Happy 4th!

Once, when I was probably five or six, we were flying from Bangladesh back to the US for the summer. We'd stopped in London on the way.

I don't imagine many, if any, of you have ever flown from Dhaka, Bangladesh to Minot, North Dakota. It was a long ass trip. With many connections.

We were supposed to be in Minot with my favorite grandmother for Independence Day. Which, being kids who kept being told we were American but never having lived in America, felt like a Big Deal. This was our holiday. The one that proved that we were American. In retrospect, I cannot even recall what that meant to us.

In any case, we somehow missed the flight. Our previous flight got way delayed, or we missed a connection or two - something happened to cause us to miss our plane on July 3rd. And so we wound up flying on the 4th rather than being in the US celebrating.

We were flying British Airways. I wanted to be picnicking with my gramma Lillian. I wanted to watch fireworks. And instead, I was stuck in a dumb old plane. And not even an American one at that.

I had a little meltdown. Sobbing. "I bet these British people don't even know it's the 4th of July!"

Right.

Anyway, I wish you all a happy, healthy 4th. And a special one to Justin and the rest of our troops. Stay safe.

And for any of you who play with fireworks, just remember - it's all fun and games till somebody loses an eye.

I think they're going to be pretty

Before my mini existential crisis hit last night - and thank all of you for your thoughtful hugs and comments and emails - here's what I was up to.

My friend Tejal is getting married. She asked me if I would make scarves for her to give as a present for each of her bridesmaids. She said I could do whatever I wanted.

First I pinned each scarf to a foam board. It's foam core, covered in felt, then covered in plastic. Then with a backing cloth pinned to it to absorb extra dye. In case you're wondering about the ugly stripey sheets behind the scarves.

As Tej is Indian, I looked through Betty's extensive design book collection and chose this beautiful, simple but intricate Indian design. I burned the screen while I was still taking that screen printing class. The cool thing about screen printing is you can use the same image over and over.

So. I screen printed this design each of the scarves. Here's the little screen (up against the orange wall of my kitchen.)

This particular dye needs to be heat set in order to be color-fast. So I steamed them to set the dye. This involves rolling them up in newspaper and setting them in a steaming kettle (I use a double boiler with a plate on top of the steamer part) for half an hour. And then washed them out by hand.

One interesting thing I've learned about silk, even very nice silk, is that you can wash it in really hot water. They get the gum from the silk worms out of the silk fiber by washing it at some astoundingly hot temperature.

But anyway. It's a very time-intensive process. Which is why I need some cheap child labor.

Next I am going to over-dye each of them in a different way. I'll take pictures and post results when I'm done.

The undertow

I'm having a nobody loves me and I'm going to die alone kind of evening.

Here's the thing. I know it's not rational. I have a family that loves me. I'm going to see the Director tomorrow - he's coming down and staying till Thursday. And he likes me, I know he does. I have friends that love me. I could call up any number of people right now.

But what would I say? "I feel all alone - tell me you love me? Reassure me?" I have no idea what I'd say.

I realize that this nobody loves me nobody is ever going to love me I'm going to die alone makes no sense if you pick it apart. People love me. And in the end, everyone dies alone.

I go along, splashing in the waves of my life. Sometimes dog-paddling and flailing, sometimes swimming at a good clip. Sometimes body surfing, sometimes just floating, enjoying the rocking motion and the sun and sky above me. Sometimes treading water for what feels like forever. Sometimes doing somersaults. But most of the time, though the sand is constantly shifting below my feet, I can touch reasonably solid ground.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the undertow just sucks me straight out. It's cold, it's dark, there's no ground beneath me for miles, and I'm alone.

Happy Birthday, Maudie!

Today is my dear friend Maude's birthday. Happy happy birthday, Maudie!

She lives in a charming town in England, so way too far away for me to give her a big hug. But I'll be able to give her a belated birthday hug when I visit in August. Which I cannot wait to do.

We were born six weeks apart, in separate cities in India, to mothers who are very close friends. And so I have always said that we were born together. And Maude has always followed up on the raised eyebrows with, "Separate mothers."

Now, you can't exactly tell how pretty Maude she is here, because all the recent pictures I have of her she looks flat out exhausted. And the reason Maude looks so tired is that she had that cute little baby she is holding about six weeks ago.

There are, in their photos, a lot of pictures of them napping. I figure she and her husband will both be tired for at least the next year, if not the next 18.

But she also looks happy! I know they are both so incredibly happy.

I've looked through a ton of baby photos, all with really fun captions. Their son looks like Maude's husband in most of them.

Except these two. I chose these because they are pure Maude to me. That serious thinking but about to giggle look on his face, that glint in his eye.

And the ridiculousness of his grandmother's sunglasses is also very Maude. This is an aside, but a window into her personality. Maude owns both an extensive wig collection and a variety of sequined tube tops. That she occasionally wears together. Oh, with the rhinestone Jesus pin.

So I wish you a very happy birthday, Maudie! I can't wait to see you and to love on your new baby! And then to whisk you off to the neighborhood pub for congratulatory pints!

Big hug and lots of love,

Lisa

Because I am helpful like that

Saturday was the Director's last day in DC. He'll be back for 4th of July. But it was his last day actually living here.

He asked if I'd take him to get the moving truck in the morning, and I offered to help him move his stuff after that as well. He had guys coming in the afternoon for the furniture and heavy things, but we could do all the smaller stuff.

So after picking up the truck we get to his house and I discover that there is a ton of stuff left to do. A ton. Like, there is shit everywhere. I accuse him of not having packed anything beforehand. He points out his living room full of packed boxes. That I can't argue with.

But still. It's a disastrous scene. And I am just plain annoyed. So, after grumbling a little - OK, a lot - I decide to be constructive. He needs to get out of here. What can I do?

He asks if I'll pack his closet. I begin by putting suits and nice shirts in hanging bags, other clothes in bags, winter clothing in those big plastic containers for clothes. I haven't known him for very long, and it's been warm for much of the time. So I've only seen a fraction of his wardrobe.

Left alone in his closet, I have the opportunity to inspect much of it.

I come across a big, ugly, red fleecy sweatshirty thing. Actually, I should just stop and mention that he is a big guy. He's 6'1" with a solid frame and seems like he's twice as big as I am. So of course all his clothes are huge. And you could fit a third grader in one of his shoes.

So here I am, pulling out shirts out to pack, and it's practically like folding sheets. I am thinking how much room every single piece of his clothing takes up. And he's moving to a tiny NY place. So it behooves him to get rid of as much as possible now.

In other words, I'm doing him a favor by suggesting items to get rid of.

I take the sweatshirt out to where he is packing in the kitchen and say, "So should I just throw out this horrible red thing?"

"Big red? I love Big Red! That's my favorite sweatshirt to sit around and watch TV in when it's cold out. That goes with me."

Gross. Fine.

A few minutes later. "What about this Mets shirt? Did somebody give this to you? You don't actually wear this, do you?"

"I do when I go to games."

Grimace.

And then I get to the shoes. There are sturdy work boots, cool winter boots, nice loafers, sneakers, and. . .a pair of wool felt Birkenstock clog kind of things.

Clogs? He wears clogs? They're grey and hairy and the kind of shoes that make me slightly nauseous.

So though I am loathe to touch them, because they remind me of enormous gobs of dryer lint, these get paraded to the kitchen as well. "I'll just chuck these disgusting old things out, 'kay?"

"No! Not okay! I love those shoes! They're awesome at home in the winter!"

"Oh, god. You skulk around in these clogs and that grubby red fleece all winter, don't you?"

"Lis. They're really comfortable. And warm. I don't wear them out of the house."

"I would hope not. You're lucky I met you in the summer."

"You hate me right now, don't you?"

"No. Only a little."

I decide to improve my mood and his unpacking process by labeling his boxes. According to my labeling, various boxes contain: kitchen implements and elf porn; bath towels, hamster and wheel; bowls, glasses, and Barbie collection; cooking spices and nipple clamps.

He has lined up some old NY friends to help him unload the truck and move in. They might wonder if they ever really knew him in the first place.