When the last few bites are hard to stomach

Sometimes the end is quite bitter indeed. Or at least the first half is much better than the second. Think:

1) Edward Scissorhands
2) Ice cream sandwiches (always stuck to your fingers)
3) Lolita
4) Lollipops (90% stick)
5) Crafts projects
6) Coffee (the last 1.5 sips are probably just backwash)
7) The complete 7-minute version of "American Pie"
8) Encounters with long-lost acquaintances

As I look at this list, I realize that I actually love all of these things despite my dissatisfaction with their conclusions. Does the positive outweigh the negative? Or do I just forget?

Why is it that Discovery Health is the most compelling channel on television?

I do not have an answer at this time.

Vintage thesis

To become a successful antiques shopper, a person must have a well-established sense of his or her soul's material needs. The scuffed box stuffed with ceramic dice? The framed portrait of the woman with a handsome chin? The naked doll with the porcelain head? Inside a store that offers so many delights, none of which are new or necessary, one's heart is their only guide. You must know not only what you like, but also, as one shop owner put it, what you did not know you could not live without.

Wandering through several antiques stores in Concord today, I kept thinking of Miriam, a character in Myla Goldberg's Bee Season, who compulsively collects the items that call to her. She names the feeling that these things give her, simply: Perfectimundo. Miriam's infatuation with these objects becomes pathological—she steals them from stores and other people's homes—but her sentiment is familiar. Goldberg writes:

The first time Perfectimundo finds Miriam, it is a complete surprise, a game of hopscotch in which the stone falls into the perfect center of square 3. It is a magic moment. The absolute rightness of the stone's placement in the square opens something deep inside Miriam that had, until this moment, always been shut. Miriam can feel the release. Her body fills with warmth at the sight of the stone, beckoning like a talisman to another world. It is this other world that Miriam wants to inhabit, this other world to which she really belongs.

This is a little like how I feel when I see the right antique brooch or gigantic plaster cat, those pieces of myself I never knew was missing.

Ho ho ho

A friend called to my attention that in many households, coal would actually be a welcome holiday gift this year! Santa should stop wasting his fossil fuels on sinners.

[Image from Sin.Thesis.]

Even if you say you don't like children

Outside in the cold, slushy world, where adults nurse road rage and slam doors in one another's faces, there remains one experience that inspires almost unavoidable compassion. Just watch: frigid faces melt when a quiet baby enters a subway car in the arms of a parent. This time of year, the infants are bundled in pastel coats and fleece hats with flaps and polka dots. Elderly women, stern-looking European tourists, high school boys—none can resist brightening at the sight. It is a product of evolution! This morning the other passengers and I watched one rosy girl, nested in her dad's lap, grow drowsy while he obliviously planted kisses on the crown of her head.

And you thought Mr. Hanky was a Christmas poo

I made this special menorah when I was seven. Was the likeness of the central candle holder to dog doo intentional? An artist never tells.

Brotha from the same motha

My brother and I were talking about how news coverage of the economic recession, meant to terrify, feels oddly comforting. When I was younger, warnings of power outages during big storms used to inspire this same dumb coziness. I enjoy the romantic ideation of going without—board games beneath the glow of a flashlight or outfits cobbled from childhood clothes—because I assume my sacrifices are only temporary.

I have wondered for years

What does a comb-over look like first thing in the morning? I imagine the more extensive ones hang to a man's chin in an oily half-pageboy.

You know it's time to go home when...

...you try repeatedly to jam your house key into the lock on your dorm room door.

The diastereomers of my dreams

I used to dream of kaleidoscopes of organic molecules. They reflected against mirrors, duplicated, and superimposed themselves on one another. Sometimes the molecules moved in time to music, while other times they glided about in an elegant silence. Either way, this dance of the enantiomers was a performance in which formerly lifeless molecules (usually phenyl compounds) sought to reveal their twinkling personalities to me. In my dream state, I understood and loved the molecules for their symmetricalness and beauty. When I woke, however, I was always ticked off that I had wasted my dream life on organic chemistry and still didn't actually understand my coursework any better.

During finals week, students everywhere can be seen smearing highlighter on journal articles and hunching over their laptops, actively trying to internalize the material in front of them. I suspect that many of them notice their academic pursuits seeping into their subconscious. I like to think that when I dream about science, it means I am connecting purely with the knowledge rather than focusing on the experience of being tested and graded. But sometimes I dream of labeling beakers, or filling out multiple choice bubbles, or not having enough time to finish an essay, and then I know I cannot separate learning from its context. I don't mind taking tests or writing papers. It's just that I still struggle with the concept of a number between 1 and 4 representing a semester's worth of work. How can I make sure you know what I know? Can't I just do an interpretative dance?

A place to sit or run

The best treasures found in antique stores are those that speak to some nuance of your own life, those that you feel were left by someone in the past for you alone to find.

Chestnut Hill Reservoir, Brookline, Mass.

My dear Mrs Lewis:
This scene is just a little way from here, but doesn't look half as pretty as it really is. I like [it] fine here but was very sorry not to have seen you before I came away.
With much love,
Hazel.

The workswept look

T.G.I.F.

And what do you even call such a thing? Chocolate Cinnamon Toast Crunch Treats?

Last night, I prepared a variant of Rice Krispie Treats for a pre-school class I've been working in. I introduced several substitutions to the classic recipe. Instead of Rice Krispies, I used Cinnamon Toast Crunch. In place of a small amount of big marshmellows as the recipe suggested, I tried a large amount of small ones. In lieu of butter, margarine. After pouring out the mixture into a pan, I even added in some chocolate chips for texture and flair. I don't have a refrigerator, so I let the messy amalgam harden in a covered pan outside behind my dorm lounge.

As I cut the creation into squares last night, oily marshmellow dripping off my spatula, I got the feeling my project had not worked out as planned. They sort of looked like wood chips glued together with snot, then drizzled with bird poop. I managed to carve some into tidy squares, while others remained shapeless plops on the foil. The clean-up was a mess: all the sugar from the cereal had crystallized and formed a scorched amber layer at the bottom of the saucepan. I am embarrassed to admit that I brought these things in to the pre-school this morning anyway. It was my last day working there and I believed that baked goods would make it special.

Every child in the pre-school was handed a sticky cube today during snacktime. Several squeaks of, "I don't want this!" could be heard. A few of the dense monstrosities were eaten soundlessly, with chocolatey smiles. (Some kids will eat anything.) Many of the teachers offered forced praise. While I was washing down the tables, one look in the trashcan revealed that several of my little treats had been thrown away after one bite. The worst! Turns out I substituted creativity for taste.

A gift: Julian Velard sings Madonna

JV's voice could brighten the grayest day. Plus, this video reminds me of when the time my mom and I got kicked out of one of his concerts by a bouncer and had to be picked up by my dad on the streets of Boston. Oh, to be under 21 again!