But Call Me Betsy

I took a class at Penn this past semester, and found myself having to think again about grades. Not worrying about them, exactly, but knowing that what I was turning in would them be evaluated and given some kind of concrete value. That doesn't happen so much in the working world. We get evaluated each year, and I guess raises are based on performance, but it's a different kind of incentive. It's odd to go from spending 16 years of your life and a few more years with grades in grad school then switching to an ungraded system and then back again. It's harder to take it seriously; especially in graduate school when it seems like unless you really screw up, you get an "A." At least I thought I was blase until the other day when I got an email from some ominous unnamed administrator saying I hadn't turned in my final paper and was in academic jeopardy. What? I knew it was a mistake, but I imagined it would be impossible to prove, I'd be kicked out of the...

This is what happens in the morning whenever Dan stays over and the cats are in the basement all night. I get to set them free!

Last weekend, Brooklyn Liz and her five-month old baby came into Princeton on the train and visited us for a few hours. This is a good baby. He hardly fussed, and he was just really smiley. Luke was so excited about meeting him that the night before, he said, "I can't fall asleep! I can't wait to see J.J." Never mind that he never met him before. Here they are in the Princeton Library. Luke would not stop wanting to hold him. Notice how he's touching the soft spot in the baby's head as if the baby is holy. Reading books. J.J. already likes books, which is not surprising, since his parents are big readers. J.J. liked Luke too. See what I mean about being smiley. When I held him over my head, he puked on me a little. I love his little monkey socks. And Dalmatian coat. And strawberry hat. He may have an identity crisis when he gets older, but for now, he's just cute. This was the day Luke learned about breast milk. Joy. I was pretty sure Luke was going to d...

I know that you are all wondering what I would like for Christmas, and so here is a list. Please do not veer from it! 1. Cat toys/accouterments, such as cardboard box lids. 2. Something to sit in while I'm watching The Bachelor so that I feel like I'm part of the action (this one was actually my friend Kelly's idea). 3. A real one, not a fake one. Dog too. 4. Elective surgery can be purchased on gift cards now. 5. Remember when Jane Seymour was in that movie, Somewhere in Time ? And Christopher Reeves played a guy who falls in love with a stage actress from the turn-of-the-century and is somehow able to go back in time to meet her and then they both die and are reunited in heaven (not to spoil it for you)? Well, Superman is gone, but Jane Seymour lives on with this lovely, Open Heart jewelry. Perfect for if you want to wear something around your neck that looks like butt cheeks: Thank you in advance for your generosity!

I've been working on this story to turn in for the final paper for my Penn class, and it's still not quite hanging together. I forget what I used to do with revisions--would I start over? Mostly, I think I used to just keep writing until I figured out where the story was going. In this case, I can't get the ending right. It's too contrived. Writing about the experience of working with organ donor families reminds me again how emotional it was--how I would get these emails from out of nowhere that would have the photo of a dead child attached to it and a note from a family member saying, "I just miss him so much." And then I'd open the file and it would be a two-year old with his puppy or a ten year old girl on a bicycle or a 40 year old man holding up a fish. The stories were infinitely interesting--I learned so much about death and ways to die--more than the average person would want to know. I think it's part of the reason I'm still a cautious d...

Every other week, a very nice woman named Jiselle brings a crew in to clean my house. I have a certain amount of middle class guilt about this, while at the same time really loving coming home and finding that finally, someone has vacuumed. I keep the house picked up, but I don't sweep, mop, or dust. Here is an example of the kind of detail Jiselle brings to her job, this bow in the box of Kleenex, which, in this context, appears to be being blessed by the noseless baby Pope. Some holiday cheer for you. This is the same house--the decorations they placed in the side window. Nothing says holiday time like Holiday Excitement Barbie. Snoopy and wreaths. The little baby Jesus behind bars. A stately wreath. This is how my cats stay warm. Because I sometimes turn the heat wayyyyyy down.

Had my last first writing class Tuesday night and we talked a little bit about how people get unstuck from writing--like how you might write yourself into "a pickle," as the teacher put it. Someone suggested writing dialogue; someone else said to go back to description. I did a little writing this morning (revisions of the story are due next week) and realized that when I get stuck (at least during revision), I tend to go back into the story and find a specific paragraph that needs work and go with that. Or write something ridiculous. Or write a different ending. But the truth is that I'm so rusty with writing that I'm not quite sure what it is that works best. I think I've found a different ending to the story I'm working on--one that doesn't tie up so neatly, but gets closer to the core of the matter, I hope. I had a moment the other day where I was walking on this really windy day and I had left the house feeling relatively cute, but then a huge gust of...

My 3 favorite words! A couple of weeks ago, I decided it would be fun if Luke, Dan, and I used the Christmas cookie cutter things my mom bought me at the Christmas Tree Shoppe in CT. So, we bought the ingredients, though did so before realizing that Dan doesn't have a rolling pin or an oven. Whoops! We ended up using a tin can of some kind and the landlady's oven, along with her ancient flour-sifter. The cookies had some rust in them, but only a little. Here is the second batch, after I gave up on the cookie cutter idea. And a few from the first batch--candy canes, Christmas trees, stars, and a Santa blob. The cookie dough was Pillsbury sugar cookie brand. Totally delicious. This is a cat in a window. The moon. Random Philadelphia art--I think taken on Lombard Street. Left-over Halloween decorations. And again. Oh, this is Ernesto, lounging in the living room the other night. Aerial view. Then, last night, Lisbeth, Nicole, and I attended a cake decorating class in Center City, ...

I have this recurring fantasy that I'm in a bar somewhere singing karaoke with a large group of my friends and peers, and I totally amaze them by having this awesome singing voice. They have to stop what they're doing as I sing, because they're so enthralled, and even strangers around us pause to listen. I think it's because I (like most people?) secretly think I have a good singing voice. This contrary to the fact that when I did musical theater in high school, the director opted to allow me to sing one line "Somewhere...Over the rainbow..." before he brought on a real singer to do the rest and my character slowly vanished upstage. I think it must be the acoustics of the car that trick me. I did take singing lessons once from a friend of mine in college. She was a music education major and in one of her classes, she had to pick someone with a moderate singing voice, train her/him for a few months, and then the person would come into class and perform--like ...

I had one of those dreams last night where I'm in a play, but haven't rehearsed any of the lines in weeks, don't know the part very well, and don't have a costume, and am also playing someone against type (in this case, I think I was Falstaff. Perhaps I feel like I've been eating too many Christmas cookies?). I had to go onstage first. When I peeked through the curtains, the seats were mostly blank, but when I went onstage (with the play strategically smuggled in the front of my shirt), it was a packed crowd. I warbled and chortled about (as Falstaff does), while also realizing that I wasn't emphasizing the right words. The line would be something like, "Is that a dagger I see before me?" but I'd say it like, "Is THAT a dagger I see before me?" As if there 4-5 things in my line of vision. The cast and director were not pleased with me and told me so after the show. I was upset, not just because of my poor performance, but also because I ...

And Barack Obama was in it. I dreamed I was in some kind of shopping center and he just walked in to look at a table of books. He was wearing a red Polo shirt. In the dream, I kept thinking how I had to act cool, you know, not stare or faint or anything. It was so vivid. I could see the freckles on his arms. He had a surprisingly deep voice and also wasn't surrounded by any body guards or security. I thought he might notice how unaffected I was acting and want to talk to me. He did not. It must be so odd to be famous enough that you make cameo appearances in the dreams of strangers. Here is a photo of a set back blue house I pass on my walk down South Street. This is my shadow. Hair was biggish that day. The campus. It's so pretty in the fall. I guarantee that even though you can't see them with the naked eye, there are at least 16 squirrels hidden in this photo somewhere. A little street flair. And the corresponding house. Seems as though Home Depot was having a sale on t...