Girl Detective

I live in the Twin Cities, home of many things, including the largest enclosed mall in the United States. Notice all the qualifiers and you’ll see that there are larger un-enclosed malls (King of Prussia, PA) and larger enclosed ones not only in the world, but on the same continent (Canada).

Nonetheless, the Mall of America, known to locals as the mega mall, gets a bad rap for its hugeness. All anyone ever has to say is “It’s got a roller coaster in the middle!” and listeners will nod, assured that it is huge beyond all other malls. I worked at the mall for about a year, though, and during that time I learned its secret. It’s not that different from other malls.

Yeah, there’s the roller coaster. But it’s really small. MOA has the usual four department stores, and all the shops you’ve come to expect. There are also some surprises, like the cheese shop that hands out free squeaky cheese curds. Yum. Like most malls, it does not include clear lines of sight from one end to the other, and there are no public clocks to tell unwary shoppers that it’s time to go home. Malls and department stores are constructed like this on purpose; they lure you in and then make it difficult to leave. If you know the traps, though, they’re easy to avoid. The Mall of America is manageable, but many natives avoid it because of size, crowds, and a sense of general distaste. I can’t help with the latter, but I can offer a few tips on how to get the most out of a trip to the mall.

One, set a time limit before you go, and don’t exceed it. One of the worst feelings is being in Nordstrom Rack, trying on shoes, and shoes, and shoes, then finally finding a pair that fits only to get in the “get the other shoe” line, which takes FOREVER. It’s agony. A corollary to setting a time limit is that if you’re going to Nordstrom Rack, just do that–you’re probably not going to have much left in you for anything else.

Two, have a mission. Don’t go to the MOA if you’re just going to hit the Gap, Ann Taylor or other mall standards. Head to the mall only when necessary, for things that can only be done there. Today, I went to Nordstrom (that’s Nordstrom without an ’s’, thank you.) with my husband G. Grod to get our son Drake fitted for shoes for the first time. He’s only ever had Robeez, which did very well for him but are not able to stand up to our Minnesota winter. Drake got a pair of Chuck Taylors for his birthday four months ago, which he finally deigned to wear last month. And his feet promptly grew too wide for them. A shoe-fitting was in order, and Nordstrom was the place, so the mall was our destination.

Three, park as close to your mission as possible. For Nordstrom, you take the Lindau Lane exit, and go up the West parking ramp. For Bloomingdale’s, take Killebrew and park in the East lot.

Four, go when the mall opens. Mid-day is hell.

Sadly, I must confess that I went to the Mall of America twice today. Once to get Drake’s shoes, after which I did a whirlwind scour of the clearance rack in the toddler department. I was too hurried, though, and picked out pants that didn’t fit him. Baby sizes and their ridiculous ranges are maddening. He has outgrown several outfits that were size 18M, so I picked out pants that were 24M, only to find when I tried them on that they were four to six inches too long. When you’re not even three feet tall, that’s a pretty long pant. What’s most maddening is that I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THIS WOULD HAPPEN. Drake had gotten several pairs of pants for Christmas that were all too long, and then I went to the mall and bought him several more, without checking to make sure that they weren’t too long. And, of course, they were. Argh. So tonight I went back to the mall and returned the over-long pants. Armed with a pair of pants that I KNOW fit him, I found a few other pair that were just a skoche bigger at Hanna Andersson. I’m going to try them on him tomorrow to be certain. Drake is an active, screamy toddler and I don’t bother trying clothes on him in the store. The shoes were challenge enough. A further difficulty of baby sizes is that, like the baby, they’re a moving target. Yes, I’m pretty sure Drake just had a growth spurt, since his belly is now hanging out of most of his tops, but no, I’m not sure how long he’ll stay this size, so I want to buy clothes and shoes that have room to grow, but that are not so big that they fall off, or impede his movement.

I take some comfort that the original mission of shoes was achieved quickly and successfully. That the pants took two trips was discouraging, but may yet be worth it if they fit.

Bah, pants. They’re more trouble than they’re worth, except for that pesky social convention that insists that we wear them.

We don’t think we’re imagining that Drake is finally saying a few words. What is unclear, though, is whether he’s saying them meaningfully, or if he has just become a mimic, and not such a skilled one at that.

The first word, as I mentioned before, was touchdown. What followed was hot dog, then yucky. These were actual words. But what about ha-ha and ta-da? And moo, baa, and abwoooo, the latter like a high-pitched little wolf? Are they words?

And touchdown, hot dog, and yucky, but never mom?

Ah, but he has learned how to kiss. It’s an open mouthed face-plant, more endearing in concept than in execution. I hope that he’ll get better before he starts kissing other girls than me.

As my grandmother does not hesitate to remind me, I am overeducated. I minored in religion in college, then later went back to school to get my master’s degree in religious studies. I learned many things, among them that I did not want to convert to Judaism after all. I am abashed to admit that after all the classes and studying and pondering and soul searching, the biggest take-away I had was this: organized religion bugs me.

To all of you who realized this without grad school, I say, “Well done.”

As this realization crystallized, I stopped attending religious services, except when there was a good reason to do so, like visiting family for the holidays. While there are many people who like to attend church only on Christmas and Easter, I find the holiday services even harder to sit through than that of an average Sunday. The sermons have a more sunny, populist bent as the celebrant plays to the crowd. While the liturgy and the hymns are familiar and soothe my need for repetitious ritual, the telling of the Christmas story grated more on me each time I heard it. Here is a good sample of words from the Christmas story: He, he, he, father, son, virgin, he, he, he. Nowhere in the Christmas story was there a place for me; hearing it alienated me even further. I remained annoyed until this year, when I recalled a few other words from the Christmas story: mother and child.

I am now able to very physically relate to the story. Mary, great with child, had to ride a donkey to Bethlehem for the census, then gave birth in a stable. I wouldn’t wish those things on anyone, much less a woman near her due date. The thought of giving birth in a stable, with only her husband for company, who certainly had not attended any birthing classes, is a sobering one. Was her labor long? How did she handle the pain? Was she afraid that she might die? Was Joseph helpful, or did he go outside and smoke till it was over?

This year, I chose to attend a church service because I wanted to. I did not, though, attend a conventional one. Instead, I chose one with a labyrinth walk, during which the celebrant read passages from The Message, a paraphrased version of the Bible, and a small group of musician’s played a selection of Christmas music. It had been over a year since I last walked a labyrinth, and I had missed it a lot. I found the paraphrase of the Christmas story mostly unoffensive, but aggravating in a few parts. I am aware that listening to a familiar story in unfamiliar words can allow listeners to really engage with it once again, but this technique in this instance did not work for me. My fingers twitched as I longed to shout out, “No, it’s ‘Be not afraid!’ you idiot!” Instead, I held my tongue. I did laugh aloud, though, during “Away in a Manger,” at this line: “The cattle are lowing, the poor baby wakes; But little lord Jesus, no crying he makes.” That, I thought, is how you know the story is mythologized.

It is mythologized. Jesus wasn’t born in December near the winter solstice. His birth, which can be established through historical records based on both when that census actually took place and the position of the star, probably happened in April, closer to Easter. But setting up religions and myths is hard work. Jesus’ birthday was grafted onto that of Mithras, another sun god. Likewise, his death probably did not take place in the spring–its memorial was merged into the spring equinox of birth, fertility and renewal; those bunnies and eggs are not just cute icons from Hallmark.

The Christmas story, then, is not completely “true”. But lots of stories aren’t technically true, yet they still have value. A novel isn’t true. Neither is the book of Esther, and everyone knew it and included it in the bible anyway–the “proper” bible, too, not even the apocrypha! I found something new in the Christmas story this year. I still got aggravated at points during the service I attended. But I also found things of worth–the meditation of the walk, the rhythms of the music, even the story, though I didn’t like the words with which it was told. I continue to wrestle with what I believe, but the struggle and its details have shifted over time.

This holiday season is a little different for us this year. My husband was laid off last month, and I resigned last May to stay home with our baby, now toddler, Drake. We are now a family of three with a new house, and no jobs. I gave some serious thought to setting aside a small budget for gifts. In the end, it became clear that even if we did small things, they would add up, so we opted out of buying presents entirely this year. Both our families were very understanding about this.

Since I haven’t been running about buying gifts, though, I have had a little time to ponder what I might have given. I came up with a fairly comprehensive list of virtual gifts for my family. And while I was wishing, I did jot down a few things for myself, as well: bras, and more importantly–time to shop for them; turtlenecks for this very cold winter; a new bulb for my sun lamp; and a babysitter. Exciting stuff, no?

Here’s the list of virtual gifts I thought about giving others, though it’s so late in the season that it will help nobody with their holiday shopping. The list is strangely missing books, music and movies. Apparently my giving spirit is disdaining the media this year. Instead, go visit your local library and appreciate a librarian and all the free books, music, movies and more that s/he can help you to find.

Sorry that this list is so late, folks, but it’s the holiday season–even without gift buying I’m working on a time delay. But since they’re all imaginary anyway, what if we imagine that they are on time, and real. Go ahead, take your pick. From me to you. Enjoy. Happy holidays.

Graeter’s ice cream–any flavor that has chocolate chips
A writer’s retreat–a weekend at a cabin in the woods, with meals taken care of
A new cream by Clinique to soothe redness-prone skin
A week’s stay at a mind/body wellness spa like The Golden Door
Framed Conde-Nast art
Zyliss garlic press
Microplane fine grater for lemon zest and parmesan cheese
Kitchenaid box grater
Subscription to Cook’s Illustrated
Subscription to Lucky magazine

1. When I put Drake down in the play area so I can go to the bathroom, he screams the entire time.

2. He screams when he’s done being outside, but then keeps screaming when I bring him inside.

3. He fights me when I care for him in basic ways: dressing him, putting a coat on him before going outside into the cold, getting him out of the house so he can visit his girlfriends at the coffee shop, changing his diaper, putting cream on diaper rash, etc.

The lack of sleep and constant self doubt are killers too, but the above three really seem like new circles of hell.

Of late, Drake will come up to me and throw his arms up, asking to be picked up. Aw, I think, he wants to give me a hug.

No, in fact, he wants me to take him to the nearest light switch so he can play with it endlessly, till I get bored and whisk him away, causing screams of outrage.

One of his favorite books is Can you sing by Lisa Lawston, illustrated by Ed Vere. His favorite page has changed over the months. Currently it’s the wolf, which he imitates with an astonishly cute, high-pitched Ah-bwooooo!

This morning, out of the blue, I asked, “Drake, where is your nose?”

He promptly stuck his finger up his nose. I was pleased. My husband G. Grod was both pleased and appalled.

Turns out he also knows where his ears and tummy are, and can pat his head. Who knew? I should’ve asked sooner.

Also, at lunch I asked what he was eating. He said “Ah-aw,” which I thought sounded pretty close to the correct answer, hot dog. That is, until I asked him later who the furry red monster was on his cell-phone. Turns out “ah-aw” sounds an awful lot like Elmo, too.

I flipped through a Lane Bryant catalog the other day and was appalled at what I saw. Lane Bryant is a plus-size retailer for women. The models in the catalog were not plus-size. Technically, they might have been plus-size for models, but they were hardly plus-size women–I’d say about size eight, a good deal smaller than average, which is about size fourteen. I found the same situation on their home page; those models are NOT 14W and up.

Then I found something quite curious. The Lane Bryant catalog is–bafflingly–not affiliated with the Lane Bryant stores. Both websites note this prominently.

According to the website for the catalog,

In business since 1901, Lane Bryant brand has become the acknowledged industry leader in women’s special size apparel. (Lane Bryant Catalog is not affiliated with Lane Bryant retail stores.) We offer a complete wardrobe, including shoes and intimate apparel in a wide range of styles, colors and sizes — all at value prices.

According to the website for the stores,

Lane Bryant is the most recognized name in plus-size clothing, and our emphasis on fashion�not merely size�makes us a style leader. Lane Bryant stores are not affiliated with the Lane Bryant Catalog.

Interestingly, the Lane Bryant Stores site uses both larger models and larger mannequins than does the Lane Bryant Catalog site. The Stores site focuses on fashion and style, with impressive and attractive selections. It features fitted and sexy clothing, encouraging a celebration of size.

In contrast, the Lane Bryant Catalog site has bland clothing at bargain prices. The Catalog site depicts a great number of shapeless items, which look even more baggy because of the less-than-plus-size women who are modelling them.

I do not currently wear a plus size, but I spent many years of my life hovering above and below a size 14. I have long been disgusted with a fashion industry that uses the term “women’s” as a synonym for plus size. All women are demeaned by this usage. I am discouraged that special sizes like petites and plus are often put in different parts of a store than are the “regular” women’s clothing sizes. This unnecessary segregation, which usually only makes sense to a store’s merchandisers, sends a further message of alienation. That Lane Bryant Catalog, “the acknowledged industry leader” in plus-size women’s apparel, uses non-plus-size models and features such unappealing choices adds insult to a past series of injuries. I would not support a retailer like this. Instead, I’d head to the Lane Bryant stores. They seem to be about celebrating one’s size, not hiding it. That’s a good shopping philosophy for all women, of any size.

I do not practice a particular religion, but the idea of resting on the seventh day has consumed me for some time. When I was working, I found Sundays especially tough. I spent Friday night and most of Saturday detoxing from the previous week with movies, books, tv, and comics, alternated with errands like grocery shopping. Then Sundays I had to work like crazy to cram in all the boring, home and chore-type things that remained undone. The result was that I returned to work on Monday about as exhausted, sometimes more so, than I’d been on Friday afternoon. The dynamic changed somewhat, but not entirely, when I had a baby and then again when I resigned to stay home with him full time. Sundays still have been the day for the tasks that can no longer be put off.

Defining boundaries for a day of rest was difficult. Each potential restriction needed a loophole. No television–except football for my husband, and shows that I enjoy. No car rides–unless I need to go to yoga, or it’s ass-biting cold outside. No cooking–except we have to eat. No cleaning–except we have to clean up after cooking, and I had friends coming over who hadn’t seen our house. No computer–except I need to do just this one thing, and while I’m here I might as well check email. Then, rather than trying to define what not to do, it occurred to me to try to emphasize what I wanted to do: take a break and enjoy, spending time with friends and family and not working so much.

Yesterday, I made a not entirely unsuccessful attempt at a day of rest. I had lunch with two friends I hadn’t seen in months, and spent time reading to my son, and even just laid on the couch for a bit while he ran around and before we began dinner preparations. I did use the computer, make food, wash dishes and clean a bit. But I didn’t do laundry. At the end of the day, I had spent more time relaxing and with family and friends, and less time working, than I do on an average day. I figure this was my first attempt; perhaps I’ll get better with practice.

I had lunch today with two friends, who swore that some image-obsessed New York women stay slim by taking black-market pills that contain tape worms. When they reach their desired weight, they take de-worming pills. I was all fired up to post about this craziness, but I took a quick detour to Snopes, the site that debunks urban legends. I wasn’t all that surprised to see the tape worm pill story.

I wonder if urban legends ever work backwards, and inspire copy-cat incidents in real life?

My husband and tech guy G. Grod adjusted the comment controls to filter out likely spam from the comments so we wouldn’t have to approve each comment. Check out the comments on the first post. One got through–skillful spammer.

That slippery comment is as clever as its namesake lunchmeat. For reasons I can’t comprehend, G. Grod not only likes but actively seeks out Spam, the product. I shouldn’t be surprised. We are both from the Philly area, but only one of us has a penchant for scrapple. It’s not me.

Don’t know what scrapple is? Robbie Fulks sings a good definition, which you can listen to here. It is what it sounds like–mysterious meat.

Why is Spam clever? If you have not had the occasion lately, and I can’t blame you if you didn’t, check out a can of Spam the next time you’re in a grocery store or even Target. The copywriting on the Spam can is hilarious. They know it’s a joke, so they celebrate it. I will not even quote it here; the experience of reading it on the rounded, rectangular tin of meat is part of its charm.

The can is so well-written that it almost makes me want to eat Spam to show my support. But not quite.

I was writing last night in the study when I heard Drake give a louder yell than he usually does when he stirs in the night. I went to investigate, and felt his sheep blankie on the floor by his crib with my foot. That’s odd, I thought, he hardly ever throws her out of the crib. Drake’s room is dark, with no night-light, so when I go in to comfort him, I usually just stick my hand in the crib and pat it around till I find him. Last night, though, his body parts seemed strangely arranged, so I moved quickly to hit the lights.

The poor little guy had his feet on the ground, and his torso trapped between the side rail of the crib, which had separated from the end board, and the mattress. No wonder he was yelling so loud; it was quite alarming for both of us. I quickly extricated him and could find no physical harm. He calmed quickly in my arms as I tried to figure out what to do, since my husband was out for the evening. I knew I had to get into Drake’s closet to get his pack n play, but where would I put him while I assembled it? I wanted to do as little else to have him awake and active at 11 p.m. I was excited when I heard my husband come inside, but less so when he didn’t come upstairs. I began speaking into the baby monitor: “I need help; come upstairs,” over and over, on a loop like on Lost, but not in French. Alas, my husband didn’t hear me on the receiver downstairs. I heard him go in and out taking out the garbage and recycling for the morning pickup. Finally, though, he did hear me and come up to assist. He held Drake quiet in our room while I set up the pack n play. Drake was hard to calm when we put him in the pack n play, but when he finally did sleep, he slept through till morning and woke happy. He also took a good, long nap there this afternoon.

I’ve got a call into the crib manufacturer, and spoke to someone at the store from which we purchased the crib. It’s annoyingly more complicated than it should be. I can’t determine the model of the crib, because it’s not on the directions, we threw away the box in our move, and it doesn’t match any of those on the maker’s website. The envelope that housed the directions and was attached to the crib says to contact a different crib company. Finally, the store of purchase is going out of business. I was so pleased when we bought that crib to avoid the crush and anonymity of Babiesrus for personal help from a local store.

I’m hoping that the manufacturer (if indeed the company I contacted IS the manufacturer) will do right by this and we can get the crib repaired or replaced quickly and at no charge. Drake will be 16 months on Monday, and he climbs like a monkey. I don’t think he’ll be sleeping in a crib for long, so having to purchase another at this point, particularly given our current financial freeze due to G. Grod’s layoff, would suck tremendously.

Our nightly ritual with Drake goes dinner, bath, naked time, books, then bed. Sometimes, though not often, he pees or poops during naked time. We’ve not yet had a horrifying disaster, like this, or this, to clean up. When an accident happens, my husband or I pick up one of the pieces of clothing that Drake wore during the day, wipe up the mess (usually just pee) and let naked time run its course.

Two nights ago, Drake peed during naked time, and G. Grod used a shirt to wipe it up. Then last night, Drake toddled into the study, peed, then went to get his pants to wipe it up. G. Grod found him, industriously swabbing the floor, though several feet from the spot of the actual event.

Often, I worry about my level of fear–that it’s too much, that I’m paranoid.

Last night, I went to get my hair cut. I parked across the busy, well-lit street from the busy, well-lit building that houses the salon, along with two crowded, mid- to up-scale restaurants. As I entered the building, I noticed that someone was behind me, very close. Uneasy, I moved my purse to the front of my body, and stuck out my other arm in a don’t-fuck-with-me posture. I walked quickly to the escalator, telling myself that I was probably imagining myself in danger.

The person, a tall man in a puffy jacket, got on the escalator behind me, and deliberately brushed my hand as he did so.

OK, so I wasn’t imagining it. I moved to the left up the escalator, walking quickly until I passed another person and stood in front of her. But as soon as I got off the escalator, I heard the swish of the guy’s jacket behind me. Fortunately, it was just a few yards to the salon. I veered in quickly, shaking my head in amazement. I turned to see the back of the man’s puffy coat go by, and a small boy with him, asking “Why are we in such a hurry?”

I have no idea why the man was following me. I was in my winter coat and hat, dressed plainly, not looking particularly attractive or prosperous. It gave me pause to think about what might have happened had it occurred in a place less bright and crowded, and if I had been farther from a destination.

I was glad that I reacted so quickly to my unease, even before getting confirmation that something was off. I have a lurid imagination, so it is sometimes hard to distinguish between valid instinct and overactive imagination.

Last night, Drake was playing, then let out a loud fart, threw up his arms and yelled “Duh-dahhhhh!”, by which he means touchdown.

We burst out laughing, wondering if it would be clever or trauma-inducing to encourage him in this habit. I’m guessing the latter.

But, oh, it was funny.

Ever since I had the baby, I’ve struggled with my posture. Soon after Drake was born, I reached for something and had a shooting pain in my hand. I went to get it checked out and saw a family doctor, a chiropractor, and finally a physical therapist before someone ventured their best guess that the problem was a weakness in the midback, translating to a weakness in the shoulder, and travelling down to the hand from there. When I did the recommended exercises, the shooting pain went away. When I slacked off, my hand became numb at night and I would experience periodic numbness all along the arm. I’m back, then, to doing the exercises and feeling better. I’m very conscious of not rounding my shoulders, though it’s hard to pick up and carry the 25-pound Drake without doing so.

I get tremendously aggravated, therefore, when I see catalogs and magazines in which the model is posed in that round-shouldered posture, like this. This is not only bad physically, but in the yogic tradition it shuts in the heart, so it’s bad emotionally, as well.

My friend NYC Bette has worked with actual models, and says that the stereotypes are often true: vapid people who smoke a lot, eat very little, do a lot of drugs, and don’t even exercise because the development of muscle might alter their body and make the clothes not fit.

Ignore the models. It’s an unhealthy stance, one that only gets exacerbated by the physicality of motherhood, with breadfeeding and baby carrying. Madonna had it right, way back before she was even a mom or into yoga: open your heart.

The tendency is to overcorrect and arch the lower back and stick out the boobs. This doesn’t help; it’s just bad in a different way. Instead, the correction is to breathe into your middle back and open your heart, projecting it as if you had a lovely pendant at the top of your collar bone that you wanted to show to good effect. Also helpful is to lie on the floor with a rolled towel under the spine between the shoulderblades.

Many writers and readers have a dictionary of choice. My friend Chrestomanci once told me of a professor of hers who noted that the good thing about softcover dictionaries is that one needs only dig a very small hole in which to bury them.

When I went dictionary shopping a few years ago, I narrowed my choice to two editions: the American Heritage 4th edition and the New Oxford American Dictionary. Both were very good. I used advice from my friend Queenie, a book maven, to compare the two. She recommends looking up three things: a common word, an uncommon word and a proper name. For the purposes of this story, I am wishing very hard that I recalled what three words I chose. Alas, I do not.

Though the Oxford book had a brand-name cache, and the American Heritage was full of sometimes cheesy and not always thoughtfully chosen or cropped photos, I gave the edge to the American Heritage. I did not buy it for home, though, because another feature of the American Heritage is that it is available online for free at Dictionary.com. Rarely do I support paying for online content. (Notable exceptions are Cook’s Illustrated and Consumer Reports. I must also admit that my husband broke down and subscribed to Salon earlier this year. I’m not sure if I support that decision, but I do enjoy its result.)

I know I run the risk of incurring judgment from other bibliophiles that the only physical dictionary I own is a mass-market paperback, of the ilk that Chrestomanci’s professor decried. And yet, I manage. I can rejoice in good, free, online content while also saving space on the shelf for other books whose contents I prefer in physical form.

From the American Heritage Dictionary, 4th edition:

Usage Note: Till and until are generally interchangeable in both writing and speech, though as the first word in a sentence until is usually preferred: Until you get that paper written, don’t even think about going to the movies. Till is actually the older word, with until having been formed by the addition to it of the prefix un-, meaning �up to.� In the 18th century the spelling ’till became fashionable, as if till were a shortened form of until. Although ’till is now nonstandard, ’til is sometimes used in this way and is considered acceptable, though it is etymologically incorrect.

I made friends with the American Heritage 4th edition when I read its usage note for he:

Usage Note: Traditionally the pronouns he, him, and his have been used as generic or gender-neutral singular pronouns, as in A novelist should write about what he knows best and No one seems to take any pride in his work anymore. Since the early 20th century, however, this usage has come under increasing criticism for reflecting and perpetuating gender stereotyping. �Defenders of the traditional usage have argued that the masculine pronouns he, his, and him can be used generically to refer to men and women. This analysis of the generic use of he is linguistically doubtful. If he were truly a gender-neutral form, we would expect that it could be used to refer to the members of any group containing both men and women. But in fact the English masculine form is an odd choice when it refers to a female member of such a group. There is something plainly disconcerting about sentences such as Each of the stars of As Good As It Gets [i.e., Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt] won an Academy Award for his performance. In this case, the use of his forces the reader to envision a single male who stands as the representative member of the group, a picture that is at odds with the image that comes to mind when we picture the stars of As Good As It Gets. Thus he is not really a gender-neutral pronoun; rather, it refers to a male who is to be taken as the representative member of the group referred to by its antecedent. The traditional usage, then, is not simply a grammatical convention; it also suggests a particular pattern of thought. �It is clear that many people now routinely construct their remarks to avoid generic he, usually using one of two strategies: changing to the plural, so they is used (which is often the easiest solution) or using compound and coordinate forms such as he/she or he or she (which can be cumbersome in sustained use). In some cases, the generic pronoun can simply be dropped or changed to an article with no change in meaning. The sentence A writer who draws on personal experience for material should not be surprised if reviewers seize on that fact is complete as it stands and requires no pronoun before the word material. The sentence Every student handed in his assignment is just as clear when written Every student handed in the assignment. �Not surprisingly, the opinion of the Usage Panel in such matters is mixed. While 37 percent actually prefer the generic his in the sentence A taxpayer who fails to disclose the source of ___ income can be prosecuted under the new law, 46 percent prefer a coordinate form like his or her; 7 percent felt that no pronoun was needed in the sentence; 2 percent preferred an article, usually the; and another 2 percent overturned tradition by advocating the use of generic her, a strategy that brings the politics of language to the reader’s notice. Thus a clear majority of the Panel prefers something other than his. The writer who chooses to use generic he and its inflected forms in the face of the strong trend away from that usage may be viewed as deliberately calling attention to traditional gender roles or may simply appear to be insensitive.

Track #3 of Fatboy Slim’s latest CD, Palookaville.

Evening in Missoula tea (actually, not a tea but a tisane, as you can read about at Tea Source, sweetened with Ames Farm honey.

The books of Jane Austen, of which I just finished Emma. Charlotte Bronte had a point when she wrote

What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study; but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of life and the sentient target of death–this Miss Austen ignores.

Yet sometimes I need soothing rather than stirring, and in those cases I prefer to spend time with Miss Austen.

On television, that is. On Tuesdays, I curse the network programmers. They have scheduled three of the shows I deign to watch during the same time slot. House is on ABC, Veronica Mars is on UPN and Scrubs is on NBC, all between 8 and 9 p.m. Central time.

Luckily, our DVR can record two shows at once. Then we watch the third in real time. If you haven’t, here’s why you should check out these shows.

Scrubs is a good half-hour sitcom. It has amusing fantasy sequences, and the actors do a great job with the good writing, and actually seem as if they’re having a good time. Especially good is John McGinley as Dr. Perry Cox.

House is medical procedure drama. I have not yet committed to this program but it shows promise. Hugh Laurie, an English actor best known for comedy (see Blackadder, if you haven’t), is a grouchy, pill-popping doctor with a crippled leg and a crappy bedside manner. Interestingly, his character is not that different from Dr. Cox on Scrubs, when you make the adjustments for an hour-long drama. There is an underused supporting cast who do a great job with the slight stuff they’re given. House still hasn’t found its balance. Dramas with dark, unlikeable protagonists usually get cancelled quickly. If it can stay afloat till it finds its stride, it may be a good show with a truly complex lead.

Veronica Mars has been compared, rightly, to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Like Buffy the character, Veronica is a sassy blond. Like Buffy the show, Veronica has great dialogue and explores some dark stuff, like rape and murder. Unlike Buffy, the monsters here are all human, not fantastic. Veronica’s dad is a detective, and in true girl-detective fashion, she helps him solve cases plus takes on some of her own, including the quest for her long-gone mom. Veronica Mars may well be not only my favorite new show of the season (yes, I like it better than Lost) but perhaps my favorite show right now.

I nurse a small hope that House will take a turn for the worse and that I can stop watching. So far, though, I’m not able to give up on it yet.

What I notice most about the slew of beauty products I’ve tried over the years is that I usually don’t notice them. In some cases, e.g., my husband’s hair products, this is a good thing. In a moisturizer, however, I want to see results.

Imagine my surprise when I pulled out a product sample I got a while ago, began using it and–get this!–saw improvement. My skin appeared firmer, more hydrated and lines were visibly diminished. (Yes, I can sling puffery with the best of them.)

The product is Natura Bisse Essential Shock Concentrate.

The bad news? It costs $170 for one ounce. I will enjoy this product while the sample lasts, and miss it when it is gone.