It's Time to Move: Reasons #11–#14

This morning has inspired me with a few more Reasons to Move:*

11. The loud party in the alley, one backyard over from our bedroom windows, that went on until 12:30. Now, even the Proper Bostonian understands that this is a respectable, and even a considerate, time to conclude a Friday-night party. But it was very loud until it ended.

12. The lone partier who stayed on afterward, happily yelling into his cell phone until after 2 am. Sound echoes beautifully in an alley filled with tall brick buildings. In those wee hours, I calculated that as many as 200 neighbors might alse be lying awake, unwillingly listening to him.

13. The air compressor that started up somewhere in the alley at 8 am and roared on for about an hour. By law, if could have started at 7, so I suppose I should be grateful. But I was too tired to be grateful.

14. The dude in the white pick-up who parked across the street from us and has been blasting "Boston's Country 102.5" on his radio for the past 45 minutes. Since he's sitting in the back of his truck, admiring the view, I fear that he's found his inner-city camping spot for the day. I hope that truck's battery is old.

*The top 10 reasons to move include: one of us owning way, way too many books, having too little space in general, longing for a garden, and the dreadful new neighbors above and below us.)

Annals of Retail: A Real Deal from Banana Republic

I found this intriguing email from Banana Republic on our return from vacation:

So I immediately increased their conversion rate. I quickly filled my shopping bag with $500 worth of miscellaneous handbags I had no interest in, started the checkout process, applied the code, and discovered I was entitled to a mere $15 off.

While I was hoping for $500, I guess Banana Republic knows better than to give a bargainista like me a handout that good. But it was still a $15 handout. And because I get free shipping with my Luxe card, I decided to order one of their classic "Timeless V-neck tees, (on sale in teal and blue for $17.99), costing me a total of $2.99. These classic cotton tees are opaque, neatly cut, and a sensible length (for women who aren't giantesses).

Banana has plenty of accessories, jewelry, and other sale items at similar prices. So if you also get free shipping and this deal is sitting in your inbox, see if your savings are bigger than mine were. It's valid through tomorrow.

Why the Sun Finally Came Out (at least in Maine)

The talented folks of Southwest Harbor, Maine, have discovered the cure for a rainy day:

Water and Wind on Mt. Desert Island, Maine

When we stay in Southwest Harbor, I often wander down to the Cranberry Island Ferry dock close to sundown. It's often windy and cold, but the light can be spectacular:

We saw the moonrise one evening. The water often takes on a pinkish glow at sunset:

There's always a feeling of tranquility at this time of day, with all the dinghies tucked in for the evening:

Another cold, blustery spot offering dramatic scenery is the top of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park. When the wind isn't knocking you around, you can see the town of Bar Harbor and the Porcupine Islands in Frenchman Bay:

Eagle Lake is on another side of the mountain:

The Ledges, on Acadia's Park Loop Road, is yet another windy spot with interesting photo opportunities:

When it's time to get out of the wind and thaw out, there's nothing quite like a hot shower with a few crustaceans for company:

Deer Me

When we're in Acadia National Park, we're always on the search for deer but we rarely see any. We also hope to see bear, moose, and owls, but those are all extremely unlikely unless you spend a lot of time lurking quietly on remote trails. (We spend a lot of time lurking in the hot tub at the inn.) But the park is allegedly overrun with deer and seeing them from the roads, main hiking trails, and carriage roads should be almost as easy as spotting seagulls, at least according to the locals to whom we whine about the lack of deer. They're sick and tired of deer. Nevertheless, we spend a lot of time driving around, staring deeply into the woods and complaining about the dearth of deer.

Yesterday we were cruising the Park Loop Road on a cloudy, drizzly day, wringing extra value from the 12-month park pass we'd sprung for last October. We'd been all through the park a couple of times on this trip and hadn't seen a single deer. Jt just when we'd given up, four appeared — couples grazing, on each side of the road.

And one of them looked like this:

A guy who'd been driving behind us also tiptoed out of his car (you don't shut the car door for fear of scaring off the deer) to admire and take photos. He was in awe of this white one, and told us that while he'd read that they can be found in the woods of northern Minnesota, they are extremely rare in Maine.

Of course, now we can't wait to see that particular deer again.... and where are all the damn moose?

A lot of the summer help on Mt. Desert Island consists of young Russians and Eastern Europeans, who come on four-month work visas. The young woman scooping your Caramel Caribou cone at CJs is likely to ask you if you "vant colored or chocolate shprinkles?" in an accent as rich as the ice cream.

This year, there's Melan, a tall, sweet-tempered Serb, helping out at our inn. He's trying hard to learn English, and spoke very little when he arrived, according to the innkeepers. Since they both have Australian accents and talk a mile a minute, they present an extra challenge to his language acquisition. For the first few days, "Hello!" "Thank you!" and "Serbia number one!" was just about all we heard from Melan. When he saw the Fourth of July fireworks, he reportedly said, "USA number one!" although he also complained mildly that American fireworks were just noise and color — not dangerous, like the shells he'd seen exploding in his own country.

We were sitting by the pool on morning as Melan was having his first lesson in pool maintenance from another young worker at the inn, Mario. Mario was explaining the intricacies of the test strips that are used to test the water in the hot tub to determine which chemicals to add.

Mario had stuck a test strip into the tub and was telling Melan, "So we keep it in the water for about 5 seconds and then we wait another 10 seconds to see what develops..."

Suddenly Melan put his hand on Mario's shoulder, looked deeply into his eyes, and said very seriously, "Baby? Or no baby?"

When we stopped laughing, we realized that Melan is going to be just fine with English.

Greetings from Southwest Harbor, Maine

The Proper Bostonian's husband spent a month of his childhood summers in Bar Harbor, and when we and the PB got together, he was eager to take her up there. We spend a couple of weeks up there every year, broken into three trips: July 4, late August, and October. We've been coming up for more than a decade, and we always stay in the "Poolside Bungalow" of a mellow inn in Southwest Harbor, on the "quiet side" of Mt. Desert Island. The crowds, the fancier restaurants, and the tacky souvenir shops are in Bar Harbor. At Southwest, there's a grocery store with gourmet offerings, a wine and cheese shop, a casual clothing store called the Moody Mermaid, and a family restaurant/ice cream shop called the Quiet Side.

We were bracing for changes when we drove into town. Usually, Mt. Desert has a comforting way of staying the same from year to year, and even from decade to decade, but we knew the economy would have an impact here this year, as it has everywhere. And sure enough, our favorite bookstore, Port in a Storm, in Somesville is just an empty shell with a "For Rent" sign. No more dreamy afternoons on the second-floor windowseat with a small pile of design books and biographies. That hurt. The Higgins Store, which sold an amusing range of antiques as well as jam, is also empty, but we'd expected that. The storekeeper confided last year that he was in the middle of a divorce and closing his shop. We felt even worse about what happened to our favorite tree on the road to the inn, a very tall, shimmering larch (I think) that waved its silvery leaves at us as we came and went. For no reason we can figure out, it was sawed in half, leaving one shimmering branch sticking out at a 90-degree angle, which feels sadder than losing the whole tree.

Then I noticed that our favorite lunch spot in Northeast Harbor, the Tan Turtle, was not showing up in any of the seasonal island advertising directories that you find everywhere up here. A jolly bar/restaurant, it had a tabloid-sized menu that seemed longer than Bleak House. It was almost impossible to decide between all the paninis and poorboys, club sandwiches and quesadillas. Since several businesses in Northeast Harbor had burned in a freak fire last September, we suspected that the loss of those stores had hurt other businesses. Instead we found another giant hole where the Tan Turtle had been. It had burned in the winter. But the old-fashioned bakery, two doors away, had been rebuilt with a glossy wood facade, and was still selling hermits, crullers, and carrot cake just like the old days.

The rest of the trip held no surprises beyond a few new flavors at C.J.'s in Bar Harbor and higher prices ($5.99 for a box of linguini!) at Sawyer's Market and for the popovers at the Jordan Pond House. There are more vacancy signs at the Bar Harbor inns, but our cousin, who owns two galleries in town, says she's been having a great year already and has sold all the largest paintings of her most-expensive artists.

The reassuring thing about lakes, forests, mountains, and even the rocky shoreline up here (unlike the Cape), is that they never seem to change. Southwest Harbor still turns pink at sunset and the dinghies are always tied up in photogenic rows. There's lobster on almost every menu, and happy families and couples line the pavements in town. Our Australian innkeepers continue to make jokes, complain, make ambitious plans for improvements, change their minds, and keep the faith as they always have.

The one that I wish would change is our always having to leave eventually. Unfortunately, that's always predictable, too.

Car Talk

I don't have a driver's license, don't know much about cars. But I do know that when the oil indicator lights up, it's serious.

We were driving in Brookline on Wednesday night, heading for yet another burrito dinner at Anna's on Beacon Street, when the oil light started flickering on and off. We have a Mitsubishi Eclipse, which is only the second car my husband has owned; he bought his first car just 10 years ago. Before that, he just stole cars whenever we needed one (actually, he borrowed his mom's old Chevy, but that doesn't sound nearly as cool, does it?).

We were planning to drive 400 miles to Maine the next morning, and we had a long night ahead of us, putting the final touches on a 530-page book on ancient Egyptian archaeology that my husband has been racing to complete before we left. He'd begun writing, illustrating, and designing it in 1993, but it got sidetracked by other projects over the years. But suddenly it had to be in print by September to give him a better shot at being selected for an exciting new job. We were planning to drop off the files and manuscript at the printer on our way north. We'd been working like maniacs day and night to finish it, and we really didn't need car trouble at this point.

I grew up in a family of men who fix their own cars, so I know a bit more, via osmosis, about them than my husband does. And from my experiences of being around other people's cars, I have learned that the first break-down of a previously reliable car is a harbinger of many more repair bills ahead. I don't know if the local repair shops are unusually inept or actually sabotage cars, but I've noticed that new repairs are usually necessary every few weeks after the initial problem was repaired. Sure enough, my husband had taken his car to a new mechanic a month ago when the "check engine" light went on. Because he is trusting and earnest as well as clueless about cars, he told the owner of the garage (let's call him Charles) to repair anything that he thought might be wearing out, figuring that this would prevent future problems. Charles saw dollar signs (700 of them). And my dad, in Pennsylvania, saw stars when he heard the story and started yelling. "Crooks! You never have to replace all four ignition coils at once! He paid what for how many spark plugs? Geez, it's too bad the ancient Egyptians didn't have cars or he might know something about them! I bet he never read his manual, either!"

Two weeks later, my husband mentioned that the car wasn't starting properly. "When did this start?" I asked, figuring that the grim era of never-ending car repairs was about to commence. "About a month ago, I guess," he said. "Didn't you tell Charles when you were there a couple of weeks ago?" I asked. "No, I forgot." "Well, you can't go back to there or my dad will have a fit," I said.

But he said he liked and trusted Charles, and that all of his work was guaranteed for a year. I rolled my eyes. Charles said the car needed a new battery; it was 7 years old. He also said the starter was wearing out but that it would probably last a few more months. And he gave him the model info so we could buy a less-expensive, rebuilt one ourselves, to have on hand when the time came. This didn't seem especially "crooked," to me, but I figured Charles was feeling guilty about all those ignition coils.

When the oil light flickered on I said, "You have to stop driving. Now. If you're low on oil, that's okay, but if you're not, we're in big trouble." The light flickered on and off until we found a parking space; my husband checked the oil. There seemed to be plenty, maybe even too much. I wondered if the light was lying.

It was 6 o'clock. Cars never break down when repair shops are open. I called my dad. He said, "Are you sure you're not low on oil? If you're low, go get some. But if you have enough oil, you're probably in big trouble with a pressure problem. And don't drive at all if the oil light is on." As I said, we have osmotic learning in our family. But then my dad said, "Of course, it could just be that your oil light is no good. Those bulbs and the electronics can wear out over the years. In that case, it's nothing, you can drive." "Well? Which is it? We're stuck in Brookline!" I asked my Oracle. "I don't know!" yelled my dad. He never says that.

So I called my brother, who happened to be on his way to drop off his car at a mechanic in New Jersey. "He says there's plenty of oil," I told him. He said, "Does he know how to check the oil? Does he know what the marks on the stick mean? Does the car have an oil pressure gauge?" I inquired. My husband said he wasn't sure. My brother said, "Does he read the manual?" I said no, and saw, perfectly in my mind's eye the disgusted expression that accompanied the snort coming through the phone. He said, "If you have oil, you can't drive at all with the engine light on. You'll wreck the engine... unless the light is just acting up. Why don't you start the car and see if the light goes back on?"

We did. It didn't. "Try driving it," said my brother. "As long as the light stays off, you're okay." We made it home without the little red light. The next day, my husband called a list of mechanics suggested by friends who had heard about the ignition coils and spark plugs. No one could take him that day, and many were closing early for the July 4 weekend. We'd miss at least a day of our Maine vacation, and maybe the whole thing. So he called Charles, took it right over, and had it checked within the hour. "No problems at all," said Charles. "Everything looks fine. You should be okay to travel." He didn't charge him.

So we set out in a downpour that afternoon for Maine, exhausted but jubilant, having finished the book (more or less). We handed off the files to the printer, and avoided conversational topics pertaining to oil, cars, and lights for 7 hours. The car was fine. I have to tell my dad.

Seeing the Original (or, If Only I'd Had $$ in 1961*)

This afternoon, we double-parked briefly behind an elderly neighbor unloading stuff from his car. He is a retired MIT philosophy professor and prolific author; he spends most of his time at his other house in New Hampshire, and we re-introduce ourselves every couple of years. He is known on our block for his indoor-outdoor cat, an elderly tortoiseshell hussy named Tillie, who would fling herself from any passing stranger on the sidewalk, meowing and demanding attention. I hadn't seen her in a long time and suspected the worst.

Since I was carrying my own precious calico in her carrier, after a trip to the vet, the professor, my husband, and I struck up a conversation. The professor told me that Tillie had died a year ago, shortly before his beloved indoor cat, named Laptop. He then began explaining that, as much as he missed them, he feels liberated now, not having animals, since he travels a lot. Since the alleged freedoms of pet-free existence is a subject on which my husband and I occasionally but powerfully disagree, I handed him the cat carrier and shooed him away to park the car.

I stayed behind to help the professor unload his backseat. I was angling for a peek into his townhouse, which is a rather run-down single-family built in the exact style as our rather run-down condo building. He lives alone on the top three floors and rents out a basement apartment. He handed me a giant bag with some bedding in it, and invited me inside.

Wow! He said he'd bought his 1880's townhouse when it was a rooming-house, in 1961. He paid $23,000 (he said he was making $7,500 as a young prof in those days) and did very little to "improve" it. He and his wife raised four children there. The layout is mostly original and most of the woodwork, including the staircase, is still unpainted walnut and oak. All the elegant fireplaces, moldings, parquet floors, and windows are original. Even much of the bathroom is Edwardian, with wainscoting, a clawfoot tub, and a wonderful walnut cabinet sink with a marble top.

While the house is deteriorating, dirty, dim, and very cluttered in the style of an elderly bachelor, I was in heaven. I love old houses, not only for their architecture but for the traces that linger of all the lives that once filled them. This house had a lot of old stories to tell. And I could finally see what our building had been meant to be, and it was all I could have imagined. (No one who saw the parlor floor of our building now would have a clue of the grandeur of its two original, high-ceilinged, connected rooms with ornate walnut mantels and ceiling medallions.

The upstairs room in the professor's house that is the twin of my living room has an identical painted fireplace and doorways, and the proportions are all just the same. (That explains why we love our place so much, it has been left surprisingly intact from its Victorian beginnings.)

The professor raised very artistically talented children, all grown now and living far away. He showed me some examples of their art. I recognized the bust of a young Mark Twain, sculpted skillfully in clay by his son when he was a prep student. As I looked around, we talked about Klimt, pipe organs, the neighborhood, our houses, our cats, his family, how hard it is to write books, and his favorite secondhand store, and then we unpacked his new bedding, which came from that store — whose location he refused to reveal because he gets such great deals there. "Just tell me anything you're looking for," he said, "and I'll try to get it for you." "All I could really use is some nicer neighbors." I said. "Can't help you there..." he replied.

When we went outside to get the rest of his stuff, I spotten a parking ticket on his double-parked car. He was incredulous. In all his decades of double-parking, he said, he'd never gotten a ticket. I told him it was my fault for distracting him and touring his house, and then I put the ticket in my pocket, promising to pay for it.

Since he's a philosopher, this led to a discussion of whether one of us, both of us, or neither of us should feel guilty about this. I put the ticket back on the car, and we settled that subject back inside. Then he inscribed one of his books (he's written more than 20) for me, Philosophy of Love. That seemed like a more-than-fair exchange for a house tour and a new friend. I happily took the book and the ticket and went home.

A few minutes later, as I was regaling my husband about my hour with the professor, the phone rang. It was him. "Hi there. Can you come downstairs for a moment, please?" I ran down, and he was standing there holding a bright green balloon. I'd noticed it lying in the back of his hatchback. "I thought you should have this, to see what your cats think about it." I said thanks, and he gently tossed it at me as I stood above him on the steps. I laughed and tossed it back to him. We tossed it around a couple more times as a delighted grin spread across his face.

I'll be glad to pay that parking ticket. It's my first, since I don't drive.

* When I was 2. By the time I was 22, all of the Back Bay housing bargains were gone.

A Picky Person's Peeves about Boston Condos

After looking at hundreds of condos in the Boston area over the years, I can pontificate with certainty: There's a lot of disappointment waiting for buyers in my middle-class price range. And even when I venture into my fantasy range, edging up towards $1 million and beyond, or look in neighborhoods beyond the dowtown area that are less expensive, I'm rarely impressed.

I see the same bad design choices again and again: Units in gorgeous 19th-century buildings that once had huge potential were butchered by developers sometime between 1975 and this past winter. In almost every case, the developer hoped to maximize the unit's value in the cheapest possible way — providing "amenities" he or she imagined the average buyer would want — at the expense of taste and common sense.

Cheapo Solutions

In the earlier condo conversions, you find a lot of exposed brick. Exposed brick belongs in converted factory lofts, but almost nowhere else in historic buildings. When I see a wall of exposed brick in a room that also has (or had) parquet floors, fine plaster moldings, and an ornate fireplace, I can only think, "Gee, I'd need a preservationist plasterer to deal with that."

You also see a lot of this disaster: what was originally a large room with three elegant bay windows — now chopped into two bedrooms by erecting a cheap wall between two of the windows. The weird wall angles and awkward spaces that result from this crime were fine with developers because crappy two-bedroom condos can be priced higher than decent one-bedrooms.

Throwing $$ Down the Toilet

The current trends in condo design involve extra bathrooms and an "open kitchen" or "open layout." Does a couple, living in 1,000 square feet (or much less), really need two full bathrooms and a powder room? Like most people who cook experimentally, I make something awful occasionally. And I dispose of it. I've never served anything that sent us both rushing for the loo simultaneously. When I see a listing for a place that has more bathrooms than bedrooms, I have to assume the developer has experienced bad bouts of family-style food poisoning. Why else would they do it? Bathrooms are expensive and for most buyers (singles and couples anyway), an extra bath or half-bath isn't usually a dealbreaker.

Okay, I suppose that, if you live with someone who spends an hour or more a day on hair and make-up, you'd want your very own bathroom. But looking around Boston, I rarely see anyone (except for punk or goth students) who appear to do that. (Sure, maybe some people are that engrossed in perfecting themselves, but the result isn't apparent. They could be doing sudoku instead.) I spend less than an hour a week on hair and make-up so, please, Madame Condo Fairy, give me a couple of precious storage closets (and fewer toilets to scrub) instead.

I rarely see a bathroom I like. I'm terribly fussy. I'm not moved by jacuzzis, vessel sinks, contemporary hardware, shower doors, beige marble, or anything else I'm supposed to find exciting in an upscale bathroom. I like deep soaking tubs, woodwork, old marble, vintage hardware, and Arts and Crafts tile. In other words, I need a fixer-upper bathroom I can renovate myself. But every seller believes that an "updated" bathroom is an essential, so they do a half-baked job: putting in a fancy sink, for example, while the tub and tiling remain classic 1980.

Stupid Kitchens

The highly popular "open kitchen" baffles me. If I'm sitting in my living room, why would I want a clear view of the toaster, dishes sitting by the sink, and a cat food can? No matter how pretty and pristine my kitchen may be, I never want to see countertops from my sofa. But it's cheaper for developers not to build walls, and they and designers have duped a good portion of the public into thinking that open living is great because your guests and kids can hang out with you in your kitchen. But how it often feels, in reality, is chaotic. And messy. It's much mpre sensible to be able to shut the door on your dirty dishes than to have them nagging at you from your desk in the living room. And I often can't afford to socialize or be distracted by others when I'm cooking (see "something awful," above).

Many small Boston apartments have disproportionately large kitchens. These are great for a serious cook or a family of four. But most of us city folk living in smaller units are lazy singles or couples. We rarely have dinner parties. Or kids. We go out, or eat take-out. For us, a compact kitchen, separate from the living room, makes perfect sense. But developers, who live in big suburban houses themselves, don't know this.

More Peevish Demands

Another must-have for me is the in-unit laundry. I'm spoiled. My stacked, high-efficiency washer-dryer are in the bathroom, 5 feet from the bed, where I fold everything, and less than 10 feet from our closets and dressers. We have no hamper or laundry basket; everything goes into the dryer to be sorted later. I will never be persuaded to haul laundry down a few flights to some grotty basement, only to wait in line for a washer. As God is my witness, I will never hoard quarters again.

Then, of course, there are all the things you desperately hope for but can't determine from architecture alone.The right location. Convenient parking. Affordable condo fees (no elevator maintenance, no concierge, no looming assessments). Neighbors who are quiet, polite, and reasonable, with no offensive habits. (Along the same lines: soundproofing and smellproofing.) Condo-hunting can easily start to seem like a doomed enterprise.

A Little Romance

Many of us live in Back Bay, Beacon Hill, the South End and surrounding neighborhoods because we love 19th-century architecture and interior detail. It breaks my heart whenever I find it's been ripped out and replaced with whatever was considered more tasteful back in 1985. But more and more interiors are being ruined by "modernizing" instead of preserving. I'll keep hoping there's still an apartment out there with most of its lovely original details intact (preferably with a ratty bathroom and a tiny kitchen), just waiting for us to find it.

House-hunting, Old and New

Eleven years ago, when we bought our condo, there was almost no benefit in searching on the Web. We waited for the Saturday Boston Homes and nagged our realtor about new listings. A few real-estate firms may have had one online photo for a few of their listings, but that's all. So we spent evenings and weekends following our broker from one unsuitable condo to the next. I think we saw about about 60 until we found one that had Victorian detail and wooden floors, could hold our books, and wasn't a basement.

As I've said before, Boston Homes is still my favorite fantasy reading. But, these days, sites like Redfin make it a snap to see practically everything that's for sale in any neighborhood. You specify location, size, price, and a few other variables — and you're off. You can usually see the equivalent of a listing sheet (detailing more features, the unit's location within the building, taxes, condo fees, etc.) and enough photos to give you a clear sense of whether the place might be right for you. Now that I'm caught up on exploring all the listings that have remained unsold since last year or longer, I can quickly check for new listings that were just posted today.

You can select an age range for units when you search, too, but that's unreliable: realtors often have no idea of when a building was built and will often date a 19th-century building from the year it was converted to condos. I've also seen buildings from the 1920s to '40s labeled "Victorian." Realtors are often as clueless about Boston's historic neighborhoods as many of the residents are.

After checking out hundreds of condos from Coolidge Corner to Charlestown, I feel like a Peeping Tom. I saved a ton of time and shoeleather but, best of all, I didn't have to drag my patient-but-suffering spouse along. So far, we've checked out three addresses in person; two came pretty close to being The One.

More relief: not needing to invent cheerful lies about positive features I'd dredge up in even the most hideous apartments, hoping that my chatter would give my realtor a false sense that I'm not as picky as I am. (More on that subject soon.)

Get Me Out of Here

The new downstairs owners — who have been trying our patience since September with the noisy, messy, gut-renovation of their duplex, and their imperious attitude — have just moved in. I've seen the renovation. I think it's sad that they spent a fortune destroying every remnant of the Victorian detail and elegant proportions of the first floor, instead of restoring them to their former Eastlake glory.

Instead of the grand old parlor and formal dining room with high ceilings and original fireplaces, a low, slate-tiled entry points you right into the kitchen (what would the Victorians have thought?). The walls have skimpy moldings now, and there's a gas fireplace with a new mantel. It's all very McMansion-y; instead of Back Bay, you could easily be in an upscale new condo in Billerica.

It isn't an interestingly stylish or arty design — like our friends' ash-and-steel marvel, a block away, which was featured in The New York Times. Although the paint is still fragrant (we smell it in our place), it already looks like it could be 10 years old. To me, that's a predictably depressing thing about "contemporary" design. Trends and tastes shift so quickly that even brand-new rooms can seem dated from the get-go.

To us and to many of our neighbors, modern renovations just don't make sense within the context of a 19th-century building. For us, the whole point of living in Back Bay is to enjoy and preserve its Victorian and Edwardian features, inside and out. If you're just going to demolish them, why not move into some sleek new construction in the South End? Why mess with history?

Most Back Bay residences were built as single-family homes: they are "porous" — not a bit sound-proofed, as multi-family buildings should be. When most of the old houses were divided into multi-family dwellings, those units weren't sealed, making it harder to live among noisy or smelly neighbors. Living in Back Bay often feels more like sharing a house than living in an apartment. I've done it for nearly 30 years and rarely had problems. I like having neighbors nearby. (Or I once did.)

The new neighbors had an inkling of this problem. They lowered their ceiling to install a foot or so of high-tech soundproofing. They assured us that we'd never hear each other — or at least they'd never hear us. Since the ceiling medallions were already gone (along with 37 tons of demo material) we tried to be enthusiastic. The construction manager told us when the unit had been "completely sealed" from ours, so that noise and cooking fumes wouldn't permeate our unit.

In reality... not so much. The structural "changes in the basement created big gaps at the joints of our floors and walls. Dirt, noise, and smells float in. (We also have several doors that no longer close, huge new cracks in many of our walls and ceilings, and a buckled floor, which they say they'll repair. There's also damage to our meticulously hand-built, wood-paneled bathroom that needs expert attention.)

Because of the floor cracks, we are overwhelmed by cooking smells at lunch and dinnertime. We feel drafts from their central air conditioning (we have none; theirs isn't enough). When they cook meat, the greasy fumes fill our rooms and linger. Opening a window brings in their exhaust fan's fumes, too. For more than a a decade, we lived here above people who loved broiling steaks and using multiple heads of garlic, and only got tempting whiffs as we passed through the lobby. So much for all that expensive "sealing" in the ceiling.

Although the new neighbors live here now, the dust has yet to settle — there are still workmen in the front and back gardens, which have been wrecked since last summer. We are still awakened by Irish swearing around 7 am, Monday through Saturday (the building permit says Monday–Friday). In the beginning, we were promised that we would not be inconvenienced. Now we're told that we are not being inconvenienced — that our complaints are just spoiled whining.

There's something about living through 10 months of daily, unapologetic racket that leaves a painful mark, especially when you realize that when it finally ends, your longed-for peace will in fact be marred by the presence of unpleasant neighbors. It makes you long for a single-family home, even if it's in Billerica.

We all tried to be polite and understanding in the first months, but things deteriorated. I believe we had legitimate complaints: no heat for weeks in the fall, for example. No water. No power. Days when our front doors wouldn't lock because of structural shifts. Workmen taking over our precious, newly purchased parking space. By spring, there were long, fierce email exchanges, pitting the new owners against those who've lived here for decades. (Even though he arrived via the newbies, the building manager/referee invariably sides with us old timers.)

My final straw was learning that my signature (as a trustee) had been forged on a design proposal to the local architectural commission. Although they knew I was opposed, the neighbors wanted to take a quarter of the front yard to make a concrete surround for their basement windows. I heard about it in time to write to the commission to rescind "my signature." I also wrote to the owners, carefully explaining my preservationist reasons for objecting, never mentioning that I didn't appreciate having my signature forged on official documents. In response, I was sneered at for being obstructionist. And that was mild compared to the litanies of hair-raising insults and accusations we've both received more recently. Nastiness, forgery, and deceit? You don't want that downstairs.

I feel uncomfortable living here, knowing they're below us. Their latest email bitterly noted that we hadn't officially "welcomed" them upon moving in. (After what they wrote, were they expecting a gift basket?) Hearing their voices gives me goosebumps. For the past few days, I couldn't persuade myself to go downstairs to sort the mail. I hope I will get over this. I'm many people live for years among even worse neighbors: noisy, obnoxious drunks, for example. (But hey, we do, too... less of a nuisance, actually, except at 3 am on weekends). I tried to cheer myself up by reading horror stories about neighbors on ApartmentTherapy.com. If you have your own tale, please tell me! Anyway, I'm happiest now when I've made it out the front door, knowing I'll be away from our formerly beloved apartment for hours.

It's time to move. More on that subject soon.

Annals of Retail: A Good Shopping Day...

Shopping on the cheap is among my favorite ways to waste all the free time I have from being an underemployed freelancer. Since I don't have money to waste, I hunt for deals and try to buy wisely.

For awhile there, I was so very, very underemployed that the mere thought of shopping or spending money made me feel ill and worried. Fortunately, things are looking up a bit these days, and I can do my tiny bit to stimulate the economy. I have overcome my shopophobia.

I took stock of my wardrobe recently and realized that, among other things, I need some tees. When it's not cold enough for my motley collection of old cashmere turtlenecks, I live in tees. I tend to ruin delicate fabrics like silks and sweater-knits, and I refuse to iron or pay for dry cleaning more than a handful of times a year. Tees make it easy to be both lazy and cheap.

Anyway, I realized that my "best" tee had been purchased for a trip to Egypt in 1999, while my other "good" ones dated to 2001 and 2002. (Banana Republic and other retailers thoughtfully provide date labels in their clothing, perhaps to embarrass people like me.) And almost all of my tees look much too short these days — they pre-date even moderately low-rise pants. And tees wear out; they shouldn't be with you for a decade unless they are concert souvenirs.

I found this soft, silky tee with a sweetheart neckline at the Copley Place Banana. (Seeing it under the threatening gaze of this model doesn't add to its appeal, I know.) It can be dressy or casual, it's not insanely long, and it fits well. The cotton had a hint of spandex, and there's some organic cotton in there, too.

I wanted it in white and fuchsia. Together they were $48. I had $30 in rewards cards, for no reason I can fathom. I don't buy very much at Banana, and what I get tends to be ridiculously reduced, so I feel they send me an inordinate number of rewards cards. Which is fine with me. Still, I have a tough time spending them, just as store gift cards languish in my wallet for ages, waiting for The Perfect Thing. But discovering that my best tees date from the Clinton administration galvanized me into action.

I figured I'd save more by ordering online because I received a special 10% discount code to atone for Banana's running out of something I'd ordered last winter. I also get 10% off everything and free shipping with my Luxe card this month and next. This purchase was looking good. And so I went online to hunt for more deals.

Turns out that there was a special 12-hour sale, today only — 20% off regular-priced items — that was only offered to certain card-holders, but not me. Each customer received a unique code good for one purchase. More research turned up a shopping blog I've visited before, J'Adore These Stores, whose author had a code and was graciously offering it to the first person to request it. Me.

Here's what I saved:

$48.00 for two $24 tees

- 4.80 (10% off for Luxe card holders)

- 4.32 (10% with a special discoun code)

- 7.78 (20% thanks to "J'Adore's" code)

- 30.00 (free rewards cards)

_________________________________

$ 1.10 charged to my BR Luxe card

I feel good about that price. I can pay that bill without stomach pains. I hope it nets me another rewards card.

"When Ordinary Isn't Enough"

Every weekend, I waste time on virtual condo-hunting via Boston Homes, the colorful tabloid that brightens our doorstep on Saturday. Even though we've been settled in our place for more than a decade I keep looking, just in case something amazing turns up in our price range. Proving that I'm a deranged optimist with no inkling of reality.

We haven't gotten Boston Homes lately, probably because the downstairs neighbor's 9-month-plus renovation project from hell wrecked our front yard several weeks ago, turning it into a muddy, plywood-covered mess. Between that and our destroyed lobby, we have the distinction of looking like the only crack house in Back Bay Proper. (I'm not saying there aren't other neighborhood crack houses, I'm just saying they lack the authenticity of ours.)

I picked up the current BH yesterday, while cooling my heels at FedEx (my husband likes to show a girl a good time on the weekend), and spotted this:

Those decks are certainly far from ordinary. It would be thrilling indeed to have one, especially if your household includes small children or dogs. I wonder if the developer decided that railings would detract from the sleek lines and minimalist aesthetic of the aluminum siding. Or maybe it's the only way one can live dangerously in South Boston now that it's become all lattéed and yogafied.

Only two units are left, and I'll bet they're on the top floor.

Bad News for Bo, Good News for Boston?

Last fall, Bo Smith left his post as Head of Film, Video, and Concerts at the Museum of Fine Arts — after more than 20 years of creative, successful programming — to become the executive director of the Denver Film Society. Now after just 8 months, it turns out that he's been sacked after 21 staff members resigned, apparently in protest of his management style. IndieWire had details a couple of weeks ago:

June 3: Mile High Mutiny: Major Shakeup Hits Denver Fest

June 7: Mile High Coup: Denver Film Society Ousts Embattled Leader; Erickson Named Interim E.D.

I worked with Bo for a dozen years. I edited and proofread his Film Calendars and ran interference between him and the Publications team over his countless missed deadlines — always because he was desperate to squeeze in a few more French films or waiting on an extraordinary possibility in China, India, or Iran. I also handled reservations for public events in the MFA's Remis Auditorium. I used to refer to him as "The Vapor Fog," because his goal was to fill every free, precious minute in the hall with public, private, or critics' screenings.

I would characterize his working style as passionately and tirelessly dedicated to his mission. He was relentless in pursuit of the best cinema for Boston audiences and in overcoming all obstacles in his way. But he was always sunny, pleasant, and even-tempered in the process. He and I were continually having deadline battles and negotiations over valuable program time-slots — and it was always gracious and kind of fun. I don't recall ever hearing an uncivil word from him.

While he still managed to drive his colleagues at the museum crazy, at least some of us couldn't help enjoying him, too. And I doubt that anyone had anything other than respect for the quality, breadth, and diversity of his programming. If he caused problems, they were always because he was striving to give Boston audiences the best; it was never about ego, personal insecurities, or power games — the stuff one routinely encounters in the hothouse environment of an art museum. As we all had to deal with higher-level colleagues who seemed to actively cultivate their dysfunctionality and ineptitude, Bo seemed like a refreshing change of pace, at least to me.

I would complain to him and about him, but I still had loads of admiration for him and his work. (He was the Film Program.) To be fair, he had certain intolerable eccentricities. He was forbidden to bring his lunch into my office, for example. He often ran around swigging his meals out of a canning jar — a healthy concoction of his own homemade yogurt, blended with (raw?) fish, seaweed, and something red, which could have been tomato juice or fish blood. I never asked, and it smelled revolting.

To return to those unfortunate headlines. I'm sure the Denver Film Society employees are all dedicated, hardworking people, too, so why couldn't they all just get along? One of my theories is that the Denver crew was deeply set in its ways, having had the same founder/director for 30 years, so any new director would have faced a similar potential mutiny unless he or she spent a year or two on tiptoeing on eggshells. (Or replaced people.) Instead of trying to adapt, it appears the crew put their energy into organizing themselves. Their interim director is a senior member of the staff; her elevation is likely just what she and the staff envisioned all along.

Or perhaps we, his colleagues at the MFA, should blame ourselves. If we hadn't jumped through so many hoops, had pushed back harder on Bo's crazier schemes, and kept him down, he might have evolved into a different type of boss. Or it could have simply been those jars of raw fish.

Whatever happened, I hope this contretemps turns out to be a great opportunity for Boston, and that Bo finds a way to return to the area and run a great film program. He'd surely be welcomed and appreciated.

Cake Is the Key to Nirvana

Layer cake, lots of it, with excess frosting. I don't care what it looks like or where it's been. If it's moist and it's got icing, I need a fork.

The mere thought of cake makes me absurdly happy; I don't give a damn if anyone thinks I have the culinary discernment of a 4-year-old. Nyyaaaaahhh!

About two weeks ago, on the way to Shaw's to get groceries, I suddenly realized what's been missing from my life (besides a salary, a career, a professional wardrobe, a driver's license, a Shetland sheepdog, a trust fund, a swimming pool, a Conemara pony, and maybe a published book).

So instead of being my usual self-righteous, self-denying, healthy-eating prig self, I went straight back to the bakery and found a chocolate-frosted golden cake, trimmed with ridiculous turquoise roses. It appeared to be waiting for me. It was half price. I was almost giddy with high spirits as I brought it home, and haven't looked back. Except when we run out and I need to get another one.

The cakes at Shaw's are pretty but they are never sophisticated, and I like that. I'm not crazy about that combination in, say, movie starlets who aspire to Broadway, but it's perfectly okay for cake. Shaw's cakes revive the old-fashioned birthday-cake tradition of decades past. They do not contain pepper, rosewater, vegan or soy ingredients, bacon, or any of the other weird stuff people put in cakes these days.

Shaw's also makes cupcakes, of course, and they're good, but there's something about the presence of a layer cake that makes it superior to even a dozen cupcakes. Cupcakes disappear in a few quick bites, whereas eating cake with a fork lets you take your time and savor each bite. Cupcakes, being super-trendy, bring out the snooty connoisseur in me, whereas a wedge of cake reawakend the blissful schoolgirl.

Knowing that our prize awaits us at the end of the day helps me make healthier food choices the rest of the day. It also makes me feel just guilty enough to hit the gym or jog around the Charles most days of the week. I don't drink, smoke, or gamble. I'm saving recreational drug use for my 80s and 90s when I'll need it most. A big, fat slice of cake and a tall glass of (skim) milk is really all I ask of the world these days.

But if you want to send along any of the other stuff on that list of mine, please don't hesitate to do so.

So Very Tired

I had just managed to make it up the steps and out the door of the basement-level fitness club, having finished my twice-weekly "Club Strength" workout, which should properly be called "Club Weakness" because that's the result. Our sadistic, black-clad instructor had goaded me into doing 16 military push-ups in 30 seconds, holding the plank position for a minute right afterward, and doing 53.5 more minutes of equally malicious torture-exercises. It's true that I have "shoulders" now and "guns," and even the faint outline of a six-pack, thanks to him. But even so: that class reduces me to a shaking mess.

Which is how I was feeling when I encountered the most enormous piano truck I've ever seen, parked on Newbury Street. I didn't have my camera — wouldn't have had the strength to push the shutter button anyway — so I went online later on and found their web site. And the truck:

It's an insanely big piano truck, and I've seen plenty because I used to manage concerts for the big local art museum. I often hired Deathwish, because they're professional, reasonably priced, and had style (all-black clothing, morbid-looking trucks). They also told great stories about Piano Moves Gone Wrong. Here they are, from their web site, doing something they should never, ever do:

Anyway, the back of that enormous truck was open and two guys were hanging out, so I slowly walked across the street to talk to them. The truck was packed pretty tightly. All piano movers are really nice people; I don't know why, but it's true. It must have something to do with all that meticulous, risky, and outrageously heavy lifting. Or the potentially catastrophic aspect of what they do. These two had beguiling southern accents, and politely told me that there were 32 pianos in their truck, and 8 of them were destined for the Boston area. Steinways, Yamahas, and every kind of piano you could imagine, they said. I immediately flashed to Busby Berkeley's Gold Diggers of 1935:

There were fewer pianos in the truck than in this photo, but I hope you enjoy the idea.

Then I thought about moving all those pianos. Thirty-two pianos went into the truck, and 32 had to eventually come out and be hauled up steps and down, through windows and winding hallways, into houses, apartments, practice rooms, classrooms, and concert halls. The movers were two wiry, little guys, not much taller than me. I hope there were a couple more getting coffee at Dunkin Donuts, because it's hard to move pianos with two people. On the other hand, the truck may have been huge, but the cab probably didn't hold more than two. My god. In my current state, the thought of the workout they were anticipating was almost enough to make me collapse on the street in my sweaty spandex.

I may have a few new, cool-looking muscles, but I still have a long way to go.

More on the "100 New England Books"

Continuing my musings from my previous post about The Boston Globe's "100 Essential New England Books" (I know I said I would stop — but who's running this blog?):

The "reader rankings" are kind of a mess. I suspect that many respondents didn't bother to rate the quality of the books they'd read, and so a small minority's tastes predominate (a minority with good reading comprehension skills, at least, since they followed directions). One of my personal favorites, Jean Stafford's Boston Adventure, bottoms out at #100, with Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures just above. The former deserves more many more readers; the latter doesn't, except from a comparative religion point-of-view.

Readers ranked The Da Vinci Code at #96, just below Edith Wharton's Ethan Frome. Since Dan Brown's book is one of the most-read novels, at #5, this shows some sensible discrimination on the part of the respondents. Yes, it was a fun read, but it was a stupid read. Dan Brown must have believed he was writing for morons; by the time his protagonists triumphantly solved a puzzle I was way ahead of them, having solved most of them immediately. (Yeah, I have a high IQ, but I still didn't need to use even one of my extra points.) It's great to see that readers can critically assess books that insult their intelligence even if they don't read a lot. (The average respondent had only read 5 books on the list when I took the survey.)

But I have to wonder why Ethan Frome is at #95. It's certainly not Edith Wharton's best novel; her "realist" period never did much for me although I adore her in general and consider her our finest female American author. I think Summer is her worst "great novel," and confess I haven't read some of her obscure, later works. But honestly, anything written by Wharton has to be better than The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which is up at 16! Perhaps it's because most people read Ethan Frome in high school, which is the wrong age to read this strange, pessimistic tale. Read it as an adult on a cold winter evening and it will cause chills.

The list of books people say they "most want" to read begins with David McCullough's John Adams. I would like to read it, too. But I can't seem to get into this guy. I've met him a couple of times, I like and admire him, and he writes on fascinating subjects. But I can never stay awake through his first few chapters. I tried to read 1776 but I couldn't make it through 1775. Then I picked up The Johnstown Flood, figuring that it had to be a gripping read on a subject I already know pretty well. But when he started listing every one of the 20-odd creeks and tributaries that flowed into the Conemaugh River, including a few that no one had ever bothered to name, I lost patience. McCullough is both a historian and an obsessive detail freak. I respect both, but I can't stay awake through it. Still, I might give John Adams a try; maybe he didn't spend a lot of time in creeks and tributaries.

The #2 "most-wanna-read" is Moby Dick. Good luck with that. I love 19th-century literature and even have a high tolerance for 18th-century literature, but Moby Dick is where I draw the line. It may be considered our greatest novel, but I still think it takes too much effort to be enjoyable. Which is what primarily all novels ought to be. (On the other end of the 19th-century timeline, I draw the line at the late novels of Henry James. Life is too short to spend that much time figuring out what he means. Not even he always knew what he was getting at — I figured out that much.)

I guess I'm really done ranting about this book list now. I promise. Heh heh.

New England Books, or Not So Much

The Boston Globe has a feature on "100 Essential New England Books," which manages to include books that aren't set in New England and exclude many great books that are. Author Chuck Leddy's reasoning, I guess, is that books qualify for the list if the author happens to live in New England. Thus, The Da Vinci Code is an "Essential New England Book" because Dan Brown lives in New Hampshire. (His protagonist also has a bogus-sounding professorship at Harvard. Of course, referring to "Da Vinci" instead of "Leonardo" would be — or should be — all it takes to get your tenure automatically revoked at Harvard, but I digress....)

New England resident authors also put such non–New Englandy books as Memories of a Geisha, Sophie's Choice, and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao on the list.

The Proper Bostonian took the survey and has read at least 34 of the books on the list. (The average survey respondent read 5 — shocking, especially if you consider much people enjoy cheating on online surveys), The PB has possibly read a few more because she doesn't recall whether she read Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel or Make Way for Ducklings back in the '60s. (This is not because she smoked lots of weed in the '60s, but because she was little.)

The list is really more about "New England authors" than "New England books," because each writer is represented by just one work, meaning that all of Louisa May Alcott's, Henry James's, John Updike's, and Elinor Lipman's New England books aren't listed. Just a single title.

No, wait: Elinor Lipman (New England resident, writer of New England–based novels) isn't on the list at all. But The Inn at Lake Devine will always be towards the top of my list of favorite New England books.

The PB was surprised to see that Boston Adventure, by Jean Stafford, is the least-read book on the list. It's an amazing tale — grim as hell in parts and hallucinogenically weird (not that the PB took hallucinogens in the '60s, either) at times, but still a riveting, extraordinarily detailed portrait of a slice of Brahmin society and the North Shore working class in the 1940s.

Susan Cheever's exquisitely written American Bloomsbury, about the Hawthornes, Alcotts, Emerson, Thoreau, and Margaret Fuller, didn't make the list. Nothing by Sarah Orne Jewett or Carolyn Chute (The Beans of Egypt, Maine, and many others) appears. Nor is there anything by the prolific and popular Beth Gutcheon.

The PB could go on and on. The more she thinks about it, the more peeved the she is because this "100 Books" list doesn't come near to fulfilling its promise. But because she wants The Boston Globe to regroup, hire (or rehire) better journalists, and ultimately prosper, she's going to stop dissing this. Except in private.

I Love the North End

We were having pizza at (where else?) Regina's tonight, and I noticed that the server was wearing a St. Anthony button. As he stood behind our booth, seemingly ignoring us, I mentioned this to our friends. Above the din of a Madonna tune and a lively crowd, I said something like, "Oh, look, he has a St. Anthony button. He's my favorite saint. You should like this saint even if you aren't Catholic. He helps everybody. He's the patron saint of lost things."

My seatmates raised their eyebrows and changed the subject to lost causes. The host wandered off. But a few minutes later, he returned and put two St. Anthony buttons on our table. "I overheard what you said, and I thought you might like these. Would you like two more?" he said, looking around at my friends. I thanked him profusely and put one on my jacket. And then we had two spectacular margherita pizzas, green with basil.

I thanked the host again after dinner and he took my hand in both of his. At times like this, I absolutely love the North End and (almost) everyone in it.

While my husband and friends went to their bank machines, I got in line for cannoli at (where else?) The Modern. The line was out the door, as usual. I had a nice chat with the woman in front of me, who didn't know anything about any of the pastries in the window, including the marzipan. I gave her a brief pastry lecture. Then we talked about the North End of years ago, which led to our ages. When I guessed that she was 48 (she was 62), she blessed me and practically hugged me. My friends arrived and quickly decided the line was too long, so we headed for Lulu's, where there is never a line.

A few minutes later, the lady and her husband showed up. My friends had no idea who they were, so they found it odd that this couple marched right up to me, their pastry tour guide, and demanded, "Where are the cookies? Are they any good?" I led them over to the rack where the cookies were cooling. It's the North End, after all, and sometimes everybody is your relative.

Gay Pride

My walk to the Haymarket yesterday intersected with the Gay Pride Parade most of the way. This is always a happy occasion because just about everyone out and about in Boston seems to loosen up and smile more. The city felt more like, say, Greenwich Village to me as I walked through the Common and the Public Garden.

I accompanied Asian Pride and their drummers up Beacon Street:

Saw plenty of happy spectators lining the route:

Everyone was rocking to the music of the Gay Lifeguards, who were having a blast:

Even Heaven-or-Hell Guy seemed to enjoy the Lifeguards. He turned my way so I could get a better photo. Note that ghost of a grin on his face: maybe there's hope that even he might be saved one of these days:

I was stuck on the wrong side of the Center Plaza construction and decided to step through some yellow tape draped between a couple of parked bulldozers. But this stereotypical cop saw me and started lecturing me about the meaning of yellow tape and pointed me down to the end of the construction zone, about two blocks out of my way. Being the a Proper Bostonian — revolutionary, deeply anti-authoritarian, and an incorrigible jaywalker — I went the other way as soon as his back was turned. I dashed into the street, past more cops and joined the parade.

Unfortunately, I was deep in the middle of the Gay Contra Dancers, not the Gay Lifeguards. Instead of dancing, these folks were earnestly asking the crowd, "Do you like contra dancing" Would you like to learn to contra dance with us?" I don't like contra dancing. So I blew a big kiss to the cop as we went by, and got out of there.

The party at Government Center looked like fun but I had to get to the Haymarket. I spotted some drag queens on their way, plus a guy in a tiara:

And then this vision in black and fuchsia tulle gave me a big Miss America wave:

Same time, next year!

Give a Green Bean a Chance

Spotted at the Haymarket today:

Perhaps they have dreams of becoming haricots verts.

Annals of Retail: Such an Easy Trick

I enjoy getting J. Crew catalogues because I admire their style. Their clothes are down-to-earth and usually affordable, yet even their casual pieces can look chic and elegant with the right shoes and accessories. (Michelle Obama knows best.) Many of their items are also relatively "ageless" and their quality is good. (Their cashmere is excellent, from Italian mills.) And I love it when they choose locations I know, whether it's Paris, Prague, or our own South End. If I were in the market for a wedding dress, I wouldn't hesitate to buy one of their inexpensive silk tricotine designs, which simple and stellar.

I have to temper my liking with reality, however:

• Their tees hang down to my thighs, even though I am slightly over average height and not "petite."
• Their pants gap hugely in the back, despite being tight in the front. I can only conclude that they hope I'll stick a large Iggy's sourdough Francese loaf back there, since it would fit nicely.
• Their shoes, while adorable, all have stiff leather soles and uppers that would cause me instant pain.
• Much of their jewelry, especially their "statement" necklaces, is outrageously oversized. Their models must all be Amazons for those breast-plate-sized necklaces to look so well-proportioned on them.
• Their jackets are all too short, designed to have 6" to 8" of shirt hanging below them. I'm sure this looked sweet on some J. Crew designer once upon a time, but that moment is history.
• They often offer only one or two styles. For example they'll have 10 pencil skirts and 10 short, poufy minis, but nothing else. If you want an A-line, pleats, or a bias-cut, wait 'til next year.

End of rant. This week I caved and got myself a J. Crew credit card (there are lots of perks). And bought this long necklace:

As a Proper Bostonian, I'm no stranger to pearls. I wore long ropes or classic triple-strands almost every day in my 20s and 30s, before their weight and the swingy-swaying began to bother me (and I became a jewelry minimalist, in diamond studs). I have vintage, cultured, freshwater, and bogus pearls of all descriptions. But nothing looks as perfect with a basic white tee, dark jeans, and flip flops as this simple chain, roped carelessly around my neck a couple of times. I am certainly no genius when it comes to accessorizing, so I'm amazed at how many compliments and second looks I'm getting with virtually no effort.

Plus it's really rather lovely, with its luminous dangling pearls. I play with them all the time. Wearing jewelry can make life a little more interesting just when it's getting boring. And while I'm trying to save money, not spend it foolishly, this seemed like a reasonable "feel-good" purchase because it works with practically everything I wear. (And I got the educator 15% discount, too.)

So I recommend adding a necklace to whatever you're wearing, even if it's shorts (fortunately, J. Crew shorts don't accommodate loaves of bread) and a cardigan. Yes, you'll have the "J. Crew look" but it's unlikely that you'll see yourself coming and going. There's finally a trend that's fun, pretty, affordable, and sensible enough to work for everyday life.

How to Save $356.14* at Williams-Sonoma

I love getting Williams-Sonoma catalogs. I sign up for them online every few months, and I fill out a little card whenever I'm in the store. I order things online. I request catalogs whenever I'm doing business with their partner stores, Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma Home. I get those catalogs, but I almost never get the one I want, the Catalog for Cooks. My upstairs neighbor gets the big, thick one like clockwork, once a month; I get the skinny version maybe once a year, despite all my hard work.

Maybe they feel I don't make the grade as a cook so they don't want serious customers seeing me wandering the streets engrossed in their recipes. Or maybe they know how I feel about some of their products.

Anyway, I got the skimpy little 52-page catalog yesterday, while my neighbor got the nice fat one.

I covet plenty of their stuff. Gorgeous Ruffoni copper, for example (which I found at a bargain price on eBay). Or that Ebelskiver Filled Pancake Pan, to make adorable little Nutella bombs.

But with our tiny kitchen, I can't store almost any of it. A tiny kitchen makes you read product copy with wary cynicism. And many Williams-Sonoma "exclusives" make me roll my eyes and wonder what kind of dummy would buy such silly "specialty" contraptions.

When you see "exclusive" used for a W-S product, think: "I can probably use my hands instead of this."

Because I only have the loser edition of the catalog, I don't have the full range of W-S insanity at my fingertips, but here's a sampling of what they believe that even loser customers like me really need. And how much you will save by not falling for it.

1. Nonstick burger press. Pressing burgers squeezes the air (and juiciness) out of them. Do you really want your burgers to look as uniformly perfect as the ones at McDonald's? Besides, hamburger is even more fun to mold in your hands than Play-Doh (which wasn't edible in my day). You save $19.95.

2. Avocado pitter/slicer. Try a knife, a teaspoon, maybe a fingernail. More room in your utensil drawer and you save $15.

3. Electric vacuum marinator. This monstrosity takes up as much counter space as a toaster oven and claims it "marinates foods in minutes, not hours or days." By thinking ahead and marinating fresh meat as soon as you bring it home, you can save $199.95.

4. Breakfast scones. Do you know how idiotically easy and fast it is to make scones from scratch? Think about it: the English can handle it. Yes, I admit that I burned my last batch because I accidentally turned off the oven timer with my hip, but I'll bet you are smarter than me. You need just a few ingredients, and if you don't have them, you can substitute. I made my own "self-rising flour" with salt and baking powder, for example. If you don't have milk, use yogurt. Or vice versa. It's difficult to screw up scones, so why spend $46 to get 18 frozen ones (plus $10.50 shipping)? You can feed armies with your own scones for that amount, or splurge on a fancy tea at the Bristol Lounge at the Four Seasons.

5. Monogrammed steak brand. If you worry that your steak could wander off the grill and go roaming in the neighbor's yard, provoking a 21st-century cattle war, you need more help than Williams-Sonoma or I can offer you. Make sure your cow is dead before you put it on the grill and save yourself $39.95.

* I figured shipping at 11% of the total amount for orders over $150.01, according to the W-S site.

Insomnia, or Lack Thereof

The Proper Bostonian is busier than usual these days, proofreading chapters of the rather dry, scholarly, archaeological book her husband is rushing to finish and get to press by the end of the month. I find it very difficult to read his (well-respected, well-reviewed) brand of archaeological writing without yawning, which makes the author, seated a few feet away, chuckle as he watches me practically dislocate my jaw. He chuckles for perhaps the first ten times I do it, then does his best to ignore the hundreds of agonized yawns that follow.

My sleep-inducing task has me thinking about insomnia. (Actually, my mind is wandering in all sorts of interesting directions between absorbing such juicy prose as "the south door of the east mud-brick wall, looking northwest..." If only I had time to write more blog entries.)

Last winter, I wrote an article for a health magazine about sleep disorders, and I heartily urge you to do the same if you suffer from sleeplessness. There's nothing like researching and writing about insomnia to send one's head crashing onto the keyboard. But if you aren't so inclined, here are my personal tips for improving your sleep, which I was unable to include in my article, because I am their only source.

1. If it ain't your mattress, it's probably your pillow. My insanely expensive Swedish mattress is deliciously comfortable, but my pillow can be a problem. It's an easy one to miss: you sleep with the same pillow for many years, so you assume you're used to each other. Sleep disorder specialists rarely get into the finer points of pillows; probably because it's such an idiosyncratic thing. 

    But pillows deteriorate over time — even insanely expensive white Siberian down ones (that come free with expensive mattresses). After a few years with one of those, I developed neck trouble, and it didn't just hurt, it made me feel dizzy and weird. It took a visit to a neurologist to determine that I needed to change my posture and my pillows (at that point, I was sleeping with two pillows). The neurologist recommended a Japanese pillow, a narrow sack filled with buckwheat hulls. But those hulls crunch audibly whenever you move, and since I seem to gyrate 360 degrees in my sleep many times a night, I couldn't see this working out.

    Instead, I planned to get a similarly super-soft down pillow like my favorite, but the salesperson at the Cuddledown outlet, up in Freeport, Maine, stopped me. She asked my how I slept and whether I had any problems, which was astute of her. (Most likely, I looked unusually bleary-eyed.) Then she told me I had to stop sleeping with two pillows and that I needed a medium-to-firm pillow, not a soft one. 

    And she was right. I slept soundly and had very few neck problems for a long time. But now it's already time for a new pillow. I find myself pummeling it a few times every night to get it into a supportive position. I like Cuddledown in general, but I think a pricey pillow should last an awful lot longer than 2 or 3 years.

2. Don't sleep with a cat on your head.  Our cats sleep all day so they can keep us up all night. I can usually sleep through things breaking, howled feline songs and speeches, hairballs being hurled, and other cat noise. But when a 10-pound cat takes over my cozy, warm pillow by curling up on my head and purring loudly, I have no defenses. I must be instinctively polite because I never push her off. I just move further and further down the bed until she has my whole pillow and I have my head to myself, but I'm scrunched up, awake, and listening to her snoring.

   Actually, that can't be true; I'm not that nice. When I hear a cat about to throw up on the bed, I can locate the perpetrator and send her sailing through the air, past the carpet and onto the floor, before my eyes are open. I hate spending afternoons at the laudromat washing and drying the comforter. So I must just have a soft spot for pseudo-friendly purring directly applied to my ear.

   Anyway, as much as I love sleeping with cats, I have to admit that I spend a lot of hours not sleeping because of them. Maybe you have a similar problem that you can tackle more successfully than I ever will. (I could also discuss the problem of the noisy human bedfellow, but I'm not.)

3. What they say about caffeine is true.  It's rotten luck, but drinking coffee, tea, or Coke past the middle of the afternoon can definitely keep you up at night. Even if it didn't help you wake up when you drank it during your 4 o'clock slump, it's going to get you later.

    What I can't understand is why, when I took No-Doz caffeine pulls to pull an all-nighter in college, I'd often fall soundly asleep about an hour later. I'd wake up the next morning, in my chair, or on the floor, without a term paper. I'm half tempted to try it as a sleeping aid now. (But I have archaeology instead.)

4. Exercise helps but Jon Stewart does not.  Your daily habits make a difference when you go to bed. If I take long walks or get decent exercise, I find it easier to conk out at night. Going to bed and getting up at the same time every day also helps. If I stay up past 12:30, I will often be awake until 3 or 4. Watching news shows often keys me up too much to sleep. Watching disturbing movies even early in the evening does it, too. (But I slept through The Texas Chainsaw Massacre in the theater. Did it have a happy ending?)

5. If you can't sleep, read scholarly books that describe countless piles of ancient rubble (or pot sherds) in meticulous detail. This works every time, I promise. Your library will have these, probably in pristine condition. Mutual fund prospectuses are also pretty good, especially if you aren't an investor. Or I could send you my article about sleep disorders. 

Time for a nap....

Local Fashion: Just Don't

I saw these at Anthropologie yesterday, on sale ($89.95, down from $178), in many sizes. They call them "Harem Pants." I call them bloomers:

A fellow shopper and I marveled at the insanity. They look even worse in reality — baggier, more sheer, and ankle-length on a woman of average height. "Who might look good in these?" we wondered. We decided that it would take a very tall, very skinny, very confident, somewhat exotic someone. (Like the model who wore them in their catalog, who must be over 6 feet tall, and is indeed very exotic and skinny.) 

But even if a woman did look okay in these, she'd look a heck of a lot better in practically anything else (except maybe a romper, another idiotic trend that showing up on the Anthro racks and in Hollywood).

If you know anyone who wears Civil War–era hoop skirts, or whose sultan keeps her hidden behind mashrabiya screens in his harem, you might do her a favor by telling her about these. But I think it ends there.

PS: The pants were reduced to $49.95 yesterday. Don't be tempted.

Worth the Splurge, Part II

Here are a few more splurgeworthy items I forgot to mention in my previous post. These aren't central to my own experience, but if these make your daily life more enjoyable, they're worth their price. Just make sure to do your research — online and locally — to get the best deal:

1. HDTV. I don't watch much TV, but my husband loves watching sports, movies, The Daily Show and South Park on our Samsung LCD. I know that normal people, in normal-sized houses, think it's ridiculous that we feel our 32" screen is huge and splendid. But it's the biggest TV that fits in our bedroom. Its bright, ultra-sharp picture delights and impresses us after 3 years.

2. Sound system. This is on my wish list; I'm musically deprived. My dad is a stereo maniac. He hid more than a dozen top-quality speakers and woofers into the walls of the man-cave he built in our basement. He loves pipe-organ music, and could rattle not only our walls, but those of our next-door neighbors. He also hooked up his speakers to his Allen theatre organ, and played in the style of the great baseball organists of years ago. Loudly. It may be that I'm partially deaf from him blasting "Blue Moon" and "Sweet Georgia Brown" at all hours during my childhood (he certainly is), but for whatever reason, puny speakers never satisfy me. Unfortunately, that's all that fits in this tiny apartment. Those Bose and Tivoli units aren't worth their high price. I'm waiting for a truly fantastic compact system that can handle both CDs and an iPod. Then I plan to rattle some walls myself. In the meantime, I almost never play music because it sounds so lousy on our mini JVC system or through my iPod earbuds. I crave a WOOFER. 

3.  Coffee makers.  I don't drink the stuff, but sometimes I wish I did, just so I could park a shiny Italian espresso maker on my tiny kitchen counter. It makes sense to invest in a fancy machine if coffee is a key ritual element of your day. If it keeps you out of Starbucks, it should pay for itself quickly. You'll be drinking better coffee for less money, and you'll make your guests happy, too.

Worth the Splurge

Almost all of us are watching our spending these days: hunting for bargains, postponing purchases, making do with what we have, or doing without. The PB household is certainly being more careful about its spending — and we were always rather frugal. These days, I'm especially grateful for several high-quality items around our house that make our lives more pleasant every time we use them. These were not necessarily expensive purchases, but even the pricier ones are well worth all the agonizing we did before we whipped out the credit card. Because of them, it's easier to resist buying shiny new things when we already feel cosseted and indulged.

If you've actually got a little money to spend on your home, it's smart to spend it where you will really get the most value — on items you will use and enjoy every single day, and keep for years, or decades:

1. Bed. You spend about 1/3 of your life in bed, and if you're careful, that much of your life can become just about perfect. 

   A mattress that lulls you to sleep for a 15 years or more is worth its price (as long as the bill won't have you lying awake, worried. I'm not talking about excess here. Live within your means; never go into debt). No matter what you spend, make sure you are in love with your mattress from the get-go. We have a Duxiana, which cost something like 5 times the price of a typical mattress and boxspring at the time. I thought we were nuts just for visiting the Duxiana store to test one. But we'd tried a lot of mattresses at the local department and furniture stores. We even went to Gardner Mattress, the local maker. And the Dux was the only one that astonished us with absolute comfort. And it still does, every night. When I make our bed in the morning, I'm already looking forward to the moment when I can get back into it.  

   You also need comfortable sheets and pillows to sleep really well. I'm not a sucker for high-thread counts; when I'm asleep, I don't notice nuances of sheet quality. As long as my sheets are clean and dry, they won't keep me awake. And, anyway, I prefer cozy flannel (Portuguese is my favorite) and jersey knit sheets to crisp percale or sateen. Figure out what bedding characteristics say "comfort" to you, and open packages to feel the quality before you buy. 

   For pillows, we like the Cuddledown outlets in Kittery or Freeport, where the sales staff will educate you, ask you many questions, and help you make the best choice for your sleeping style. Theirs range from $22 synthetics to $3,399 eiderdown. A quality, white-goose-down pillow (toward the lower end of that price spread) should help you sleep well for years.

2. Bath. A few years ago, we were fortunate to have a carpenter friend renovate our bath with custom cherry cabinetry and paneling, Italian marble, and a deep soaking tub. We went crazy, but we love the result every day, and feel it was worth that enormous chunk of our savings. If you're more sensible than we but still want to improve your bathroom, a fabulous showerhead will make a luxurious difference. We have a Hansgrohe Raindance 6" handshower. The head is the size of a small frying pan, giving excellent, "rainstorm" coverage. An extra long hose makes rinsing easier (as well as cat bathing and tub cleaning). 

   Great towels can be had at all prices. The key is to decide what matters most to you: size, softness, thickness, absorbency, color?  We like ours soft and absorbent, but not too big or thick — like these super-soft bamboo towels, from The Company Store. 

   We stockpile good soap: Yardley English Lavender. Oh, for the days when these were 4 for $1 at CVS. Now if there's an online deal, I buy dozens. They make great sachets among the linens and sweaters, too.

3.  Cooking. Growing up among among my working-class family and neighbors, I know that great food can come from cheap cookware. It's also clear that fancy cookware won't make a mediocre cook better. But there are a few cook's tools worth their price. 

   You need a few workhorse knives. Don't waste money on a big set with a block; you don't need most of them. Instead, invest in 2 or 3 high-quality knives that can do everything and feel comfortable in your hand. I'd start with the biggest and best chef's knife you can manage, a mid-sized serrated knife for slicing bread and general tasks, and then maybe a smaller all-purpose knife like a santoku or small chef's knife. I prefer the all-steel Global knives because they have terrific blades and balance — and fit well in my small hand. Our Wustof chef's knife has been working for us for 10 years. If you do a lot of boning or carving, you may find you need those knives, too, but those three should have you covered for everything else. There are insanely expensive craftsman lines now, including Shun, that you can splurge on, but the next-cheapest brands, like Global, work perfectly well.

   Unless your pots and pans are as bad as my husband's first set — the handles were so much heavier than the pots that they would spontaneously tip right over on the uneven burners of our stove, spilling their contents — you probably don't need to upgrade. Decent cookware is available at all prices, with copper cores, aluminum and steel combinations, nonstick finishes, and so on. Just make sure you have the basic sizes and shapes you need and stop wondering if there's cookware nirvana out there. Remember: the ingredients in the pots are what matter. 

   One splurge I do recommend is an enameled cast-iron Dutch oven, which will last a lifetime if you care for it properly. Our 5.5-quart Le Creuset round oven is ideal for simmering soups, baking casseroles, boiling quantities of pasta, and roasting birds. It really does heat more evenly and consistently than ordinary pots, and it makes a noticeable difference with certain foods. Plus it looks gorgeous on the stove (in "Caribbean Blue"), and it helps strengthen my arms because it weighs a ton. You can sometimes find Le Creuset and similarly renowned brands on sale at Marshall's; if you find one, go for it.

   A few inexpensive items can significantly improve your kitchen time, too: Get the biggest cutting boards, in wood and acrylic, that will fit on your countertop. You'll use a sturdy pair of tongs for everything from frying bacon to tossing salad. Collect glass storage containers in many sizes for leftovers so you won't be stuck at the last minute. A roll of parchment makes baking cookies easier and clean-up a snap. Make sure your potholders are insulated enough so you aren't a bit scared of handling red-hot pans from the oven. And figure out what your personal cooking quirks are, and work with them: I purée a lot of soup, so an immersion blender is important for me.

4.  Dining.  Everyday meals feel like occasions even if you're just eating takeout pizza — on a beautiful plate. As I was growing up, my parents had the cheapest stainless flatware and a hideous set of black and harvest-gold dinnerware. (It's all still in use.) I vowed to do better someday. Over the years, we've accumulated small sets of new and antique dishes (mostly plates) in many sizes and patterns. We also have a fancy dessert set with cups and saucers, a souvenir of a trip to Prague. We have a set of silver-plated flatware, but I also collect a few 19th-century sterling patterns that we treasure — and use all the time. I find pieces at Brimfield or on eBay at a small fraction of the price of new sterling. Beautiful, quality dishes and flatware should be used and enjoyed at every meal, so it's worth buying what you love, even if you have to do it slowly, piece by piece. Served in a turquoise French bowl with an antique sterling spoon, yogurt, fresh fruit, and granola can be a photo-worthy creation as well as a healthy breakfast.

Goosed

I've decided to put more effort into losing a few pounds. I've been taking tough weight-training classes twice a week since November. I'm stronger than ever and I realized that, buried under about 8 pounds of flab, are a lot of rather awesomely toned new muscles. So I've started power-walking and jogging along the Charles a few times a week (in addition to the long regular walks I take a few times a week). The river is just 3 blocks from our apartment, and I've always regretted I rarely get over there to enjoy it. So I do a 4-mile loop, between the Harvard Bridge and the Science Museum. It takes an hour and it's an easy way to work out, enjoy nature, and think about stuff at the same time. 

Thinking turns out to be a problem: I get distracted and don't always pay attention to where I'm going. I'm also busy noticing cormorants, gulls, bird guano, malicious tree roots sticking up from the path, and boats. So, twice now, I've nearly been attacked by a furious, hissing Canada goose because I accidentally jogged too close to his or her gosling. 

You can't reason with a goose, but I really don't think I'm to blame if that gosling is camouflage-colored and sitting on dirt. Instead of trying to put a hole in my leg, Mother Goose, why don't you park your young on the grass so we can see and avoid them? I do try to keep clear of them but their markings are so clever that they practically disappear — unless there's a big group. I've counted up to 20 goslings in one gaggle [stupid term; it's a flock, for crying out loud]. 

So much for those zealous teams of goose-egg poppers armed with darning needles that go hunting for nests every spring. Heck of a job on the population control so far....

Anyway, I realized today that things have gotten to the point where, when I see a goose just looking in my direction, I get nervous and have to change my route to avoid it. I've been trained by those nasty birds. I can't wait for those goslings to grow up and help their parents pass their citizenship tests and learn some manners. Or just go back north where they belong.

Ding - Ding - Ding - Ding

I've never liked Bank of America, although that's where my checking account landed after BoA bought Fleet, which had bought BankBoston, which had bought BayBank. Or whatever. 

I didn't really care, although I should have. For example, I used to get interest on my checking account — a few dollars a month, because I always keep a healthy balance (at least, it used to be healthy before I lost my lovely, steady freelance job last August). But whenever I approached BoA bankers to ask them how to get an interest checking account, I got dazed, incredulous looks and insinuations that I am asking for something bizarre and impossible. 

I could switch banks, but I have trained myself too well on the locations of convenient BoA ATMs all over Boston and Maine. I'd probably keep going to them absent-mindedly if I had a new bank, racking up outrageous surcharges at the one on Salem Street, for example, from my deeply ingrained habits. 

But I loathe those new BoA ATMs. There's that annoyingly loud dinging bell that continues throughout your transaction and serves no purpose I can discern. When a whole row of ATMs is dinging away, I can't think straight. I guess, if I were blind, the dinging might be helpful in some way... but the sound doesn't change to indicate when, say, my cash comes out of the slot. So I'd be standing there, blind, still trying to figure out what was going on. And since blind people's hearing is supposed to be far more acute than that of the rest of us, I'd be even more freaked out by that nasty racket.

Then there's their new envelope-free check deposit. In theory, this is a good idea: most of the time BoA's ATMs are out of deposit envelopes, or they are all crumpled up on the floor underneath a sleeping homeless person as a pillow. But the check reader stinks. Most of the time, I forget to note the amoun — because I'm freaked out by that perpetual dinging — and it goes into its slot, churns around forever, and tells me it can't read the amount. Then I wait for it to spit out the check, note the amount, and start all over again. There's always someone sighing in line behind me as this happens. If you're going to have a high-tech check scanner, get a decent one.

Maybe that loud dinging is supposed to remind me not to leave without taking my card. But I've left my card behind at a dinging ATM's twice. It happens because I loathe the noise so much that I can't get out of their fast enough. I grab my cash and leave the card. 

I had some encounters with BoA customer service a couple of years ago. I wanted to know that maximum amount one could withdraw from an ATM at a time. I was doing legal money-laundering for a friend who was too broke to have a bank account. He was selling his possessions, so buyers (mutual friends) would pay him with checks made out to me. I'd deposit them and give him cash. I hunted everywhere on the BoA site for info about withdrawal limits. It's nowhere. So I e-mailed BoA to find out how much I could withdraw. Their reply was longer and smarmier than this, but here's an excerpt:

> Thank you for your inquiry dated 3/11/07 regarding maximum daily 

> withdrawal.  We will be happy to assist you.

> 

> Because your account security is our highest priority, we are unable to 

> process your request through unsecured e-mail.  We are only able to 

> perform account maintenance or discuss confidential information through 

> a secure method of contact, one that requires you to enter an Online ID 

> and Passcode such as Online Banking.  These methods of contact allow us 

> to verify that a request is from the account holder and not an 

> unauthorized attempt to change your account.

> 

> If you have access to Online Banking, please access your account on 

> Online Banking through our home page at www.bankofamerica.com and go to 

> the Customer Service tab to submit your request.

So I did that. It didn't work. So I replied: 

The information I am requesting is not personal, confidential or classified. I am requesting a statement of one your banking policies. Please JUST TELL ME what your rule is regarding maximum withdrawals from checking accounts.  It has nothing to do with my privacy or account information.

This is an excerpt from their reply:

> Thank you for your inquiry dated 03/12/07 regarding your withdrawal 

> limit.  We will be happy to assist you.

> 

> We apologize for any inconvenience this matter may have caused.  As 

> reiterated in our previous communication because your account security 

> is our highest priority, we are unable to process your request through 

> unsecured e-mail.  We are only able to perform account maintenance or 

> discuss confidential information through a secure method of contact, one

> that requires you to enter an Online ID and Passcode such as Online 

> Banking.  These methods of contact allow us to verify that a request is 

> from the account holder and not an unauthorized attempt to change your 

> account.

> 

> If you have access to Online Banking, please access your account on 

> Online Banking through our home page at www.bankofamerica.com and go to 

> the Customer Service tab to submit your request.

I was fed up. I knew I could call them, but I would rather have torn my own head off. I surely don't have to tell you what a wretched and futile endeavor THAT is. Life is too precious to waste on hold with BoA's utterly inept customer service crew, who seem to be off in faraway lands (or newly arrived from them) despite working for Bank of America. So I replied:

Hello again,

As I reiterated in simple English in my previous communication, I am not requesting information about account maintenance or anything that is the slightest, teeniest, eensiest bit confidential.  So just answer my question in an e-mail.

I loathe the very idea of getting onto your site and struggling through page after page, trying to find the right place to request this information. Your site is just awful. I've had a long career in e-commerce and Web design, so I know what I am talking about. You people should be ashamed; your site must have been designed by leftovers of the Soviet regime.

So again, for the third time, I MERELY want to know your GENERAL POLICY regarding the maximum amount ANYONE can withdraw from a checking account, IF one wanted to withdraw the maximum from a checking account (and I no longer do; thanks to your extreme lack of helpfulness, I withdrew the money from my Fidelity account instead.)

Just send me a PDF chart or something and I'll figure out what information pertains to me. Just tell me about all of your various account limits in general, okay? Come on, how complicated can this be?  Does it vary that much from person to person, depending on say, their birthday or favorite color?  Or don't you have a rule?  Does your CEO make up the amounts depending on the general corporate mood on a given day?

You could reply to my email and give me this simple, basic information by filling in the blank of the following sentence:

The maximum ATM withdrawal limit for one day from a basic checking or savings account is USD $______.

If you keep this up, I'm going to withdraw all my money and switch to Wainwright.  You aren't planning to acquire them any time soon are you? (or do you need my ACCOUNT NUMBER to answer that question, too.?)

I'm also going to post your response on my consumer blog.  This is getting to be quite entertaining.  Look forward to hearing from you.  

Lauren

That got me a reply from a human, albeit a banker who can't spell "withdrawal." And an answer, sort of:

Dear L. Thomas,

Thank you for your inquiry dated 3/14/07 regarding withdrawl limits.  We

apologize for any inconvenience you may have experienced and we will be 

happy to assist you.

Please be advised, withdrawl limits are based on many things, including 

but not limited to the following:

 - how funds are being withdrawn (transfer via ATM, Banking Center and 

Online Banking)

 - type of account 

Most ATM's allow $300-$700 per day.  Banking Center's generally allow 

withdrawals up to the balance in the account.  Online Banking will allow

you to transfer the entire balance between your own accounts, to others 

there is a limit of $1,000.00 per day and $2,000.00 per seven days.

We value you as a customer and appreciate your business.  If we may be 

of further assistance, please contact us again by e-mail.  Thank you for

choosing Bank of America.

Sincerely,

Cari Grey

Bank of America

I had an answer, but it was useless. It seems that the maximum withdrawal amount is based on... who knows? How much cash they can stuff into the ATM? The ATM's location? (Can you withdraw more cash on Beacon Hill than you can in Southie?) Bank manager's whim? Your favorite color? I gave up. Rather than gamble on BoA, I went back to Fidelity, which has an office on Boylston Street. When you're at their ATM, it's comforting to know that there are usually at least two well-informed, well-dressed humans working at the counter 15 feet away from you. And when you ask a question, you get a polite, correct answer. They don't give me opportunities to display my capacity for outrage or sarcasm, and I can't make (empty) threats about my blog (no, I didn't have a blog in 2007; I procrastinate, but I'm finally making good). But I'll take it.