Singing Change Guy

We walked home tonight after seeing a fine performance of Othello, the first Shakespeare on the Common production that we've seen. Afterward, the Singing Change Guy was there, serenading everyone heading to the parking lot, working double overtime at 11:15 on a Saturday night.

You surely know the man I mean. An older, burly guy, he has a rich baritone and sings only one tune. But his lyrics describe whoever is passing nearby. Tonight we heard:

   Is anybody carrying lawn chairs? Does anybody have some change?
   Is anybody wearing a silly grin? Does anybody have a backpack?
   Is anybody holding hands? Does anybody have any change?
   Change, change, change, change, change, change, 
   Does anybody have some change, change, change?

I've been listening to this guy for years and I think he's charming. I've never heard him sing anything that wasn't good-natured and polite. I'm beginning to think that he ought to receive a stipend from the City because his performances add so much color and life to Boston's streets. He's an artist in his way, and a local treasure.

The Best Book You Never Read

We watched Reds last night — an excellent film, and not merely because I coveted each of Diane Keaton's turn-of-the-century costumes and hats (except for the babushkas at the end).  Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson were spectacular. And I was surprised to see Dame Rebecca West on camera several times, interviewed as one of the many colorful witnesses to the era. She is the author of my favorite book, or books, called "The Cousin Rosamond Trilogy." The books are The Fountain Overflows, This Real Night, and Cousin Rosamond, which was still unfinished at her death, although with enough of an outline for her editors to complete the rest of the story in a reasonably satisfying summary. For years I almost never saw these titles in bookstores, although they're easy to find online. But The Fountain Overflows was recently reprinted by New York Review Books in paperback.

An Edwardian-era novel published in 1956, The Fountain Overflows is, as the jacket says, "A real Dickensian Christmas pudding of a book" (New York Times). It is a beautifully detailed picture of a turn-of-the-century London household as seen through the eyes of Rose Aubrey, one of the daughters in an artistically talented but impoverished family. The Aubreys and all of the other characters are colorfully drawn yet completely believable. Rose and her sister Mary are training to be professional musicians with their mother, a former concert pianist. There are touches of magic realism, because Rose and her mother share certain supernatural powers, which they take for granted and dust off only when necessary

Rose's pretty oldest sister, Cordelia, is a bad violinist and the only child in the family without musical talent — although she has a busy schedule performing in charity concerts because most listeners aren't as discerning as her family. But her mother and siblings regard her with as much sympathy and despair as if she were mentally defective instead of simply an amateur who "scoops" her notes.

Rose's father is a brilliant political journalist who prophesies World War I and writes persuasive pamphlets to reform British laws and unseat corrupt judges. But he can't hold a job, gambles all of his earnings on doomed business schemes, and routinely makes life difficult for his adoring family.

I won't give away any more of the story, because I hope you'll discover it for yourself. If you buy the first book, be sure to buy the others at the same time, so you won't finish one and need to run out to the bookstore at 9 pm as I once did,  brushing away tears and praying that they'd have the next volume. (They did; although it looks like the second volume, This Real Night is out of print.) I reread The Fountain Overflows almost every year around Christmastime because the Aubreys' holidays are so wonderfully described.

Over the years, I've been inspired to hear the music the family listened to and played, I've sought out foods they enjoyed (not the pork pie), and I've read some of the 19th-century books they read. Rebecca West was highly acclaimed for her novels and journalism in the 1940s and '50s and it's sheer bad luck that she's fallen into relative obscurity (except for The Return of the Soldier and Black Lamb and Grey Falcon) these days.

So Much for Skinny Jeans

I ordered some Pilcro jeans on sale for half-price from Anthropologie:

I thought they looked quite nice in this photo. I imagined they would be straight and slim-cut, but — you know — normal jeans. Stylish but still Appropriate for Women My Age.

Most of my current jeans seem very baggy — too Appropriate for Women My Age. I have just two pairs that I like; I should toss my other three floppy pairs, which are identical, or turn them into cut-offs. Or make one into a long skirt like the one I sewed when I was 14, where I opened all the leg seams of a pair of torn Landlubber hip-huggers and filled them in with triangles of different calico prints. And added embroidered flowers around the waistband and stitched on various patches and appliqués.

But on the other hand, I still have that skirt, and do I really need two?

The Anthropologie Pilcro jeans turned out to be leggings that are straight from about the mid-calf down. The denim is dark, soft, and stretchy. They feel extremely comfortable; have a respectable, non-Britney rise; and are just the right length. And they made me look surprisingly good despite a few extra pounds; I know that high-end jeans will do that, but usually you pay at least three times more than $49.95 for the privilege. So I never do.

But jeans-leggings are simply not appropriate for women anywhere close to my age. Thus speaks the tiny fashionista fairy, in chic and ageless fairy attire, who lives quietly somewhere inside my right ear. "Even tucked into equestrian boots for fall?" I pleaded. "Nope!" said she.

So back they must go. Too bad, legs. But she's right, even if she makes her own wardrobe out of butterfly wings and flower petals. I guess I'll stick with J. Crew's matchstick jeans, which leave a little more to the imagination and still tuck decently into boots. Much less comfortable, though....

The saddest part? I fit into both the 28 and the 27. And I usually wear a 29!

Ah, well. Free shipping and easy returns at the store.

Remember These?

I was happy to get the August J. Crew catalogue the other day, featuring....

S W E A T E R S ! 

And also boots and corduroys. So it can't be long now... turtleneck weather will surely arrive one of these days. (If not before the next J. Crew catalogue.)

I'm tired of sweating, roasting, and getting sunburned. I love swimming pools and iced tea as much as anyone, but I've had enough humidity and I can't wait for fall.

Sure, I'll miss my flip flops, and I'm not suggesting that freezing temperatures and snow have to arrive by October 1. I just want brisk, cool days and chilly nights. I want to sleep under the comforter instead tossing on top of it while my feet are bitten by mosquitoes and I'm kept awake by the noisy but ineffectual air conditioner.

But even as I look forward to fall, I hope that Lord & Taylor waits to put up their Christmas displays until Halloween — at least! 

Watering the Cat

Our Doll-face Persian, Snalbert, or Bertie, will turn 15 next week. As you can see, he's not your typical Persian, with a sad, pushed-in face. He's the old-fashioned kind, with a "real" nose. Persian cats all looked like this around the turn of the 20th century, before breeders got the idea to breed for those awful, extremely flat faces.

Snalbert is not a typical Persian in most ways; he's a talker and a howler, and he likes to charge around and make serious noise periodically, even at his advanced age. Persians are supposed to lie around, mew faintly, and look decorative. But no one told Snalbert. Late at night, he likes to stick his paw under our bi-fold closet door and rattle it to wake the dead. If that doesn't get a reaction from us, he starts singing, or reciting what we think is Longfellow's "Hiawatha" — at least Bertie's translation of it.

Bertie isn't a lap cat, but he's very sociable. He is the only cat who routinely greets us at the door when we come home. He joins us at the table for meals, and he insists on being in the bathroom with my husband in the morning as he showers and shaves. He loves to be with us, and we love him for that. He often comes over to my desk and puts both paws on my leg like a dog, so I'll pet him and give him some food.

Snalbert is also the Top Cat in our household — there's always a hierarchy among cats, and Snalbert worked hard to elect himself Top Cat, by biting ALL of us last fall after the kittens arrived. (His biting my husband and me indicates that he thinks we, too, are just big, weird-looking cats to be dominated. He'd jump up on the couch, sink his fangs into one of our arms until we started yelling, and then stalk away.)

No one had any objection to his campaign, and we all wanted him to stop biting us, so he won. Last week I photographed him keeping a young upstart in line:

Possum's fluffy tail is accidentally annoying Bertie.

Possum subdued.

We took Snalbert and Snicky, who is 16, to the vet for their biannual "wellness" checkups last week. After the usual $600' worth of tests, we discovered that Snalbert's kidney disease is suddenly worse than Snicky's. We've known about her illness, and have been giving her medication, for a couple of years, but Snalbert's issues were milder and more recent so we were just monitoring him. Now he needs subcutaneous hydration every other day for the foreseeable future. This helps flush away the toxins building up in his system due to his kidneys failing. Ideally, he'll feel better and his appetite will improve. He is a skinny dude these days compared to his full-bodied fluffiness of a year ago.

So we picked up bags of Ringer's Lactate, needles, and tubes, and gave Snalbert his first sub-Q treatment last night. It wasn't really his first — he'd gotten very sick from a virus that arrived along with Possum last fall, and needed hydration and pain injections and all sorts of nursing for a few weeks. But this is the beginning of our new routine, and I was worried he'd rebel.

We were rusty at the procedure — actually, I was the clumsy one, even though I read up on how to do it and heated the bag of solution so it would feel nice and warm under his skin. But twice I thought I had stuck the needle in the right place, and both times I found water pouring down his side onto the floor. My husband and I switched places, so he handled the needle and held Bertie while I operated the clamp on the tubing and watched the drip. Snalbert purred away loudly through the whole thing. What a guy. I hope he starts to feel better and that we'll be able to keep him going this way for years to come.

Scenes from Beauport

Today a friend and I went to Gloucester to visit Beauport, the summer home of Henry Davis Sleeper, who was an early 20th-century interior designer. It's a glorious, eccentric, Arts and Crafts–style house with gardens and terraces on the water, and its 40 rooms are a Colonial Revival feast. The rooms are full of Sleeper's collections of glass, china, 18th-century lanterns and other antiques, and there are many porches, verandas, and wide expanses of windows overlooking the water.

It's a lovely place to visit on a breezy summer day, and we enjoyed our tour.

Here are some photos of the exterior and the garden:

We had lunch on a harborside deck in Rocky Neck, Gloucester's artist colony, and then we toured some galleries. I admired a photo of a cat in a large cooperative gallery, and it turned out that the artist was the person running the shop that day. When I told her the photo reminded me of the Boston School pastel-colored drawings of Lilian Westcott Hale, she generously gave me tips for achieving similar effects in Photoshop. I look forward to showing you the results.

Here's a shop with a welcoming garden:

We liked the way the flowers in this garden matched the old Ciera parked nearby:

Gloucester has so many aspects: the fishing and lobstering industry, historic homes, good restaurants, art galleries and craft shops, and it's old-fashioned but lively downtown area. It's  only an hour away but its welcoming and relaxed attitude makes it seems light-years away from Boston.

I look forward to returning to visit the 18th-century Sargent House Museum, built for Judith Sargent Murray, who was a writer, philosopher, and very early women's-rights advocate. She was also a relative of John Singer, and there's a collection of his works. The house is only open on weekend afternoons.

Oops.

Last September, I made my annual appointment to see my gynecologist today (or so I thought). She's a wonderful OB-GYN at Beth Israel who is so gentle, quick, and pleasant that she makes these often-miserable exams a breeze.  Instead of dreading my appointments for weeks, I sort of look forward to seeing her. I have to gone so far as to declare that I'd prefer an appointment with her to sitting through a dumb summer movie or a dull dinner party. I've had perhaps a dozen gynecologists over the years, and I have found the winner. I have had haircuts that were less comfortable than seeing her.

I showed up promptly in her office this morning, and noticed that the receptionist seemed a little glassy-eyed as she scanned the schedule. "Your appointment was last week," she said. "The doctor is now booking annual appointments for February." February? The doctor is on vacation for two weeks, so we'll have to see if she grant me an exception when she returns.

How did I screw this up? I checked my 2009 appointment calendar, where I wrote this in long before the 2010 ones were available. "Thursday, July 27, 9 am" is what it says. I completely missed the "Thursday" part — today is Tuesday. Argghh. I remember getting a reminder voicemail from the doctor's office more than a week ago, but I still believed the appointment was today. I do remember thinking that they were calling pretty far in advance. Maybe I didn't listen carefully to the date because I was so certain it was today.

Go figure. Surely no one needed to tell you that the Proper Bostonian is a flaky idiot at times. Also a klutz: today in gym class, her instructor stood near her as everyone was doing lunges while lifting weight plates over their heads and said, for all the class to hear: "Remember how you couldn't do even one of these last year?" He was being rhetorical, but the PB chose that moment to lose her balance and nearly topple over. There was laughter. But not from the PB.

Maybe I need a vacation? A new head? A brain? And definitely a new pair of cross-trainers with stickier soles.

Spotted on Marlborough Street...

.... early this morning: one of those Colonial-era costumed tour guides, an older man dressed convincingly in britches, buckled shoes, and waistcoat. He smoking a clay pipe and leaning heavily on his walking stick as he made his way along the bumpy brick sidewalk between Exeter and Fairfield Streets. He didn't look very clean, which I thought was wonderfully authentic, too. He could have been a ghost from the past but he was stomping pretty noisily to be pure ectoplasm.

I figure that, if you're dressed that way, you ought to be prepared for some brief public debate and civil commentary.

"Wrong century, buddy," I said, as I passed him, shaking my head. I was out exercising, authentically attired for my century in shorts and a baseball cap.

He looked right through me and continued on his way.

Later it occurred to me that he probably thought I was referring to the 21st century, not the 19th. But surely he knew that he was a double anachronism: Colonial-era Bostonians never walked down Marlborough Street. It was developed in the mid 19th century and was not much more than a swamp in the 18th century.

Oh, well. I shouldn't go around making cracks about period passersby unless I'm wearing my bustle.

"Mad Men" Returned

So did you think it was worth the wait and the hype? Possibly. We know the characters well enough to be interested in what's happening to each one. But I always seem to left wanting more than I got. What I got last night was a lot of catching up and chicken Kiev, and what I didn't get was enough enlightenment.

It's clear that Don's cracking up, personally and professionally and that should be interesting to watch. The tip-off for me was not the bad interview(s), his Thanksgiving Day prostitute, or his shabby treatment of Peggy. It was his terrible pitch for the Jantzen swimsuits account. If he thought that spec ad was worth defending, he is seriously ill.

And after all this time, must Don still treat Peggy like she's pond scum? And why is she taking it in such a junior secretary–like fashion again?

Whoever is writing for Roger must have spent months stocking up on cruel cripple jokes and nasty comebacks. And poor Joan, she only got to look well-dressed and do office work.

I think I like Henry Francis's mother more than I like Betty.

But what I liked best of all were the Trader Joe's milk chocolate–covered pretzels that we munched on, to the detriment of some of the quickly mumbled dialogue. If you haven't tried them, don't! They are crack for the chocoholic who loves salt. If you buy one bag, I can almost guarantee you'll find yourself buying another against your better judgment.

One of my food rules is never to buy things in bags, which nicely rules out all the worst snacks and lots of other processed foods. There are exceptions: good-quality granola and imported pasta come in bags, but it means we never even venture down certain aisles to buy chips or junky store-bought cookies. (We do buy TJ's triple ginger snaps, which come in tubs.)  But my husband was pining for pretzels and I was pining for chocolate, and we saw this lonely little bag as we were standing in the TJ's check-out line, and we caved. Now I am going to declare a limit of two bags per year. And I mean it. Just like Don does when he says he'll clean up his act.

Still Looking

We're still on our quest to buy another condo or a small house. We are finally feeling cramped in 800 square feet, and we really want some outdoor space, too. We imagine eating meals outside, doing some container gardening, and having a couple of lounge chairs for reading and relaxing in the shade on these hot summer days. I think the cats would love to roam around safely in a walled garden, too.

I haunt Redfin's website many times a day, but the market is slow right now; there is rarely anything we need to dash right out and see. Usually there's an open house scheduled, so we check out listings on Sundays.

Today we visited a 3 bedroom, multi-level condo and a 3-bedroom single-family house in Beacon Hill. It was hot and sticky trekking up the hill, and I did my best to imagine how it would feel to be hauling grocery bags on icy brick sidewalks instead.

The condo had been recently renovated by someone who loves pale wood cabinetry and sleek, beigey-brown bathrooms and kitchens. It was luxurious, creative, and tastefully done — but not to our more old-fashioned taste. I like darker wood cabinetry and crisp, white bathrooms and kitchens. Plus, the master bedroom was in the basement and had wall-to-wall carpeting. I'd worry about leaks and mold; I have asthma. And the tiny private courtyard was cute but too small to hold more than one lounge chair and a tiny table to two. And rental parking was far away. And in a place that costs more than a million dollars, you'd expect to have your own washer and dryer, not a ratty common one in the hall outside your bedroom, and... oh, never mind.

Still, we loved the huge soaking tub for two and the enormous, glass-walled walk-in shower. And the fridge was hidden behind a matching cabinet door and had two large freezer drawers below, a very elegant and practical idea.

The house, while a bit bigger, was much less to our liking, even though it had the Holy Grail — a parking space outside the door. It didn't help that the broker was pushy. In the first few minutes we were in there, she told us she expected to sell the house to one of the 25 or so people she thought would visit her open house today. She had just sold the house next-door in a day. I don't respond well to pressure tactics. There are plenty of Beacon Hill houses that linger on the market, even with parking.

She said the owner had spent $75,000 to fix up the place to sell it. If only they'd put in an elevator! The ground/entry level held just the eat-in kitchen, which was spiffy — with new stainless (they're always stainless) appliances and a mirrored backsplash that struck me as a great idea for our own tiny kitchen. The formal dining/living room was up a steep, winding, narrow stairway. Imagine carrying a whole dinner up there for your guests, and then lugging all the dirty dishes down again. Forget. I'd be tempted to throw them all out the window instead. And just buy new ones before the next dinner party.

Up another winding little stair were two small, basic bedrooms (offices in our case) with plastering opportunities (exposed brick), and a bathroom with a large window alongside to the tub, looking directly into the windows of what appeared to be a classy private club across the courtyard. You'd never be bored — nor would any club member watching you shower!

The third floor held the master bedroom and bathroom, also with a window by the tub that was perfect for any voyeurs across the way. Finally, a fourth narrow stair led to a small, barren, unfenced roofdeck.  As we looked down from it, another house-hunter said, "Suppose you decided you wanted another drink... it's four flights down!" The little garden in front of the house was even smaller than the one at the condo, so we clattered down the four flights and bailed.

What most disappointed us about these two places was that, although they were 500 to 600 square feet bigger than our place, they seemed equally cramped. It's partly because they have multiple levels, and there isn't much space for bookcases or long walls to hold our antique Japanese tansu chest, for example. Better layouts are possible in bigger flats on single floors, but even those are often carved up into weird, space-wasting layouts by inscrutable or clueless developers.

As you can see, we are either very, very picky, or else there aren't a lot of good units for sale right now.

We'll keep looking.

Today's Adorableness

This morning we saw a lot of cuddling:

And this afternoon I encountered this:

Feel free to make your own LOLCat caption for this one.

Current Craving: Colorful Sneakers

The Proper Bostonian only wears sneakers (actually cross trainers) for working out, but she's a pushover for things that are offered in a rainbow of colors:

These are Frye's vintage-style leather sneakers, featuring scuffed-up rims and dirty laces for a broken-in look. They're a whopping $118 regularly, but a few colors and sizes are half-price at Anthropologie.com, including the green ones, which might be cute and comfortable for trekking around Boston between the flip-flop and boot seasons:

There's free shipping at Anthropologie.com until Labor Day if you have an Anthro card. And free returns at stores, of course....

Scenes from the Copley Farmer's Market

Yesterday, I picked up peaches, tomatoes, corn, basil, and bread, and contemplated berries, plums, eggplant, and greens before I remembered that the market returns on Friday, so there's no need to hoard. The first corn of the season was wonderful for dinner. Tomorrow's dinner: pasta with fresh pesto.

Here are some photo's of summer abundance, although I have to say that the tomatoes look better than they taste. They will improve dramatically in a few weeks when the greenhouse tomatoes give way to the field varieties.

Garden bouquets

Apples, early in their season

Too bad I'm having a gardening moratorium these days....

Blackberries, gooseberries, blueberries, and raspberries

Why settle for plain old berries when you can have berry pie?

When I see beans, I crave a good salade Niçoise

Tiny, beautiful plums... I hope they're still around on Friday.

Back to Work

My freelance writing project was on hiatus for a few weeks, so I took the opportunity to goof off and waste time, two of my best talents. But two sets of drafts were just returned to me with editorial corrections, cuts, and suggestions from a distinguished group of curators and educators — who are only about 10,000 times more informed on the subjects (art, decorative arts, architecture) than I will ever be.

The great thing about reading anything I wrote a few weeks earlier is that it's news: I have almost no recollection of it. I must have the world's shallowest brain; I learned a lot today, reading essays I wrote in June. I have no idea how all that flowing, intelligent-sounding prose poured out of my fingertips. And surprisingly, my panel of experts fell for most of it. I always procrastinate and tremble with trepidation for at least half a day before opening one of their edited documents, expecting scathing — and well-deserved — critiques. But in the first batch, at least, they left almost all of my favorite stuff intact. Not that I remembered much of it.

When I wrote articles for health publications, the magazines would arrive in the mail months after I sent off my stories. And I'd have to check my computer files to know which clips were mine, because they didn't have bylines. When you spend your days writing about heart disease, diabetes, and herbal supplements, it all starts to blend. Still, you'd think I'd remember that piece on ginkgo biloba, which I'd labored over for days or weeks. But no....

When I read old posts on this blog, I learn things, too. Actually, I just refresh my memory. Which seems to be about the size of a walnut. I think I'm the mental equivalent of those early computers, where you had to store absolutely everything on your little floppy disk (at least I remember those) or lose it if you forgot and powered off the Lanier, or Wang, or whatever it was.

At any rate, whenever I read things I wrote awhile ago, I'm convinced I was much smarter then, and have declined remarkably since.

It's awful being smarter than most people, as you probably know. I guess I have the consolation of being a little dumber every day than I was the day before. By the time true senility sets in, in a few days or decades from now, I'll have had so much practice at being clueless that no one will be able to tell I'm demented.

So I hope you'll be tolerant if I sometimes repeat myself in posts. But it doesn't give you license to tell me the same damn stories over and over again, or try to induce me to watch Titanic ever again. I will always be too sharp for some things.

Current Craving: Thunderstorm

If anyone sees a thunderstorm rattling around their neighborhood, please direct it to Back Bay. We've been promised one — actually several, almost daily — for the past week but none have materialized. So they must be getting lost on their way in from Worcester, or wherever thunderstorms come from. But we Bostonians are overdue for a storm, so please share. It's hot, humid, and boring in these old brownstones, and there's still almost a week to while away before we can see what Don, Betty, Joan, and Peggy have been up to on Mad Men.

10 "Good" Things about a Heat Wave

The Proper Bostonian has to admit that she doesn't like summer as much as she thought she did. The mild, breezy days of June and all of the unseasonably cool days are very well — and so is vacationing in Maine. But the traditional summer heat waves of July and August leave her cold. So to speak. Sweating, perspiring, dripping, and even "glowing" should not happen outside of an exercise session or a ferocious bout of housekeeping. They should not occur simply because you went downstairs to check the mail. 

The PB always prefers a heavy cloud cover to baking in direct sunlight, too. She hates sunblock. You're supposed to cover yourself with it liberally after you shower and before you get dressed. But as soon as you slap it on, don't you desperately want to take another shower to get it off? Slime! 

She also resents have to resort to energy-wasting air conditioners, which are noisy and never manage to keep her rooms at a comfortable temperature, always too cold or too hot. But longhaired cats (and people) need them. 

Perhaps she should move to the Oregon coast. But then what would she have to complain about?

Here is her pathetic list of things that make a heat wave feel a little less like the city has turned into an enormous clothes dryer set on High Heat. 

1. It's the perfect excuse for not doing whatever you don't feel like doing. Like cleaning. Or turning a page. "It's too hot!"
2. Less laundry, because I hope you're wearing fewer clothes. I don't miss sorting socks or folding undershirts.
3. Shopping for groceries, or doing any air-conditioned errand, is now something to look forward to.
4. Trader Joe's Low-Calorie Pink Lemonade. Preferably accompanied by the box of Girl Scouts' Thin Mints you prudently stuck in the freezer last spring as a heat-wave contingency.
5. It's too hot to cook. We've been eating burritos almost every day lately. I hope it's not possible to overdose on guacamole. But if so, I always thought that the Wicked Witch of the West's green complexion was adorable.
6. Air conditioners drown out street noise — screaming drunks, wild parties, early-morning bottle collectors with shopping carts. Of course, the air conditioner's own noise is almost as annoying. And nothing drowns out the sound of the guy across the alley who is still waling the tar out of his wheelbarrow with a sledgehammer every morning at 7 am. It's been months, buddy. Time to finish the job and Move On.
7. The lure of a frosty theater is almost enough to enable my husband to persuade me to see some stupid summer movie (I believe that "stupid" and "summer" are redundant). But he has a little hope, at least. Although it sounds like Inception is pretty darn stupid indeed.
8. My flip flops are looking more sartorially correct than they did in April, or will in October.
9. Lying on the couch for days, going through the enormous pile of old magazines that's been accumulating for two years, feels virtuous instead of decadent because it's too hot for serious literature.
10. People sometimes invite you to swim in their pools... although never as often as you'd wish, which is something like twice a day.

Current Craving: Fluffy Kittens from MAAS

Hosmer and Cortland: Kittens available for adoption

Unfortunately, the Proper Bostonian can't adopt any more cats. But she has an active dream life and she is crazy about these tiger kittens, very reminiscent of Possum in his own recent babyhood. They are from the Metrowest Animal Awareness Society in Hudson, Mass., the excellent rescue organization that fostered Possum and his feral siblings. Their kittens can only be adopted in pairs, or go to households where there are other younger, active cats — a very wise, humane policy not only for the cats, who will have a playmate and lifelong companion, but also for the owners, who won't have to worry about leaving their kitten entirely alone during the workday. It's a time-consuming responsibility to be your kitten's only playmate — they need hours of daily/nightly play when they're little.

Hosmer has extra toes — a cat can't have too many.

Cortland reminds me of Possum

Here's their description from Petfinder.com in case you're looking for a couple of gorgeous babies:

Metrowest Animal Awareness Society Inc.
Hudson, MA
508-460-2022 
adoptionsmaas@gmail.com

We're the Whitney Hill kittens, named for the streets surrounding old Hudson College (did you know Hudson had a college?) We are actually from another rescue, who found themselves overwhelmed with summer kittens. We've been well loved in foster homes, and we want homes of our own! We're about 10 weeks old.

Will you give us a forever home?

All of our cats are tested for FeLV/FIV, up to date on vaccinations, and spay/neutered before adoption. The adoption fee is $150 for kittens or $100 for adults. The best, and fastest way to reach us is e-mail: adoptionsmaas@gmail.com.

OUR KITTEN POLICY: Kittens under the age of 6 months need other cats for social development and fewer behavioral problems - and they keep each other company when people aren't around. So, we adopt out kittens in pairs, or with their charming momcats, or into home already having a young or active cat.

Hosmer and Cortland are up-to-date with routine shots, house trained and spayed/neutered.

At Least It Looks Idyllic

A couple of weeks ago, I droned on here about the gorgeous houses in my hometown in Pennsylvania, illustrating my post with photos of properties near where we were staying in a B&B. That would be Market Street in downtown historic Bethlehem — a wide, tranquil, 19th-century avenue lined with wonderful old trees and green lawns. Click this link to see the photos.

I didn't take a photo of this particular house at 218 E. Market, but I easily could have:

It was built in 1860; it's sprawling and filled with historic detail, another gem on the prettiest street in town. And it just went on the market — rather suddenly, I suspect — for $725,000. Here's the listing.

You are perhaps wondering: What's so special about this house, and why is the PB going on about it so mysteriously?

On Sunday afternoon, June 20 — just a week before we took our envious little photography tour, after checking out of our inn, a couple of blocks away — the owners were robbed and terrorized in an armed home invasion:

Two men have had new charges filed in the Sunday home invasion in historic downtown Bethlehem that police say was a random choice by the two suspects.

Numerous charges, including robbery and kidnapping, were filed Friday afternoon against Jeremiah Nieves, 24, and Luis Nestor Martinez, 26. The men were captured in Allentown after police tracked a GPS signal from a car stolen during the heist. Nieves was shot at an Allentown officer during the arrest, a shooting authorities have said appears justified.

Bethlehem police said when the men broke into the home at 218 E. Market St. on Sunday afternoon, they were wearing masks, gloves and carried a firearm and another unidentified weapon.

The homeowners – who were not identified by police – were bound with wire ties, duct tape and dog chains and put in separate areas of the basement. The male homeowner was assaulted by one of the men who poured a chemical over his head and sprayed him in the eyes with an unidentified substance.

Police said the alleged robbers stole jewelry, laptop computers, cash, bank cards and the couple's Lexus. It took the bound couple nearly three hours to free themselves. Police said the men used the couple's stolen bank cards to withdraw $1,000 in cash at two area banks.

Nieves and Martinez will be arraigned on charges of robbery, kidnapping, burglary, criminal trespass, aggravated assault, criminal conspiracy, reckless endangerment, unlawful restraint, theft, receiving stolen property, possessing instruments of crime, illegal weapons and access device fraud.

The home at 218 E. Market St. is owned by attorney James H. Lutz and his wife, Petrina Calantoni, according to property records. Police have not identified the homeowners.

According to court documents and police:

As the men fled in a car stolen during the robbery, police were able to track them by the car's GPS signal.

After Allentown police spotted the car parked on a street corner, Nieves and Martinez fled. Niieves pulled out a handgun from his waistband and racked the slide.

Nieves was shot by Allentown police Officer Ryan Koons and remains in St. Luke's Hospital Fountain-Hill.

As police re-traced the route taken by the men as they fled, they found several stolen items, including jewelry, a laptop computer and a Wii gaming system and several game cartridges.

Nieves' bail has been set at $1 million for charges in Lehigh County including aggravated assault on police, various weapons offenses, receiving stolen property and conspiracy.

Martinez is being held in Lehigh County Prison under $750,000 bail.Police said both men have unknown addresses.

Copyright © 2010, The Morning Call 

One listing for the house mentions a "sophisticated security system." Now I understand why our inn had one, too. When I grew up nearby, people didn't always lock their doors... blah, blah, blah.

I've suddenly stopped feeling so envious of everybody living on Market Street, not an easy habit to break since it began when I was about 11. How sad to be driven from your home by a couple of thugs.

They're Baaacck

Certain facial similarities — across centuries and despite wildly different lifestyles and philosophies — strike me as uncanny:

Mary Baker Eddy and Joyce Carol Oates

Henry James and Christopher Hitchens

Nathaniel Hawthorne and.... 

now, just where exactly did you think I'd be going with this?

Current Craving: Stonewall Kitchen

Need I say more?

This is a new product from the Stonewall Kitchen. Their headquarters, in York, Maine, is an easy drive from Boston and great place to visit. You can sample many of their products, and there's a cafeteria, too.

Here are a few other products I plan to try:

Although I don't drink, I love nonalcoholic "mojitos" (nojitos?) with sparkling water or ginger ale. And I never have fresh mint around, so this mix might be perfect.

It seems that cheese balls are making a comeback; at least the Stonewall Kitchen offers them in loads of flavors. This key lime version would be an ideal '60's-retro snack for watching the new season of Mad Men in a couple of weeks. Served with graham crackers, of course. And maybe some Tab in a colorful aluminum drinking glass, since we can't make my personal favorite, Funny Face Drink Mix (Goofy Grape! Injun Orange!), anymore.

I never eat doughnuts these days. But I want to. I'd like to bake my own, although that would mean buying a doughnut pan, which would probably require one of us to move out of here because we'd have nowhere to store the darn thing. 

But if my homemade doughnuts really turned out like this, it might be worth it: 

Monsoon

When the rain started, we were in Rodney's Bookstore in Central Square this afternoon, trying to use up the last of our $100 credit (from selling them a whole trunkful of expensive hardcovers around Christmastime) before the store goes out of business. By the time we got to Felipe's in The Garage — where the burritos are comfortingly like those at Anna's Taqueria, but possibly better — the rain was "bucketing down," as they say in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Our little umbrella did no good, sending water down the back of my sundress at regular intervals.

We made it back to the car, soaked but not drowned, and made a foolish decision to drive over to my husband's office, nearby. Flash flooding. Flooded underpasses. Stalled cars. Sodden folk. Water up over the curb. The water was also over our hubcabs for some stretches of road, but our trusty little Mitsubishi didn't let us down or leak a drop. We passed several flooded-out cars. 

The water in the parking lot covered the soles of my flip flops. And then his electronic key wouldn't open either building door. So we got another soaking for nothing.

But it was an unexpected Saturday afternoon adventure. We slowly drove home, avoiding the flooding on Storrow. We were not pleased to find that the rain hadn't really cooled things down much at all.

Flooded Mass. Ave., heading toward Harvard Square.

The Starbucks at Mass. Ave & Shepard St., with water at curb level
 and sandbags at the door.

Artsy-Impressionistic rain effect, with drenched figure.

The Cat Days of Summer

It's much too hot, indoors and out. Even with two elderly, inadequate air conditioners running 24/7, it's muggy in our apartment. (At least they have high energy-efficiency ratings, so I don't feel too guilty.)

Oh, for the days of hot cocoa, cashmere socks, turtlenecks, and flannel sheets. I have an arsenal of things to help me stay warm, but the only remedies for hot weather are cold air and liquids. There are only so many tepid showers one can take, and just so many cool drinks one can sip. Aside from that, I look forward to the stronger air conditioning in our car, and escape to bookstores and other shops for their more extravagant, wasteful, delightful AC.

How did women survive in the days of multiple long petticoats, corsets, knitted stockings, boots, and high-necked, long-sleeved dresses? I would have been tossed into the nearest mental institution for refusing to wear anything but a chemise.

These days, you'll usually find me in shorts, a tasteful tee, and flip flops — my staple summer outfit since I gave up rompers at around age 3. (I still believe that no one older than 2 belongs in a romper, and it's too bad so many Hollywood starlets disagree.) I suppose this ensemble of mine isn't terribly Proper, especially at my age, but it's better than nothing. I mean, nothing. When it's hot, I hate being covered up.

I have a terrible time finding dresses that suit me, but I think I have finally settled on this sundress with a '60's-mod print. From Boden, it feels like a summer nightgown, but it's suitable for public appearances:

When I visited Egypt the first time, we were touring sites in 100-degree heat, and it got up to 104 in Aswan. I hadn't brought shorts, short-sleeved tees, or knee-length skirts because I was told it wasn't acceptable to show that much skin in a Muslim country. People assured me that covering up in the heat would keep me cooler, and that there wasn't much humidity over there, so the heat would be less uncomfortable.

They were dead wrong on both counts. I was so miserable, I ended up wearing my husband's shorts one day, which came to my knees and were many sizes too big. I held them up with an improvised belt; I think it was a necktie. Whenever the tour guides and guards left us alone in the Valley of the Kings, I undid all but one or two of buttons on the long-sleeved, baggy cotton blouse I was wearing and flapped it around to cool off. So much for modesty. You won't catch me in a Muslim country in hot weather ever again, unless I'm not exploring beyond the hotel pool.

On that same trip, I remember visiting the Cairo Museum and watching a German tour bus arrive. As everyone trooped up the path to the entrance. I was amazed to see a stocky, platinum-blonde fraulein dressed in iridescent green hot pants and a matching bra top. In downtown Cairo. They let her into the museum without comment, along with her friend, wearing a string-tied, backless halter and bike shorts. So if you're willing to put up with people staring and rude comments, anything goes, apparently. But I'm not that far gone.

But our poor, furry cats are pretty far gone. I keep telling them to take off those fluffy coats and make themselves at home, but they are Proper Bostonians. Here is Wendy, who has staked out her spot directly in the path of the air conditioner. She's looking very possessive about its remote, beside her. The kittens seem to know it controls the cool air, and have so far avoided knocking it onto the floor and losing it under the furniture.

Go ahead, make my day.

It's too hot for them to run around and play. We miss the happy sound of them tearing around. Fingers crossed for a cold front. Soon.

Sale Time at Garnet Hill

I've been keeping a watchful eye, and it's finally time for the annual summer sale and clearance event at Garnet Hill, my favorite online retailer.

I've just ordered my second sets of their jersey sheets (polka dots) and "Paintbrush Flannel" sheets at very good prices. I love the quality of both of these, and I was happy to see that the sale includes the colors I wanted. This should inspire me to get rid of our ratty old flannels and summer bedding — otherwise, I'll have nowhere to store these.

It seemed counterintuitive to be thinking about heavy-duty flannel sheets while our air conditioners are blasting without much success, and it feels even more like soup outside. But smart shoppers get their deals whenever they can.

So keep in mind that they've got Børn and Frye boots on sale as well as sandals, flip-flops, and lots of summer clothes. But it's all going fast.

I also ordered this lightweight cardigan, which will either be striking in a vaguely Stevie Nicks way, or frumpy and stumpy. Free exchanges, no exceptions.

Back from Maine

Well, as you can see from all the photos, we had a swell time in Maine. None of the rolled clothing in my overpacked duffel wrinkled — this will revolutionize my suitcase-packing technique. And I'd brought plenty to read, didn't perish from missing the cats, and the inn was as delightful as ever.

The only problem was the team of Eastern European folk dancers that became artists-in-residence in my stomach, kicking, stomping and doing circle dances until I felt like I'd done 10,000 sit-ups — even my legs and back ached from the cramping, or Cossack kicks, or whatever went on in there. I haven't had this particular IBS symptom in a couple of years, and hadn't missed it. (The other symptom I get during these attacks is a feeling of ravenous hunger — like I've been starved for days —which continues as I eat and after I've eaten a full meal. This is a very irrational disorder....)

In hindsight, I don't think this attack was brought on by the stress of leaving the cats behind. I think I ate something bad. Possibly some rather ancient all-natural hot dogs I'd found in the freezer...

The pains continued off and on through the trip, with a particularly rough night after a particularly delicious prosciutto and mushroom pizza. It had to have been the cheese. No more dairy for this Dairy Queen, at least for the next couple of weeks.

I realized that the Align capsules I'd packed were a few years old — these are probiotics I take to add healthy bacteria to my digestive system's bacteria, similar to acidophilus. On our first morning in Southwest Harbor, I went to the drugstore to see if they could order some. I can't buy it off the shelf in any Boston pharmacy, and I usually order it online and get it in a week. If it came in a few days, I figured it might still help. So I asked about it and the salesperson said, "I think we have a box right here." She reached down under the register into a bin and, lo and behold: Maine really is "The Way Life Should Be." The capsules seem to making a difference.

It was tricky to eat. I normally can't have cream, alcohol or red meat. Prohibit all dairy on top of that, and my diet is a bland bore. Turkey sandwiches, fruit salad, eggs, spaghetti, oatmeal cookies, and scones were the menu. Instead of slathering my popovers at the Jordan Pond House with butter, I used up all the strawberry jam. (I did squeeze in one kiddie-size scoop of chocolate-peanut butter frozen yogurt before I got slammed by the pizza.)

We weren't in any mood to hike and explore. Hanging around the pool was our idea of a good time. But I was unbelievably stupid and didn't use sunblock anywhere but on my face, figuring that lying in the shade would somehow compensate for all the time I spent reading soggy New Yorkers in the sunny hot tub and floating around the pool. I now have bright pink upper arms, chest, knees, and shoulders, while the rest of me is very white. I will look ridiculous for some time. And it hurts. It's my own damn fault, and I recall being similarly stupid last year.

Ideally, I go into deep relaxation mode during a trip to Maine, when longterm stresses are suddenly replaced by joyful optimism and silliness. Sometimes it happens the night we arrive. On our trip last August, stressed out by troubling condo issues, and worried about a sick cat and our job prospects, I'm not sure I ever got there.

On this trip, it happened on our last afternoon. I felt it breeze in somewhere between getting out of the hot tub and marching down the steps into the pool. "I'm here," I realized, as stress and strife dissolved into the cool blue water. I mentioned this to one of the innkeepers — they are like cousins after all these years. They join us in the pool and for breakfast, and in the evenings as we're lounging outside. We catch up on everyone's news, gossip about other guests, and complain about our "issues." I said, "So I'm finally here, if you know what I mean." He gave me a hug, five days into our stay, and said, "Welcome! It's great to see you again!"

It was sad to leave the next day — I mean, I'd just arrived! But we were also worried about the cats. Turns out they survived, were mostly glad to see us, and only two of them — the kittens — hid whenever the cat sitter showed up. They were clearly spooked by our reappearance — Snicky must have told them we were dead. Wendy is still avoiding us, but she lets us pet her if she's too hot and tired to run off. Possum squeaks at me every few hours to lie down so he can settle his furry bulk on me and be petted.

I suspect that he spent much of our trip like this:

We drove home in six hours, bought groceries, did errands for my mother-in-law, got our air conditioner out of her garage, unpacked, installed the AC, fussed over the cats, ate crackers, and collapsed. I can't wait to go back!

Postcards from Maine: Floral Beauty

The residents of Mount Desert Island take flowers seriously. Here are some photos from Thuya Lodge in Northeast Harbor, which belonged to Joseph Curtis early in the 20th century, and was landscaped by Charles Savage in 1956. Here's the entrance to the garden, followed by some of the perennials and annuals that cover the grounds:

Closer to home, this house on the Clark Point Road has a wonderful garden in the front and Southwest Harbor itself in the backyard:

There are always lots of flowers around our inn, too. This enormous pot of nasturtiums probably came from the Clark Point Road house, above, which had a yard sale on Sunday. They offered several big pots of flowers, which were all snapped up instantly by our clever innkeeper. I could never get nasturtiums to grow in the city; they always get infested with bugs and shrivel up, so I'm very jealous of these:

These flowers are best viewed while floating in the pool: