DEAR UNIVERSE (Subtitle: "Pizza, Cupcakes, and Cookies")

Today, I have two burning questions for the universe:

QUESTION 1:  Why does Franklin have a pizza shop on every single corner?  

Don't get me wrong: I have nothing against pizza.  I fully support cheesiness in all forms, both figurative and literal!  But what about sandwiches, hot dogs, or falafel?  (And no, that doesn't count as a second question.)  There are two pizza places a stone's throw from my own front door and three within a stone's throw of FSPA. And when I say "a stone's throw," I mean exactly as far as I could throw a stone myself. . .which is not a great distance.  Trust me. (I may have muscular piano fingers, but upper arm strength?  Lacking.  If only I were a cellist!)  But back to the point (I think):  Pizza is to Franklin as Dunkin Donuts is to Boston. Why?

Do pizza and Franklin have a history together?  Pizza and I are certainly beginning to!  It doesn't help that frozen pizza was just on sale at Shaw's.  (Don't worry, Mom; I'm also drinking smoothies and taking my vitamins.  Ask Kristine.  I made her drink chromium, biotin, and spinach in liquid form yesterday. . .and then offered her a cupcake.)  Speaking of cupcakes, I went on a short walk this afternoon and somehow ended up back home with two cupcakes from the Cake Bar: sticky toffee for Kay (no dietary restrictions for this 82-year-old woman!), and pink velvet for. . . No!!  Stop!!!  I refuse to keep getting sidetracked!!!!

QUESTION 2:  Why am I so easily sidetracked?  

I must have a tangential mind.   I also have a very tangential way of checking things off my list of to do's.  ("Oh, I need to do this. . .which reminds me of that. . .so maybe I'll work on that a bit while bouncing between this and this. . .")  I really thought I was simplifying my life when I moved to Franklin, but somehow things have become as busy as ever.  It's a good thing I enjoy it (both the life and the busyness).  Confession:  At this very moment, I am checking one "to do" off my list ("Update Blog") while panning between an OpenOffice screen ("Revise WEAVER Script") and Sibelius window ("Write Accompaniment for New Song"). . .all while intermittently googling things like "How many instruments are in a typical Broadway pit?" and "Did General Stores exist in the early 1800s?"  And we come full circle:  Why am I so easily sidetracked?  :-)

In addition to my two questions, I would like to make two completely unrelated observations:

OBSERVATION 1:  Being a pedestrian in a suburban area is fantastic.  

I can hum everywhere I go without disturbing a soul!  (I prefer humming to whistling.  It feels more substantive.  Also, I don't actually know how to whistle.)   I can zip down the sidewalks on my bicycle too - something I could never do back in Boston.   (Just imagine the chaos that would ensue if I tried that on a sidewalk in Harvard Square!)  I can even leave my bicycle unchained outside a store and come back to find it untouched.  (Don't worry; I won't push my luck on that one.)

OBSERVATION 2:  4 out of 10 people accept free cookies.  

The remaining 6 are gracious in their refusal.  These statistics are most reliable if said cookie-offering occurs in Shaw's grocery store around 9 PM, if the cookies are taken from a big bowl left by the bakery, and if the distributors of these cookies have names beginning in "B" or "E."  My name happens to begin with an "E," and I can back these statistics personally.  It all began when my friend, "B," noticed a big bowl of cookies at the bakery.  "Let's eat one," she suggested.  So we did.  Then we ate two.  Or possibly even three.  "What a shame that no one else in this wide expanse of store has noticed these delicious and free cookies," I noted.  "B" had the solution.  "Put the bowl in the cart!  We're bringing these cookies to the people!"  And so we did.  Even though only 4 of 10 people left Shaw's that night with a cookie in hand, 10 out of 10 left with a smile and a good story to tell.

And that, my friends, is something worth writing about!

KAY AT THE CASINO

My 83-year-old roommate, Kay, went to the casino today.  (She went with her 82-year-old, trailer-driving sister.)

I came home from work to find her lying on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, watching TV.

Poor thing, I thought.  She must not be feeling well.

I made sure my voice was properly hushed:  "How are you?"

She popped right up into a sitting position, her hair arching off her head like a halo of dandelion fluff.

"Oh, just fine!  I'm a little tired."  (I love the way she says "tired."  It sounds like "TIE-uhd.")  "My sister and I went down to Mohican Casino and then wandered around for a few hours."  ("OW-uhs.")  "We walked about four miles.   That's a lot when you're not used to it."

"That is a lot.  But wait. . .you went to a casino?  What were you doing there?"

She looked at me like I was a little slow. 

"Playing the slot machines, of course.  I lost all the money I gambled."

"Oh," I said.  "I'm sorry."

She laughed and waved me away.  Kay laughs a lot.  She makes me feel like a very amusing person.

I think we amuse each other.

*****

In other news, Kay has finished her puzzle and introduced me to CSI.

Also, I had an interview at Dean College.  More about that later. . .

PUZZLE PIECES

Franklin.

Here we go again:  Brand new town, brand new job, brand new phase of life. . .and lots of old memories to re-contextualize.

Funny how the state of my room mirrors the state of my mind!

Right now, my floor is strewn with everything from Russian magazines to final research papers to bottles of cream to bulky sweaters that I haven't worn in years.  My things smell of England, of Ukraine, of Boston. . .but this new house has a smell of its own, and I have a feeling that, like me, my belongings will start to assimilate.  Time to unpack and organize.

The rooms smell old here - in a solid, history-saturated kind of way.  The house was built in the early 1900's, and it's a fifteen-minute walk from the city center, founded in 1778 (when our nation was only two!).  The kitchen has a stovepipe, the sink is tucked away in a separate washing room, and the doors are heavy oak.  (I half expect to see a Victorian servant slipping around the corners. . .)

Franklin was named after Ben (Franklin), and it boasts America's first library - including a collection of books donated by the man himself.  (When I use the word "boast," I mean it.  The Franklin-ites are downright braggy about their library!)

Speaking of books, I own way too many for this little room.  Way. Too. Many.  (It's like a small jaw stuffed with way too many teeth: No matter how I arrange things, the result is always cluttered and crooked!)  But do I need more space?   Not really.  I love the self-contained coziness of my new room; it fits me.  If I could just find a place for every book, every file, every memento, then maybe I could start doing the same with all of the thoughts in my head.  If could make all the pieces fit in one neat and tidy space, then maybe they would mean more as a composite than they do as loose sheets of paper.  Or maybe not.

*Sigh* Too much deep cleaning always results in a bad case of philosophizing!  :-)

I step outside of my room for a quick break and a rejuvenating swig of V8.  Kay, my 80-something-year-old roommate is working on her latest 1,000-piece puzzle.

"You're here!" she says.  "I thought you'd gone out.  I drove around looking for you when it started to rain."

Kay is as sweet and as wrinkled as a raisin.  She's spunky too!  She still putters around in her car - but only within city limits.  Her body is slow, but her mind is quick, and she's patient with my sluggishness as I adjust to my new surroundings.  She's invited me several times to watch episodes of Law and Order.  ("I don't go for the silly stuff - I Love Lucy or Beverly Hillbillies," she informed me. "Give me Perry Mason any day!")

Now she's examining me carefully.  I wonder if she notices my still-puffy eyes.  (It's hard to hide the evidence of an emotional departure!)

"Want to help me with my puzzle?  I've divided up the colors."

The pieces are small, and they all look the same.  I walk over, sift through a few, and then turn back to my room.

"What?  Giving up already?"  She studies my pieces for a second and then, quickly, fits eight or nine into place.  I sit down.

"How did you do that?"

"Just look for the patterns."

I pull a few pieces toward me and examine them more carefully.  It's a picture of Croatia, and there's a similarity in the lines on the tiled roofs.   I snap two pieces together.

"Very good!  You're doing it."

I look up at her from my chair - up at eighty-plus years of knowledge from my 26-year-old vantage point.  

Maybe I am doing it.  Maybe there is a place for everything.

I think I'm ready for the challenge.