When I worked at the boutique, there was one regular customer whom I adored. Well, we all did; it was hard not to. Her name was Lucie; she was French-Canadian and spoke with a distinct, lilting accent. She was the sunniest person I've ever met, bubbling over with energy and friendliness. She also had a lot of style: she always wore high-waisted trousers, which she then cropped to her ankle and wore with Repetto ballet flats. Although she was short, somehow this looked marvelous on her. She also had a casual disregard for size, and would routinely and refreshingly buy things much too big and then make them look perfectly casual and chic. Often she'd wave and smile to us as she rode past on her bicycle - sometimes with, I swear, a baguette or a bunch of radishes or some tulips in the basket. She was an architect. She loved to cook for friends on Sunday afternoons. We'd all laugh and speculate about how magical her life must be and sometimes we'd all say we wished we were living it. We didn't really want to be her, though - we just wanted her to be her, and to sometimes come in and bring a little sunshine and fantasy with her.

I remember, distinctly, deciding that she would be a role model for me. Not stylistically - I don't think anyone else could have pulled off her look - but in the way she treated people, in the way she brightened our lives with her genuine interest and small acts of consideration and the way that, as a result, she had an aesthetic of living that was tangible and appealing.

I don't know why I'm talking about her like she's dead or something when I'm sure she's very well and probably right now wearing cropped trousers and Repettos and, whatever the facts of her life, being a positive influence on those who don't really know her. I hope to run into her some time, and deliver a strange, intense speech of gratitude. I thought of her today, for the first time in a long time, simply because my pants were hemmed a little shorter than I wanted. Now, I'm not even sorry they were. I wore them out with vintage Ferragamo flats and a tee shirt and a sweater jacket and actually felt pretty sharp.

So: I've been trying like the dickens lately to be mindful and not get caught up in thoughts and generally fight the Black Dog in various vague ways (because it's boring and I hate to be bored) but one thing is getting in my way. (Two, if you count the mouse holocaust I've been responsible for this week. There's one left. Like Vito Corleone, I've murdered his entire family and now he's on the run, alone. Probably plotting my death. I can hardly blame him. Revenge, as we know, is a dish best served cold - possibly colder than a mouse's lifespan will allow for.) Anyway: I have been very depressed about my birthday, which is a week from today. What a cliche, I know! And irrational, too. And yet, I feel cold dread whenever I think of it. The idea of making anyone assemble for my benefit mortifies me. But doing nothing is a little sad, too. When I was 25, a bunch of friends and I went to the National in Brighton Beach and it was fantastic - but now I blush at my audacity in asking them to do that.

So, here is what we do. I am taking the precautionary measure of ordering myself, as a birthday gift, a box of pralines - my favorite treat. I am also going to order myself flowers. Knowing these are on the way takes a great deal of the pressure off, somehow - as if I can check the box that says "birthday." I asked my parents to get me a new pair of slippers, and I have a sneaking suspicion I will be getting them. Anyway, as my grandfather says, a few generations ago, people didn't even have birthdays. Or, as he put it, "in the Old Country, who knew from birthdays?"

For my part, I've taken of late to sending my loved ones birthday boxes of candy from a southern abbey I read about online. I'd heard that the candy was delicious and liked the idea that the industry helped the abbey stay self-supporting. But I've never, personally, received any, and maybe it's a good general rule to do some sort of test run with these things. I had my first suspicions when I sent a box, via the website, to my dearest friend El. in Baltimore. She emailed me that the caramels I'd sent were yummy and the "accompanying booklet, fantastic." Hmm. Then, my godmother sent me her thank-you note: "The caramels are delicious, as is the insert of the joyous nuns, working away in their twee little aprons - so unique, and so you." Anything being "me" generally means, "odd," and I was becoming distinctly alarmed at the thought that I'd already dispatched a box to Slim's mother in California. He happens to be out there for work and so I asked for a report on the candy. He wrote: "The accompanying booklet includes such gems as "my heart and flesh cry out for the living God, happy are that who dwell in [his] house" with a picture of a nun in an apron laying out caramels."

Happy birthday, indeed!

Now, one person's perfect cream cardigan is not another's. But I have, after long and fruitless and rather dilatory search, found mine! (FWIW, as we say in the trade.) Etsy, in case you were wondering.

Check Out My Ridiculous Miniature Tam O' Shanter!

Came in the mail yesterday! That's not Birnam Wood, but rather a couple of vases of greenery from the local park.

A Small Thing

Okay. I know no one else is going to be half as delighted as I was by this, but check out these muffin papers! The gay, retro plaid! And I just picked them up at the supermarket! (Yes, these are blueberry muffins.)

Weekender

Weekend!

Started with mishigas, I'm afraid.

My parents met my train from Philly (more on that trip shortly) and, after I'd unloaded various sweetrolls and loaves of cinnamon-swirled, Mennonite-made baked goods upon them, we determined that we'd head for far Brooklyn, where they're (vaguely) considering living since my mother fancies being "near the water."

Having established that they do not, in fact, want to live in Far Rockaway (even though I thought all the bungalows were pretty neat) and after several hours of bickering and back-seat driving and sniping that made my shoulders tense, I suggested by way of distraction that we try a famous, venerable red-sauce seafood restaurant in Coney
Island.

Having gotten lost a few times, bickering a lot, deciding that they may, in fact, wish to live in Brighton Beach and being told to "just follow" some Italian motorist who then sped up and lost us, we arrived at the early-bird hour of 5:30 and settled in for baked clams, linguine with clam sauce and a glass of Chianti. There were tables of oldsters celebrating birthdays nearby, a tuxedoed waiter with a Russian accent, and comforting food, and we all relaxed and had a very nice time. And then.

It seems it's the custom of this restaurant to let every table try its luck with Pachango. With the check, the waiter produced a black bag and instructed us to choose a number between 1 and 90. If the number he drew from the bag matched our pick, the meal would be on the house.

"42," said my decisive father instantly.

"56," I said.

"Choose one," said the waiter.

"Your choice, Priscilla," said my dad, turning to my mother.

"Okay...42," she said.

The waiter shook the bag and produced tile.

56.

A gasp went up.

"PRISCILLA!" shouted my father accusingly. "WHY DID YOU DO THAT?"

"HOW IS THIS MY FAULT?" she screamed back. "I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I'D BE BLAMED."

"I'll pay," I said nervously, just as the waiter interjected that "it often happens that way."

"DAMMIT," said my dad, as my mother's defensive screams rose to hysteric proportions.

"Please don't make a scene," I hissed as their escalating shouts began to attract the notice of the elderly diners. "It wasn't meant to be!"

"But it was," said my father grimly. "That's the point, it was." He waved off my offer of payment and, still grimly, proffered his card.

"Well, I think we're losing sight of the main point," I said brightly as they stared at each other with smoldering rage. "My miraculous psychic ability and the fact that I'm never wrong."

We filed out to the car, where someone had left a folded piece of notebook paper under the windshield. "Sorry I lost you," it read. "Glad you found it. - The Guy You Were Following to the Restaurant."

My father maintained a morose silence all the way to my house. The rain began to pound. My mother thought we'd gotten lost about ten times and became angry and hysterical. I was very glad to get home, put on PJs and watch Criminal Minds with some knitting.

This morning, I called them with some trepidation.

"Hi, darling!" said my mother gaily. "We're at a tag sale!"

"Wait, I thought you were 'divesting' before the move," I said, momentarily diverted.

"Oh, well, yes, but we need to be on the lookout for treasures."

"Well," I began, "I just wanted to make sure everything was okay...you seemed really upset about...the Pachango game."

She laughed happily. "Oh, we forgot all about that," she said.


Anyway. This morning donned gray and chilly and British. I donned the brightly-colored skirt I like for this weather and went to the Essex Street Market for groceries. Then I walked over to Granddaisy Bakery on Sullivan and had a delicious sandwich of goat's cheese, marinated beets and arugula. Next door to that is the Yoghurt Place, so I bought some of their homemade Greek yogurt and a small container of compote. Then, over to the far West Side for a little cider donut at Locanda Verde, and another mile or so back to the subway. Just my kind of Saturday: a morning of aggressive walking and exploring and treats and an evening of friends - in this case to see a lecture at the Center for Fiction in the late afternoon and later a drink with an out-of-town friend at Milk and Honey.

Bicycle Diaries

This evening rode to Saraghina and had an eggplant saltimbucca with Slim. I thought I'd share with you the bicycle-riding playlist I've been listening to lately even though, yes, that's technically dangerous and irresponsible especially when listened to without a helmet like some of us.

As I mentioned, my folks are selling their house. I just found the listing online and it gave me a funny feeling. This was my room! I hope someone nice - ideally a child - ends up with it. The light is very good if you suffer from migraines, although the ghost of Ty Cobb does live in the closet.