I don't do quizzes very often. Well I do, I just rarely post them.
In any case, I did

What Egyptian Deity are you? go to:the quiz!

I've been awake since five AM Central time, after going to bed around one AM central time, so if this is disjointed, I'm pinning it on jet lag.

Our last day in Minneapolis was a lazy one. We were up early for breakfast, because it came with the room and all. I'm not usually a breakfast eater, though I love breakfast food. One of the things I miss from working at Gateway is the nightly Perkins trip after working swing shift. The goal was always to get from work to Perkins early enough to get a certain round table in Pruitt's section, and then to be out before 2 AM when Scary Vaccuum Guy showed up. In any case, three years of swing-shift and a lifelong tendency towards nocturnalism have combined with the effect of me being unable to eat before 10 AM, so being awake for breakfast, and actually eating it, was a rare treat.

We then went back to the room and napped, because we could. There's something really indulgent in sprawling in a comfortable bed, with only the whirring of the air conditioner to lull you into blissful sleep.

Later, we made our pilgrimage to the Mall of America. For such a huge place, it manages to boast two things that I wish all malls could offer: There is always parking, and even though there are masses of people, it never feels excessively crowded. Add the fact that it has Macy's, Nordstrom, and Bloomingdale's all under one roof, and you have Shopping Ecstasy. Yes, I bought stuff, but just clothes, nothing interesting. I missed the Fossil store and now I regret it, because I really need a new watch.

Just as we were entering the mall, our friend Ben called and said, “We're all doing dinner, and we feel bad for not spending time with you. You must come, and you get to choose the restaurant.” I suggested Ichiban, which is sort of like Benihana. The nice thing about such places is that you can watch the chef if there's a lull in conversation. Still, the group was a warm one: Ben, Julia, Fuzzy, me, Ben's dad, who flew in from London, his brother and sister-in-law, who flew in from Wales, and his mother and stepfather, who live in Rapid City. I generally get lost in crowds, because it takes me a long time to warm up to folks, but two cosmos while we were waiting for our table really helped.

Back to the hotel, where we packed, and forced ourselves back to bed. I was so concerned about mising our alarm that I slept in two hour chunks, waking up to glance at the time, and then going back to sleep. This wasn't planned, just something my brain loves to do to me. We were the first people to eat breakfast this morning, but it was 6:30, so I guess that's not unusual. I'm glad I insisted that we get up so early, though, because we managed to get lost on the 14-minute drive to the airport.

Then, there was the usual race to get through security, where, for once, I was not selected for random bomb-sniffing. The x-ray operator made envious comments about Fuzzy's laptop, but I protested that mine was cuter. He said, “No, bigger is better. It is a man-thing,” in a really beautiful Jamaican or Haitian accent.

The plane trip home was as packed as the trip here, with even more children. At one point, they asked for volunteers because the trip was oversold (how, I ask, can you oversell a flight, when they assign seats at ticketing?), so we volunteered. It turned out they didn't need our seats, but they gave us certs for extra miles just for offering. I could write an entire entry on the lack of attention paid by parents to the children on this plane, but that will wait. In the meantime, at least I'm home, groggy, and tired, and still getting used to such dark hair.

I'm told that most Americans are still afraid to fly, leftover terror from last September, but evidently those people don't live in San Jose, because our flight on Thursday was completely full, and it was the first time I'd been on a completely-full flight since July 2000, and that was on Southwest, which doesn't count. Still, the Northwest folk, were, if not cheery, at least trying to recognize the 4th. Our lead flight attendant, Mel, was dressed as Uncle Sam, and, when asked why, said he was told he got a reprieve from income taxes til 2005 if he dressed that way. He was kidding, of course. Later, during the safety prep, he included the line, “This is a non-smoking flight. Anyone caught smoking will be thrown out the plane window.” It's the kind of line that only draws a laugh from 140 people trapped in an airplane with you, I think.

* * * * *

When we got to the Radisson in Roseville, we were told by the very sweet but incredibly clueless desk person that no, this Radisson did not have in-room highspeed access. So we asked her if she could find us a room in a Radisson who did, and her solution was to give us the phone book. Oy. So we moved to the Radisson Plaza in the heart of downtown Minneapolis, to a foofy room that has in-room T1, and chocolate on the pillows, and – get this – was $10 less per night. Yay downtown! (Of course, being the geeks that we are, we bought a mini-hub so that we could share the in-room access.)

* * * * *

Yesterday morning Claudia the Concierge found me a hair salon that would do hair coloring on short notice. She got me an appointment at Juut which calls itself a salonspa (no punctuation). I was a little worried that, since it was upscale and right next to Nieman Marcus, it would cost a small fortune, but was pleasantly surprised, because my $50 ($65 with the tip to Erica, who was just wonderful) got me a glass of water, a foot massage, all-0ver hair coloring, and not just the root-touch up I'd planned, and lovely tea. I wish there was a Juut in the mall near me; I'd switch my affiliations in a minute. In any case, we didn't just redo my roots, we actually recolored all my hair, because I'd mentioned that I'm working such long hours I don't have the time or inclination to keep up with dying it red, so she said, “Well, your own hair is really dark, and we can cover the red, but red's persistant, and we'll have to use so much green and blue that for a while this will be really dark.” The net result is that, until I wash this tomorrow, my hair is that black-brown-chestnut combination, that you generally see on Asians who've been in the sun a lot. It's very dark, and I'd never leave it this dark, and it's weird seeing dark hair in the mirror, when I've had some shade of red since I was 15 or so, but, I think I like it. It definitely brings out the Italian part of my heritage.

* * * * *

New hair color means new makeup, so I stopped at Nieman Marcus, and indulged at the Clinique counter, and was reminded again how very polite midwesterners are. Walk into Nordstrom, and you get sniffed at, walk into Nieman Marcus, and they apologize for not knowing everything about Clinique because they usually cover Lancome. The saleswoman and I had fun picking a new lipstick (she tried some, too), and I ended up with Rasperry Glace. I added new blush to my purchases, and then asked about nail polish, and she said, “It'll take me a minute to find it, but if you don't mind waiting, it'll be worth it, because you'll get the free gift.” So I did – on both counts.

* * * * *

After wandering through the skyway that led back to my hotel (almost all of the core of downtown Minneapolis is connected by skyways, which is great, because you can wander around and have signs that tell you how to get back, and air conditioning, and no mosquitoes), and hooking up with Fuzzy again, we dressed and left for the wedding. It was nice, as weddings go. Short, sweet, and the judge was great, telling them “We wish for you a home. Not one of wood and plaster, but a symbolic home, where your love and your personal values will take root and bloom. A home where truth and peace and social justice all dwell with you.” The readings were done by family members, and were everything from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, to Shakespeare, and really simple. The wedding itself was in a rented mansion, now owned by the Association of University Women. It was right next door to the Governor's Mansion on Summit Avenue in St. Paul, and was really lovely, and tasteful. Ben, the groom, a friend of Fuzzy's from college, is English, and so there were crackers for every guest. The were nice though, and didn't make everyone link arms to pull the crackers. I still want to know how they managed to get that many crackers that all had purple hats inside, since their colors were silver and purple, but I suppose you can order them that way. The reception was dry – a rule of the mansion, not a personal choice – but very warm, even though we really didn't know anyone. We sat with Julia's(the bride) boss, and I realized that she really has grown from the flighty nineteen year old we didn't really like when we first met her. We opted NOT to leave a personal message on the video tape, because Fuzzy couldn't think of anything, and I didn't think, “Congratulations you two. Julia, if you hurt Ben, I'll kill you,” would be entirely appropriate.

* * * * *

So, we were back at the hotel by 10:30, and desperate for chocolate, we ordered room service, and then tumbled into bed. Today, all we've accomplished is eating breakfast, and Fuzzy's napping now. We might hit the Mall of America or might go on a Riverboat Cruise, but I'm not sure. I do know it'll be an early day, because we have to be up at dawn to make our 9:00 AM flight home.

Ah, home, I can't wait. I love seeing new places, but I love being tucked up at home, with my dogs, as well.

Someone at OD posted this survey about how people interact with their parents. (If you can't read it, and want the questions, let me know.)

I never met my biological father, and my mother's first husband was a classic abuser's offspring. He'd wave a baton in front of your face, and yell, and then go curl up in a ball because he was so mortified that he was becoming like his own father. He never actually hit me, though he did tell me, when my mother and I were leaving for California in 1981, that he'd hunt me down and kill me. The rational part of my brain knows that this was an idle threat, a last dig. The irrational part of me still freezes whenever a beige classic beetle comes into view, or my name is spoken in a certain inflection.

I am lucky, though, that her second husband, whom she's been married to for 20 years now, is a wonderful caring man, and while I will never call him “Dad,” and it took me more than 15 of those 20 years to get to the point where I could tell him I love him, I'm a much better person for having him in my life.

I've been through stages where I've sworn I'd never speak to my mother, and I've been through stages where we've gone out for coffee every Saturday morning. That's all pretty normal, I guess.

There really isn't any point to this entry. Just thoughts sparked by a survey.

…when you meet someone who bewitches you.

* * *
I've had Leonard Bernstein tunes in my head all weekend, since seeing “Leonard Bernstein's New York” on Ovation. Admittedly, I only watched it because I went to high school with one of the castmembers, but the tunes were so infectious…

* * *
I still haven't managed to contact an a/c installer, which meant I was effectively banned from computer use because the computer room was just too hot this weekend. Probably for the best, anyway. I got some reading done, played with the dogs, and even spent a few hours working on the stack of stuff on my desk at the office. Yay, productivity.

* * *
I dragged Fuzzy out clothes shopping, so he'd have something which I deem acceptable to wear to his friend's wedding this weekend. We spent $400 on him at Structure, and learned a lot about their very confusing discount system. It rivals the rules for Fizbin. Really. “Blue shirts are 49.95 regularly, but 34.95 on Tuesdays when it's dark, and 19.95 if you buy 17 other items while hopping on one foot.” What? Exaggerate? Me?

* * *
This weekend made history: I spent more on clothes for Fuzzy than for myself. But I still need another pair of sandals, to replace the Tevas that Cleo-dog ate, and a new wristwatch, to replace the one I bought in Iowa last summer, and which didn't even survive the plane-trip home. I've been watch-less ever since, and I feel all out-of-kilter, albeit subtly so.

* * *
The first attempt at sourdough wasn't abysmal – I haven't baked bread in too long, and need to re-learn those skills – but I do need a baking stone. Soon.

* * *
So much for journal fodder. Back to work now.
*wanders off singing*

…When he smiles at me, everything's hazey and so out of focus…

1. How did you find LiveJournal?
– The person who introduced me to OpenDiary was the same person who brought me here, during one of OpenDiary's then-frequent outages. Said person was Moonness (edited to include this information, because someone was complaining that I didn't.)

2. Did you start a journal as soon as you found the site, or did a period of time elapse between your arrival and starting your own?
– I started a journal immediately, but only posted one entry. Then OD was working again, so I returned to my original journalling “home.” I came back here after reading an essay on 's web page, and following links to her LJ, and to 's. I stayed because the two communities are vastly different.

3. What made you start your journal? Did you have a purpose?
– One of my fantasies is to write a column, so I tend to use my online journals more for writing practice than anything else. More often, lately, I've rambled about day-to-day stuff, but I always feel boring and silly when I do.

4. Why do you continue writing? Have your reasons for keeping a journal changed?
– Still writing practice, and also for the discipline. I tend to write more essayishly than bloggishly so I have a personal goal of at least three entries a week.

5. How long did it take for you to figure out how to link to another journalist?
– showed me how. He taught me about cut tags, too, but I hate them. I'm sorry. I just do. I actually do try to remember to use them when I think something is long. Really. I do.

6. Have you always had one journal, have you deleted one and started another, or do you keep multiple journals?
– I have one main LJ and another that is solely for my LASIK foo, because I wanted all of that in one place, and wanted to avoid squicking people, including my husband, who wouldn't even watch the video with me.

7. Whether you still have your first, original journal, or if you've gone through multiple journals, who are the livejournal friends you've known longest?
– Moonness, who once went by some other name, but no longer posts here, and who never writes often enough are the two who go back the furthest, because I knew them from OD before coming here.

8. Out of all the entries you've written, which one is your favorite? And what entry have you written that sticks out in your memory the most?
– I don't have a favorite. The ones I'm most proud of are the same entries that get no comments, though, interestingly, entries that get no responses here get fabulous responses at OD, and vice versa. I'm rather fond of my scent entry, though.

9. Assuming you have notes enabled on your entries, why do you like notes?
– Feedback, feedback, feedback! Writing is such a solitary thing, that getting comments without having to sit in a room and read stuff out loud is just wonderful. Also, I don't care if you agree with me or not, but what you think often causes me to think about something in a different way. And sometimes, I like just knowing someone else is reading my words, however perfunctorily.

10. Other journalling sites have different conventions, including reader's choice nominations, weekly theme suggestions, and editor's choice suggestions. Are there any such things you'd like to see implemented here?
– I'm a fan of theme suggestions, even if I don't write directly to themes that are suggested. I think one of the reasons I'm such a survey slut is that questions spark ideas. The one thing I wish LJ had is the OD option of making your favorites (friends) list private.

Moonness at Open Diary wrote a survey about OD, which I've blatantly stolen, and tweaked so as to be more appropriate for LJ.

1. How did you find LiveJournal?

2. Did you start a journal as soon as you found the site, or did a period of time elapse between your arrival and starting your own?

3. What made you start your journal? Did you have a purpose?

4. Why do you continue writing? Have your reasons for keeping a journal changed?

5. How long did it take for you to figure out how to link to another journalist?

6. Have you always had one journal, have you deleted one and started another, or do you keep multiple journals?

7. Whether you still have your first, original journal, or if you've gone through multiple journals, who are the livejournal friends you've known longest?

8. Out of all the entries you've written, which one is your favorite? And what entry have you written that sticks out in your memory the most?

9. Assuming you have notes enabled on your entries, why do you like notes?

10. Other journalling sites have different conventions, including reader's choice nominations, weekly theme suggestions, and editor's choice suggestions. Are there any such things you'd like to see implemented here?

Melissa is back…
Melissa is also in demand for weddings, receptions and private parties.
Melissa is the FEATURED ARTIST for September's HOT BANDS ISSUE
Melissa is here, cheer no more
Melissa is a Microsoft Word macro virus that infects your PC as soon as you open its e-mail attachment.
Melissa is a member of the elite Master Sales Society.
Melissa is an inspiration to us and to everyone that knows her.
Melissa is a bit like a lake.
Melissa is a country-living Texas community with a population of approximately 1,500, located on Highway 5, 50 miles north of downtown Dallas.
Melissa is almost entirely uninteresting.

Saturday morning, before we began our trek to SoCal, Fuzzy and I were sitting in our favorite bagel shop, chatting about inconsequentials, and just enjoying the day, when the Woman in Black came in.

While she wasn't really a Woman in Black, in the sense of the political group, she was a woman, and she was black-clad from her ratty hooded sweatshirt, to the cotton dress, full of holes and split to mid thigh (more on one side than the other because the seam had ripped).

When she walked, it was impossible not to see that she was wearing red, white, and blue plaid knee-high socks under the dress. I don't remember what her shoes were. Some kind of sneaker, I think. She was muttering to herself, which is really what gave her away as being homeless. As did her first action: She picked up a napkin dispenser, carried around, then sat in a corner, pulled all the napkins out, and stuffed them in her purse.

I was midway through my bagel, and the cream cheese just didn't taste right to me that morning. I'd been complaining to Fuzzy of that since we'd begun to eat. So I told him, “You can finish that, if you want,” and wandered out of the bagel place and into Starbucks for road-fuel in the form of a caramel frappucino.

A few minutes later, mission accomplished, I returned, in time to see Fuzzy handing off my bagel to the Woman in Black. And I thought, “Wow, what a cool thing to do.”

He reports that when he offered it to her, the initial response was “What is it.” A bagel, he answered, with cream cheese.

“Oh,” she replied. “I like cream cheese.”

* * *

It's her last comment that made the encounter stick in my mind. Before I met Fuzzy, my mother and I had a winter ritual of helping to cook holiday meals at a local homeless shelter, and one of the things we always boggled at was the way people who are literally scrounging for their next meal would turn away parts of the dinner, “Oh,” they'd sniff. “I hate green beans.”

I suppose it's about control. Sometimes turning down green beans can be the most empowering thing you do all week.

While we were in the hotel, I started reading the book Bread Alone, a novel about a woman of roughly my age who is essentially a trophy wife. When her husband informs her that he needs space, she flees to her best friend in Seattle, and starts baking bread, something she hasn't really done since a foreign exchange trip in college, where she apprenticed in a boulangerie in France.

Interspersed throughout the book are recipies for everything from peasant bread to Tassajara's banana yeast bread to pumpkin muffins (a personal favorite). This book, like A Year in Provence made me want to taste everything. Alas, when I began to read, even room service had shut down for the night.

I finished the book last night, and dreamed about making bread with my grandfather. Bread baking was one of the hobbies he acquired in the seventies, so I'm really the only grandchild who got to participate. My cousins say I was his favorite, but I think it was more that I was there.

In any case, I remember the smell of the cornmeal in the bread pans, and I remember him teaching me about sourdough starters, and how they worked, and I remember that he had this metal bowl with a crank for stirring dough (it never occurred to him to use my grandmother's stand mixer, or maybe the mixer was dead by then.)

The last time a book really put me in the baking urge was eons ago when I read The Sourdough Wars by Julie Smith (great mystery novelest, btw), and this book has also sparked the urge. All day today at work, I wanted to rush to Barnes and Noble and pick up The Tassajara Bread Book and perhaps some other books on bread. That didn't happen, because I didn't leave work til eight, and by then I was grumpy and tired, and Fuzzy and I were too hungry to do anything but eat and veg in front of Inside the Actor's Studio.

Before I came upstairs, though, I tossed 1/4 cup of white flour, and 1/4 cup of wheat flour, and an equal measure of water, into a ceramic bowl, and stirred it into a paste, covered it with a wet towel, and left it on the back of the stove. Tomorrow when I come home, it'll be time for the first refreshment, and by the weekend, I should have decent starter. It actually works better (faster) if you toss in a little rye flour, but I didn't have any. Oh, well.

I can't wait to knead the first dough, to shape the loaves, to smell that fresh bread smell wafting through my house. True, I have a bread machines, and that's great for basic stuff, but it's not the same as shaping it myself.

Spores.
Not just yeast, but little bits of nostalgia and imagination.
And since the bread machine has a jam cycle, maybe I'll make marmalade in it, so it won't feel ignored.