Watch this. Be warned, I can't stop saying "put a donk on it!" in v poor northern accent...

Just had friends for dinner (just spaghetti - that kind with the onions and bacon - and, somewhat grossly, Toll House cookies, since it was only boys) and now am feeling like a martyr, since I told everyone I didn't want help with cleaning, when obviously I did and do. I am by no means one of these people who finds cleaning of any kind contemplative or therapeutic.

We talked about the new Neil Strauss book; now I have borrowed it. I made them watch the Donk documentary, obviously. My brother was talking in a very nihilistic way about going to L.A. in a Winnebago, which one can only hope will pass. Slim, not helping matters, seemed to think this was a fine plan. He, by the way, is at this vacant lot he likes, where he's been spending a lot of time. Last night he devoted several hours to drawing a hypothetical building that would meet the zoning requirements, having once taken a drafting class in San Francisco.

As they left, I said,

"Charlie, did you see my new doll?!" I indicated the stockingette 60s girl, who's now positiioned just at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah," he said.

As I've mentioned on Twitter (of which this marks the start of my second week; I'm lousy at it) I watched Grey Gardens last night. (And does one self-reference? Is this breaking the fourth wall? It's all the same wall, surely, and the mason is narcissism and so is the mortar!) Well, here's what my friend Raha and I had to say: Why? Why bother at all? Not shockingly, the best bits were the to-the-letter recreations of the doc anyway. If one needs a reason, well, the 1930s-50s costumes in the flashbacks are very good. The performances are fine in that impression sort of way that can't erase physical differences, but it only serves to point up the superiority of the Maysles film and make you thank goodness for Real Life where people don't feel the need to screech about their motivations every five minutes.

Everyone feeling duly chastened by Jack Frost, I'm guessing; the tip of my nose has been chilled all day. The bone-cold calls for British spinster-wear.

Yesterday, we undertook the Brooklyn Flea and were sort of underwhelmed, even if I did come away with a dear little lady made of scallop shells and looking awfully good for 70 or so. Slim spent about ten years comparing two WWII-era Swiss navy jackets before buying the smaller (although I like his inconsistent dandyism when it rears its head), three different women were wearing vintage parachute pants, and we saw a baby who looked exactly like our friend Jim, even though he was French and wearing little knickers.

I want to recommend again Clive James's Cultural Amnesia, even if I'm not sure why the sales lady pointed me towards it when I asked for something "fun, borderline trashy and Secret History-esque."

Like everyone else in the northeast, I have been aggressively deluding myself this weekend that winter has retreated permanently. I didn't go so far as to get a pedicure - which is as good as tempting Old Man Winter, so far as I'm concerned - but I am a blister casualty.

Well worth it, of course...that spring exhilaration puts me in mind of the days before I was medicated! I had a brunch date with Baby Fanny, who is six months now, adorable, very intense, prone to moaning and groaning and growling, and was wearing a miniature pair of skinny jeans. It was strange going into Brownstone Brooklyn...it feels like it's changed so much since I lived there, or maybe it's just living in Bed-Stuy that makes the contrast sharp. Not to play the moral superiority card here, as I'm the very living definition of gentrification (albeit for purely monetary reasons!) but there is something disconcerting about a pleasure garden where one can't find function without a thick, organic-sugar coating of pricey form. There are, on the stretch where I used to live, now no fewer than two coffee bar/bakeries, a New American locavore restaurant, an organic market, two vintage/art shops and a fancy bicycle store. (Part of my chagrin comes form the fact that I wouldn't have half minded a few of these amenities!) We got breakfast at a happening little takeout gourmet shop of the steel-cut-oats and Greek-yogurt varietal, and it took ages, what with the throngs of Times-toting joggers, dogs named Django, toddlers named Django, and the occasional hipster. Fanny's dad, Rick, told me it's now impossible to get two eggs on roll, with ketchup, in the neighborhood.

(As to our corner of creation: there are, a few doors down, a passel of sure-nuff bohos, a commune of musicians who picked up wholesale from New Orleans and occupy a ramshackle brownstone (which lamplight shows to have been decorated along standard hippie lines.) On occasion they play New Orleans-style music, dirges and such, and it took me a while to decide how I felt about them. I've come down on the side of "enthusiastic love" and am equally sure I never want to break bread (surely made sans recipe, if not 'scavenged') within their walls.)

The day being fine, I decided to do the whole circuit and marched through Park Slope, which is what it is, and for those who don't know, rather like the above, but with an older clientele and some lesbians mixed in. There were many stoop sales and giveaway piles and by the time I'd reached the park, I was laden down with a stockingette 60's doll in a peasant costume; a plaster mermaid; a milk-glass jar; a patchwork pillow; a potato masher; and, for Mirah, a little china dog. I also picked up a vintage girl scout dress, and quickly swapped out my jeans and blouse for coolness. By this time two and half hours had passed (I have a habit of sitting in church gardens and staring intently at friezes for hours at a time) so I bought a picnic of salami, some Cowish cheese from Alsace, a baguette and an eggplant spread (those yuppies know their charcuterie!) and met Slim. Today, just to square the circle, we're attempting the Brooklyn Flea, which may well prove impassible. It looks fair again. The block is unusually lovely, shaded by cherry trees (which are giving forth their characteristic musty smell) and packed with tulips and daffodils and, just facing, a really pretty yellow tulip magnolia. Last night there were at least three barbecues going on; the back yard that fronts ours was ablaze with tiki torches. This bodes well.

La Canadienne

At Montreal's main market, there were several guys making "taffy" by pouring hot sirop d'erable on snow, straight up Little House in the Big Woods style! We were, not shockingly, ravis.

Close-up of the action!

"Man Suit" at Museum of Montreal History.

Boat lights at Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours, the "Sailors' Church"

"Our Lady of the Harbour," described aptly by E. as "of L. Cohen mention."

Ok, here was the best thing of all: the Musee Marguerite-Bourgeoys was dedicated to the first order of nuns to come to Montreal and establish schools, hospitals etc. In the 50s, the nuns of the order illustrated the prioress's life via a series of doll dioramas!
"Marguerite's mother dies when she is just 16."
"In 1637, the plague, a terrible sickness, kills thousands of people in the city of Troyes."


"Jeanne LeBer, a rich heiress and a friend of Marguerite, decides to come to the convent where Marguerite lives, to pass her days in constant prayer."

Here she is, teaching Indian children in her old age.

Poutine, the notorious late-night nosh of French Canada. That's frites, gravy and cheese curds to the uninitiated. And yes, it's vile.

The famed "smoked meat" of Montreal, basically brisket. More appetizing than it looks!








(Images courtesy of Eloise)

Happy easter etc.

This week:

Highly secular Seders attended: 1

Easter baskets given: 1

Small hats embellished for occasion with vintage velvet pansies: 1

Nanette Lepore suits originally purchased for wedding getaway at first, non-wedding: 1

Church services attended: 0, although we waited for about 20 minutes for space to open up at Saint Tom's...Presbyterian Church, as usual, had to take spillover.

Museum exhibits attended: 2. Die Brucke (movement of early German expressionists from Dresden) at Neue Gallery, excellent. Today, "Into the Sunset: Photography's View of the American West" at MoMA. Fascinating images, some beautiful, but mind-numbingly heavy-handed notes, seemingly written by 19-year-old who needed to drive home banality of suburbia, hollowness of the American dream, regardless of whether the photographer's intentions were more nuanced or ambiguous.

Movies seen: 2. Adventureland (has its moments) and Sin Nombre (predictable but engaging.)

Boldfaces seen: 2. Rich young person, heir to a manufacturing fortune, known for making film about rich young people, spotted at Neue with beautifully-dressed moddle type. Then, at bakery in midtown known for good hot cross buns, famous and beautiful author of British extraction, currently working at a New York university as opposed to her usual New England haunt.

Best thing eaten: pan con tomate at Bar Jamon. Also good: a new chickpea salad I improvised.

Sad times: 1


The rest: family troubles (2 kinds); mouse trouble; didn't finish any books and watched several episodes of "The Thorn Birds" on YouTube; cleaned pantry which is good but mouse means must do it again; was better about Twitter; clipped three funny newspaper pps; didn't get out enough; wanted Spring badly but settled for cold and liked it; relatively sociable although still bad; wish I knew how to take better pictures; must phone and write everyone I know; at least a few of them; must stop buying burdock, ramps and other things I won't cook.

Questions of Travel

On the spur, Maeve, Eloise and I went to Montreal. Although our route, against all the dictates of geographical logic, took us through D.C. (making the one-hour trip, four) in the moment it somehow seemed to all of us infinitely preferable to be in motion.

Much more on the trip later - much more! - but for now the ride home, sadly, needs its own entry.

The unpleasantness began right away at the Montreal airport, and as usual was entirely my own fault. A few years ago I lost my passport and got a new one. Then the old one turned up. I seem to have picked up the old, expired one which, naturally, didn't sit well with various Canadian border folk, who said there was nothing for it but for me to wait around in a series of rooms while people looked very much askance at my story and ultimately allowed me through, but not without much unpleasant sternness and an enormous red "CANCELLED" across the front page. To add insult to injury, the very officious security agent confiscated my tub of maple butter.

We would have been cutting it close - had the flight not been delayed an hour and then an additional on the runway. Storms, or so we were told. Having reached the capital, the stewardess announced nervously that our plane had been "randomly selected" for additional security checks in the "federal terminal" - this despite the fact that we were already two hours late and literally everyone on the plane had a connection to make. Lest we try to make a run for it, the plane's exit led us directly onto some sort of shuttle bus. I was convinced the whole security uproar was due to my faulty passport, and was in agonies of guilt. I took the precaution of removing the moccasins and coonskin cap I'd donned for the flight, as they made me look both suspicious and insane. Maeve, for her part, was sure the culprit was a student type looking around nervously and chomping rapidly on some gum - although we both admitted that it was possible he just needed a cigarette.

We pulled up and ran a gauntlet of sniffing dogs and stern agents. Obviously, as soon as my passport made its appearance, I was ushered into the "special room." Maeve, being my accomplice, was too. The agent was very kind.
"I'm so stupid," I said bitterly.
"Aw, you're okay," he said nicely. He liked to hike and I kind of fell in love with him.

There was another security checkpoint then, but to everyone's disgust - especially the agents responsible for cleaning - human excrement had somehow gotten smeared all over the conveyor belt, so that all took a long time. Maeve and I switched to a standby flight and she had a cigarette in the glassed-in lounge, where a manifest young ass in a German army coat was smoking with a cigarette holder. There was an extremely crummy wine bar, of which we took full advantage. The nervous kid hadn't resurfaced; Maeve was convinced he'd been arrested. I speculated that, even were he not the mule they were looking for, he'd probably had the ill fortune to be carrying a little weed or something, and now they were probably going extra hard on him to justify the song-and-dance of the security checkpoint and attendant excrement. The wine was crummy, the oldies station first-rate.

"I must admit," said Maeve, "I'm really enjoying this."
"Me too!" I said. "Do you know, I don't think I'm constitutionally capable of boredom? I love everything!"
"I know!" said Maeve. "That smoking lounge was objectively the most depressing place I've ever been. And I loved it! I laughed out loud with glee."

We had three glasses of wine each and as a result almost missed our flight.

Once onboard, being tipsy, I for some reason took it upon myself to translate all the captain's announcements in completely inadequate French to a Canadian couple in the next row. And, au lit, as we say in Quebec.

On Trench Coats

Someone asked me recently about trenches, and quite honestly I wish I had better answers, since I found my best one at a thrift store! But Eloise, who has the best trench collection of anyone, has found some real lookers at H&M. And if you can splurge, I saw a really lovely, minimalist, Parisian one at APC (of course.)

Sometimes when I am down I watch old episodes of Made on MTV.com. At first I liked the ones where nerds get made over into homecoming queens and such because I identified more with them (and "John is Made Into Prom King" is still my all time favorite)but lately I have branched out into "popular kid becomes brain" and I almost admire them more, because the challenges are arguably greater and because the motivation is very pure...although, because their challenges are very big things like learning robot science (shows what I know!) or debate, they don't tend to do quite as well. Whereas someone might just become prom queen, the "academic" challenges rarely rate more than a third or fourth place finish.

Deep thoughts, you see.