vasco de graceland.

Once, a handsome man with light blue eyes and a mischievous grin was at his local Goodwill. It was his day off. He was not looking for anything specific. Though he could use a new belt and maybe some work shoes, mostly he was just checking out what was new this week to see if anything caught his fancy.

His fancy was caught by a conquistador in a golden helmet. From across the room, he saw the painting and his interest was piqued. But when he got closer, he discovered - alas!- that the piece was a velvet painting. Now, painting on velvet is a very old and established technique. Marco Polo brought the idea and the fabric over to Europe, and there are velvet paintings in the Vatican. However, this particular medium has been tainted. In the 1970s, there were assembly lines in Mexico producing velvet paintings of Elvis and John Wayne and wolves, where they then went to live in people's basements with orange shag carpets and chrome lamps. Because of this, any velvet painting ever, even the ones in the Vatican, are tinged with the funk of kitsch.

The young man, disappointed, was just about to put down the painting, which he liked but which was, through the association of countless velvet Elvises, incurably tacky. Then he remembered something.

His fiancee has always wanted a velvet painting.

Since he has committed himself to marrying this woman, to tying his life to hers for the duration, it is possible, even likely, that he may someday find himself tied to a velvet painting. And if that's going to be the case, it might as well be one that he himself also likes, rather than one of the thousands of other velvet paintings which are tacky for being themselves, rather than this one, which was only tacky by association.

He flipped the painting over to see the price, scribbled in black Sharpie on the back of the frame: $8. So he bought the velvet conquistador. And later that afternoon, he made his fiancee very, very happy.

party planning committee.

I met with my wedding planner last night.

Ugh, I know. I go back and read that statement and I am already annoyed with myself. Doesn't "wedding planner" seem like such an unnecessary job? The fact that a title like that exists indicates that society has gone nuts and is too concerned about the wrong things in life. Not that I have much idea what the right things are, but planning weddings is not in the list.

I guess the idea is that throwing a wedding is stressful, not to mention time and labor-intensive. Most people who are doing it have not done it before, so they should hire a professional, right? I guess that makes sense, but I just don't want to pay money for this service. I'm cheap, and weddings are already expensive.

The thing is, it did not take me long after my engagement to figure out that some women are just not that into wedding stuff, and I am one of them. If someone was offering to take care of the wedding stuff and I just had to show up, that would be pretty darn okay with me. Men get to do that. It is completely acceptable for a groom's eyes to glaze over with disinterest as soon as someone starts talking about invitations and centerpieces. But I'm supposed to care deeply. And I tried, but I don't. I feel like a failure as a woman.

It's not that I don't care at all. But while getting engaged seems to be an excuse to look at magazines and blogs for hours on end, filling a folder with pictures and ideas, I haven't been interested in doing any of that.

Back in high school, when I was going to prom, the mother of my boyfriend called and asked me what color of rose I wanted in my corsage. There were two options, and I swear I think they were both some shade of red, though the descriptions were meant to obfuscate that fact. I told her that either one would be fine, because it didn't matter to me. She insisted that I pick one, because I might care someday. If I didn't care about a flower I wore on my wrist for a few hours when it was actually happening, why would I care later? But I picked one, and it was fine. At least, I don't remember anything about the corsage other than the telephone conversation about the color.

That's how I feel about wedding stuff. It's all one big day of corsages, and I'm supposed to spend months picking out the colors.

So I hired a planner. I offered to pay one of my friends, Carney, who is not a professional, but is already more interested in my wedding than I am. When she found out that we were engaged, she asked all kinds of questions that I hadn't even known were part of it. While the idea of paying some random stranger who really likes weddings to care about my big day sounds awful, I don't mind paying someone I know, who cares both because she likes weddings and because she likes me and Josh. Problem solved.

I met with her last night, our first planning session. We looked through some magazines she brought, and I quickly got bored. Looking through wedding magazines is a lot more fun when you're not actually planning one. If you are just imagining some future fairy tale event, it can be anything you want. But when you are thinking of an actual date and an actual man, it's not as fun. Anything you want probably costs too much.

We didn't decide anything. We did determine that I was not very interested in wedding planning. She frustrated me by asking about my official wedding colors and I frustrated her by being stubborn, obtuse, and generally uncooperative.

But I realized that hiring Carney was a great decision. Not only is she genuinely interested in the whole thing, she does a good job of figuring out what I want. Because if you ask me a question like, "What is your theme going to be?" I just sort of scowl and ask whether I have to have a theme, themes are stupid. But then she started asking me specific questions that were less about weddings and more about what kind of things Josh and I like, and those questions were easier.

I feel much more confident about being able to pull the whole thing off. She can tell me that I have to pick a corsage color (or a theme or a centerpiece), and then she can help me figure out the answer. I mean, it may be pulling teeth for her, but I'm feeling pretty good about it.

monday, 11:21 pm.

There is a poetry club happening in my kitchen, spontaneously, because that's the way these things happen. Just hours ago, there had been a pile of laundry on my kitchen table.

Here, in the living room, I sit, reading other people's blogs on my phone (while sitting next to the laptop). Remix is chewing on a Nylabone while lying on a partially destroyed old comforter in the corner.

There's no point to this. That's just what's happening.

how to fix a dishwasher.

How to Fix a Dishwasher That is Not Washing Dishes at All, Merely Heating Them

1. Notice that your dishwasher is not working. Pressing the START button makes the panel light up, but then nothing happens. When the lights go off, signifying that the dishwasher has completed, notice that the dishes are still dirty. This is the main indicator of a broken dishwasher.
2. Press the start button again. Notice once more how the lights go on but no running water sounds occur. Open the door, confirm that there is no water inside. Close the door again, shrug, and allow the machine to heat the dishes up once again.
3. Take out the removeable trays that hold the dishes in the dishwasher. Make sure the spinny things spin. See that there is a toothpick in the bottom. Pull it out. Run the machine again to see if the toothpick was the problem. Find out that it was not.
4. Notice that some parts are merely clipped inside the dishwasher. Take them out. Having done that, notice that other parts are merely held in with screws. Attempt to remove them, but become immediately foiled by the fact that you've never seen a screw with a design like that.
5. Google "star shaped screw." Learn what a torx screw is.
6. Get ready to go to store for a torx screw set. Realize you already have one in your multi-set screwdriver and that you'd always wondered what it was.
7. Unscrew and remove more parts from the dishwasher. Find more toothpicks, as well as broken glass shards and a whole lot of gross stuff that probably used to be food.
8. Find a piece that won't come out. Pull harder. When it finally gives and comes out of the dishwasher with a motor attached, realize that you probably should not have pulled that part out. Put it back.
9. Run the dishwasher again. Notice that it is still broken.
10. Decide that you must pull the dishwasher out from under the counter to really find the problem. Unscrew the two screws holding the dishwasher to the underside of the counter. Wonder if those are the only thing really holding it in there.
11. Try to pull the dishwasher out. Determine that there are more things holding the dishwasher, namely a water pipe, a drainage pipe, and an electrical cord. Try to pull out the dishwasher anyway.
12. Get to point where you cannot pull dishwasher out any further because of electrical connection.
13. Use a flashlight to look around under dishwasher through gap created by pulling it out a few inches. Notice that it is very very dusty.
14. Follow the water connection to a hose on the right side of the dishwasher, where it dumps into a plastic container that you suspect goes into the interior of the machine. Decide to test your theory by dumping water directly into it. Realize the challenge of this, since the dishwasher is still mostly under the counter. Decide that a long-necked watering can would be perfect for this experiment.
15. Remember that you do not own a watering can. You happened to see some really cute ones shaped like hippos at Target last week for only a dollar, but you did not buy it because you don't have any houseplants.
16. Locate a straw, a funnel, and some duct tape. Combine appropriately.
17. Put the straw end into the plastic water compartment. Pour a glass of water into the funnel.
18. Wipe all the water off the floor.
19. Take apart straw/funnel contraption. Do a better job attaching them with the duct tape. Test new design over the sink.
20. Put the straw end into the plastic water compartment. Pour a glass of water into the funnel.
21. Check the inside of the dishwasher. Notice that it is now wet. You have confirmed that water that comes out of the hose goes into the dishwasher, but you've forgotten why you ever wanted to know.
22. Remember that you are trying to find out why the water is not coming into the dishwasher.
23. Decide to test the hose that empties into the plastic water compartment. Attempt to remove it. Rip off the plastic thing instead, which was apparently glued on.
24. Try to reattach the plastic thing, but be thwarted by the fact that you've got about one inch of space to maneuver your hand, since the dishwasher continues to be mostly under the counter.
25. Realize that you will have to pull the dishwasher all the way out. Use the flashlight to follow the electrical cord from a metal box attached to the dishwasher all the way to a hole in the floor. Wonder why anyone would design a system that had to be plugged in under the house.
26. To avoid going down into the crawlspace, try some more to stick the plastic thing on. Decide that you need more room to maneuver, but the cabinets are in the way, so take the doors off, just because at least you know how to do that.
27. Lie in the floor and think about how creepy it is in the crawlspace, particularly on the side directly underneath the dishwasher, where it is actual crawlspace, rather than crouchspace.
28. Go watch TV for a while.
29. Take the flashlight down to the crawlspace. Check for snakes or spiders. Scare a few camel crickets. Crouch-walk until there is not room. Use the flashlight to look around. Crawl on your hands and knees until there is not room. Scan the room with the flashlight again. Crawl on your elbows and belly until you are all the way to the wall. Realize that the electrical cord looks exactly the same down here, so it's actually probably connected in that little metal box underneath the dishwasher. Feel like an idiot.
30. Go take a shower.
31. Watch more TV.
32. Call your mother
33. Google "how to disconnect a dishwasher." Learn about the removeable panel on the front of the dishwasher, below the door.
34. Turn off the power to the dishwasher at the breaker box. Be thankful that previous owners labeled everything.
35. Turn off the water to the dishwasher under the sink using a wrench. Think about all the tools you're getting to use today.
36. Remove the panel at the bottom of the dishwasher.
37. Remove the little metal box hiding the electrical connection. Disconnect the electrical connection.
38. Disconnect the water pipe.
39. Decide that the drainage hose can probably just stretch out far enough.
40. Pull the dishwasher out from under the counter.
41. Easily stick the plastic water compartment back onto the side.
42. Push the dishwasher back under the counter.
43. Reconnect the water pipe.
44. Reconnect the electrical connection.
45. Push the start button, just for kicks. Hear the sound of water running into the dishwasher. Use the flashlight to confirm that no water is dripping onto the floor.
46. Feel triumphant that you fixed your own dishwasher, even if you're not sure what you did and you did take a completely unnecessary crawl through the dirt underneath the house.
47. When the cycle is finished, put all the pieces back into the dishwasher, including the racks of dirty dishes. Run the cycle again.
48. Go online and brag on social media that you totally rock at fixing your own dishwasher. Leave out most of the story.

really unfinished.

Not to speak ill of the dead, but I went to the estate sale of some bona fide hoarders today. Not that hoarding is necessarily bad as long as it doesn't interfere with your quality of life. And in fact, it makes for a great estate sale. The whole house was full. It was so full that the people running the sale couldn't even bother to price everything individually. So they priced the nice items, the antiques and whatnot, and then left everything else up for negotiation.

In fact, there were even parts of the house that hadn't been thoroughly excavated. In both the attic and the basement, there were rooms that looked like they hadn't been touched in years and years and years. I guess at some point, the estate sale people have to draw a line. They will not go through any more dusty crap, but they will allow any willing customers to go through the dusty crap. If you find something good in there, they will kindly sell it to you. I came across a man in the basement who was filling a box with carburetors. Why were they there? Why did he want them? As someone with my own particular taste in treasures, I've learned not to ask.

The weird thing about this basement is that it was unfinished. Really, really unfinished. There were big rocks in the middle that I guess they couldn't get out, so they just dug around them, installed shelves on the side and stored some more of their junk.

Besides hoarders, people with interesting hobbies make for good estate sales. These people qualified on both counts. Scuba, anyone?

Someone in the house was really into ceramics. There were shelves and shelves full of homemade dishes, figurines, and novelty items like lighters. There were two kilns, making today only the second time I've ever seen a kiln secondhand. I saw a sign in the really unfinished basement about student projects, so maybe someone taught a pottery class right in the home.

Oh yes, and the dolls. Some people are into dolls, but you probably already knew that. However, the people who are interested in both dolls and ceramics can make their own dolls. In addition to the dolls, doll cases, and doll books, there were doll parts everywhere. Legs, arms, bald heads with no eyes, it was all there for me to buy as much as I wanted. Which was none of it. There was also a whole wall of cabinets full of doll hair. I don't particularly like dolls, but partial dolls and fake hair give me the willies, particularly when I'm trapped with them in what appears to be some sort of bunker.

I did buy a tall green glass bottle/vase. It was sitting in the basement, next to one of those machines with a belt that you strap around yourself to jiggle the fat away. Like everything else in there, it was sad and musty, but something about the shape and the color caught my eye. Then as I was looking at it, someone breezed by and told me I could have it for $2. Which seemed like a good price for a dirty, slightly cracked bottle out of someone's basement, but maybe I have a weird value system.

As I was toting my glass monstrosity through the house, several people mentioned that they also had noticed it, sitting amongst the carburetors. One of them, an antique dealer, said he almost bought it, but said he didn't know enough about glass to risk it. He probably didn't know that it was $2. He said it was definitely hand-blown glass and may be more than 100 years old.

I have no idea if any of that is true. I'm not an antique dealer. I just like to shop in other people's basements.

regular dog things.

We were on a pack walk one day - a pack walk meaning me, Josh, and Remix - when we came upon a group of our neighbors shooting the breeze in the street. Our neighborhood is very low-traffic, being thirty or so houses and no outlet, so using the street for a chat or a game of roller hockey is not uncommon. One neighbor we knew. He introduced us to his son and another neighbor, Carl. We've lived there for more than three years, and have done a miserable job of getting to know everyone. But something about the number of trees in the neighborhood suggest that maybe we're surrounded by other introverts.

Remix is hit and miss with strangers. She has growled at them, which was thoroughly embarrassing (she growls while backing away, so it's not an aggressive growl, but still). Even when she just wants to go give them a slobbery kiss, she looks like a big and scary dog. I keep treats in a little bag attached to the leash, so I can make her sit. She has gotten much better about not straining the leash to go personally meet everyone we pass, but sometimes, for whatever Remix reason, she wants to go make a friend. If she really likes them, she'll jump on them. Lots of dogs do this, but not all of them are sixty pound pitbulls.

Part of owning a pitbull is noticing all the things that other dogs do, regular dog things, that my dog could never ever get away with.

But when we met this little group of neighborly neighbors, she was great. She sniffed each new friend, but Carl took a step back, clearly not wanting to interact with her at all. I shortened the leash to remove him from her circle of influence. Carl said he didn't do big dogs. I've seen his wife walking their dog before. It's a chihuahua. When it sees Remix, it starts barking and pulling at the leash. Heart of a lion, that one. Of course, all that riles up Remix, who starts pulling at the leash to go meet this noisy little rat. Then the owner of the chihuahua simply picks it up, while I'm wrapping the leash around my wrist over and over, my feet planted as I engage in a mighty struggle an animal that may be stronger than I am, but who doesn't push it.

Remix was getting a little jumpy with her new best friends, so I got out a treat and held it in a loose fist at my side. She sat very nicely and kept her attention on me, occasionally sniffing or nosing at my hand to see if she could unlodge the delicious corn-based bone-shaped processed treat. I wondered if Carl thought I was nuts, putting my own hand in between a pitbull and what it wants.

He told a story about his cousin, who had a pitbull, a nice family dog that one day attacked their toddler. The little girl has had nearly 20 operations to repair the damage wrought by sharp teeth and strong muscles. During the attack, the mother only got the dog to stop by shooting it. And then animal rights people came and protested at her house.

It was uncomfortable hearing this story, about a terrible terrible thing that happened to a family, while my own pet monster sunned herself on the warm pavement. There was nothing to say, except to commiserate with how awful it must have been. I have lots of things I can say when people talk about pitbull attacks (statistics, differences in the level of media attention give to attacks by other breeds, the difficulty many people have in identifying an actual pitbull), but I did not try and defend pitbulls in general or my dog specifically. He had given his statement on the matter, and my statement rolled over in case anyone wanted to rub her tummy.

I trust Remix. Her favorite games are the kind she can play with her teeth, and in the course of a few games of tug, my hand has gotten in the way. Whenever that happens, she immediately corrects her grip. Remix knows that play is play, and no one will play with you if you bite them. I've sat and held tempting sticks in front of me. She stalks, then runs and pounces, but again she knows how to control herself so that only gets the stick. If she has something that I actually want (rather than something that I pretend to want for the sake of the game), I can get her to let go of it by putting my finger into her mouth.

But awful things happen. All kinds of dogs attack, family dogs, even chihuahuas. Pitbulls are capable of tremendous damage. My dog could kill someone. If I were being attacked, having such a powerhouse in my pack would be great. But can a dog always tell when that level of force is needed?

As we continued on our pack walk, Josh asked if I thought we should get rid of Remix when we have children. I shrugged. Wait and see.

goodwill bride.

You may not know this, but Goodwill sells wedding dresses. You can see where this entry is going already, can't you?

I have known about the small bridal section for a while, just because it's hard to miss the mass of white lace hanging next to the regular dresses. I never looked very closely at them, because I had no need. But now, I do, and so I've been making a point to flip through the rack every time I go in. And I've been trying on a few. The sizes are not always labelled, and so I've dented my self-esteem a bit by attempting to get into dresses that would never fit a woman with my hips.

I still have months and months to go before I actually need to wear a big white dress, so the slim pickings don't bother me much. Plus, this is the essence of secondhand shopping - it takes time. Having spent a couple of weeks actually paying attention to the selection, I am surprised to find that it does change. People are buying these dresses, and other people are bringing more in. As long as there is turnover, then I have a chance to find something. And if not, I guess I'll go to the outlet center in Burlington with my mom like a regular person.

I felt doubt about a Goodwill dress the first few times that I tried on things that didn't fit. While I had no doubt that I would eventually find something, isn't your wedding dress supposed to be more than "something?" You know, The Dress? Even with my natural contrariness, I am not immune to that kind of advertising-based brainwashing. The dresses that I tried on were lovely, but they weren't necessarily ones that I would pick if given a whole store full of dresses. They were dresses I would pick off a rack of six dresses, five of them being from the puffy sleeve era.

I shoved my doubt aside, because I knew that I was smarter than the myth of The Dress. Hadn't I already proven that I was above the myth of The Ring? Whatever dress it is, it will be The Dress the second that I decide it is. I am the bride, I grant mythical status around here. Plus, I do believe in the principles of secondhand, one of which says that there is no such thing as perfect, but there are lots of good enoughs.

This past Thursday, I decided to try on a dress that I'd passed by a couple of times, mainly for the fact that the skirt was all bagged up in a plastic bag to protect it and I didn't want to bother with it (see how committed I am to finding a dress? I am thwarted by loosely-tied plastic bags). I always feel self-conscious taking a dress into the fitting room because they are so cumbersome and ostentatious. There's me, carrying about fifty pounds of floofy stuff, trying not to be conspicuous. It's a silly thing to be self-conscious about. I should be throwing a parade. That's right, bride coming through here. I'm going to go try this on, and I WILL LOOK LOVELY IF I CAN ZIP IT UP BY MYSELF.

Trying on this dress made all my doubts about Goodwill wedding dresses disappear. Forget lovely, wedding dresses have the magical power to impart radiance. It fit perfectly, and thanks to all that boning in the torso, I somehow looked thinner and bustier at the same time.

I did not buy the dress, though I did take some pictures of myself wearing it while making a stupid face. It was $99. I've noticed that some of the dresses have crossed-out prices (this being Goodwill, prices are written in Sharpie on the inside of the dress). I have time, and so I want to keep looking. I would happily get married in that dress or maybe I'll get married in a different one that I like better. Whatever. I'll find something.

ONE MORE!

Jack told us that the Red Elvises were the funnest of all the bands that he had ever seen. This is saying something. Not just because you can't really name a band that Jack didn't see in concert way back when, but because his job as the sound guy at a downtown Raleigh music and beer hall means that he sees bands most every night of the week. As the significant other of a bass player, I've seen a lot of bands. Josh has seen many more than I have. I can't even imagine the sheer amount of live music that Jack has taken in. Based on my own sampling, I bet a lot of it was crappy.

But Jack said we had to come Thursday night, because these guys were awesome. It seemed like the Red Elvises always had a poster up in the bar. Whoever they were, they were apparently making a living playing music. Before I fell in love with a bass player, I had no idea how large the term "success" was in terms of the music business. I thought there was either playing stadiums and talking about your drug problem on Behind the Music, or there was keeping your day job. Making all the money or making none of it. But of course there is a whole range of levels in between. For one thing, there is losing money. But there is also never making it anywhere near a stadium, but somehow still making it. Quitting their day job to make about what they made at what was probably a low-wage gig. But that is success, to be a professional musician, and for the people who are really in it for the joy of playing music, it may be enough. I am happy for them.

Based on the fact that the Red Elvises seem to be making it around to Raleigh every couple of months, when they are based out of California, I conclude that they are making it. They also have professional-looking merchandise, nice instruments, and a swank touring minibus. It even has their band name on it, while Josh's band's van is emblazoned with the name of the church they bought it from.

The Red Elvises play simple, crowd-friendly pop songs in a mash of styles. There are some clever verses, and a catchy sing-along chorus. By the time the chorus comes back around, anyone who was even halfway listening can sing along, too. The musical influence is all over the place - reggae, punk, surf rock, country-western, soul, polka - and it always has just a dash of something...Russian. Because the Red Elvises are here from Russia with love. The three-string bass was even shaped like a balalaika.

When we got to the bar, the show had already started, or maybe it would be better to call it a dance party. There was a conga line, or whatever you call a conga line during a Russian surf rock song. A giant crew of Elvis fans had come out from Wilson, NC to see the show. They were all wearing yellow t-shirts that had various Red Elvis song titles on them. Whenever the front man (Igor, of course) announced the next song, someone in a yellow shirt would scream like their name had just been selected for the Showcase Showdown. The Elvises themselves were wearing suits made of animal-print fabrics that might have come from a remnant pile.

It was all just so infectious. The music seemed to enter in through your ears and then take up residence in various parts of the body that would then begin to move. Your head bopped, your hips wiggled, your whole body bounced on the balls of your feet. I am not a good dancer, but I make up for it in enthusiasm. I decided a while back it was more fun to dance badly than to not dance for fear of doing it badly. But even if you had not made that leap, I think the Red Elvises would push you right over. You can't not dance. So we danced. We danced like Uma Thurman did in Pulp Fiction, though only during the song called "Dance Like Uma Thurman." Other times we did the John Travolta disco point or made an attempt at that squat dancing thing the Russians do or just flailed our arms and legs like idiots because it was fun. It was a sweaty show.

At one point, Igor told us that he was about to play a polka song. He strapped on an accordian, and they got down as only polksters can. I bounced to the front - because I couldn't move without bouncing with this music going on - to take a picture of the accordian action. Jack interpreted my sudden relocation to the front as an indication that I was ready to polka with my bad self. He asked Josh for permission to dance the polka with me. Having gotten permission, Jack asked if I knew how to polka. I was never so sad to answer "no" in all my life. The lesson here is that we should all learn to polka, because you never know when such a skill will come in handy.

They had a great drum solo, too. Drum solos are hard to do. Even if you have a great drummer, audience members can sort of lose interest in it because it's hard to dance to. But when the Red Elvises have a drum solo, they don't mean the drummer is solo, they mean the drums are. All four of the non-drummers pulled out their own set of drum sticks and took up residence next to the drum kit. And they all played the drums.

After only a few songs in the second half of the set, Igor said they were going to play just one more. Well. He asked us if we would like to hear just one more. We, being mere dancing putty in the palm of his sweaty Ukrainian hand, answered "ONE MORE!"

"One more?"

"ONE MORE!"

They played about five more songs, each time asking if we would like them to play one more. Finally, they said goodnight and started packing up. Jack started up a chant of "ONE MORE!" and we only had to yell for another thirty seconds or so before Igor responded, oh so casually, "One more?"

"ONE MORE!"

"Okay, we do one more." And they did. One more bouncing, head bopping, sweaty, arm-flailing, vaguely Russian song. I am happy that these transplanted musicians are making it, because as far as I'm concerned, they are providing a valuable service. The only question I had at the end of the evening was whether they played weddings.

For your pleasure, but this does not do them justice. They are this weird in person, but the live show is infinite fun.

the paris wife.

Our most recent book club selection was The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, a novel about Ernest Hemingway's first wife Hadley and their time in Paris, hanging out with Gertrude Stein and Ezra Pound and F.Scott Fitzgerald and all those literary types. I have to admit, that after reading the book about Frank Lloyd Wright's mistress, I'm a little tired of reading books about women whose main claim to fame is that they married famous men. Now, these men were also famously difficult, and I'm willing to believe that interesting people pick interesting spouses, but surely we can find a book about a woman who did something besides get hitched.

Anyway.

This book, along with the FLW book, lives in some sort of cross-genre where it's not fact and not quite fiction. The authors do a crap-ton of research, reading public records, newspapers, letters, and journals to put together a picture. And then they fill in the details with their imaginations. No doubt after immersing yourself in someone else's life for a while, you probably do feel like you know them. So while we know that Hadley went to Chicago at this time and met Ernest, we don't necessarily know what she wore or what she said or how she felt about it. Maybe she left journals, so we do know some of those things, but at some point, the author has to put together everything she knows about a person from the research and make a good guess. For some reason, this bugs me, but I can't put my finger on why. I think it's because the lines between verifiable fact and imagined fact are so blurry. We should have a name for this genre, just to stress that there is some fantasy involved. How about "research-based speculative autobiographical novel?" Catchy, huh?

Regardless of whether Ms. McLain gets her material from an old journal or from inside her head, I can tell you that she nails certain aspects of being involved with an artist, a topic that I have some familiarity with. For one thing, Hadley is very self-conscious about being just a regular sort of person, surrounded by all these geniuses. Almost everyone Josh and I spend time with on a regular basis is some kind of artist. And I am a software engineer. Even if I think there is a certain artistry in writing code, I can't help but feel sort of square and boring around people whose brains are surely more colorful than mine. In fact, I sometimes am at a loss as to why my artist was attracted to me. Not that I am not awesome in my own number-based way, but it seems like he would want someone who is on that wavelength. Then again, I am coming from a position of someone who has always been drawn to artists. Maybe he is someone who is attracted to engineers, and who can even explain these things anyway? Josh sometimes worries because I spend 8 hours every weekday surrounded entirely by men who also think like me (and who also make a lot more money than a starving artist). Aside from most of them being middle-aged and married, I have found software engineers in general to be lacking in imagination. They do not melt my butter.

Hadley also feels like she has to compete with her husband's work. Maybe this could be true for any profession. But the thing about art is that it can happen any time. I do not resent his time spent waiting tables, nor even his practice time with the band, because those are scheduled events. But sometimes, we are just sitting at the house and inspiration hits him and he has to go write. Then I get all whiny, because I feel like I already get so little of him as it is, and we have a little fight. This is bad, bad, bad. For me to set myself as being in any way against his work is going to cause problems; I figured that out with regards to the band a long time ago. Even if I "win," there will be resentment, bubbling, festering resentment. So I really can't win this one. I have to let it go.

Of course, having related so much to parts of the Hemingway's marriage, it was very hard not to use a little faulty logic to jump to the conclusion that the rest of it applied as well, mainly the part about Ernest Hemingway being a rotten cheater. It was doubly worrisome reading this right after getting engaged. Everything that happens nowadays is colored through the lens of being about to jump off the commitment cliff. So I have to relax, and tell myself that I am not marrying Ernest Hemingway (who wrote a whole book comparing being married to being impotent). I can't read a research-based speculative autobiographical novel about Hemingway's first wife and imagine that I can assume anything about my own relationship, any more than I can assume that I know much of anything about the actual Hadley Hemingway.

puppet up!

The Carolina Theatre in Durham is old and fancy. While it has been well-maintained, the chandeliers and box seats make one think of a more illustrious past. Who gets the sit in the box seats now? I've never seen that option when buying tickets for shows there. Perhaps it is on a secret website, just for rich people. Or maybe you just show up in a top hat and a monocle and they upgrade you to a box seat on the spot.

I've been to the Carolina Theatre several times. There is a modern performance facility just down the road, where touring Broadway shows play to crowds of up to 2,800, but I prefer the Carolina. Tickets are about half the price, and the hall, while still seating over 1,000, feels more intimate. Also, the acts that come through there are still fantastic, just less famous.

Last Friday night, I was sitting in the Carolina with my sister. We were there to see Stuffed and Unstrung. It's improv. With Muppets. For adults.

Hanging above the stage were two giant screens. On the stage itself was a video camera on a tall tripod. It was hard to see from the audience, but there were small monitors on the floor of the stage, facing backstage. And then, at stage left, was a wall of about 80 puppets. There were crustaceans, food items, aliens, woodland critters, and, in the spirt of Gonzo, a few whatevers.

Here's how each skit would go. The emcee would call a few puppeteers to the stage and tell them to "Puppet up!" At which point, he would hold the microphone towards the audience, where we were also supposed to yell "Puppet up!" He would explain an improv game and then ask for suggestions from the audience for the different fill-in-the-blank aspects of the skit (location, topic, occupation, etc.). This being an adult show, the suggestions went toward the bottom of the barrel pretty quickly. For example, when they asked for an occupation, someone yelled out "illegal gynecologist!" And then there was a skit where puppets sang a song about speculums. Not all the skits were dirty. There was also one about buzzards falling from the sky during a garden party, which would be perfectly appropriate for children or prim grandmothers.

Once the requirements had been established, the puppeteers would go over to the wall of puppets and just pick one out. I'm sure part of the decision was based on the skit parameters, but I like to think that each performer had their own favorites that they liked to use. What might make something your favorite puppet? I wish I knew.

And then they did a skit. They performed, with their arms up in the air, right in front of the camera on the tripod. The camera feed was linked to the giant screens (and the small monitors, for the puppeteers themselves to see), so you got to see two shows. First, the puppet show, just like watching The Muppets on TV, was on the screens. And then on stage, were the puppeteers with their arms in the air, shuffling around each other and making it all happen.

I have to say that the performers were better puppeteers than they were improvisors. Not that they were bad, just that if your only exposure to improv is reruns of Whose Line is it Anyway?, then you may be disappointed. But one of the advantages of live theatre is how easy it is to be swept up in being there. If I had been watching a YouTube video of the performance, I might not have been as impressed. But sitting there, surrounded by fellow North Carolina puppet fans, I laughed and laughed and laughed.

At one point, the emcee announced that we had a special guest: Clay Aiken! I suppose he was in town and just decided to take in a puppet show. He did a skit, working an orange monster Muppet pretending to be Elton John. Then, once he was finished, he went up and sat in one of the box seats. The mystery of the box seats solved.

There was some more direct audience involvement, too. A man was picked out to be in a skit after receiving about 20 seconds worth of instruction in Muppetry. When the emcee was wandering in the audience to select a victim volunteer, I sunk in my seat and averted my eyes, to be sure and send the clear signal that I did not want to be picked. But then, Brian Henson came out of the audience to perform with the audience member, and I wished that I had waved my arm and jumped on my seat. I'm sure I would have been very nervous to have been on the same stage with such Puppet royalty. Forget Clay Aiken.

This was perhaps my favorite of the improv skits, as the professional puppeteers integrated the audience member's newbie mistakes into the action. So when the volunteer's puppet's eyes were pointed at the ceiling instead of the puppets he was talking to, those puppets all turned around and looked, too, as if they were trying to figure out what he was staring at.

They recreated a couple of classic Muppet sketches that were written and performed by Jim Henson and Frank Oz back when they were young puppeteers ready to conquer the world. By being able to see the puppeteers, you could imagine young Jim and Frank doing those same acts.

During one sketch, they wheeled out a giant electronic contraption with two joysticks. The joysticks controlled an animated face that was also projected on the giant screens, like a virtual puppet. They did a sketch (about roller derby), with the physical puppets all interacting with the virtual puppet, while one of the performers stood with his face obscured by the animated face, as if he was the body. I'm not sure if this sort of puppet technology is useful at all. It's a neat idea - build a program with a large set of movements that can be controlled on the spot, rather than animating a character as it is used. It sure was cool.

What I really enjoyed about the whole show was how it was just a celebration of puppetry. Sure, there was improv and special guest stars and Muppets saying bad words, but it was really about the art form. They had the virtual puppet, showing that someone out there is thinking about the modern puppet. And they had a sketch featuring hot dogs, which were just stick puppets. The encore was announced by a shout of "Naked puppets!" and the puppeteers all did a number with just their hands.

That's why the two shows idea is such a brilliant format. A good puppet show can make you forget about the hand behind the curtain, not just by hiding it, but by creating engaging characters. Stuffed and Unstrung constantly reminds you that these things are just puppets, but then they show you why that is awesome.

rain on your wedding day.

There is music coming from the house behind ours. I can't really hear it, but the thumping bass tells me that it is upbeat party music. Their backyard, the site of many Sunday afternoon croquet games and leaf-burning sessions, is decorated with white balloons. It's a wedding reception, a home affair with grilled burgers and hot dogs. We don't know these neighbors very well, but we were invited to the party, most likely to keep us from complaining about the noise. I can see people on the back porch, but the yard itself looks deserted.

It's raining. Someone told me that having rain on your wedding day was a good omen. That sounds like something an optimist would invent on the spot to cheer a stressed bride.

The groom is the neighbor's son, who is twenty years old. His dad told Josh that neither him nor the bride's family was particularly enthusiastic about the event. The couple have known each other for only a short while and will only be together for a short while after today before the groom is deployed again. I sympathize with him. I've been to weddings where a dull anxiety sat in my stomach, keeping me from really enjoying myself. How much worse to have to throw such a wedding. I want to tell him that I have known some such weddings to lead to long-lasting and happy marriages. And then of course there are some couples who marry after years of dating, only to have everything fall apart soon after it becomes official.

Our own news is finally out. There are a certain number of people you have to tell personally, and then everyone else hears about it from the grapevine. I told my family the next day, and spent a week or so sending excited text messages to a different friend every night. Josh waited a week to tell his brother, then another two weeks to tell his mother, then another week after that to let his father know. The news trickled out. Last night, at the bar where Josh was playing, friends greeted me with congratulations, hugs, and high fives.

Everyone has been really happy to find out, to the point of squealing for some (females only). One thing I didn't expect about getting engaged was how much joy it gave other people. If anyone has any doubts about it, I haven't been able to tell. We've been together so long that if anyone had misgivings, they probably would have mentioned it before now. In any case, I'm not worried about it. Though I have had several realizations in the last month about what tying your life to someone else means, none of these epiphanies have made me doubt the decision or the someone.

predatory lending.

A couple of weeks ago, Josh and I were hanging out at his bandmate's house. They were talking about opening a checking account for the band. All they needed to get that going was Josh's signature on the contract. However, he refused to sign. He had read the thing, and found a part about automatic overdraft protection. What happened was that when you tried to debit more from your account then you had, then the bank seemlessly provided those funds and put the debt on a credit line. There was no charge for this service.

Josh said no, no, no, this was a bad idea. He did not want to be going into debt without even knowing it. Do not spend money that you don't have.

The other guys said it was no big deal, they would never even use it. And if they did, it was just an emergency situation. This second argument seemed to directly contradict the first argument, but whatever. Generally, they thought he was getting all upset over nothing.

Finally, the guitarist gave in and said FINE, you handle it. So Josh put on a nice shirt and went down to the bank to talk to an account manager about the fine print. He explained that they would like to open an account here, but that they were not willing to agree to this one clause.

"Oh, we don't even use that contract anymore," the bank lady told him. "We actually took that particular clause out, because our lawyers said it was predatory lending." She gave him the new contract, which he read over and happily signed.

I have no idea how Josh broke this news to the other guys, but I know that I myself would have barely able to contain my glee.

registered.

Every time I have to go to a wedding, I complain about buying a gift off the registry. Gift registries make me really cranky. I usually enjoy buying other people gifts, but not when my choices are so limited. Part of the fun of buying someone a present is making the gift fit the relationship between giver and receiver. But when someone asks for a set of Ecru Towels, then I feel like I have to buy just that. But this destroys the whole fun of gifting, because those towels are ultimately meaningless to me and the happy couple. They're just towels. Maybe I should just go around cultivating relationships with people who find towels to be significant.

There is no possible way to register without looking like a jerk, because you are an adult who is writing a letter to Santa. Except that your letter-writing is enabled with a scanner gun that allows you to walk around the store and shoot whatever your little heart desires. Maybe it's just me, but after looking at a registry, I conclude that these people are selfish and I never really liked them anyway. Then I get mad that someone else already fulfilled their towel needs, so I guess I'll have to get them a spice rack.

I understand the practical side of registries. Because weddings are an accepted gift-exchange event, it's fair that people will want to know what to get you. Some of them are little-known relatives or long-ago friends from camp or men, and maybe they don't have a clue as to what you might want or need. My mom used to give everyone towels. I don't know if this was before registries, or if she was just unaware of them, being in possession of a general social cluelessness gene that she thoughtfully passed along to her daughter(s). But she figured that everyone needed towels, so everyone got towels. Mama picked the color, also by going with her own gut. The registry was invented to prevent newlyweds from having ten towels in ten different colors.

Of course, every time I complained about registries, a tiny, sensible part of me tried to overrule the cranky me by saying that it would be different when I got married. I would understand the vital necessity of a bridal registry. I would embrace the scanner gun.

I guess that time has come, but registries make me cranky still. Fortunately, I have a solution. I do not say that my idea will work for every betrothed couple, but it is perfect for us.

We are not registering. We do not want gifts. We don't even want money or gift cards. Keep it.

Here is why this solution works for us:
1. We're marrying late. I will be a thirty-year-old bride. I've been living on my own for nearly eight years now. I have a house, and it is full. So no, there is nothing we need. I've had a good, steady job for the duration, so anything I want badly enough, I can just go buy it for myself. If we were a young couple just starting out, I could understand needing assistance setting up shop. But that is not us. We have towels, a spice rack, a food processor, dishes, a sarcophagus. What would you even buy for a couple who already has a sarcophagus?

2. We don't particularly like new things. 95% of our household items were bought used. None of our stuff matches. Neither of these conditions were brought on by poverty, we live this way because we like it. I don't like things to match; it's boring. I don't want china, as it will never get used and just take up the space that could be given to books or antique puppets.

See? This is brilliance, my friends.

I do understand that some people will want to buy us presents. I totally relate to that. Like I said, I do actually enjoy picking out and giving a present when I'm not forced to stick to a giant scanner-generated list. We will provide alternative ways to honor us. We'll come up with a short list of charities that we like and also encourage the gifter to donate to one that he favors. We will also say that if you really want to give us an actual something, then write us a letter. Fill it with advice, memories, corny jokes, out-of-context quotes, whatever. Enclose pictures. Draw doodles. We don't care what you do, we bet it will be great and we will love it.

I fully expect about two people to write us such a letter. But how we will treasure those letters, much more so than the housewares that we would have gotten from those people otherwise, because it is such a personal token. Some people will probably still show up with white gift bags, and they will be angry at us because they had to randomly pick out a color of towel without knowing what will match our bathroom.

What do you think? Obviously, I think this is a stroke of magnificent inspiration. Josh is sold on it, too. Is there something I am missing?

the fungus.

Josh is kind of a hypochondriac. He has a particular fear of parasites and also any sort of mass poisoning done by the government or large corporations (don't ask). Once he spilled his beer while pouring it and became convinced that he had a degenerative nerve disease. Every time he tried to pour a beer after that, he would spill it, further confirming that he was going the way of Lou Gehrig. At some point, he realized that pouring a beer slowly, which you might do if you were trying hard not to spill it, makes it more likely to spill.

I supply the common sense in the relationship. He brings the imagination. We make it work.

I was telling Lauren about this, and she told me that she was paranoid about catching this kind of fungus for which there is no cure. It's not life-threatening or even oozy. You just get splotchy skin. Every time she gets a little itchy, she becomes convinced that she's caught the fungus.

She further said that she was generally worried about any sort of condition which might affect her physical appearance. She was scared of things that would make her ugly, because then no one would love her. Those were her words. I was a little shocked, though maybe I shouldn't have been. Equating beauty with love is pretty common among women (maybe men, too?). Lauren goes to a lot of trouble to look fantastic. She works out for hours every day, and once, for lunch, I saw her eating plain popcorn and some watermelon. You know, I'd like to be hot, but I think I'd get hungry.

At the time, I was too gobsmacked by her thinking to respond, but later, I felt bad for missing the opportunity to inject a positive message into her life. Such as, hey, ugly people get love, too. Also: love that hinges on whether or not your skin is splotchy is not love.

Her identity is obviously very wrapped up with her appearance. She is The Hot Woman. And that's fine. We are all just going with her natural abilities here. At some point in our individual lives, she realized that she could be hot, and I realized that my strengths were elsewhere. I put next to no effort into my appearance, and that lack of concern is part of my identity. I've found that some men actually like it. Go figure.

Apparently, Lauren's standards of beauty work both ways. She had been dating a guy who had a doctorate in physics, owned a beautiful house, cooked her fantastic dinners, and was apparently a really nice guy. There are many legitimate reasons to break up with such a man, he could have been a puppy-kicker for all I know, but one of the things she mentioned was that he wasn't very attractive. I met him. He was a regular-looking fellow. Big nose, but clean and well-dressed. Her previous boyfriend, admittedly, could have been a model. She complained about him being vain. Sigh.

It makes me wonder how Lauren will approach aging. She may be gorgeous until the end of her days, but at some point, she will stop being "hot" and start being "hot, for her age." There are a myriad of ways to hang on to youth, and, because there is a market, the technology will only improve. It seems like an empty pursuit, though. Even if she manages to keep everything high and tight, she'll still have to worry about fungus. Seems a bit like building a house on the sand.

I certainly don't have to worry that Josh will stop loving me as my looks go, as I've done an excellent job lowering his standards. I just have to worry about those degenerative nerve diseases.

diplomacy.

At the grocery store one night, a lady with a couple of tween girls got into line behind me. She put a gallon of milk and a carton of eggs on the belt. The girls added a pack of string cheese and some candy, then ran off to fetch something else. She let out an exasperated sigh, and said, "I just wanted milk and eggs! They always want something more!" Her whole manner was Kids! What can you do, amiright?

I thought of my own mother, who, when I wanted something, would retort, "You got money." The first response that came to my mind was Well, of course they do, if you know you're going to buy it for them.

But hey! I did not say that. It only took twenty-some years, but I finally developed a filter. I learned that people do not respond well to being chastised. Not only does it make them angry, but they use my rudeness as a justification for rejecting my message. It doesn't matter how good your advice is, if it is delivered badly, it will bounce right off. This is called "diplomacy." Josh taught me.

Okay, so Plan A rejected, my brain tried again. You don't have to buy it, you know.

Nope. Rejected again. Still putting the blame on her.

Finally, I spoke. "They should get jobs."

"Ha! You're right! Hey, how old do you have to be to get a job here?" she turned to the cashier.

"Sixteen."

"Ah, well." She turned to the girls, who were ignoring her completely. "Two more years!" Ha ha ha, kids! Amiright?

This lady will probably continue to allow her daughter to dictate her purchases. But this way, I got to say what I wanted and no one was offended. And maybe, just maybe, it will occur to her someday that if she doesn't want to buy string cheese anymore, she could just stop doing it. She will think back to this moment at the Food Lion and remember the words of the wise-beyond-her-years young woman in front of her, rather than think of that bitch at the grocery store who probably doesn't even have kids, so how does she know.

DIPLOMACY!

in grossness.

I got home from work one day this week, and there it was: a little cluster of fingernail clippings. They weren't mine, that was for sure, because I pretty much just let my clippings fall to the floor. I suppose neat little piles are more civilized, if you clean them up. If you leave them sitting there on the living room coffee table for the dog to eat or your fiancee to find, well then my way is clearly much better.

I had a little epiphany right then, about being engaged. These fingernail clippings are going to follow me around for the rest of my life. In fact, I'm going to participate in a ceremony where I will stand in front of everyone I'm willing to pay to feed and promise to deal with fingernail clippings until either me or the grower of those clippings dies. Vowing to stick with a person is romantic, but even with "in sickness and in health" right there in the script, I'd never really thought about sticking with their body or them sticking with mine.

Bodies are gross. I think this is a fundamental fact of life. I met a woman once who was telling me how her bellybutton piercing had popped out as if it had been rejected by the host, a tiny ball of ornamental scar tissue falling to the bathroom floor, and her friends thought it was a nasty story that you should never ever tell in polite company. I shrugged, because I am not polite company, and said, "Having a body is gross." Her eyes lit up like she'd suddenly discovered me to be a kindred. She went on to talk about how she felt like her body was just a vessel for her brain, and I guess she expected me to be excited at her insight, but all I could think was that our brains are the body, too. Hit your head good and hard and you might be a different person than you were.

Having a body is gross, but luckily everyone else has one, too, so it's all even. Some bodies are nicer than others, others are better-maintained, but unless a body meets a terrible accident (gross), it will only get older and grosser.

Intimacy is a concept that expands before me. At first it meant telling secrets, then it included "telling secrets" (wink-wink), and it turns out now that it means fingernail clippings, too. Later, it could mean creating life between us or cleaning bedsores or donating kidneys or changing adult diapers or all of the above, plus more that I don't know enough to imagine. And it's not just me selflessly doing these things for him out of love, it's me letting him do these things for me and seeing that I'm gross, too. I'm not sure which is harder.

I guess it's all the same - sharing the experience of being human. Being gross together, because it sure beats being gross by yourself.

balllllllllll-zac.

We went to a crazy book sale today put on by the Wake County library system. It was at the fairgrounds, in a building named after some historic North Carolinian who was prominent enough to get a building named after him, but not so much that random visitors would know who he was. He shouldn't feel too bad, though, because it's a big building, about twice the size of my high school gym. And it was full of books. Tables and tables of books. The sale went on all weekend, but we only showed up for the box sale, because that's the kind of people we are. Let the other people come in on Friday and pay $4 a hardback. We'll be happy to be the gleaners, taking what was left behind for $5 a box.

There were just too many books. We could have spent all day there and still not have looked at them all. We only had about an hour to spare. Even with not looking very closely at every single book, I was able to add book after book to my bag. There were a few scanners there, but I didn't mind them at all. I felt as one with everyone in the room. All you people, you are book lovers and therefore my kindred!

I started with a bag, just because it was easiest to procure. I got a large, sturdy plastic bag for each of us (they were from Borders - oh, the irony!), and we jumped in. After a while, the plastic was threatening to give out, and I decided to upgrade. I found an abandoned box and loaded it up. Then I went to find Josh to see how he was coming along. I found him carefully transferring his books from his bag to a box. Predictable.

There was so much. I used my usual criteria - any authors that I already knew that I liked, plus the major award winners. I was pleased to find one by Naguib Mahfouz, who had been recommended to me by a middle-aged Egyptian while his friend hit on my friend. I found some hardback versions of books that I already have in paperback, so I could upgrade my copies and give the others away. And for the heck of it, I picked out a book by Balzac, just because Marian the Librarian liked him so much.

Plus more. So many more. Even though I am now reading more than I ever have in my life, I still don't know how I will ever get to them all. At a book club meeting recently, another woman was considering aloud whether she would ever read the month's selection again. It was a wonderful book. I could see where her mind was going, and I smiled sadly at her and said, "There are just so many books."

It is a good problem to have.

moderately.

At a book club meeting a couple months back, our tireless leader asked for volunteers. Our club has something like 350 members on the books, but probably only 80 show up regularly to meetings. Just like church! Apparently, people decide whether or not to read the book and attend the meeting on a month to month basis by reading the book blurbs. This is completely different from how I go about it. True, there are some books on our list that I would have skipped and some others that I thought were a bore, but part of the fun of book club to me is reading things that I never would have picked out on my own. I end up liking some of them, and even when I don't, I get to go talk to other people about why they liked or disliked it. But whatever other people want out of book club is their business. It's just discouraging to see five people at one meeting and then twenty at the next, just because we read The Hunger Games.

Anyway, in the couple of years since the group started, one woman has basically been doing all the work. Just going to three meetings in one week every month would be enough, but there are a lot of behind-the-scenes administrative work to it, too. So she finally asked for help and scheduled an open meeting for anyone who was interested in getting more involved.

I got that strange sorta feeling in my stomach, like I wanted to take a step outside my shell into the sunlight of involvementhoodness. I hate to use a word that seems like it should be reserved for much nobler activities, but I felt "called." So I showed up at the meeting, and almost immediately regretted it when I realized that everyone else there was really outgoing and organized. But I stuck it out, spoke up when I again felt called, and found myself at the end with a title: Wednesday Moderator.

Each month, we have three meetings, spread out over a week so people can pick the night that is most convenient for them. I'm a Wednesday. Tuesday and Thursday were equally convenient, really, but Wednesday was a newly introduced night, so there were the fewest regular attendees. I said that having only five people show up was discouraging, but it was actually great. The smaller group led to a better and more inclusive discussion.

My co-moderator is Mandy, who I've discovered that I like a lot. We brought book-related snacks to our first meeting, and they went over like a lead balloon. I mean, I ate some, and Mandy ate some, and a couple others took a bit to spare our feelings. But they were not spared enough. My feelings were soothed slightly by the fact that I got to take so much of the snacks home.

"Well, it is right after dinner time. Maybe some of them eat supper right before they come," I suggested optimistically.

"Or they're scared to eat in front of other people," replied Mandy. See? I like Mandy.

Snacks are not part of our duty. We just did it to make Wednesday the coolest. Our actual jobs are just to run the meetings - lead the discussion if no one is willing to do so, keep everyone on topic, pass around the collection plate. The plate in our case is a vintage kitchen canister that I dug out from my stash. We also wear name tags, also vintage and from my stash. See? I knew I would need these things one day! Wednesday is the coolest - they have snacks and vintage stuff and also sassy moderators.

We give out books as incentive for regular members to lead dicussions. If they do not want the book, we give them a tote bag with the book club name on it (Triangle Ladies' Book Club). At the last meeting, I took charge of the giveaway books and tote bags. I walked out of a coffee shop with a book club tote bag on my arm and felt very stereotypically suburban.

In the past month or so, I've found two copies of one of our upcoming books at thrift stores. That's happened before, but I always felt too shy to buy the extra copy to pass along. Now, I am a moderator, which gives me some kind of authority to give out extra books. It's goofy, I know, that I needed any sort of reason besides human generosity to pass along a fifty cent book. But now I'm excited about the prospect of giving out free books, both for the extra appeal it will give to Wednesday nights (snacks AND free books!) and for the chance to spread the secondhand gospel. Maybe we'll even play a little game to decide who gets the books. Doesn't that sound like just so much literary fun?

Plus, I can carry the books to the meeting in my tote bag!

the one ring.

We'd been talking about getting married for a while. After Daddy got sick, we talked about it some more. Finally, one night, I asked what needed to happen before we were officially "engaged," rather than "probably gonna marry each other someday." He said he needed a ring. And I said no, that wasn't necessary. I don't know what you've heard about musicians, but mine does not make a lot of money. Plus, his car had just died and so there was that to pay for. A symbolic piece of jewelry was not required. After all, I am a modern woman. But he was insistent about it, so I said that the ring we got now didn't have to be The One Ring. He liked that idea, and then he started talking about the ring he was going to buy me when he got rich. Apparently, it's going to be so ridiculously expensive that we're going to keep it in a safe most of the time, which sounds more useless than a regular engagement ring.

Josh has a thing about diamonds. Aside from the whole blood diamonds issue, there is the fact that diamond engagement rings were a marketing device invented by De Beers. Also, he says that De Beers artificially inflates the price on diamonds by hording them and keeping them scarce. My view is that it's just a shiny thing anyway. The value of it is entirely based on its shininess and not on any qualities like usefulness or scarcity. So the price is artificially high? It was all made up in the first place. But I wasn't requiring a diamond, since I didn't require a ring at all. That was his idea, though I would certainly accept a free piece of jewelry, so as not to hurt his feelings.

The next day, to show him that I was serious about getting serious, I spent some time ring shopping. I poked around on Etsy, just to give him examples of things that I liked rather than making specific requests. I sent him an email with half a dozen links to various rings. I was very budget-minded. The most expensive one I sent him was $175, and the cheapest was $22. Only the most expensive one had a diamond, an uncut one at that, which I thought was kinda neat. But the rest were pearls or had no stone at all. You can get white topazes and white sapphires, which look like diamonds, but I didn't like that idea. Just be yourself, little sapphire. If I was going to have a non-traditional ring, I wanted it to look like one, instead of it just being an imposter. I was prepared to rock my weirdo engagement ring, to own my eccentricity, to make others wish they were awesome enough to get such a cool ring. In my list, I even included one that had a puzzle piece on it, to further encourage him to go any way he wanted with this, including a silly way. I felt terrible sending such a gimme list and ended with a line about how none of it mattered at all, it was just a ring, it's him I want.

When I saw him at the end of the day, I immediately asked if he thought I was awful and shallow. He said he hadn't read the email. Then he said that the dog had discovered a new archaeological find in the yard.

While I was looking online, he was driving all over town. He took a crash course in diamonds online and then hit some pawn shops. He found The Ring at the Raleigh Jewelry and Loan, a shop that seemed to specialize more in guns. The guy behind the counter was mistrustful at first. Then Josh said he wanted to buy that ring right there, and the guy figured out A.) Josh was not casing the joint, and B.) he was going to commit his life to some girl. Suddenly aglow in the contagious happiness of a proposal, he was helpful and friendly. Apologizing that he didn't deal a lot in engagement rings, he pulled out a tiny gift box from under the counter. It was truly hideous, made of glittery turquoise plastic with a pink bow that Josh had to tape on.

The man asked him: if I was such a great gal, why was he buying me a ring in a pawn shop? I don't quite understand the sales technique. Even pawn shop owners believe the stigma.

Josh does not believe the stigma. I do not believe the stigma, because it's the same one that says that thrift stores and yard sales are for poor people. Being who we are, it would have been, I dunno, wrong somehow to buy a brand new ring. Plus, at pawn shops, you can negotiate. Josh got them to knock $100 off the price to get it to $650. Later, when we took it to a real live jewelry store to have it resized, the professionals estimated its value at $1800.

That is the kind of man that I want to marry. Makes me all hot just thinking about that kind of savvy shopping.

He worried before he gave it to me that it was not The Ring, the right ring. The funny thing is that as soon as he offered it to me as a way of offering himself, it became The Ring. Like the stone and the metal it's made of, the value is what we attach to it. That would have been true of any diamond or pearl or puzzle piece ring he gave me. So it was this one, which turned out to be just the one I wanted.

o.

Shortly after we moved into the house, Josh spent an afternoon raking the back yard (remember - all trees, no grass). I don't know why he did this, as it didn't seem to accomplish much, but he was very proud of the act. Doing this, he unearthed various bits and pieces of the previous owners' lives. A bottle cap here, a mangled bird feeder there. It was like the arrowheads that some kid in your second grade class had found out near the creek, except not at all exotic. Apparently, us humans are just not capable of not leaving our crap all over the place.

Once we got the dog, even more of this stuff started cropping up. Maybe this went back two or three owners, because it had been too deep to be uncovered in a cursory raking. No, it needed paws. Paws that used to be white but were now kinda orange, thanks to that red dirt we have around here. We'd catch her chewing on something mysterious and have to take it away before she broke her teeth on it.

Some of this stuff was more of the same - plastic bags, broken glass, disposables that hadn't been properly disposed of. And then she started coming up with odd metal things. They look like parts from some kind of mechanical monster. I only engineer non-tangible things, so I have no idea what it could have been. Probably a time machine. I started collecting the more interesting items as a sort of art piece: Remix Archaeology.

I noticed that you could use the "artifacts" to spell out words, specifically the name of Josh's band. I thought it might make a neat picture for their website, but we needed an 'O'. We had one already, and we could just use that one again with a little photo-editing, but I felt that it would be truer to the spirit of Remix Archaeology if we could have a different object. I don't know why, but considering that sculptures consisting of crap my dog dug out of the yard is a relatively new art form, I figure I can make it go however I want.

A couple of weeks ago, Josh mentioned that Remix had found another 'O.' How thrilling! I asked what it was, and he sort of shrugged. Well, that makes sense. It's not like I could tell what any of the other pieces used to be anyway. At home, we were on the back porch, enjoying the ridiculously mild weather. I asked about the new artifact. He went inside to get it, saying that it was small and he hadn't wanted to lose it. He came back and put it in line with the rest of the letters. It was tiny compared to the other letters, and I felt bad that I would have to tell him this piece would not be acceptable for my purposes. It was also very shiny.

O.

I picked it up, and it was on my finger before I had a chance to turn around and see him kneeling before me.