Anna's Bloviations

Correction on last blog: I meant to say ethnically ambiguous. Not ethically ambiguous. A slip...

Well other than my brother-in-law having tried to kill himself Christmas Eve, Christmas was wonderful... Actually Christmas really was wonderful because we fortunately didn't find out about brother-in-law until after we got back from our ski trip to New Hampshire. Ignorance is bliss as they say. The skiing was gorgeous. The standing rib roast mouth-watering. And then bam out of the blue another human being splats onto your perfectly enjoyable vacation with news they didn't want to be part of this world anymore.

His suicide wasn't successful and to be brutally honest I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. There is at least a clean finality to death. Especially that the brother-in-law had the courtesy to leave letters for his family so there wouldn't be a lot of unanswered questions afterwards. Now, unfortunately, there are a whole new host of messy ends for him to cope with above and beyond the mess of his life he had tried to extinguish.

He is fifty-four. A wicked alcoholic. A chain smoker. His career as a prominent doctor in shambles. His family life in shambles. His health in shambles. And he lives in a country that cuts a lot of slack to alcoholics and chain smokers, and where re-inventing one's self ain't easy . No easy answers...

It gave us a moment of pause but we decided to go ahead and eat the $65 standing rib roast in spite of its potentially 'maddening consequences.' As my Uncle Frankie used to say, "None of us is getting out of this world alive..." So I guess that puts the value of my family's lives at about $16 each? Less actually since the daughter's boyfriend came over for Christmas dinner too.

If we all make it through the beef, I am pleased to announce that I am "in." As in: ethnically ambiguous is in. As in: my American mut heritage of a little bit of this and a little bit of that is in. Bye, bye blue eyes. Hello brown batting eyes.

Christmas card mail merges are very UNconducive to finding time to write.... Take one Access Database designed by a State House intern five years ago, a dozen-or-so legislative aides who have made entries since then, a boss who hands you a folder with scribbled addresses written on everything from scraps of paper to napkins, and a colleague whom I frankly hope never decides to procreate, and voila!, welcome to my life over the last few days!

At last 2,800 labels have been printed -- destined as they were for a wide cross section of our district's populace. I'll just say that I hope I never end up in elderly housing with nothing to look forward to other than a Christmas card from my Legislator. 'Cause the only reason you get that card is he/she knows one of the few things you still do is go out and vote....

Now back to enjoying the holidays. Like going out with a friend on our annual moving-going outing -- something very PG-rated that no hubby, friend, or offspring would be caught dead going to. Last time it was Nemo. This time Elf. Elf is interesting from the standpoint that it is so Level-10-Saccharin, you wonder what Hollywood is thinking these days. I mean it's not like they don't shy away from introducing evil scary characters into their kiddy movies. But this movie has zip, zero, nada bad guys. Maybe they figured that with all of the evil-doers already afoot in the world, they would go antithetical i.e. the very NON-evil route. Not that it was a bad movie. Just very non-EVIL.

Cards are out. Tree is trimmed. Logs a'ready. Ordered the standing rib roast from New England Meat Market in Peabody -- excellent beef although I can't vouch that it is completely hormone/antibiotic free. Next year I might try ordering from New England Natural Beef. And I can't wait until we open those kick-ass presents I was telling you about. The one I am going to take up with me to New Hampshire -- it'll be perfect after a day of skiing whilst reading a good book in front of the wood stove and sipping a glass of Merlot.

A tip for guys who buy Xmas presents at Victoria Secret: If you're going to buy your significant other something at Victoria Secret, then go all the way. Don't wimp out and buy flannel pajamas. Buy something sexy! If you want to play it safe, just buy that sexy whatever a size bigger than she may need. She won't mind returning it for a smaller size... Happy Holidays!

Based on the number of email I got asking what Anna Bloviations thinks this year's Christmas gift-of-all-gifts is, I'm thinkin' there are a lot of stumped people out there. No wonder really. All the clothing stores offer essentially the same boring clothes in the same boring colors. This year's music offerings? Bland. Ditto for the top ten Amazon.com bestseller book list. Two of the top ten books bash the right. One bashs the left. One book is nothing but cartoons. Ho hum. I do however recommend Life of Pi which is on the list. Continuing on, there doesn't seem to be any must-have kitchen utensil this year (like the bread machine or Cuisinart a few Xmas seasons back) nor does there seem to be a must-have, people-would-do-anything-to-get-it toy this year either (remember the PlayStation frenzy?). Of course now that everything is available at Wal-Mart, brand value is going by the wayside so things aren't as desirable anymore -- a key component to a product's success. People have to want something so badly they would be willing to trample over one another in Toys 'R' Us, or offer to pay five times the value of the item on eBay to get it.

Anyway, please feel free to email if you would like to know the coolest holiday gift out there as far as I'm concerned. Otherwise you'll have to wait until after Xmas to find out what it was (and then it will be too late) not to mention the fact you'll have to also endure the I-don't-want-to-hurt-your-feelings but what-were-you-thinking-when-you-bought-this smile. "Gee thanks Mom. The pajamas are just great." "Are you sure you like them? We can return them you know." "No that's ok Mom. They're greeaat..."

You could get that special someone in your life a few magazine subscriptions. I really like Orion, Harper's Magazine and The Atlantic Monthly. I do, however, get annoyed with Harper's. I don't know why they are so stingy in providing online content. In other words, the only way to forward on something really interesting or funny, is to manually type everything yourself. So needless to say I only ever send short amusing snippets...

Like this little bit about Emperor Penguins:

Once a male emperor penguin has completed mating, he remains by the female's side for the next month to determine if the act has been successful. When he sees a single greenish-white egg emerge from his mate's egg pouch, he begins to sing. Scientists have characterized his song as "ecstatic." The female emperor penguin "catches the egg with her wings before it touches the ice." She then places it on her feet, to keep it from contact with the frozen ground. At this point, both penguins will sing in unison, staring at the egg. Eventually, the male penguin will use his beak to lift the egg onto the surface of his own feet, where it remains until hatching. Not only does the male penguin endure the inconvenience of walking around with an egg balanced on his feet for months but he also will not eat for the duration.

I'd tell you what I think is this year's Christmas gift of all gifts but sometimes my daughter reads my blogs and I'd be giving away the surprise. You'll just have to wait until after Christmas to see what you should have bought. The nineteen-year-old son will be getting one and the seventeen-year-old daughter will be getting one (@ $399 a piece). And one for me too. Much better than sweaters destined to be the meal of a moth. But at that price we'll also be seeing a lot of tangerines and gummi bears in the stocking...

I consulted with my three adoptive brothers on this -- two of whom got back to me and said yes, product X is cool. The third is too busy these days in D.C. But I know his heart is there in that he reads the email chain and would answer if he had the time (although maybe he is mad at me because I called him a fuddy-duddy). Now when I say 'adoptive' I mean that one day I said, "heh you guys are pretty great and I am adopting you as my brothers." The rest is history i.e. they are everything this only child could have wished for: they give me sort-of-sage-advice on certain Christmas presents and give me the sibling-sass I envied the whole time I was a child. Yes I was jealous that I didn't have a brother calling me a knuckle-head moron. Go figure. We always want what we don't or can't have. It's all about attention after all...Suffice to say that I've invited myself to my adoptive brothers' wedding(s). I will always be there for them to the extent that I can -- either as inspirational sister or annoying thorn -- it matters not.

So one of my brothers started to take a philosophical approach by suggesting that I should think about the Xmas gift I was considering in terms of its potential to reinforce the materialistic tendencies of my children's generation; I should rather get them back to the 'true meaning of Christmas.' Well first of all that's kind of hard when you're an agnostic and for the most part believe in Santa. But whatever. In reality it's much too late for such considerations. Any kid born in or near 1984 is stung by unique generational baggage seldom seen by any other generation before. They were namely born into an economic bonanza the likes of which we have never seen in history. They were born onto a rode paved in gold. They were born into an era by which marketing and psychology have become a sophisticated power-pak of, "let's hook these kids by the age of two into WANTING Sesame Street, Ninja Turtles, Lego, PlayMobile, books, soccer cards. Addidas socks- no Nike socks, this-player-shirt- no, that-player-shirt, American Eagle-no, Abercrombie-no, Gap-no, J. Crew, Tiffany's, Stanford-no, U-Penn-no, Washington University, Ralph Lauren Polo-no, what next? They know no other reality.

I've done my part. My kids will never buy an S.U.V. (or risk being disowned). When in 40 years the oil wheezes to its inevitable non-energy-sustainable trickle, it will be my children's problem, not mine...

P.S. How pathetic is the democratic pool for presidential candidates? Particularly that their two soapbox platforms have evaporated -- namely Saddam and the economy...Whoops. Where oh where is a viable non-neo-conservative vision that we can grasp onto? It's pretty sad when the prevailing democratic bumper sticker reads: ANYBODY BUT BUSH IN 2004.... And if you haven't caught Josh Cagen, he kind of sums it up:

"The most entertaining/depressing offshoot of Saddam Hussein's capture, is, without a doubt, watching the reactions of the Democratic Presidential candidates.
They all sort of look like they were just given a painted rock for Christmas from their least favorite mentally challenged step-grandchild. "No, no...This is...Great. I...Couldn't be happier. It's just...What I wanted. (sigh) Attaboy, Slowy."

Having hubby's holiday office party just days after the hubby's office Open House was just a tad much i.e. why didn't someone think of killing two birds with one stone? Why not show off the new everything-is-yellow-to-match-the-company-logo office along with the fancy espresso machine AND have the holiday party there at the same time.

No instead we were a table of the same twenty people I don't know particularly well and whom I had just seen a few nights before. Having dinner we were. On Boston's Odyssey Cruise ship. Like I said, in the beginning the parties are always as flush as a venture capatalist's bank account. But take my advice and don't ever plan an office party (or any other kind of party) on one of these evening cruise ships. It's like a bad Disney ride. Really. Especially in December when you're looking out the window at essentially nothing but twinkling, swaying lights that give you the feeling you've had more to drink than you actually have. During the dinner they basically park the boat somewhere out on the ocean and subject you to course after course of swaying meals. Once you get past the sprigs, swizzles, and puree of plate ornamentation, you discover, heh, underneath all the decorative goop are just an overcooked steak and underdone potato! The live music is loud and lounge-lizardy. I have to give them credit though for having played one good round of "At Last" (Etta James I think did the best interpretation of that song ever).

The loud music made dinner conversation a yelling match. Just as I had engaged myself in a delightful scream with the CTO of the company, a whispering software nerd who lives in a refurbished castle in the countryside of England, we were beseiged by a wait staff very nosily clearing away the dessert dishes, glasses, and napkins. As if their lives depended on it. We had been talking about one of my passion subjects (sustainable agriculture) when along came someone who thought it might be OK to take away my half-finished chocolate mousse. "Ummm, excuse me but could you kindly put that back. I'm not finished..." But I guess the guy who came over loud-and-clear on the intercom thought I was finished because the lighting suddenly went from romantically dim to a fluorescent glare -- the bright light accentuating the interior decor that had obviously seen one too many Jr. Prom. "Thank you for joining us this evening. We have now docked. Please remember to collect your belongings before you go..."

"Gee honey, I guess it's time to go!" Oh look at me being so catty. It was a lovely evening. Really. I got to wear my velvet Ann Taylor pants and beaded sleeveless top. The shoes are the kind which have prompted an alarming number of women to get toe surgery so that they can squeeze their feet into them every day (I discreetly changed into my Steve Madden black suede sneakers before disembarking). I got to dance to "At Last." And hubby's colleagues are mostly delightful, intelligent, interesting English chaps. So I can't complain. OK, ok. I forgot to tell you about the half-bottle of J.Lohr I drank before going on board. Just to take off the edge. BECAUSE GOD YOU CAN'T IMAGINE HOW MANY OF THESE COMPANY CHRISTMAS PARTIES I HAVE BEEN SUBJECTED TO. No, no I didn't drink the bottle all by myself -- swigging it, as it were, whilst hailing a cab to get to the wharf. No, my long-time friend I can thank for my job at the State House accompanied me to a new place right near the wharf called Sel de la Terre.

And I'm pleased to report too that my duct-tape-smile-red lipstick did its job although I did lecture the CEO's wife just a little bit that she really ought to start buying organic milk for her three toddlers. I also commended her for not having given in to buying a big, fat Suburban. She would like one but Mr. hubby CEO is taking my side on this one so far. Trying to change the world, one reluctant person at a time....

Did anyone read Michael Moore's December 8th letter to Mr. Bush? I'm going to print it for you here again followed by a recent email written by my Conservative Electronic Acquaintance. Here's Moore's letter:

December 8, 2003

Dear Mr. Bush,

Well, it's going on two weeks now since your surprise visit to one of the two countries you now run and, I have to say, I'm still warmed by the gesture. Man, take me along next time! I understand only 13 members of the media went with you -- and it turns out only ONE of them was an actual reporter for a newspaper. But you did take along FIVE photographers (hey, I get it, screw the words, it's all about the pictures!), a couple wire service guys, and a crew from the Fox News Channel (fair and balanced!).

Then, I read in the paper this weekend that that big turkey you were holding in Baghdad (you know, the picture that's supposed to replace the now-embarrassing footage of you on that aircraft carrier with the sign "Mission Accomplished") -- well, it turns out that big, beautiful turkey of yours was never eaten by the troops! It wasn't eaten by anyone! That's because it wasn't real! It was a STUNT turkey, brought in to look like a real edible turkey for all those great camera angles.

Now I know some people will say you are into props (like the one in the lower extremities of your flyboy suit), but hey, I get it, this is theater! So what if it was a bogus turkey? The whole trip was bogus, all staged to look like "news." The fake honey glaze on that bird wasn't much different from the fake honey glaze that covers this war. And the fake stuffing in the fake bird was just the right symbol for our country during these times. America loves fake honey glaze, it loves to be stuffed, and, dammit, YOU knew that -- that's what makes you so in touch with the people you lead!

It was also a good idea that you made the "press" on that trip to Baghdad pull the shades down on the plane. No one in the media entourage complained. They like the shades pulled and they like to be kept in the dark. It's more fun that way. And, when you made them take the batteries out of their cell phones so they wouldn't be able to call anyone, and they dutifully complied -- that was genius! I think if you had told them to put their hands on their heads and touch their noses with their tongues, they would have done that, too! That's how much they like you. You could have played "Simon Says" the whole way over there. It wouldn't have been that much different from "Karl Says," a game they LOVE to play every day with Mr. Rove.

Well, if you're planning any surprises for Christmas, don't forget to include me. When I heard last week that you wanted to send a man back to the moon, I thought, get the fake goose ready -- that's where ol' George is going for the holidays! I don't blame you, what with nearly 3 million jobs disappeared, and a $281 billion surplus disappeared, and the USA stuck in a war that will never end -- who wouldn't want to go to the moon! This time, take ALL the media with you! Embed them on the moon! They'll love it there! It looks just like Crawford! You can golf on the moon, too. You'll have so much fun up there, you might not want to come back. Better take Cheney with you, too. Pretend it's a medical experiment or something. "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for every American who's sick and tired of all this crap."

Yours,

Michael Moore

Dear Anna Bloviations,

MM's usual falsehood's and half-truth's aside, I don't know how any dignified and decent person can find a disrespectful letter to the President about his visit to the troops during a time of war, or mocking a person with an heart disease, "funny." What do you do for your kick's on weekends? Visit the local Veteran's hospital to mock the amputees ("hey, leftie, have the greedy corporations sent you a thank you letter for giving them your right arm?! hah, hah, hah, blah, blah, blah) If you don't understand that this letter was way out of line, then you are out of touch with the values of a decent and respectful society.

The answer to all of your anti-US hatred is right in front of you. Any country that would let this obnoxious buffoon write lies about the Commander in Chief when putting his life in jeopardy and trying to boost the moral and emotions of the soldiers and their suffering families, then this has to be an incredibly decent and tolerant society...

Sincerely,
Mr. Conservative Electronic Aquintance

Dear Mr. Conservative Electronic Aquaintance,

The turkey was fake. There was ONE actual reporter accompanying Mr. Bush's entourage. This was reported extensively in reputable newspapers in London during my husband's recent stay there. Interestingly we've heard jack-squat about it here... So exactly what half-truths were you referring to again?

You have no definitive proof that Mr. Moore was mocking VP Cheney's heart condition. He simply said, "pretend its a medical experiment or something." That could mean anything e.g. neo-conservative brain experiments (which is frankly how I interpreted it).

What do I do for kicks on the weekends? I shovel snow. During the week I often times try to help veterans find housing. Because bottom line is that a tax cut means $29.99 more dollars to spend on a DVD player and $29.99 less to help a Veteran in need.

You say, "If you don't understand that this letter was way out of line, then you are out of touch with the values of a decent and respectful society." Well then I guess I'm out of touch with the 'values' of a 'decent and respectful society.' But may I first be so forward as to ask whose 'decent and respectful
society' are we talking about here? Mr. Moore's books and movies are incrediblly successful, so I would imagine that he must be speaking to SOMEBODY'S values. Second, you are not seriously trying to tell me that our selected president was ever in jeopardy...(can you not see the twenty F-16/whatever jet fighters and the four decoys trailing their contrails Richtung Iraq?). Third, when you say our Commander in Chief was 'trying to boost the moral and emotions of the soldiers and their suffering families.' My comment would be: WELL THAT'S THE LEAST HE COULD DO AFTER HAVING HOODWINKED THEM INTO GOING TO WAR AND RISKING THEIR LIVES UNDER FALSE PRETENSES.

I have a nineteen-year-old son and a vivid imagination. If my son were over there in Iraq right now and the selected president arrived with five photographers and a fake-fucking-turkey, I would NOT be 'consoled' as a standing member of one of many suffering families. Especially that not one single WMD has been found.

Sincerely,
Anna Bloviations

Tonight is the opening gala of the new American-based branch office of the company hubby works for. They better have some decent wine because I'm missing a 50th birthday party of a dear friend of mine in order to fulfill my wifely duties. This is when Anna Bloviations dons her Corporate Wife Hat and tries to be as charming as she can to all of the other executives and investors on the off chance that this start-up is going to land me on the island of my choice with a full-time masseuse. My duct-tape red lipstick ensures that I smile a lot and refrain from talking about politics, war, the environment, obesity, and some literature. That's why at all these functions I'm known as the woman who sips wine from a straw... the hole in the duct tape just large enough to poke a straw through.

SAME OFFICE DIFFERENT PAINT JOB Hubby already took some digital pictures of the new office so I happen to know that the walls are painted yellow to match the predominately yellow company logo. I'm hoping that it is an auspicious sign that the color of the walls and my bedroom are nearly identical (my bedroom walls are perhaps not quite as bright). "Why hubby, isn't this the same building you used to work in a few years ago at one of those other start-ups? I think I recognize that signature mahogany trim they used throughout the building..." Sure enough it's the same building albeit they are on a different floor.

SAME PEOPLE DIFFERENT COMPANY The software industry is small -- incestuous if you will -- and so inevitably the same people keep coming together for the next venture. Tonight there will be at least five or six people I will recognize from some past company party. This is always the best time for the parties. Right at the beginning of it all. The bank account is flush with venture capital, the employees are enthusiastic, the kitchenette filled with employee-incentive-perks like Espresso and Dannon yogurt, and the Christmas parties lavish. Later on they are not so fun. By the third round of lay-offs, the remaining employees have that harried gone-off-the-deep-end, just let-me-go-back-to-my-computer-and-send-out-a-few-more-resumes look. They're really not much fun to be around at social events.

COME ON GUYS THINK YELLOW. We've all seen it happen every blue moon, right? One of these software companies hits the jackpot i.e. the walls are painted just the right shade, they've got just the right configuration of employees, won just the right technology award, have customers just happy enough to give them glowing testimonials, and the market, competition, global economy, and star alignment are all just right too. Lo and behold they are on their way to becoming wildly successful and rich!!! Well I'm for having it happen a yellow moon this time.

Sorry for ranting. It must have been the thought of two kids in college next year...

Wow, some snow storm here in New England, what? Nearly three feet where I live. Finally, my gym-buffed muscles came in really handy i.e. I'm not even sore today from having shoveled for three hours straight not including the snow fight I had with the daughter.

Thankfully, we were prepared for the storm. I had stocked up on wine from Australia, France, and California, fire logs from Vermont, and a refrigerator full of food from all over the world: Irish and French cheese. Fruit from Florida, Costa Rica, Mexico, Chile and Israel. Vegetables ditto. Milk and butter from Vermont. Condiments from Jamaica, Thailand, Japan, Italy, and Austria.

The heat was cranked up to 72 degrees Fahrenheit and the inside of the house warmly lit. The hubby, who managed to get a flight home from London after all, went to the supermarket to say he would be bringing home more food. A lamb from New Zealand. I read the New York Times newspaper and watched a video (Hours). Two loads of laundry got done. I ran the dishwasher, responded to some email, and wrote. Then I took a hot bath after which we watched another video.

Sound decadent? Not really. Next time you go grocery shopping, start looking at the labels to see where what you are buying comes from. I bet on one scale or another, what you have in your own fridge is as multi-international as what I have in my mine. And since I would imagine you all heat your homes, drive, work on the computer, do laundry, and take showers, your day is as ridiculously energy-sapping as Anna Bloviation's....

A mere three hundred plus years ago (having hypothetically landed in Plymouth with the Pilgrims), I would have been lucky to have had shelter the size of my unheated un-adjoined garage outside. In our drafty modest abode, the hubby, daughter and I would have huddled around a small fire having just finished a dinner of gamey stew and perhaps some bread. It being December, there would have been no fresh fruit to eat for dessert let alone Pepperidge Farm chocolate chip cookies. Maybe there would have been some dried cranberries and nuts. Perhaps a shriveled apple. A small candle would have flickered in the corner -- the only light by which to needlepoint or read a few passages from the bible before calling it a night at 8:30 p.m. Oops. Except I forgot we would have all had to take turns going out to the -17 degree below outhouse.

Contrast that with today -- nearly every little town in America boasts 20 supermarket aisles worth of year-round choices. My kids don't even understand the concept of their being seasons for things e.g. strawberries in late spring, apricots and plums in early summer -- then cherries, oranges, melons, and blueberries. At least I think that's how it went. I don't even remember anymore given that I too am used to grabbing a plastic holder of blueberries any time of the year. They might cost me five dollars but they are mine if I want them.

What I don't think I could ever explain to someone who does not have all that we have in the United States, is that I loath having to go grocery shopping in these supermarkets, starting from when I enter the bloated parking lot full of 10-miles-to-the-gallon SUV's which, btw, weren't doing any better in Saturday's treacherous driving conditions than my little Audi (and weren't carrying any more bags of groceries or people than I either).

The ambiance in these cookie-cutter-chain supermarkets just seems anathema to culinary aesthetic; a bag of frozen peas is as about exciting as buying a roll of toilet paper is as about as exciting as buying a bunch of preservative-sprayed green bananas. There is absolutely no relationship to anything in the store except for the often disingenuous product messaging that would lead you to imagine an idyllic green field of strawberries ripening in the Southern California sun. Turns out 'Knoxberry Fields' is located right next to a quasi highway within a stone's throw of a high-tech office complex (for real).

By aisle six I have not come across but maybe five products that are actually from New England -- like the can of Gorton's canned clams packed in Gloucester that I reach for next to the little elderly retired couple bickering about which brand of tuna fish to buy (the can of tuna just an excuse to have the same argument they've been having the last 50 years of their marriage and I make a note to self never to end up like that).

Bottom line is that the whole time I am grocery shopping, I end up thinking about all of the exploitation, energy, and environmental havoc that has gone into getting all of this product onto supermarket shelves -- from the farmhands exposed to pesticides while they pick produce making .40 cents an hour, to the energy-guzzling ships, airplanes, and trucks that haul all this shit around the globe so that we can have pineapple 365 days a year and 650 different kinds of cereal brands. By the time I have deftly maneuvered my cart around through aisle after aisle of abundance -- be it the abundance on the shelves or the abundance blocking my way -- I am completely discouraged (perhaps this is why I am such a lousy cook?).

The problem with all of this abundance is that contextual meaning goes lost. Visit a local Farmer's Market some summer and buy a head of organically grown lettuce, five yellow zucchini ripened by the sun, homemade strawberry jam, and a loaf of whole-grain bread baked by one of the few women (or men) left in this country who can do this and you'll see what I mean by contextual meaning. When you eat this local produce, you just know it is right. You don't mind spending a few dollars more. Not only that, you often get a story to go with what you are buying from the local farmers. The regional food you bring home to your kitchen has meaning and makes sense. In fact after a while you begin to think it odd and wrong to be able to buy a mango in January.... And frankly if you really began to think about the amount of energy that is required to get that mango shipped across the world into your fruit bowl, you might seriously consider whether mankind had any sanity left at all.

As if choreographed to make a point, the electricity went out for about three hours Saturday evening... Hubby, daughter and I huddled in the living room by the fireplace and six candles -- the world as quiet as it was in the Pilgrim days -- the incessant hum of refrigerators, computers, and heating units falling silent. I slept in front of the fireplace. I'm not sure what we would have done had the electricity not gone back on. The wood I bought was meant for an ornamental fire, not as a means of heat for twenty-four hours straight. But for a few hours it was nice. Which is how I kind of look at the whole insatiable energy consumption in America -- nice for a few more decades but then there are going to be some hard, very cold choices to make....

HAMMER GIRL For about the last ten years, I've been meeting regularly with a group of girlfriends for a couple of glasses of wine. In the summer we might meet once a week. In the winter maybe once a month. The hostess is the friend I mentioned a few months ago -- my friend whose Bed and Breakfast the daughter and I stayed at while our wood floors were being refinished.

When I arrived this evening the smoke alarms were going off throughout the house. She had started a fire in the fireplace and forgot to open the flue. This is the same house they had to move out of for nearly two years when the third floor caught fire. Thankfully that fire stayed contained to the third floor but the smoke and water damage made the house unlivable. To the extent that a house fire can turn out to be a blessing in disguise, this fire turned out to be a windfall. My friend got her entire 300-year-old house re-done: new roof, new windows, new plumbing, new wiring, new appliances, new furniture, and new paint job -- all paid for by their insurance. I couldn't have wished a windfall on anyone more than on this particular friend. She and her family basically scrape by on fumes and I was glad for them that at least house repairs would be checked off the 'to-do' list for a while

Amidst the acrid smoke in the living room lay her seventeen-year-old daughter on the couch. There was a lot of loud yelling going on but as far as I could make out, the daughter claimed she never noticed the smoke. In five minutes the incident was just one more 'moment' passed. My friend, who doesn't drink, was pouring us wine and pulling out two fresh-baked hot loaves of bread. The kitten had just jumped up on the kitchen counter en route to the tub of whipped butter. My friend, as usual, was barefoot and smoking a filterless Camel cigarette. All of us have lovely homes but it is to this chaotic house we all always want to go.

We had been invited this time with a mission to accomplish. Their three-hundred-year-old house is one of a handful designated for viewing during the Christmas Walk in our town. She needed help decorating. "Don't worry about those boxes and bed stuff on the floor. We'll move that this weekend. Don't worry about all this stuff in the hallway. We'll move all that too. Don't worry about..."

Apparently I didn't get the email that said to bring extra Xmas decorations you're not using, or shears to cut greens. Even so my friend insisted we all got the same email. On the table was an eclectic array of wreaths, greens, tired-looking bows, and ornaments past. It looked to me to be a dubious collection and in my mind I was thinking that a quick run to the supermarket to buy a dozen red poinsettias might be the way to go. And then the most amazing thing happened. Two of the women there turned into magical fairies. The dining room chandelier was suddenly draped with evergreen and holly. A Santa wall-ornament with a straw beard that looked frankly pretty tacky on the dining room table looked fabulous hanging on the brick wall on the third floor. They wove garlands of greens along the banister and within minutes had fluffed and perked the wilted bows and attached them at all the right places along with the strands of white lights. Arrangements of greens were thrown into vases which had I tried the same thing would have looked like greens thrown into vases. Their arrangements turned into works of art.

While the two Christmas fairies discussed a possible flower arrangement to go on the mantle - a glass vase filled with cranberries and water into which flower X should be placed -- I moaned to my friend "How do they do this? And why did you invite me to come decorate?" Well it turns out we all have our talents. They made me hammer girl. I got to hammer in the nails and hang up the wreath/ornament/whatever. Not such an easy task in such an old house. You never know quite what you're going to be hammering into. When the hammering jobs were done I sat sipping wine and marveling at this wizardry taking place before my eyes. "Oh it's nothing!" they laughed. "Just some greens..."

Thank goodness for them. Thank goodness for hubby who can cook. Thank goodness for my friends who paint and garden. Thank goodness for my barefoot friend and her Camel cigarettes. The aesthetic wonderland they create around me gives me the fortitude and inspiration to create the words I need for work and play -- the words that flow onto a letter that might be the difference between someone getting housing or not, words that zing back and forth daily with a handful of conservatives that I at least try to get to see the world differently, words that become a short story for submission, words that might one day make themselves into a book that may or may not ever get published. We all do these things whether we get paid for doing it or not. We do it because we have to.

Nicholas Kristoff, an Op-Ed contributor to the NY Times, summed up the same-sex marriage issue most beautifully:

"No force is more divine than love, and if some people are encoded to love others of the same sex, how can that be unholy? To me, the blasphemy is not in those who want to share their lives with others of the same sex, but rather in anyone presumptuous enough to vilify that love. "

Obviously he hasn't been married twenty plus years... JUST KIDDING!!

STATE HOUSE STATS Number of emails the Rep I work for received from all over the country in the last few days opposed to the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court ruling upholding gay marriages: over six hundred. Number of emails from all over the country in the last few days supporting the ruling: about eight. Polls in Massachusetts show that people don't have much of a problem with the idea of gay marriage. So my point: say so! Go to Mass.Gov. There below the picture of cute Governor Mitt Romney and Lt. Governor Kerry Healy you will find a box labeled 'State Government.' Here you can find every email address of every Senator and Rep. Go for it! Don't let everyone from Alabama and Idaho have the last word. As in, get off your sorry lazy whinny asses and contact your government representatives to get your view heard. Tell them Anna sent you. You don't have to write a book. 'Cause believe me no one is going to read it. You just have legislative directors like myself deleting all the emails whilst tallying the pros vs. cons (it's all about percentages). It is enough to write: "I am in favor of the SJC's recent ruling to uphold gay marriage. Go Massachusetts!" Otherwise don't blame me when the Massachusetts Legislature passes an amendment to the constitution that defines marriage as that being between a man and a woman...

Of course it was all I could do not to respond to some of these people. I should have forwarded some of the emails to my home email account but I didn't so I'll have to paraphrase a bit. Here was the gist:

Tyranny! Impeach the judges! I feel so sorry for the residents of Massachusetts! Marriage has always been between a man and a woman; please do something that this stays so! The Bible says x,y,z! Please support an amendment to the constitution! This is the beginning of America's demise; what next Idaho?!

You know people act as if a couple of thousand years were a long time in terms of establishing benchmarks. Do they realize that on a grand scale, as in the course of the universe, these couple of thousand years wouldn't even register as a blip. Don't people have anything better to do than peep through their suburban sprawl Wal-mart blinds to judge other people's lives? The bottom line is your god has no place in my state and thank god for the fine print that stipulated this because holy-mother-jesus-of-christ are people fanatically inclined about issues... Even our neighbor Canada thinks we are prudes: http://www.nytimes.com/2003/12/02/international/americas/02CANA.html
If people would spend more time living and less time judging others we might get somewhere. As rapper Eminem says so rappishly:

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

I met on the subway a friend I used to do German-speaking tours with. A lovely woman from Switzerland in her sixties. She and her friend were on their way in to Boston to hear a lecture about the big landfill project in Boston during the 19th century. Comparative to the Big Dig Project today from an engineering standpoint. What an inspiration these two. They were excited to get out at the Aquarium station because it had just re-opened recently and they wanted to check it out. They had a specific deli in mind to go for lunch. And what about the fabulous bakery to buy some bread before returning home? Yes, they agreed. People read and watch things which just reinforce what they already believe anyway. But they didn't think it used to be so. People are angrier now. The country more polarized. The light in both of their eyes kicked ass over every twenty-year-old on the train.

"I did see 'Bowling for Columbine' and I was amazed on how a work of fiction could be considered a documentary." claims my Mr. Conservative Electronic Acquaintance #1. Piped in Conservative Electronic Acquaintance #2, "I've already read David Corn's (Editor of The Nation) book on Bushes supposed lies. Better than most efforts (less foaming at the mouth) but I was not impressed. Just sophistry, speculation and no actual proof or facts. So I've done my liberal reading."

Anna Bloviations: No actual proof or facts? Fiction? Gee maybe you guys should write a book given that you seem to have an exclusivity on truth, facts, and fiction vs. non If you're all about facts and truth then why aren't you bothered by the lack thereof with respect to WMD in Iraq?

Next CEA #2 reworked my quote, "had a few more people bothered to read Mein Kamph..." so that it read, "had a few more people, bothered to read the Islamic Traditions, the teachings of modern day Middle Eastern clerics, and the teachings of American clerics they might have hindered the Islamists' slaughter of millions."

Anna Bloviations: I couldn't agree more that it is high time America began seriously learning about other people's cultures. Preferably BEFORE we go blazing into countries in the name of 'liberating' the citizenry. 'Cause not only is there hurt surprise when the countrymen don't fall to their knees weeping in gratitude -- not only do we undermine our diplomatic credibility throughout the world -- most importantly our young soldiers can't understand whether the screaming Iraqi woman is telling them that no, she is not harboring terrorists, it is only her two napping children inside and please not to shoot, or if she is yelling at them to DUCK because two shady looking characters behind the wall are about to lob grenades at them. It should be a pre-requisite that everyone in the military take intensive foreign language courses (ideally following 12 years of foreign languages in school). The sad reality is that a good many of them can barely master their own language, let alone another -- our Commander in Chief being a prime example.

OK, OK I'm ranting boring politics again. No doubt I sound just like all of the other ranting, spewing, 'poli-tainers,' right? How about a shocking Harper's stat instead:

Number of New York City eighth-graders deemed "proficient" on last year's end-of-summer-school reading exam: 0
Percentage of those who took the test who were promoted to the ninth grade: 78.

At work today, the Senate was in session today for exactly three minutes: from 11:01 a.m. until 11:04 a.m. They are done for the day. Alrighty then... I guess I'll do a little online Christmas shopping, finish the next chapter of the sequel to War and Peace, and figure out what weekends we can go up to New Hampshire this winter given a hubby who is gone one-to-two weeks a month with no rhyme-or-reason of a schedule. I'm also thinking of putting a guide together for "How to Go Grocery Shopping If You're an Environmentally-Conscious Short-Fused Liberal In a Hurry." Speaking of environmentally conscious, you know I never heard back from XSweat -- the company that promotes the un-sweatshop. Bastards never wrote back a thank-you. They obviously forgot the No.#1-most-important-marketing-rule: ALWAYS get back to your potential customer. Or maybe their real bottom line is just a buck after all.