In my family, we sort of believe in ghosts.  When my mother can’t find her keys or some small (yet pivotal) household item is lost or out of its normal area, only to make a dramatic reappearance when the swearing sets in, we attribute it to Uncle B.  He was my mom’s quirkiest brother, who died over 20 years ago when he was just 28 years old.  Needless to say, he’s had some time to perfect the craft of making mischief From Beyond.   

Lately, in our house, I’ve noticed that when I turn one light on, the other doesn’t follow suit as it normally does.  Its graceful arms, with tulip-like bulbs on the end, stay dark.  This may have been happening for awhile – I can’t say for sure.  As anyone who knows me can tell you, I’m not the most observant of people.  (Quick story – when I was little, Mom teaches me to do the laundry and I am SO PROUD of myself for remembering when to put the rinse in, each and every time, since she emphasized it so much.  So, doing the laundry for over a month and she happens to be downstairs and asks, Did you forget something?  Oh yes, gentle readers.  The soap.  For a full month.  But the rinse?  In every time).

At any rate, this lamp has now taken to turning on at random times.  Hmm, I say to myself, that’s so odd.  As it happens more and more, I begin to say, Uncle B, is that you?  Secretly, I feel pleased.  It’s nice to have a visitor!

Last night, I leave to pick E up from the subway and turn off the light switch.  The one lamp obediently behaves and the other stays lit.  Well, I think, I’ll just tell E about it.  He’ll know what to do.

We walk into the house and I tell him about our unseen visitor and he points down at the outlet.  One word: timer.

“What did you think – it was magic?” he asked, tears of laughter starting to gather in eyes.

“Well..(tones of indignation)…yes!”

I maintain my explanation was more fun.

Over Labor Day weekend, we took E’s cousin to the US Holocaust Memorial Museum.  I’ve been before, of course.  It’s hard each time but one of the central themes of the museum is witnessing, the idea that by being a witness to the past, those long-ago atrocities won’t ever be repeated.  (Truthfully, I think of Rwanda and Darfur and Bosnia and believe that maybe the best we can hope for is that it will be harder to repeat them.)  At any rate, I think it’s really important to go. 

I’m always struck by something different and this time was no exception. 

In a small glass case, there was a small cloth brooch.  Despite the years, you could still see how pretty it was – the pink of the faded flowers and the green leaves surrounding them.  The explanation beside it broke my heart – in one of the concentration camps, a man and his children had traded their rations with another prisoner for the brooch, to give as a birthday gift to their mother.

Think about this for a moment.  Yes, it was a birthday gift – a symbol of their love and tenderness.  But I also saw that brooch as defiance.  In the midst of systematic, horrific treatment – nearly unimaginable to me – these people were saying, you can’t take everything from us.  In that little gift, in those once-vibrant petals, I read a fierce, ungovernable will to cling to their humanity, to preserve a shred of normalcy.  Stripped of autonomy that is guaranteed us by the simple virtue of being human, this man and his children demonstrated indomitable spirit. 

Their torturers thought they’d taken everything from them – all choice, all comfort, all freedom.  But with the act of giving up the meager rations that kept them just on the edge of life, with their generous impulse, they kept something essential: the spark, the very essence of themselves.

Today, to millions of viewers (including this one), Jon and Kate Gosselin announced they were divorcing. 

But this afternoon, DC experienced the worst metrorail accident in its history.  Six commuters, on their way home or to run errands, thinking about nothing more than the day’s little occurrences, their families, their responsibilities, dinner, died.  Dozens more were injured.  Almost all, it’s probably safe to say, were terrified.  And there was the second-string of worry that spun out from the accident’s epicenter.  The am I sure I know where X is today?   Do I know anyone who rides that stretch? 

Certainly, the dissolution of a marriage and its effect on a once-happy family is a personal tragedy in the sense that it’s, well, cruelly, awfully, terribly personal to those involved.  A bomb that floats almost lazily through the warm, sweet-scented memories of happier times, coming to rest before exploding just a second later.  But though devestating to those involved, this divorce – playing out as it is on the small screen – is just that: small.

Forgetting that – in the wake of the lives that were lost, the people that will never come home to their families (fractured or not), the heartache that comes from losing someone you love in such a wrenching, absolute and immediate way - would really be tragic.

All of the little condos in our community have burgundy doors and our neighbor’s sports a very nice little wreath.  But what I like best about this adornment is the new accessory it’s rocking: a nest.

Like old people (or even my parents – sorry to have outed you, Mom and Dad) who watch the squirrels in their backyard, providing passionate commentary on their comings and goings, I am obsessed with the wildlife that’s created a miniature safe haven in the lower curve of fake greenery and too-bright berries.  For weeks and weeks, I would tiptoe across our hall and peer into the nest. 

First, there was one small, bespeckled egg.

Then, two pale blue orbs with brown freckles.

Now there are three!  I breathlessly reported to the man, upon my return from a vigorous workout.  He flashed a wordless thumbs-up, returning to his book nearly immediately.  Sometimes I sense that my dearest doesn’t share my enthusiasm for our neighbor’s new tenants.

That suspicion was confirmed when we came home late one night.  Check out the nest, I urged.  There are FOUR eggs now!  FOUR.

I was on the receiving end of a look that said, I’m tired.  But he gamely trotted over to take a look and was surprised by the mama bird, indignantly flying away in a startle.  As my sweetie ducked and wove, arms waving to protect himself from a nonexistent pecking, I believe his excitement may have dwindled even further.  Forgot to tell you to eyeball the nest first, I said.  The look deepened to a bit of a glare.

Now, as I leave my nest in the mornings, I casually cast a glance at hers.  She’s been spending a lot of time there and her head will pop up, she’ll peep at me, flying away if we lock eyes.

I know what that means – and my hunch was right. 

A mass of soft downy loveliness with tiny beaks has replaced the beautiful eggs – new life being nurtured right across the hall.  And like an old person, I just couldn’t wait to tell you about it.  That’s just fine with me.

I learned yesterday that waterboarding and sleep deprivation is for sissies.  If you really want to make someone talk, all that’s required is a needle and a dentist’s chair. 

Seriously.

Yesterday morning arrived wet and rainy and I woke up with a sadly misplaced degree of confidence.  This won’t be so bad, I thought to myself, with more than a whiff of arrogance.  After all, I made it through the prelude to this little operation with only post-op pain.  The numbing needles beforehand were not a problem.  I am not a pussy, I told myself.

As I settled into the chair and looked into my surgeon’s eyes, I asked, will this hurt? 

It probably will.

And he was right.  That first shot in my lower gum felt like someone had taken a sharp knife and was joyfully stabbing my tongue repeatedly with it.  My body went rigid and mewling noises spilled out of my mouth.  Sometimes I hit the nerve dead on, he remarked.  Then it really hurts. 

Indeed.

But that was really just the amuse bouche for the main course. 

How many more?  I demanded.

Definitely several more.

Transitioning to the roof of my mouth, the surgeon positioned his needle and aimed.    Instantaneously, I let loose a strangled shriek, muffled only by his hand in my mouth.  Feel like an icepick straight into your brain?  he inquired.  I nodded, involuntary tears streaming from the corners of my eyes.  That’s the nerve that has a very direct and short pathway to your brain. Yeah, that happens one out of every 25 surgeries.  Lucky me.

At the end, drooling, unable to talk well, convinced my own tongue would not stay in my mouth, I asked the doctor how I did.  Just great! he said.

Even with the shots?  I pressed.

Well, the shots do hurt.

Translation: pussy.

It’s been percolating for awhile now, this feeling.  Each time, I go to the cabinet and look at it.  An old-fashioned pink mixing dish, 1.5 quarts of milky rose-colored glass and tiny scrapes on the inside, demonstrating the frequency of its use over the years, its reliability for culinary masterpieces. 

This dish is special, you see. 

When I hold this dish in my hands, I feel like a little girl again.  A girl who, with her small sister in tow, hovered like a hungry vulture in the kitchen, watching with eager eyes while our mom used the pink dish to make microwave fudge.  The fudge itself was a great secondary benefit, you see.  What was really special was the warm fudge remnants, spooned enthusiastically into our baby-bird mouths, directly from the dish.  Soft and buttery.  Perfect, really.  In fact, so prized were those leftovers that dueling spoons were common – small clashes of metal as we raced to get it all.  Kitchen skirmishes – and the spoils were truly sweet.

By way of much wheedling, I have recently acquired The Dish.  And not just The Dish, but its companion, The Book.  The Book is to the Dish what a map would be to, well, the Holy Grail.  The book, “The Microwave Guide and Cookbook,” was published in 1988 (a banner year!) and contains such excellent recipes as “Oysters, Scalloped”, “Taco Salad, Layered” and “Turkey Tettrazini.”  All recipes one immediately thinks of when it comes to microwaves and their use.  Despite these dubious titles, this slender volume also contains the fudge recipe, which by itself made this book worth publishing.

When Mom and Dad came out for the Inauguration, these two pieces were in their possession.  And now they are in mine!  So tonight, despite thinking ruefully of my weight-loss strides, I pulled the bowl out, flipped to Page 47 (much stained with cocoa powder) and set out to replicate our family delicacy.

In went the powdered sugar, the vanilla, milk and salt.  Mixed, mixed, mixed.  Then melted the butter on top.  Big spoon mixing away yet this magical dish did not prevent my damn fudge from being lumpy.

“What should I doooooooo?” I wailed to patient boyfriend.

“You should try to break up the lumps,” he said, staring fixedly at the television, well-versed in handling my minor meltdowns (all related to kitchen issues).

“Thanks.”

Ten minutes of vigorous stirring later: “It’s. Still. Lumpy.”

Loyal boyfriend: “Lumpy fudge is my favorite.”

But as I put the fudge into a buttered dish, I realized that perhaps the pink bowl’s magic really existed because of maternal alchemy.  Maybe it takes two hungry little girls and all your love to smooth out that melted chocolatey goodness. 

Thanks, Mom.

(Fortunately for me on this night, the scrapings were as excellent as I remembered them!)

Update: ATL wrote me back to say that they are NOT in fact getting rid of size 12s in the store.  And they inquired after the particular store I frequented so they could ensure that message was properly communicated!  Whew!  So glad I don’t have to not buy their clothes on principle (and then sneak in to purchase on the sly).

I am so irritated right now – below find the letter I wrote to ATL after learning they would no longer be offering size 12s in the stores. My missive was too long so I’m printing in entirety here (apparently they only accept up to “Size 10″ communications).

To Whom It May Concern:

I have long been a huge fan of Ann Taylor Loft. Your clothes are lovely, with style and grace. When I shop at your store, I usually can’t walk out without spending at least $100 and frequently more (an embarrassing fact to admit, but true!). I even have an ATL mastercard, the only store credit card I own.

Today, I was very disappointed to learn that ATL would no longer be carrying size 12s in the store. I was assured by a cheerful size 2 sales associate that we could “buy bigger sizes online!” Wow, thanks for that.

As somone who is both tall and well proportioned, athletic but not fat, I sometimes do fit a 12. The fact that Ann Taylor Corporate has chosen not to carry this size in the store anymore is flatout ridiculous. Since when is a size 12 worthy of being relegated to the “only available online” category for plus size women? The average American woman is a size 14, for crying out loud!

This is not what I would expect from a store that introduced the “Julie” line – perfect for someone like me, with rounder hips and a tiny waist.

I am considering taking my business to Banana Republic and J. Crew as a response; while their clothes don’t suit my style as much, their respect for womanly curves certainly does.

Sincerely,

L

No one likes getting spam.  I get that.  Really, I do. 

And let me just state up front.  I have no problem with your garden-variety spam.  You know, the Cyrillic alphabet e-mail.  The plaintive letter from our friend in Nigeria, urging us to take advantage of funds locked in his account.  Even the occasional nonsense spam message can be mildly interesting – a sort of refrigerator magnet poetry jumble of random phrases – something that elicits a huh before you hit delete.

But I have reached my breaking point.

Our anemic work spam filter always, ALWAYS lets in the spam that appears like a doppelganger version of me has sent the real me a note.  Talk about adding insult to injury.  It also appears that my second self doesn’t understand that I am, in fact, female, and thus uninterested in the following:

From: Jane Doe

To: Jane Doe

Re: Ram her like you’re 18 again!!!!!!!!!

Seriously?  I mean, come on!

Or, the latest and greatest…

From: Jane Doe

To: Jane Doe

Re: So big it makes her nervous

Ok, I have to admit, my seventh-grade self made an appearance on that last one and, well, she snickered.

I’ve always been jealous of families who have a really strong connection with their ethnic heritages.  My sisters and I are mutts – but we do have ONE tradition we keep: the Making of the Pieroghis.

When we were growing up, these labor-intensive delights -  sauteed in butter, served with sour cream – would grace our plates just a few times a year: Christmas, Easter and our own personal holidays, birthdays.

My sister and I spent a good chunk of Saturday afternoon, revisiting our childhood, making pieroghis in the kitchen of her new-to-me apartment.  Though it takes a good four hours, it’s the easiest time you’ve ever spent – and relaxing, too.  There’s something about the physicality of plunging your hands into the dough (rings off, ladies!), kneading it until it becomes smooth, and rolling it out, using a water glass to cut out each pieroghi before filling with the cheese- potato mixture.  

It might be silly but I imagine a connection to my Ukrainian relatives of old, there near the Poland border, making these for their children, husbands, themselves.   What were their lives like?  What would they think of me, my heritage distilled to just this one fragile but enduring tradition?

Last night, the forecast was for snow.  First ’significant’ snowfall of the year, the newscasters said ominously. 

This didn’t register until I went to the grocery store after work, where it slowly dawned on me – as I observed the frenetic energy of the shoppers around me – what was up.

To illustrate:

Contents of my cart: baked Doritos, mint chocolate cookie Turkey Hill fro yo, Ore Ida shoestring fries (2 bags), Knorr’s vegetable soup mix (critical for E’s spinach dip, which was not on the docket, but these were on sale) – 2 packets, Weight Watchers giant cookies and cream bars.

Clearly the product of someone who was hungry (and thus probably should have selected an alternate activity to grocery shopping) and not preparing to hunker down in advance of the impending apocalypse.

The shopper in front of me: bread – multiple loaves, water – jugs and jugs (!), toilet paper, and so many other goods that it is nearly impossible to fully recount the load, suffice it to say that it was literally mounded on top.  Like a small but determined mountain of nonperishables crowned with a light dusting of produce.

Clearly, one of us expected a Laura Ingalls Wilder-style blizzard.  No worries, lady, you’re not going to be stuck in the cabin while Pa breaks a trail to the latrine and the barn.  You won’t even get to try my favorite part of the book (when Laura and Mary made maple candy on the snow!  Umm, yum!).

Instead, four inches may fall (in reality, a dusting).  Schools will close.  The federal government may shut down.  But you’ll be set for the next three weeks!

Thank God!