talking about taking a 40-minute shower and being mad at the end that the hot water is petering out. Or about throwing a tantrum because the water doesn't get hot the instant I turn it on. It's that creeping feeling of disappointment when you stick your arm under the shower to see if it's hot yet, and it's not anywhere NEAR hot. And you turn the tap waaaaaaay to the left, well past where you would normally turn it, and stick your arm under again, and it's...a little warmer. And you get in anyway, because your hair is dirty and you have to take a shower, and you try to hurry, because you're afraid that what little warm water is there will run out quickly. And maybe right at the end you turn the faucet all the way up to the hottest it gets and try to soak up the warmth before you have to get out, into the not-very-warm bathroom.

I mean, really. Is there anyone in the world who, when taking a shower, just turns the water all the way up to the hottest it gets and then dives in without checking the temperature, assuming that it'll be just right? Or accepts as fact that the water only gets as hot as their personal hotness preference and no hotter? Since I was a toddler I was taught to be careful with the hot water, never to run only the hot tap in the sink (I ignore that now, of course, since I live on the third floor and it takes like two minutes for the hot to even get up here), to be careful because it would warm up slowly. Are there really people who are dumb enough and irresponsible enough that they would burn themselves on hot water and then, I don't know, sue the last professional who'd been down there? I guess, this being America, I should know the answer to that already.

It happened to me again at the beginning of last week. The first morning I thought, "Man, it must be really cold today." The second morning I thought, "Maybe I'm imagining it." The third morning I thought, "Goddamnit, my water heater is broken." Finally I remembered that my neighbors' water heater had conked out a few days before, and they'd had to have it replaced. So, yes, someone had been down there with the water heaters.

I went down to the basement with a flashlight. My water heater had a temperature dial, like all the ones I've ever had. It was set to medium. All sorts of warnings were written on the heater. Scalding may occur. Please don't turn it all the way up if you want to live. Et cetera. I turned it all the way up -- almost, because even now, I wonder if there is something to these dire exhortations. I took a shower. The water was back to normal. Except a little cooler than normal, since I hadn't turned it up quite all the way.

I mean, really. Next time I'm considering leaving a note down there, saying "I am aware that turning the water all the way to hottest means there is a possibility I could burn myself. I accept this responsibility. I absolve the reader of this note of any responsibility. Please, don't turn my temperature dial down again. I don't want to go through three or four lukewarm showers before I figure it out."

Even if it shortens the life of my water heater or something, I don't care. Even if it adds to the gas bill, which I'm sure it does. I can't live in a world where I have to stand under tepid water every morning. I promise I'll be careful.

Bowl of grapes, never leave me

I have been literally storing the bowl of grapes on the coffee table in the living room. So I can munch on them throughout the day or evening. If I'm sitting on the couch, I just put the bowl next to me on the couch. I must say, it's nice to be able to wave my arm vaguely to the right and have it come into contact with a grape. I feel like a Roman emperor or something. If only I could train the cat to feed them to me.

Untitled

Last night I went to a reading/Q&A session by an old writing teacher of mine. He's done a lot of talks like this lately because, oh, he won a Pulitzer for his first novel this year. This is totally surreal to me still, that one day he was another guy teaching a bunch of night-school wannabe fiction writers, and then he finally sold that novel that he'd told us had been sitting in a drawer for several years, and now suddenly he's a famous author. It's hard to imagine, not least because it's the EXACT dream that anyone who's ever aspired to be a writer has.

The talk was great -- he's an excellent talker, sometimes in class to the point where you wished he would stop rambling and say something concrete, but in class his ramblings were ALWAYS entertaining, hilarious, and studded with insights, and this was no different. While listening to him I felt like I was back in class again, and then I realized that there's no way I will ever take an Extension School fiction class with him ever again (if he did ever come back to teach one for a lark, it'd be full in .2 seconds), and that made me sad.

It's weird, I've been thinking about doing a certificate program for graphic design, and in fact I'm meeting with someone at the school tonight to discuss my application. I'm excited about the idea, ready to throw myself in and learn, while also scared that I won't have the creative ability.

But in a way, entering a program for graphic design represents a defeat for me. Ever since I was a kid, I've wanted to be a writer, and I've thought of myself as a writer. It's how I define myself. I've written stories since I could form letters with a pencil. I chose colleges to apply to based on whether or not they had a creative writing program, though I ultimately ended up not doing the program at my school because it conflicted with studying abroad. That didn't stop me from writing stories, though: sure, in college they were mostly Star Trek: TNG fanfiction, but I always had several going, and I would just write nonstop while sitting in class, while at the library when I was supposed to be studying, late at night when I should have been sleeping. I filled notebook after notebook, went through box after box of EraserMate blue erasable pens. I always figured that once I got down to it I'd write a real novel, sell it, and that would become my life: sitting at a writing desk, cranking out story after story and getting paid for it.

After I graduated, I got a job working for a magazine. It was a tiny magazine that no one had heard of, serving an extremely specific market (IT contractors), but I was In Publishing. I was a glorified intern, but I started out writing, among other things, a list of websites. I was writing! For money. Sorta. And answering the phone, but that's all right. Then I got a few more things to write, little magazine articles, some of which involved calling people to interview them. And it was about then that I made a rather pivotal discovery: I hate journalism. Hate it. Haaaaaaaaaate iiiiiiiiiiiit. I hate calling people up. I don't like writing about a topic I have no interest in. Fiction, yes. "Essays," sure, if an essay means a rambling opinion piece about something (you MIGHT say I'm an expert at that sort of thing). But anything under the broad category of "journalism" became repugnant to me. I remember pondering, at one point (probably while procrastinating on writing something), if I had a choice between being a journalist and being a person who shovels pig shit -- like, as a full-time job -- which one I'd pick. I picked pig shit, and it wasn't even a hard call. The idea of mindless physical labor, however difficult, seemed infinitely better to me than having to cold-call, conduct interviews, and then painfully squeeze out some weak lines of prose that tied it all together. I realized I couldn't write on demand -- or, I probably could, but I didn't want to.

This was kind of life-altering for me. As a recent college graduate, I'd assumed I'd go into a writing-related field, and this would murkily but decisively lead me eventually to my career as a novelist. Except while I was waiting for that to happen, I had to pay rent and buy food and things like that. At this magazine job, I fell into doing what has become my career: editing and proofreading. As far as a work task, I liked it MUCH better than writing. It took concentration, much of the time, but I didn't have to engage the brain engines that produce the alchemical, and still mystical to me, result. To this day I take forever to compose a simple two-line e-mail. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about it. But writing at work, ANY kind of writing, is highly stressful for me.

I still wrote outside of work: in fact I took a few fiction classes, including Paul's, and produced a few short stories that I'm proud of. The deadline pressure certainly helped. My attention is always divided, though; there are so many classes to take, languages to learn, hobbies to try. And TV to watch, and Sims games to play, and websites to screw around on.

So I've been an editor and proofreader lo these many years, and lately I've felt pulled toward the layout end of things. Basically, if I had my wish, what I would like to do is be given some text, which I did not write, and some guidelines and sit around in front of Quark for hours noodling with it until it looks good. It's interesting to me that I've pushed myself away from work-time writing, and now I'm trying to push myself further from work-time reading as well.

With all this on my mind, I went to the event last night. It was titled "A Conversation on the Craft of Writing," and that's what it was. Instead of a small, hot classroom in Sever, it was an auditorium, filled with people eager to learn from the accomplished author. I witnessed quite a bit of feverish note-taking. As I listened to the detailed questions and his freewheeling, rambling, but ultimately illuminating answers, I felt submerged in nostalgia -- not so much for the class, but for writing. For the hard work of it, the problem-solving, the joy of crossing that indefinable threshold past which the words come flowing out, the rush of reading it over the next day. Even the frustration and the desperation to be doing ANYTHING else (cleaning your house, organizing your e-mail, watching some TV show that normally you'd never look twice at but that's suddenly become unbearably compelling). The effort, and the earned reward. And I felt something else, a little pang of betrayal. I had spent years telling myself that if I ever went to grad school it should be for something practical. A graphic-design certificate program hardly qualifies as "grad school," but it's further education that (hopefully) will help my career. And listening to Paul talk, all I could think was that I wished I could quit work and go into an MFA program. Which I've thought of doing in the past, but which has always seemed overly idealistic, financially irresponsible, and ultimately an indulgent waste of time.

Of course, trying to pick up some skills that will help me steer my career in a direction I'd like it to take doesn't mean I'm giving the finger to the idea of "being a writer." But I saw it laid out for me, in a kind of umistakable way, that I'd given up the idea of a writing career. I think that's all right. I long ago reasoned that I'd rather save my creative fuel for my off time, even if I haven't been using it that much in the off time lately. Still, it staggered me a little.

Paul must have had hundreds of former students coming up to him at these talks, hoping he'll remember them, wishing they'd made themselves special to him before he became special himself. He recognized my friend and me, smiled and chatted with us, and asked if we were still writing. We sort of laughed and shuffled our feet. It was like looking across a river to some shimmering country on the other side. Not because of the Pulitzer or the adoring undergrads. It's the certainty of a path taken, of a commitment made and a promise fulfilled. You set out to be a writer, and now you are one, in the most legitimate, realized way possible.

I'm glad I didn't live at home for years, torturing myself over my daily procrastinations and excuses. I'm glad I have a full-time job and a house and regular hours and a social life and health insurance. I still want to write a novel. Most people have day jobs while they try to write novels, and I still believe that I will do it someday. But in the meantime I've got to learn some web design so I can get a higher-paying job and be able to afford to travel once in a while and to put money in retirement and all that stuff. And there's no shame in that, and I don't have any shame over it; I'm excited. But part of me still feels like I settled.

When I was taking fiction classes, we were urged to carry around a "writing notebook" and jot down observations to mine for future stories. I think I should get back to doing that. Maybe it's time to try to get started again.

Just an old wallpaper injury

As I mentioned, I've been removing wallpaper from my dining room, slowly but surely. It's kinda slow going, but I just do a little bit every weekend (or nearly). I can only do a certain amount anyway, because I mostly use my fingernails to remove the wet paper (I've tried wallpaper-removing chemicals, but a spray bottle of water seems to work best), and after a while my fingernails get sort of mushy like when you're in the bath. My ceilings are pretty high, and in this room there's wood paneling (white, thank goodness) up to about four feet, and there are four doorways and two windows and a china cabinet, so most of the work is done on a ladder. After a while my arms get tired. So doing it in small bits is good.

I put on music while I do it and sing along and have a good time. (Two Door Cinema Club and the new Radiohead album are probably always going to remind me of wallpaper removal. Metric won't, but only because I also listen to them incessantly in the car.) I do worry sometimes that I'll fall off the ladder because I have terrible balance, but I am very careful and I'm thinking about balancing all the time and I hold on.

I usually have all kinds of stuff stuck in my pockets or my pants: the scraper (I use it mostly for edges, where it's harder to get off because the wall surface is different for some reason), the iPhone, a nail file or a flathead screwdriver for getting corners, the scorer thing if I'm just starting on a wall, and the spray bottle, which I usually hook into my waistband. It's only fallen down, oh, about twelve times. And a plastic bag on my wrist that I put (most of) the paper in as I pull it off. It's really not at all a bad way to spend a weekend afternoon. Even though it's very musty (once the paper gets moist and I start peeling, you can really smell the smell of oldness) and after a while my hands get gluey.

A few weeks ago, on Monday I had this muscle ache in my calf. I wasn't sure why; I thought maybe I strained it somehow without realizing. No big deal.

A couple weeks ago, I had it again on a Monday, and I finally realized what it is: it's from standing on my tiptoes on the ladder. Or if not on my tiptoes, just standing tensely on the ladder and stretching up.

Today I did it for a long while, and there was QUITE a lot of next-to-the-ceiling wallpaper. I can already feel it in BOTH calves.

What all this means of course is that I never ever get any exercise and my muscles are made of Jell-O.

I have one and a half walls left. Getting ever closer to taupe!

Cozy pink sweater

I have a cozy pink sweater. I got it less than six months ago, which I can't believe. It feels like it's always been mine.

I'm a serial monogamist when it comes to cozy house-sweaters. Some call them "housecoats," which makes me think of something like this and makes me feel like an 80-year-old lady. The truth is, in the wintertime, I'm pretty much always cold. Because I'm neither a millionaire nor an earth-killing asshole, I don't turn the heat up to what would be comfortable for me, which would probably be like 78. As I've mentioned, I'm also not one of those psycho New Englanders who keeps it at 55. That means that for, oh, six or seven months out of the year, I have a cozy thing that I wear most of the time in the house. At times it's been a fleece. For years, it was this grey button-up thing that I randomly bought at a J.Crew sale on the Cape. It was not beautiful, but it was warm.

As with many relationships in these modern times, this sweater and I met online. One day last fall my friend who is on top of these things sent me a link to an L.L. Bean cardigan. It was on some kind of special one-day sale. It was normally $60 but was marked down to like $25. It was hip-length (for a normal person; for me, upper-thigh length). It buttoned up the front. It had a hood (I love hoods). It had pockets. The only one they had left was size extra small (which in L.L. Bean sizes is definitely my size, as they're not exactly Urban Outfitters with the form-fitting sizing) and pink (a color I sometimes love and sometimes hate, but in this shade, love). The shipping was free. It seemed to be calling my name. I thought, why not.

As it happened, I was leaving three days later for a long weekend in Maine at the house of this very same friend. Friday after work I got home, ready to grab my stuff and start driving. SURPRISE! A package from L.L. Bean was on my doorstep. I had NOT expected it to come that fast, since the shipping was free and it was their super deal thing. But there it was. I opened the bag and tried it on. OH, IT WAS GLORIOUS. It was warm and cozy. It snuggled me like a big pink bear. I put on the hood to make sure it didn't make me look ridiculous and it didn't (much). I didn't really have room to pack it, since it's so huge, so I just wore it in the car (and brought my coat). I pretty much wore it all weekend, so our initial bonding occurred at a beautiful Maine house by a lake in the fall, which is just where you want to wear a cozy L.L. Bean sweater, ideally while listening to Gordon Lightfoot.

Since then, this sweater and I have been inseparable. When I get home from work, I tend to put on my pajamas right away unless I'm going somewhere else, because changing into something else for a few hours seems silly. It's not like they're footie pajamas or anything; I wear yoga pants and a t-shirt under a v-neck. If I put a bra and shoes on I could get away with going to the grocery store. Over that I put my cozy pink sweater. Putting it on is like drinking a cool glass of water in summer, or getting under the covers in winter. I'm immediately more relaxed. On weekend mornings I get out of bed and put it on. I'm wearing it now as I'm typing this post. I have to do laundry today and it needs a wash, and like a clingy girl who freaks out when her boyfriend goes to the dentist and texts "I MISS U :(" every ten seconds until he returns, I'm already hand-wringing about having to get through a few hours without it. It has nice big fat buttons. It has long enough sleeves that I can stick my hands in them. It has pockets for chapstick and Kleenex. If I'm really cold I can pull up the hood and button the top button. Ahhh.

I don't know why this sweater is so magically warm. According to the L.L. Bean site it's an "acrylic/wool/cotton/polyester/nylon/spandex blend." That doesn't sound particularly magical, though maybe it's a secret recipe à la the 11 herbs and spices. But it's my faithful companion, and I imagine it will be so for years to come. When summer gets here I'll put it away -- not far away, but I'll hang it on a hook and forget about it. When fall comes again I'll be chilly and then I'll think "MY SWEATER" and I'll rediscover it, like I do my equally beloved slippers every year, and it will keep me warm all winter.

L.L. Bean seems to have this sweater for sale pretty consistently. Colors vary (right now it's only available in brown and tan -- to be honest, I probably would have gotten the brown had it been available then), but it seems like a staple of their catalog, which I'm glad about because I'm sure someday I'll want another one. I already gave my mom the slightly less frumpy cousin for Christmas. I nearly went crazy and gave it to everyone I know for Christmas, but I restrained myself. If you're looking for a cozy house-sweater, though, I promise you that it is awesome. Gordon Lightfoot, while not required, is recommended.

Grapes and cracks and things

I've been working hard to eat better -- sometimes that means eat less, but also it means not eat so much processed crap. I am REALLY fond of processed crap, so, you know. It's a learning curve. Part of that is also about trying to prepare more of my own food for cheapness reasons. Having a nice peanut-butter-and-banana on whole wheat is doubtless better for me than a Chipotle burrito bowl, in addition to being cheaper. Of course, cooking for yourself is not always cheaper, especially when you're not great at it (don't forget the hovertext there), but overall it's a worthy direction to go in, I feel.

I'm also trying to do more of the thing where you shop mostly at the edges of the store instead of in the middle. Of course, at my grocery store one edge has the fruit and vegetables and chicken breasts and stuff, but the other edge has beer and tampons, so. It's not a perfect system. But I'm trying to eat more fruits and vegetables, is what I'm saying. Bonus: I feel a lot less guilty housing a pint of raspberries than I do a bag of goldfish.

I am not a huge fan of vegetables. I like vegetables, I will eat vegetables, I find certain ones delicious. But I rarely crave vegetables. Except maybe sweet potatoes. And tomatoes, which are really a fruit. Lettuce, salads? I tolerate. Also, vegetables don't work well for snacking, and I am a champion snacker. I'm not going to sit on the couch and eat handfuls of spinach or a zucchini.

Fruit, on the other hand, I legitimately love. In the summer, if I could, I would happily eat three peaches a day. I love peaches like no other. I also love the shit out of some red raspberries. Whenever they go on sale I will buy a container and just eat the whole thing (if you let them sit for more than like, two hours they will start getting moldy anyway -- I'm pretty sure I have NEVER opened a container of raspberries that didn't have at least one slightly moldy one). I don't love apples by themselves, but I'm a HUGE fan of apples and peanut butter (that's one apple, sliced, with peanut butter on each slice) and I often enjoy that for a light dinner. And I love bananas. I usually have at least part of one with lunch. And if you offered me a bowl of ice cream or a bowl of strawberries, I would be likely to pick the bowl of strawberries. If they were washed and de-stemmed I would definitely pick the strawberries. (Unless it was coffee oreo ice cream.)

The other day I was at the grocery store wishing it was peach season, and out of the blue I remembered GRAPES! I don't know why I stopped eating grapes. They were basically my favorite food when I was a kid. Maybe I got sick of them from eating them so much. In any case, I'd gotten out of the habit. I thought, "At last, a cheap and healthy food that I can nosh to my heart's content." Of course, at the register I nearly fainted because the bunch was like six dollars. It is, after all, winter. And $3.99 a pound doesn't seem like that much for, say, one zucchini, but grapes are heavy. But it was all right because they were GLORIOUSLY DELICIOUS.

Today I got to the store and there was a sign right on the window for grapes at NINETY-NINE CENTS A POUND. I believe I was muttering "MOTHERFUCKING GRAPES" to myself as I almost walked into a store employee, who nicely stopped and let me pass. (Once in a while I have these moments where I remember that the outside world is there and wonder if I come across as a crazy person.) The grapes were so cheap I got TWO bunches. And then at the register I nearly fainted AGAIN, only EVEN MORE SO, because the checkout computer voice announced EIGHTEEN DOLLARS. But then quickly added that I had saved $13.29, because it likes to do that because otherwise you would forget to appreciate your Shaw's card. "PSYCH!" it added. Not really. So instead of $18 for two large bunches of grapes I paid $4.39. NOW THAT IS A BARGAIN.

So now I'm sitting on the couch with a bowl of grapes, munching away. They're like a salad, only probably not as healthy. But about 7,000 times more delicious. Of course, as grapes go, they're kind of sour, which is probably why they were on sale, but shhhh, don't tell me.

The other thing that happened was, I walked home from the grocery store (which is only about half a mile), and I passed this guy getting out of a car, sort of leaning into the open car door, and about six inches of his buttcrack was showing. I STARED right at it, because I couldn't NOT stare at it, it was RIGHT before my eyes. It was so dark and deep in contrast to his skin that I thought he was wearing a thong at first. He had on bright red underwear, which I could see a few inches of, and then kind of bright blue jeans, and somehow the effect ended up being like a crazy, bare-assed Superman. He was also wearing a cowboy hat and speaking Spanish, so it was like some kind of crazy Spanish cowboy Superman porno. This was all a flash of impression (that will be stamped forever in my brain), and I walked on. And now I eat grapes. To forget.

My life, I tell you. It is an unending roller-coaster ride of seeing people with their pants falling down and saving money on grapes. It's a wonder no one has tried to make a biopic of me.

Taupe is dope

I went to Home Depot today to grab some paint samples. I'm taking down the wallpaper in my dining room, which is a large project. I did it in my bedroom, and in the bedroom it was over the whole wall, not just the top half like in the dining room, but it came off a lot more easily in the bedroom. I'm just doing it on weekends; I'm not in a hurry. Still, it's kind of taking forever.

I love going to Home Depot (or Helm's Depot as my sister calls it) to get paint samples, because it's like buying something except you don't have to spend any money. The dining room is the last room I want to paint -- when it's done I will have painted every room in my house except the living room, which is fine as is. And I'll kind of miss the paint-samples trip. I was thinking about terra cotta, but then I decided it would look kinda ugly with the wood. And then I was thinking about green, a lighter green than the one I painted the foyer but in the same family. But then I thought that might be way too much green. I tend to go way overboard on green because I love it. So then I was thinking a yellowy color, but my kitchen is already yellow, and, I don't know. Then I thought a grey would look nice. And then I thought maybe a slightly warmer, browny grey. And then I realized that a lightish browny grey is taupe. So I guess I like the color taupe. I'm officially an adult.

My usual paint-sample go-to, Behr, surprisingly did NOT have a million colors of taupe. You know who did? This will be a shocker: Martha Stewart. Yep.

So far I'm liking Buckwheat Flour or Natural Twine. Martha's taupe color names are also better. Behr's were names like Puddle or Cave. I swear one was called "Sensible" or something like that. Martha embraces taupe. We can't all be Bluebell Heaven Sky Dream or Cinnabar Morocco Spice Caravan Sunset, man.

So I guess I'm ending my paint-samples-collecting career on taupe. Could be worse; I painted my bedroom off-white. Party! Down!

Tests

So this is going to be kind of a weird and self-indulgent post and for that I apologize.

I feel like the universe tested me today, and I failed. Not only that, but the universe tested me, and I failed, and the universe said "Is that your final answer?" and I said "Yep" and then the universe said "Really? Final?" and I said "Yeppers" and the universe said "You can still change your answer" and I said "Nah" and the universe said "OK" and backed away quietly.

This story starts out with a sandwich. I've been doing really well bringing sandwiches to work. I don't every day, but pretty close to every day. Many's the week that I don't buy lunch once. And it really has helped -- my deficit is shrinking. However, a place opened up right near my office, a sub shop that came with a fair amount of advance acclaim. They were open for a few days, but for their official grand opening last week they were having half-price sandwiches all day. It was like the sky opened up and sandwiches started falling out. These sandwiches, to start with, are HUMONGOUS. The "small" is close to the size of a Subway foot-long. The large is twice that. The small subs are $5.50 and the large are $7.50. The bread is also very delicious, which is a big thing with me. I went and got one of my favorite sandwiches of all: prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, tomato, basil, olive oil, balsamic. I got a large so I could have it several times. So I paid $3.75 for an extremely delicious sub with prosciutto on it. I probably could have gotten away with cutting it into four, but I did thirds instead. Super super delicious. And a hell of a bargain -- worked out to $1.25 per meal.

For this week, I decided to make yesterday my out-of-office-lunch day and went there again. No half-price this time, but for Harvard Square the prices are still pretty excellent, especially considering the sizes. This time I tried the chicken parmesan. I only got a small because I wasn't sure how it would keep. Now, I LOVE ME a chicken parm. I once wrote to b.good asking them to put one on the menu. This chicken parm, though, was not my cup of tea. Everything was delicious EXCEPT the chicken. The chicken was not breaded, which is my preference. It was just plain chicken breast with the sauce and cheese on it. It was a nice chicken breast, and there's no law saying the chicken has to be breaded. That's just how I happen to prefer it. I ate half of my small (which was still a massive amount of sandwich), and it was all right, but I decided I wouldn't get it again. No big deal. We laughed in my office about how the leftover half of a small was still gigantic.

Today I had planned to eat the second half for lunch. But as lunchtime approached I had a massive craving for Chinese food. The Chinese-food craving, like the pizza craving, comes on fast and at the drop of a hat, and will not let go. I'd been fighting it off for a couple of days. Perhaps a little in loss-of-control mode after having been so disciplined about the sandwiches and then getting a taste of takeout again, I decided to go for it and have the leftover chicken parm later instead. I walked to the Chinese-food truck on Oxford Street and got some glorious lo mein with a (humongous) Peking ravioli for only an extra 50 cents. Hit the spot.

I figured I'd eat the chicken parm for dinner. Of course, I was full from the Chinese food and sort of not really in the mood for an underwhelming chicken parm. But I didn't want to waste it, and dinner is dinner. Tomorrow we're having an office lunch, so I am done with scoring myself lunch for the week. I packed up my leftover lo mein and my remaining chicken parm and got ready to head home. My family knows a song by Greg Brown called "Rich in Daughters," and we often quip that we're rich in one thing or another. I had the thought "I'm rich in leftovers."

As I did an errand I thought again that I wasn't really in the mood for the chicken parm. But I figured I would eat it anyway.

As I was heading to the T I got stuck in the crowds of early-evening St. Paddy's Day revelers, behind a man walking very slowly, obviously homeless, with a shopping cart. In the front of the cart was a round aluminum-foil tray, like the kind leftovers are put in. He had some food in it, some meat on top of some rice. I got past him and approached the T entrance. Another man was there, standing at the top of the escalators. He was holding a cardboard sign. I didn't catch all of it because I was going fast; I just saw the words "homeless" and "ill." As I usually do, I swept by quickly. As I often say, if you stop in Harvard Square for everyone who wants something from you -- people asking for change, people handing you flyers, people soliciting charitable donations -- you will never get anywhere. I'm very good at keeping my eyes forward and walking by.

As I went down the stairs the obvious thought finally occurred to me. I had a sandwich that I was planning to eat for dinner mostly out of obligation. There was nothing wrong with it -- it just wasn't to my particular taste. It was only a day old. It wasn't half-eaten; it had been cut in two at the sub shop, and I had wrapped it up right away and put it in the fridge after extracting the first half. Most of all, I didn't really want it. There was a strong possibility it would sit in my refrigerator at home while I made excuses not to eat it, and then get thrown out when it was old enough to justify doing so.

I thought about this while going down the stairs in the T station. I thought about it while going down the second set of stairs. I thought, "I could go back up and give it to that man at the top of the stairs." I didn't. I went into the bay where my bus comes. I heard a bus coming around the corner and I thought "I bet that's my bus and I'll have to get on and the decision will be made for me." It wasn't -- it was a different bus. I thought again about going back upstairs. I didn't. I thought, "Maybe if I said it was a chicken parmesan he would expect breading and be disappointed." I thought, "It wouldn't be very good cold. I don't really have any way of warming it up for him." Mostly I thought, "He might be weird and I would be shy to talk to him. People would be looking at us. Maybe he would be hard to understand. Maybe I'd say something that offended him. Maybe he's mentally ill and he would yell and I'd be upset." And I thought "I can just get on the bus and go home, like I always do."

I'm shy, and I'm very routine-oriented. New things and new people, while not anything I can't handle most of the time, tend to sit outside of my comfort zone. My brain, sometimes, is sluggish about waking up and breaking routine, about steering me down paths I'm not used to. I tend to get the same thing every time at a given restaurant. It often doesn't occur to me to stop watching a TV show that I'm not really enjoying anymore. It sometimes takes me, oh, four or five years to realize that I don't have to read every word in The New Yorker if I don't feel like it. I didn't really have a reason not to go and give the man my sandwich. I had many reasons to do it. The only thing stopping me was my brain keeping me on the usual track.

I stood waiting for my bus. I thought "Maybe I'll go back up." The man was clearly homeless -- he had a sign that said "homeless." He was unlikely to have moved from his spot in the few minutes since I'd seen him. If he had moved, there were sure to be plenty of other homeless people within a few feet -- there always are. I thought about all of these things. My bus came. I got on. I thought "Maybe I should have gone back up." A woman sat next to me, with a bunch of bags. The bus drove up the tunnel and stopped at the next stop, still well within the Square. I thought "I could get off right here and walk back." But the woman next to me would have been annoyed to have to get up. The bus went another stop. I thought "It's a beautiful day. I have nowhere to be. I could get off here and go back. I have lo mein still. I would still have leftovers." The bus kept going. I had my New Yorker out. I would read a bit and then stop. I thought "I could get off, go across the street and take the bus back to the Square." But it was rush hour and that would probably have taken forever. The bus kept going. I got off at my stop. I walked home.

The universe gave me a sandwich that I didn't really want but there was nothing wrong with. The universe put a homeless man with leftovers in front of me. Immediately afterwards, the universe presented me with another man who had a sign that said "homeless," was standing in one spot, and was looking at me asking for something. The universe waited for me to complete the equation. There's really not much more it could have done. I went down the stairs and into the bus bay. I waited for my bus, got on it, and went home. I felt sad. I felt angry at myself. I felt paralyzed and useless.

When I got home I made a donation to the Pine Street Inn. I hope that helps to ameliorate somewhat my failure to give away the sandwich when it seemed obvious to me -- even at the time -- that I should do so. I'll eat the leftover chicken parm for dinner and it won't go to waste. I won't have thrown money away on it; I also need to eat.

We all tend to get wrapped up in our lives and our problems. I know I certainly do. I don't want to spend every minute of my life feeling guilty that I have certain things and other people don't. I won't do that. I work and I pay my bills and I am careful with my money and usually not wasteful. I deserve to live my life and be happy. But I think it's important to be popped out of our bubbles once in a while, to remember and appreciate our good fortune, to be shown the world without the usual filters that we put up to get through our days. I'm glad it happened to me today, I wish I had responded more quickly, and next time, when the universe is suggesting that I do something, I will try to do it.