Influenza

Last week, after nearly a year of living with good health in Denver, I finally scheduled my annual routine medical checkups. Aside from the annoyance at having to fill out three similar sets of paperwork - one set at each facility - the appointments went smoothly and there were no surprises. And to reward myself for having endured the discomfort of a mammogram and pelvic exam, I went for a pedicure, haircut and brow wax at a local beauty academy.

There I was, healthy as can be and looking a bit sharper than usual when, on Labor Day, WHAM! Without much warning I was hit with a fever, chills, cough and muscle aches. A quick Google search confirmed that my symptoms were flu-like; indeed, rapid onset is one of its hallmarks, unlike a cold which sneaks up on you gradually. I haven't had the flu in decades so, unlike my more familiar visits from colds and sinus infections, I was not quite sure what to do when this virus showed up, tornado-like, and destroyed my plans for the day. Lying down seemed like a good place to start, followed by some Ibuprofen for the fever and aches. I took a nap and a few hours later got up to get something to eat.

Just a few days earlier, in a renewed effort to take excellent care of myself by eating a tasty, varied and nutritious diet, I had gone to the grocery store armed, uncharacteristically, with an organized and comprehensive list of ingredients that would allow me to create some vegetarian recipes. I filled my formerly empty fridge with spinach, mushrooms, green onions, zucchini, cheeses, yogurt, fruit and assorted types of tofu. And some dark chocolate covered almonds. The next day I whipped up some spreads and made a so-called Green Velvet Soup, one of the most startlingly green dishes I've ever seen. And on Monday morning, just hours before the flu whacked me over the head and sent me crawling under the sheets, I had gone to pay for and pick up a bicycle that someone in my neighborhood was selling on Craigslist. The bike acquisition was also part of my attempt to improve the quality of my life by diversifying my exercise options.

While heating up some soup and boiling water for tea I recalled something my meditation teacher often says. She likes to remind her students that once a person has made a decision to take better care of themselves, whether this means changing their diets, getting a new job or choosing not to enable a loved one's destructive behavior, life often responds with an, "Oh, yeah?" and presents the person with a situation that challenges their commitment to their new intentions.

So, rather than kvetch about my sweat-producing fever and sporadic coughing, I will interpret this flu as an indication that I'm on the right track.

Inflate

The front left tire on my car has a slight leak which, due to its location cannot be repaired, so every so often, and with increasing frequency, I need to inflate it. It's gotten to a point where I need to get new tires - not just one tire, or two tires, but four of those rubber puppies so that my All Wheel Drive vehicle will, like a yogi, remain balanced.

I'm not a "car person", per se, and most things automotive don't set my synapses afire. My brain seems to have little space reserved for car stuff, and that tiny bit of mental real estate is used only during the very rare occasions when I listen to Car Talk on NPR. I've been procrastinating about the tire replacement for a few months and have finally realized that no one is going to tell me which tires to buy and where or, better yet, take care of this for me, so I have no choice but to dive in and do my homework.

Since I am trying to be mindful about this process, I want to understand a little bit about tires and what my particular needs are, rather than forking over hundreds of dollars with little awareness of what I'm buying. This might make a lot of sense in theory but in practice it I feel like I'm spinning my wheels, unable to get a handle on all the information I've unearthed. If I have to choose, do I want tires that are better at dry braking, wet braking or have good snow traction? Living in Colorado, where the weather and road conditions can change dramatically a few times a day, I'd like all of the above, thank you very much. And there is the noise level. Apparently some tires ride quietly but have less traction than their louder counterparts. Do I want a noisy but secure ride or a silent but more slippery ride? And am I willing to spend several extra bucks for that strong, silent type, the tire that offers super traction with barely a whisper? And given the limited driving I do, how critical is this decision, anyway? It's hard for me to gauge the impact of getting a decent, but not a fabulous, tire. Reading the reviews in Epinions and Consumer Reports, written mostly by men who do devote a lot of brain space to cars, one might conclude that the purchase of certain tires can be a life-changing experience.

Then there is the matter of deciding where to buy whichever tires I ultimately select. I could try to find them online and have them shipped to a service center who will mount and balance them. Or I could order them from Sam's Club, whose higher prices include shipping to their store, where I could have them installed. This would eliminate one step from the process, a good thing in my opinion.

I thought that by putting this decision into words I might shed some light on which tire to choose; instead, I'm feeling deflated.

Inexplicable, Implausible

I rarely lose things. Sure, I've been known to misplace things, for minutes, hours, day, weeks or months at a time. Inevitably, most of these temporarily missing items reappear when I least expect them to. At those moments I breathe a sigh of relief, both for not having completely lost my mind and for the restoration of the object to my life. But it has been months since a new, high quality black moisture wicking t-shirt has gone missing; after checking the washer and dryer I use in the basement of my art studio building, I went through all of my drawers, peered under my bed, ransacked my closet, and checked the lost and found at my yoga studio. Nada. It had disappeared. For awhile I tortured myself over my possible carelessness - maybe I had let my laundry linger in the washing machine and someone had helped themselves while I was upstairs, making art. And then I realized that I should not cause myself to suffer over a t-shirt, even if I had snagged it for just $15 at the GoLite gear sale shortly after moving to Colorado. Eventually I moved on, or so I thought.

But this morning, while getting dressed for a hike, I was looking for the sports bra I had purchased at that same gear sale and could not find it. I had just done a load of laundry at my studio and it was not among the clothing that I had scooped from the dryer and placed into my nylon laundry bag. Not again?! I chose something else to wear and left for the day. Returning to my apartment in the late afternoon, I found myself obsessing over this second missing piece of athletic gear, the same brand as that t-shirt. Not wishing to wait another day to possibly solve this mystery, I walked to my studio building this evening to check the washer and dryer. Both were empty.

My brain is trying to devise an explanation for the fact that two pieces of GoLite gear have vanished within in a few months of one another under similar circumstances. While it is possible that someone has helped themselves to my laundry, I can't imagine who it would be. Most of the artists in my building rarely venture into the basement, where the machines are located, and none of them are my size, not to mention that I have no basis to distrust them. And there have been more valuable pieces of clothing available for the picking, so even if someone were sneaking around and harvesting my stuff, why wouldn't they take more or different things?

Realizing I could drive myself crazy attempting to recover these items, I am going to try (again) to let go of these perplexing episodes, following the advice suggested by the brand itself. I will "GoLite", moving ahead without being bogged down by the mystery of my missing clothes.

Invitation, Impetus

On Wednesday, just a few days ago, an acquaintance invited me to the so-called "Fantastic Hosts' Party", which she described as a "wild dance/food/drink/socialize party downtown full of artists, corporate execs, and 'burners' ". I had no idea what that last word means but was too embarrassed to ask for clarification. She even told me where to find an inexpensive party dress. Being in adventure mode, I said sure, even though it meant I'd need to come up with an outfit in 72 hours or less. Somehow I'd managed to arrive at my age with fewer than a handful of skirts and dresses combined, and none of what I had on hand was suitable for a mid-December evening party.


I had some misgivings about the event itself - normally I don't seek out large and most likely loud gatherings - but being in new in town I figured it couldn't hurt to be exposed to this new scene. Maybe I'd be pleasantly surprised; if not, I'd don my anthropologist's hat and take it all in. And I decided that even if the party was a disappointment, at least I had an impetus to update my wardrobe. With the economy in a shambles, I was hoping to find some good deals if not some real steals.


Early Wednesday evening I set out on my mission. First I headed to Ross, the store that this woman suggested. They had dresses galore, many for less than $50 and several for less than $15. Either they didn't fit or they were poorly made, looking as though they might not survive even a single evening intact. I headed over to Macy's and made a beeline for the clearance racks. Nada. Then my eyes glanced upon a simple, below-the-knee sleeveless dress with a deep V-neck that culminated in a twist of fabric. Unlike many of the strappy and skimpy outfits, this dress looked wearable and comfortable. It fit like a charm. I checked the tag - it, unlike the majority of the merchandise, was not on sale, not even just a little bit.


I hung onto it and continued browsing, finding a few pair of black pants that were marked down. Rather than spend the next two days hunting for a less expensive dress, I decided to spend the money on this one. I got in line at the cash register, where a customer was trying to use a coupon from the local paper on her purchase. The clerk rang her up and the customer offered the remaining coupons to me and and another woman. When it was my turn, the clerk tallied my three items and they came to just $1.62 more than the amount required to use a coupon for $50 off the total. I felt as if the Universe had conspired to help me find a reasonably priced dress in less than two hours, no mean feat for an indecisive and picky shopper like me. And wanting to bring my bill down even further, I opened a Macy's credit card to save another 20%.

The following day I realized that I didn't have an appropriate coat to wear over the dress. My Gore-tex and down jackets just wouldn't fly. Back to Macy's I went for a more thorough look. Bingo - I found a faux lambswool cropped evening jacket that, with my newly opened Macy's card, would also be 20% less. Done.

On Friday, although I had managed to pull together an outfit, my enthusiasm for attending this event was starting to fall apart. For one thing, there had not been subsequent communication from my acquaintance about how she or her boyfriend - he was one of the 18 "Fantastic Hosts" - were going to get me my invitation, required for entry. And not knowing the precise address of the party, I couldn't easily invite someone to go with me. I called this woman to check in.

She made it clear that it was her boyfriend's responsibility to physically deliver the invitation to me - she wasn't going to get involved beyond giving me his cell phone number. While I respected her need to create some boundaries for herself around his last minute behavior, I couldn't help but feel that she was blowing me off; after all, she was the one who had told me about the event. When I suggested that maybe we could all head over there together, and therefore he could simply hand me my ticket at that time, she said she wasn't sure what their schedule would be. In other words, maybe I'd see them there, or maybe I wouldn't.

Huh.

In the meantime, I had mentioned my dress quest to a few artists in my studio building and one of them recommended that I check out Colorado Mills, a group of outlet stores. Only a 15 minute drive away, and with nothing else on my calendar, I figured I'd do some more due diligence. Just as I pulled onto Highway 6 to head towards the stores, my cellphone rang. It was the boyfriend, asking me if I'd be at home in 20 minutes so he could give me this prized invitation. Sorry, I said, I'm heading West and will be gone a few hours. Then he suggested stopping by later that evening. I told him that I had to get up the next morning for a yoga class so he could swing by up until 11pm. He asked me if I do text messaging - I said my cellphone plan doesn't cover it and I'd prefer a quick phone call to let me know when he was on the way.

At the outlet stores - even Nieman Marcus and Saks - they were practically giving the clothing away. I had never seen so much couture for so little cash, relatively speaking. Dresses that normally sell for several hundreds were discounted to the low three digits. And there were a few luxury items whose prices had temporarily dipped into the double digits, thanks to special Friday evening offers. In that respect, I had chosen the perfect time to visit. A few hours later I left with a long knit skirt, some tights, a funky royal blue short-sleeve coat and some gifts. Back home, I went to sleep without hearing from the boyfriend.

On Saturday, the day of the party, I went to yoga, enjoyed a manicure, had some lunch and got ready to go to a "Change is Coming" meeting in my neighborhood. At around 3pm I called the boyfriend to let him know that I'd be turning off my phone for a few hours and that hopefully we'd connect somehow. He was good to his word - sometime between 4pm and 6pm he had managed to squeeze the invitation into my supposedly airtight mailbox. I checked out the address. I was in luck - this bash was within walking distance of my apartment. Being someone that prefers to speak to people over the phone, I called the boyfriend to thank him for the invite and to find out when he and my acquaintance might be arriving. He was non-committal, but later sent me a text message saying 10:30 p.m.

My inner reaction?

"Whatever."

Although I am only a few years older than this couple, I feel like I'm from a different generation if not another planet altogether. From what I've read about the contemporary 30-something social scene, it is perfectly acceptable to engage in dynamic, last-minute plan making and plan breaking, all possible with the aid of text messaging. I grew up with a different model for social interaction - you agree on a time and place and a way of getting in touch if something comes up. To me, this whole party situation felt non-committal, if not slightly rude. Indeed, this fellow was one of the Fantastic Hosts yet was not planning to make an appearance until after the party was underway.

I realized that if I wanted to salvage any fun from the evening I'd need to refrain from indulging in judgmental and negative thoughts and stay focused on the upside: a chance to dress up, check out the scene, enjoy some wine, meet people and dance. I also realized that I could simply choose not to go at all. Perhaps I'd already received the full benefits of the invitation: inexpensive yet high quality clothing that I'd enjoy for a long time.

In the end, I decided to go. As I suspected, the venue was loud and crowded and many people - including women - had chosen not to dress up at all. While I don't regret my purchases, I was a bit disappointed that my acquaintance had given me some inaccurate intelligence on what to wear. While waiting in the long line at the bar for a glass of red wine, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Molly who, it turned out, was also looking around for her friends. I had not spotted mine. When I mentioned that I had just moved to Denver she said, gesturing towards the crowd behind us, "Don't worry, not everyone in this city is a poser. There are some down to earth people in town, too."

Ah, posers.

Could it be that my new acquaintances were of that ilk, despite my hopes to the contrary?

At around 11:20 or so, amidst the din of this bash, located in a vacant multi-story building, I violated my no text messaging rule to contact the boyfriend to see if they had arrived. "Not yet," came the reply. As it approached midnight, snow began to fall and, with my acquaintances nowhere in sight, I decided to call it a night.

Inflatable

Since arriving in Denver, and with the exception of the first night when I stayed at the home of my studio landlord, I have been camping out in my art studio, sleeping on a cotton mattress loaned to me by my landlord. He told me I could hang out here until I find a place to live and, while I did not intend to stay here a long time, the arrangement is proving to be somewhat convenient and helpful.

For one thing, I haven't completely decided if I want to rent an apartment or buy a place to live, so staying here is giving me a bit more time to think about that and keep exploring different neighborhoods and options. Furthermore, the combination of my cross-country drive, the adjustment to the altitude and to the realization that I actually did move left me feeling a bit shell-shocked and exhausted for the first several days after my arrival. I am grateful that I did not have to look for a place to live during a time of mental discombobulation. Finally, sleeping here makes my transition feel more like an adventure and it's a reminder of how far I've come in my personal growth - even a few years ago I would not have considered doing this, as it would have seemed too bohemian, and I probably would have been too afraid of arriving in a new city without a place to live or, more likely, afraid of what others might think of that.

But, it turns out that arriving in a new city with no place to live is not really a big deal. People are not looking at me cross-eyed. I have a small refridgerator here, a microwave, an electric tea kettle, a place to park my car, a bathroom and coin-operated laundry in the basement. And, of course, wireless access. The showers don't work but that merely motivated me to take advantage of a free introductory membership at the local YMCA, where I enjoyed yoga and dance classes in addition to the sauna and showers. And with my free trial about to expire, now I've found a yoga studio with showers a few minutes' drive from my studio - all the more incentive to develop a regular yoga practice, something I've been wanting to do anyway.

When I slow down and take each day as it comes, solutions to my immediate logistical challenges keep presenting themselves. And so it was when my landlord - a portrait photographer - asked to borrow his mattress back temporarily. Sometimes he uses it as a prop when photographing infants, allowing them to crawl all over it. Not wishing to engage in further mattress exchanges, and not wanting to continue to impose on him, I told him that he should hang onto the mattress and I'd find something else to use. I did bring a camping mattress with me, but it is quite thin. After going for a short hike yesterday afternoon to clear my head and stretch my legs, I noticed a Bed Bath & Beyond on the other side of the highway. I pulled off the road and found my way into the store. It turns out that they were having a sale and the more deluxe inflatable mattress was 30% off. I took a twin size and put it in my shopping cart. Arriving at the checkout, I couldn't decide which line to get into and hung back for a few minutes while others got in the queue. My indecisiveness proved to have a purpose. When I finally chose a register, I ended up behind a customer with an entire deck of store coupons and a generous spirit. She asked me if I'd like a coupon (yes!) and, after flipping through her stash, handed me one for 20% off. It had already expired but the store accepted it, no questions asked. Knowing that I got a good deal helped me sleep better at night, and the mattress itself was quite comfortable, too.

Tomorrow I will resume looking for a place to live.

Installed, Invested

I have lived in many different apartments. Even in the ones I owned I did not invest much time, effort or money in trying to optimize the lighting. Somehow, the decisions involved in choosing floor lamps and hanging light fixtures seemed overwhelming, not to mention permanent. Especially with lighting that would require installation on a wall or a ceiling, selecting a particular fixture for a given room and hiring an electrician to hook it up seemed akin to making an irrevocable commitment. Table lamps, however, didn't stir up as much angst - they could be moved from place to place or sold - so I would buy those instead. As a result, I suffered with sub-par lighting in most of my living spaces and even in my Boston area art studio rather than install the "wrong" lights and then feel compelled to live with the mistake.

But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.

On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.

On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.

Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.

Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.

In Memoriam, My Father

It's been a long time since my last post. And the longer I go without writing, the harder it is to get back into it.

But tonight begins the observance of my father's yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his date of death according to the Jewish calendar, the 11th of Iyar. And Tuesday, May 13, was the fifth anniversary of his death according to our calendar. He passed away on a Tuesday, so this year marked a rare coincidence of date and day of week. And last Friday, at my synagogue, the rabbi read his name out loud as one of the many people for whom yahrtzeit would be observed in what was the week ahead. To help mark the occasion, I sponsored the kiddush after services and, to elicit his presence, also brought some extra food that my father loved and shared with us: chocolate babka and two large pastries filled with cocoa and poppyseeds, respectively. I would have purchased another poppyseed pastry - which wasn't nearly as moist and flavorful as the ones my father would bake himself - but I got the very last one. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Those purchases, plus the special memorial candle that I lit tonight, came to $19.67 exactly. That is the year I was born.

At synagogue last Friday the rabbi, with his eye on the clock, rushed through the mourner's kaddish, the normally meditative prayer we also recite during the yahrtzeit. The fast pace threw me off and left me feeling disoriented, disappointed and somewhat violated, as I hadn't had enough time to properly articulate each word. The moment in the kosher grocery store when the clerk said, "Your total is $19.67" had had more spiritual resonance.

On Tuesday, the American anniversary, I was fully immersed in creating mosaics and preparing for an upcoming art show when my cell phone rang. I saw it was from an old friend, who normally doesn't call.

"Is something the matter?" I asked her, wondering if she had phoned to share difficult news.

"No," she said, "I just remembered that today is the anniversary of your father's death."

"You're right," I said. I was surprised and appreciative that she remembered and surprised and relieved that I wasn't dwelling on it. I was glad to discover that I had been so engaged in what I was doing and in thinking about the future that I was not so focused on his passing, as I had been in previous years.

My father used to quote the passage from Deuteronomy 30: 15-19, "And you shall choose life." My brothers and I had it inscribed on his headstone.

And I honor him tonight, on his yahrtzeit, by again choosing to write.

Idiazabel

With my refridgerator empty save for a bit of mayonnaise, aoili mustard, a few eggs, some maple syrup, a loaf of whole wheat bread and one container each of milk and cottage cheese, it was time to replenish. Wishing to have an adventure rather than simply doing a chore, I headed over to Russo's, a food market not far from where I live. I did not bring a list but decided to follow my intuition and buy what looked interesting, colorful or otherwise appealing and figure out what to do with it all later.

I had been to Russo's years ago, before it had been renovated and expanded and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. All the better to make this expedition exciting. I found a shopping cart and entered the building. The first thing that caught my eye was a heaping pile of inaptly named red cabbages, which actually are purple. I simply had to add this amazing color to my cart. Next I encountered a gigantic carrot. Impressed by its size, I tossed it in next to the cabbage. This carrot turned out to weigh nearly a pound. Moving down the aisle I scooped up some red potatoes and an acorn squash with a dark green shell. A handful of yellow onions balanced the colors a bit. Turning the corner I saw basket after basket of shimmering apples, pears, oranges and grapefruits! I wanted them all, except these were sold by the basket. Moving along into the main building I was confronted by even more fresh produce and other edible goodies.

Fresh dates! It had been awhile since I had eaten one, or been with one. I plucked a package of them and then continued to peruse the fresh fruits. The apple section alone was inspiring. I couldn't resist such pretty pommes, especially with names like Jazz, Pink Lady and Cameo. And then there were pears! Not just any old pears, but pale yellow Chinese Ya pears, whose name reminded me of the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, and so I had to add some of these individually wrapped beauties to my cart. And shortly thereafter is when I looked up and saw him, a cute guy I had briefly dated over the summer. I called out his name and he turned around. But it turned out it wasn't him, but his twin brother, who is used to answering to both names. I'm glad I met him, because I had seen the twin once before at a Whole Foods and had been too shy to ask him if, indeed, he was this person's twin. Now I can shop angst-free.

Relieved, I proceeded to the end of this particular aisle and into a smaller room filled with all kinds of vegetables, including carnival cauliflower. It is orange. A must have, even though I have no idea what gives it that distinctive color. Exiting the smaller room I spotted some artichokes and imagined dipping their leaves in my aoili mustard. Mmm. Passing some refridgerated cheeses I was tempted by goat cheese and smoked maple cheddar. Moving along into Russo's largest space I came face to face with the aptly named Ugli fruit, which looked liked a citrus gang leader with its tough, pockmarked greenish-yellowish surface. The store had sliced one in half so one could see that its interior, resembling an orange, was much less menacing. I tried to apply my fruit selection intuition to this beast even though I had no way of knowing which were riper than others. I chose one with a more yellow-orange skin. And then I spied my dear old friends, Thai bananas, at the end of this same aisle. Thai bananas are tiny, barely two-bites of fruit are protected by the peels. Fun to look at and eat, I plucked a small bunch out of the bin.

Wheeling around the corner I saw even more cheese and the deli section. And that is where I met Idiazabel. Even if it turns out I don't like this particular sheep's milk cheese from Spain, I do love the name and may have to change mine to it. Idiazabel's neighbor was Boerenkaas, a raw milk gouda from Holland. Not wishing for Idiazabel to be lonely in my fridge and to remind me of my sola cycling trip from Amsterdam to another famous cheese producer, Edam, I added a small wedge of the Boerenkaas to my cart.

I perused the pastry section but decided to pass. Perhaps I'll sample it on another trip. I stopped at the deli counter for a sandwich - a "small" sub was just $3.98 and it turned out to be quite large. A container of half sour pickles, some stem tomatoes, a head of garlic, a quartet of yams, a package of baby romaine two cukes and a singularly sumptious yellow pepper rounded out my purchases.

The total came to less than $60. I am now tempted to return, shopping list in hand, to find ingredients to complement the colorful and exotic foods from today's highly enjoyable but somewhat impractical adventure.

Indulgence or Investment?

A few years ago I wandered into a high-ceilinged boutique in SoHo, called Pastec, that was filled with boldly colorful clothing, accessories and housewares. Tightly knit striped scarves and socks were arrayed along a large wood table as if they were food at a banquet. They certainly looked good enough to eat. The yarn and the craftmanship screamed quality and the color combinations - inspired by Morocco and imagined by designer Valerie Barkowski - practically had me gasping in excitement. I kept browsing, touching the sweaters and blouses that hung on racks around the room. Peeking at the price tags, I nearly fainted.

But it was too late. I was smitten by this shop's exotic yet contemporary clothing and I was going to buy something.

I returned to the table and picked out a pair of cotton socks with stripes of pink, yellow, orange, blue and brown against a brick red background. They were $20, about four or five times what I typically pay for socks. The clerk behaved as if I had bought a high ticket item. He ceremoniously wrapped the socks in tissue and put the packet into a handsewn bag made of specialty paper embossed with Pastec's logo. I was delighted by my purchase, which felt like a huge indulgence at the time.

Last week, I wore these same socks when I traveled to New York. Notwithstanding dozens of washings and wearings, they had outlasted several pairs of socks from Target and other such places and had not even developed any thin spots or holes. My fashion indulgence had proved to be a wise investment.

Returning to Pastec last Wednesday, I thought I might up the ante and purchase something other than socks. But the prices of the scarves gave me pause, as did the triple digit tags on the sweaters. I decided to invest in two more pairs of socks. Despite inflation, they were still $20 a pair, a reasonable price indeed.

Ingenious

A woman with a striped hat and large smile came into my studio today and announced that she's seen my jewelry at shows around the area. Taking another look at her, I realized that I'd probably seen her before, or at least I'd seen her distinctive blue and white hat which flopped over her eyes.

"Your bracelets look so delicious!" she exclaimed in admiration.

"Thank you, but I wouldn't recommend eating them," I replied. "They look much better on your wrist."

She poked around my studio some more. Another woman, who had seen one of my necklaces at a silent auction, had made a beeline for my bigger necklaces and was in the process of trying on half a dozen. Having a sale - this time a rather generous one -brings in the serious shoppers.

Ms. Floppy Hat ogled my basket of Czech glass bracelets and cooed, "Your jewelry is just so joyful and cheerful!" I wished that I could be so joyful and cheerful, rather than having my jewelry act as my positive emotional ambassador to the world.

But, she sighed, "I can't spend the money right now."

"But this is the least expensive they've been," I explained. "If you buy two, you get another one free. That's 33 percent off. Now is a great time to buy them."

"You're right," she sighed, agreeing with my logic in theory.

She took a final appreciative look around and loudly declared that my combinations of beads were "ingenious."

Her pleasure in my jewelry and her comment - especially the use of an "I" word - made my day. And it didn't hurt that the other woman expressed her enjoyment by purchasing four necklaces and a pair of earrings. Acting on one's good taste is, perhaps, another kind of ingenuity.

Inconnu

Newtonville, my new 'hood, is similar to my former stomping grounds in a number of ways. They both have a commuter rail station, a UPS Store, a cluster of bakery cafes and a bunch of banks, all within close range of my apartment. They also have a Shaw's Supermarket in common.

But the Newtonville Shaw's, a hulking windowless block of concrete, has always made me anxious because it perches over the Massachusetts Turnpike. If it didn't have a brightly lit orange sign affixed to its side, one could understandably believe it to be a detention center for suspected terrorists. Driving underneath it all these years, I hold my breath and say a quick prayer in the hopes that it won't collapse in the split second that I pass below it.

So far, so good.

But now, if I want to walk just a few blocks to a supermarket, Shaw's is it. I will either have to get over my fear that it might plunge to the turnpike while I am in it, splattering me and its entire juice section onto the pavement, or go to another place (not such a bad idea, since Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are also nearby).

I bravely entered Shaw's the other day, in search of the most basics of basics: toilet paper, laundry detergent and seltzer. Wandering through the aisles, which were differently configured from the Porter Square supermarket, I managed to pick up a few more things. When my carriage appeared to contain about as much as I could reasonably carry back to my place, I went to the checkout counter. The clerk tallied my purchases and I asked for paper bags with handles. This was all quite unremarkable, but quickly I began to feel like an inconnu, a real outsider.

Before I knew what was happening, the bagger had removed my shopping cart, placed half my purchases in a plastic bin and put the bin on a conveyor belt.

"Um, where did my groceries go?" I asked.

At this point he was bagging the rest.

"Can't I just take these with me?" I demanded, pointing to the bags that were still within reach. "I walked here."

But the bagger was on auto pilot and put them in a bin, handing me two numbers that corresponded to the containers.

"Where do I pick these up?" I sighed.

"Go downstairs, to the left and under the building," the clerk said.

Numbers in hand, I scampered after my groceries, entering a tunnel where SUV after SUV lined up to be loaded with goodies by the Shaw's employees. The customers didn't even have to leave their vehicles. My bins trundled toward me, the lone pedestrian shopper, and I scooped up the bags, retreating as quickly as I could from the dark and exhaust filled underbelly of Shaw's.

I am curious about the reaction I'll get when I go next time and ask them to load my groceries into a backpack.