Peeking

In the early dark of this fall night, I pull my jacket more tightly around myself; its thin khaki is no match for a breeze that hints of winter. I’d rather be huddled by the fireplace with a cup of tea, but Ali and Michal and I are venturing out in search of a late dinner. We’re all set to go – the house is locked, the jack o’lanterns are lit, and a bowl of fun sized candy bars has been set out for any intrepid costumed youths – but the bite in the air makes me hesitate. “I’ll be right back,” I say as I dash back in the door and up the stairs, opening my closet in search of a slightly warmer sweater.

While extricating my arms from long cotton sleeves and tugging off my t-shirt, I glance down through a single window toward the house next door. I haven’t ever seen the gentleman who lives there. Ali swears he exists – she’s spotted him walking his dog and mowing his lawn – but whenever I look, the house is sealed tight, its curtained windows shutting out the world. Tonight, though, as I stand still, peering half-clad through the twilight, a slotted glow cuts across the darkness. The neighbor’s blinds are open, and the familiar abrupt horizon of white siding stretches back to reveal a living room. A floor lamp illuminates two armchairs, a desk, a file cabinet, all sliced through by thin beige slats. I lift a red sweater over my head, but distraction makes me move slowly, and I continue to peer toward the newness of next door.

I don’t know how it happens, but a figure materializes next to an armchair. He doesn’t move into place; he doesn’t abruptly appear. He simply is, suddenly. His eyes reflect the lamp’s light without wavering, and I freeze behind a lattice of bright wool, caught in his beaming gaze. We both remain motionless, locked in one moment, unsure of whether to be indignant at this blatant peeking or ashamed of the voyeurism that has been exposed.

I blink, and he is gone – no, he never was there. I close my own shades, shaking my head ruefully at the Halloween ghosties that spark my overactive imagination, and trundle down the stairs toward the outside chill and dinner.

Once Upon A Time

In the largest city of a northern kingdom that swelters in August and shivers in November, there is a cinder block and stucco maze six stories high. I spend my weekday mornings dwarfed by its space, so vast that I've only set foot on levels one and five over the course of two months. The eccentric floor plan is the result of a series of additions, each completed with no thought toward future expansion. Hallways don't stretch straight through the building; instead, they zigzag haphazardly, turning at abrupt right angles when classrooms get in their way. Doors to the outside seem an afterthought, inserted into the walls at random intervals without anything resembling lobby space. This jumbled structure is fitting, as the building houses a similarly eclectic set of programs: GED and ESL classes, at least two preschools, a secondary school, a baby school. There's a testing center here somewhere, and a job center as well, and I don't even know what takes up the space on the third or sixth floors. Every now and then, though, a window into the rest of the building's life opens in my very own first-floor hall, and I get a glimpse of happily ever after.

Just inside one set of double doors connecting our hallway with the outside world, there is a medium-sized bulletin board, where a pale pine frame surrounds sheets of yellow construction paper. It's not a particularly elaborate display location, tucked as it is between two doorframes, but such space within these walls is valued and new postings go up with regularity. The board currently showcases several essays written by recent immigrants studying at the Employment Opportunity Center. The texts vary in format; some essays talk solely about work in the United States, while others delve into the stories that surround immigration. Every time I pass, I try to catch a glimpse of the printed pages, comparing and contrasting these recorded lives with each other and with my own. But of late, my gaze has consistently moved toward the same two paragraphs of double-spaced text. Second from the right in the upper row, a woman begins her tale with, "Once upon a time".

When we are small, we learn that "Once upon a time" is a gateway to perfection. As those opening words are uttered, we know what to expect: handsome princes, fairy godmothers, glass slippers and magic beans. True, we can be sure that evil enchantments and foolhardy decisions and heavy burdens will be present, but the structure of fairy tales as we know them dictates that at the close of the story, the characters we're meant to care about will head off safely into happiness for all time. In today's renditions, we don't always hear that Snow White's evil stepmother dances herself to death in white-hot slippers; we seldom discover the fate of Cinderella's step-family. Instead, we emphasize the escape from captivity, the adventure-rich journey, the ride toward the glowing horizon. We know that when a story begins with "Once upon a time," it must end with "happily ever after."

Of course, in everyday life, happily ever after can't be attained simply by starting the day with, "Once upon a time, I went to work." No safeguarding phrase ensures our eventual happiness; no godmother's wand accounts for any magic we may encounter. Most of our real-world narratives don't fit in among tales of knights and dragons and elves, because more often than not hope and effort simply refuse to result in perfection. But I forget this reality for an instant as I stand in the hallway looking at two paragraphs of someone else's fairy tale, her dream of a happy ending printed in sharp black letters on white paper bordered in yellow on display in the hallway of an unlikely castle built of cinder block and stucco.

(Passive-)Aggressive Driving

I have to admit, I was nervous about moving to the Twin Cities. The city part of the equation wasn't really the problem; five years of living in (well, near) Boston made me fairly well acquainted with the ups and downs of urban life. It was that pesky "Twin" that was troubling me - or, more specifically, the distance that the word implied. Last year, I could walk from the grocery store to my house and be in two different cities; here, it takes at least twenty minutes to drive from one twin to the other - without traffic. And the traffic part of it all was really the issue. I had never driven on anything wider than four lanes across in total, and was not looking forward to the challenges that big city driving might present.

But there's good news: drivers here are no more annoying than they are in SE, so I can handle them without changing my tried-and-true methods for dealing with such people. These methods can best be described as passive-aggressive.

Take, for instance, an incident that happened as I was on the road between New Ulm and Sleepy Eye. I found myself behind a slow-moving - fifty in a fifty-five that everyone treats as at least a sixty - navy sedan within sight of home. "It's okay," I reasoned, "I'm close enough to town that not having enough room to pass this gentleman won't be too painful." It was masterful reasoning, truly. Unfortunately, my sedan-driving friend didn't heed my logic one whit. As we approached SE, his car actually decelerated for no disecernable reason - forty-five, then forty. By the time we rounded the last curve, he was literally going thirty miles an hour. I was not amused.

But an even less amusing event happened moments later, as we entered the official thirty mile an hour zone that takes effect within the city limits. Did my new acquaintance go thirty miles an hour? No, my friends, he did not. Instead, he sped. Yes, when he really should have been going slowly, he turned all lead-foot on me. My bitterness knew no bounds.

I remedied this situation as best I could, using all the resources available to me to convey my utter displeasure. That is to say, I talked at him. From inside my car. Where he could not hear me.

Talking-at is really my preferred method of dealing with the ever-so-intelligent folk with whom I share the road. Sometimes talking-at is merely conversational, offered with a touch of sarcasm for good measure: "Oh, you think so, do you? You really think turning right then was necessary?" On other occasions, the phrases and inflection so prevalent during my workday creep into my talking-at vocabulary: "My friend, that was not the best decision to make. You need to be more careful." Every so often, my language of choice becomes perhaps stronger than you would normally expect: "I hate you, I hate you, you moron, I hate you," uttered in measured tones as I try to merge.

When talking-at doesn't work, more drastic steps must be taken. I employ two of these: the brake-tap (which was executed to such disastrous results when last I mentioned driving) and the point. The point is fairly self-explanatory - you see something you don't like, you point. If a station wagon is crawling along, you can point at the speedometer as you drive past. If a speedy driver is weaving from lane to lane inside a tunnel (oh, the problems I have with tunnel drivers here - the solid white lines on the pavement mean do not switch lanes, you know), you can point straight ahead to indicate the sort of path said weaver should be following. And if a pickup truck is just being generally annoying, you are more than welcome to point directly at the driver as you pass to express your general exasperation.

The point is done with the index finger. If you're using a different one, you're not doing the point.

Yesterday, I pointed during my morning commute when the black sports car that was merging behind me decided that it would be wise to zip around and merge in front of me instead because that would clearly make his drive go so much more quickly. Seething, I pointed at the back of his car, simultaneously executing a rather harsh barrage of talking-at: "That was a very bad move. Bad." It was quite irate, really. Measured, but irate.

So there you have it: Passive-Aggressive Driving, A Primer. Tune in next week for more tales of commuter joy and bliss. Until then, I'll be over here, practicing my point.

If, Then

If you are driving home from school at ten on a Monday night and you round a bend just before the point where you merge from highway to highway and you notice that the car behind you is climbing up your tailpipe so you tap on your brakes three times in an effort to convey the universal sign for, "Kindly back up off my bum,"

And if you then see the car follow you from highway to highway and exit at your exit so you peer into your rearview mirror as you come to a stop sign at the bottom of a hill in order to identify the color of the car - cream, in the dark - so that you can monitor it and determine whether you will need to engage in evasive driving maneuvers,

And if you continue down a newly-opened road only to have the cream-colored car move into the left hand lane and somehow disappear at the same time that a yellow-white patrol car pulls up alongside you so you thank your lucky stars that you've been adhering to the speed limit on this particular stretch of residential blacktop even though the police car is speeding and soon outdistances you,

And if you turn onto the winding series of side streets that lead to your house and come face to face - or, perhaps, headlight to headlight - with another patrol car, the only one you've ever seen in your neighborhood, that turns when you turn, and turns when you turn again, and then turns just after you turn so that it drives parallel to you across a narrow wedge of park while you pull up to the curb directly on the property line between your house and the house next door, and then drives slowly along so you sit in the car until it has pulled away,

Then do you immediately conclude that some hooligans in a stolen patrol car have followed you home because you angered them with your too-slow curve-rounding?

Because I do.

Exceedingly Conventional

I'm off for the weekend again, out of town at the First Annual LowtherBrothers Family Business Meeting. Make no mistake - it's not a family reunion, even though we're all going to be in attendance, even those from Alaska and California and Iowa and North Dakota. No, this is a real meeting, with an agenda and a catered lunch and facilitators from Leadership Transitions. There are even corporate gift baskets containing such goodies as embroidered polos and coffee mugs with oversized handles and printed logos.

I would say we're unconventional, but I won't - I don't want to be forced to eat my words when the inevitable First Annual LowtherBrothers Family Business Convention rolls around. I'm taking advance registration right now, if you're interested; I'm sure there will be a lovely assortment of parting gifts.

"Everybody have fun tonight..."

An excerpt from Pat's latest e-mail, in response to Ali's missive contrasting Greyhound's service with that of the most popular Chinatown to Chinatown BOS-NYC bus:

"Everybody Fung-Wah tonight!"

Oh, Patrick, you never cease to amuse.

Fantastical Contentment

So I just spent forty minutes poring through my trusty Norton Anthologies of English Literature to find tenuous connections between metaphysical poets and sixteenth-century painters from Holland in response to Ali's request for a bit of quick brainstorming help on her latest reflection paper. It was immensely fun.

Can anyone recommend any English grad programs?

[/fantastical contentment]

The Regular Crowd

You know you've settled into a comfortable position as employed commuter when you begin to recognize the cars heading downtown with you each day. They're not all familiar, of course, but a certain few stick out, making you feel part of a regular crowd.

Of course, when the car you repeatedly spot during the morning rush is a maroon station wagon covered in peeling political bumper stickers and festooned with red, white, and blue bunting and two miniature American flags, you begin to wonder exactly what sort of regular crowd you've joined.

I'm thinking about leaving for work five minutes earlier tomorrow.

Vanilla and Decay

The day is sunny, with temperatures in the mid-seventies, but the briskness of the air makes it clear that summer is long gone, its thick green perfume replaced by rich brown scents – burning wood, dry grass, decaying leaves. In October, even the prairie develops the aroma of a forest, damp wood slowly melding with soil. The atmosphere is far from humid but still full, laden with fragrance instead of moisture. It’s like the air in a lumber yard, where miniscule particles of sawdust fill your lungs while the scent and accompanying texture make you crave deeper breaths. I have not spent an autumn in this town since I was seventeen, and I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to remember what it’s like.

I leave the house unlocked and stride out into the cool afternoon to wander without aim. A few blocks westward, I notice that I’m walking in the road, but it doesn’t matter because not a single car has passed. Even so, the streets are far from silent. I listen to lawn mowers buzzing across the grass for one last time before the snow flies, slicing through still-green spikes to release not the lush, wet smell of summer’s cut blades but the chalk-thick, woody aroma of autumn. I listen to children shouting and dogs barking, playing wildly in the afternoon sun. I listen to leaves crunch underfoot and rustle on trees in the wind, jagged orange and yellow shapes curling into brown at the edges as they slowly become dry and brittle and noisy. By the time I make it home, the sun is beginning to set, and the indoor air glows warmly on my chilled skin and smells inexplicably of vanilla.

Much later, in stockinged feet and the silence of settled darkness, I will step onto the front porch, shutting out the sweet aroma of vanilla to inhale pure lungfuls of cold air and decay.

A Hypothesis Disproven

One would think that being as I am a post-college adult, full-time employee, homeowner, graduate student, bill payer, trustworthy soul, and so on, I would also be responsible.

One would think that given this hypothesized responsibility, I would not do stupid things like, oh, lose both my credit card and my watch respectively SOMEWHERE IN MY CAR and SOMEWHERE IN MY HOUSE within the same seven-day period.

But if one were to think that, one would be oh so wrong.

Blast.

Weekend 101

"Oi, Emily," you call from the back of this virtual hall, half hidden behind a pillar. (Yes, I can see you.) "You have now been babbling on about moving house and minding children for over a month. A bit of variety would be just ducky - and I'm not talking about some little 'I'm a Halloween Goth' blurb. Think of something new, if you please. For instance, I've been kept awake nights wondering how in the world a garden-variety childcareprovider/freelancewriter/graduatestudent entertains herself in the wilds of (admittedly metropolitan) Minnesota for an entire weekend?"

So glad you asked; here is an exemplary Friday-to-Sunday itinerary, in more detail that you'd ever need.

Friday, 3.30p - finish an unusual eight-hour shift with K-6 (the babies had the day off from school, it being teacher inservice season and all... but inservices for ITP translate into full-day care for K-6. Go figure.) wherein we spent several hours running around at the Carpenter Nature Center. The day's highlight: dropping flat to the ground with fourteen first graders and a nature guide; we were playing dead for a circling turkey vulture.

Friday, 3.55p - curse the fact that my unusual shift means that I've hit rush hour traffic. I knew that the normal six o'clock departure time was good for something.

Friday, 4.45p - climb into the shower at home on the advice of a friend. After spending a day in the classroom, she would religiously shower immediately after coming home from work in an effort to defeat the germs that run rampant through schools. It's a good idea, but in my case, I think it's too little, too late; between work and home, my nose has stuffed up and my head has begun an intense campaign to secede from my body.

Friday, 6.00p - Dan arrives!! It's a Marti party!!! (Oh, man, that was lame, I know.) Ali and I heave our zombified selves off of the couch/chaise lounge in order to welcome our very first non-family overnight guest to Chez Lowther. Dan is in town for the evening's festive gathering in honor of Wednesday's momentous occurrence: Chris's twenty-first birthday. Mal has promised that cake will be present at the party. I am so there.

Friday, 6.45p - partake of delicious corn chowder, prepared by the lovely and talented Ali (she's very handy to have around the house, you know). All my attempts - and they do exist, I swear! - to assist with meal preparation are thwarted; neither Ali nor Dan wants anything to do with my contagiousness.

Friday, 8.00p - depart from our little chalet for Chez Mal/Chris/Kai/other Emily. We take two cars even though there are only three of us because when I asked Ali how long she wanted to stay and she replied, "Maybe one?", I practically fell over from shock. Stay out until one? I can barely muster the energy to leave the house at all! (Annoying, I know. I sometimes become very dramatic when I feel ill.)

Friday, 8.22p - party time! Their four-bedroom is located by Mac, which C, K, and E all attend. It's a large two-level apartment in a two-family house. The first floor is all dark wood and tall ceilings; living room, dining room, kitchen, and one bedroom can be found here. The remaining bedrooms are in the basement, which boasts slightly less character but slightly more carpeting. When we arrive, only a few others are in attendance, mostly because the party doesn't actually start until nine. Upon entrance, I proclaim, "I'm sick!" Ali seconds this, urging everyone to stay far away from me. I park myself on the edge of the futon closest to the door.

Friday, 9.00p - CAAAAAKE! Cake makes me happy, and there is plenty of it.

Friday, 10.30p - offering my regrets, I stumble out the door. The party isn't yet in full swing, but the building pressure on my eye sockets is not exactly conducive to an enjoyable experience. Driving home, I discover that whimpering ever so softly aloud seems to alleviate some of the sinus fun. I do so repeatedly.

Friday, 11.00p - at home, whine more and then fall into bed, propped up at a forty-five degree angle by two pillows in an effort to avoid stuffiness. Party animal, I know.

Saturday, 9.58a - Ali comes into my room, jarring me from my peaceful slumber. "Are you getting up?"

"At ten." I close my eyes again.

"So, in two minutes?" She looks at me. I am ridiculous.

I get up.

Saturday, 11.00a - set out with Ali and Dan for the weight room at St. Kate's. This is another point in Ali's favor - with her college ID, she and two guests receive free access to the school's fitness facilities, which means that 1) I can afford to work out and 2) I am actually forced to go thrice weekly. Halfway through my rotation, I sit down at the chest press and am unable to find the pin that is used to select the weight amounts. "Dan, when you used this earlier, was there a pin?"

"Yeah, it was there." He gets up from two machines over, moves toward the weight stack.

"Oh, wait. There it is." It's hiding at the very bottom of the stack, pinning two hundred fifty pounds in place. Ali and I look at Dan and shake our heads.

Saturday, 1.30p - see Dan off after lunching on sandwiches. I am still not allowed to touch the dishware.

Saturday, 4.15p - venture outside for the two-minute hike to the tennis courts. Our neighborhood is composed of an odd mixture of residential, recreational, and commercial spaces, and these particular courts are located between a vacant hilly area where, according to a posted sign, golf is prohibited, and a block of buildings. The courts themselves are slowly falling into disrepair - spiky clumps of dry grass grow in the wide cracks that slice through the green asphalt - but they're fine for casual play. If you're keeping track, here's the third good reason to have Ali around - she's a built-in tennis partner, so neither of us has to volley against a backboard. (Admittedly, the backboards here do seem spiffy; side walls decrease the chance of the ball going every which way and make the whole apparatus look kind of like a racquetball court [or so I imagine, having never been on a racquetball court]... but Ali's still better.)

Saturday, 6.30p - prepare and devour some spinach lasagna. I tell you, we eat well around here, and it's none of my doing.

Saturday, 8.20p - leave the house for a showing of Broken Flowers at the Riverview Theater. I discovered the Riverview quite by accident; heading to my first day of work at K-6, I drove past its marquee, which boasts a most eye-catching phrase: "Matinee $2". The theatre is frozen in the 1950s: doorknob-shaped lightbulbs flash along the marquee at night; 'modern' furniture, all streamlined angles and garish hues, is scattered throughout the lobby; and tiny grey and blue line-drawn cats frolic across the papered walls of the women's restroom. When we arrive, I have to parallel park the van. I am Not Pleased. Ali is Unsympathetic. Nevertheless, the film is Enjoyable.

Sunday, 11.00a- attend Sunday services in a sanctuary that looks disturbingly like Memorial Church. The choir screen is missing, and the window frames are filled with stained glass rather than a grid of white slats and clear panes, but the immense white pillars and the boxy wooden pews and the air of old-world grandeur all work to pull me back to New England. I didn't realize interiors like this existed 1) in Lutheran churches, and 2) west of Pennsylvania.

Sunday, 1.30p - at home, concoct a delicious luncheon: crepes filled with a chicken-mushroom sauce. I am deemed Not Contagious and proclaimed Official Crepe-Cooker of the Household. The recipe I use: add water and two eggs to crepe mix, stir, and cook. They turn out exceedingly well, despite the fact that our spatula is incredibly poor and must soon be replaced.

Sunday, 3.55p - attempt to find the location of the nearest Starbucks online. This is Caribou country, you understand; to find Seattle's chain, you actually have to search and, in our case, drive. The nearest one is twelve minutes away, in downtown Saint Paul, but Ali has been desirous of a pumpkin spice latte ever since it returned to the fall menu, so off we head.

Sunday, 4.15p - arrive at Starbucks. It closed at four. We walk the three blocks to Marshall Field's, find the store's coffee bar (the other downtown Starbucks), and cozy up until five, when it closes. Ali did get her pumpkin spice latte, so the trip was well worth it.

Sunday, 8.00p - watch Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy while eating soup, spilling soup on myself (but not on the light carpet, thankfully), and pretending to read. Oh, the productive and studious habits I have learned.

Sunday, 10.35p - climb into bed - 6.30a comes early, you know, especially on a Monday morning.

Sunday, 10.50p - adjust blinds; a minute sliver of light has somehow managed to worm its way into my otherwise pitch-black bedroom.

Sunday, 10.57p - adjust clanging ceiling fan light fixture, wondering when exactly I became a darkness-and-silence-requiring vampire. I decide to table the question for the moment in favor of sleep.

So there you have it, a typical weekend, Emily-style. Of course, this weekend I'm in SE doing none of the above, so all bets are off. Now, I see we have time for just one more question today... let's see... how about you there, you in the back with... is that a Nalgene full of Diet Coke?

Climate Control, or Lack Thereof

On Monday, it was eighty-five and the sky was heavy with the grey haze of humidity.

On Tuesday, it was sixty-five and the streets flooded - literally - as raindrops pelted already-saturated soil.

Today, it is forty-three and the snow flurries that were spotted during rush hour just might reappear.

This, my friends, is how it works in Minnesota.

Fifty Words or Fewer

"Please describe, in fifty words or fewer, your most recent workplace success. Note that you may use fifty words per workplace, should you have more than one."

Workplace One: I actually communicated in Spanish with the mother of one of our infants. There was slight confusion when, after saying she could head up to class, I told her to take her son to the doctor "ahora/now" instead of "hoy/today". But all in all, Spanish A served me well hoy. [50, if you count translated words singly.]

Workplace Two: I inhabit a coffee shop for about an hour between ITP and K-6, and I spend my time there alternately writing for money, writing for fun, and reading for school, depending on inspiration and motivation. That hour was more relaxing before I added the "for money" option, but the chai doesn't pay for itself. Today, I procured a frequent buyer's card; seven more teas and one is free! [68, but only because I had to describe the workplace.]

Workplace Three: I learned how to operate the panic button! We have a panic button! (Well, actually it's a key, but still...) [20. Success! Good to know I can actually follow my own ridiculously constraining instructions one third of the time.]

"When I was your age..."

I just spent the last two hours of my workday pushing a pair of hefty babies in a double stroller around a residential neighborhood and along a winding, hilly lakeside bike path in eighty-five degree humidity. Coworker S and I spent the second of these hours basically retracing our steps, as our attempt to return to school by another route for variety's sake failed miserably.

The upside? Today I don't have to feel guilty about my perpetual lack of cardio-stimulating activity.

The downside? Because of our twisting course, the trek really was uphill both ways.