it's like porn-laced crack

Today, Whole Foods opened its new Portland market.

They've been building this monster for a good six months. It's enormous and gorgeous. I've heard rumors that it's actually the new flagship.

(Which strikes me as odd, because what a weird place for a flagship store, but then my brain replies -- yes, to itself -- with "Hello? L.L. Bean?" and, well, Q.E.D.)

Anyway, despite the total overreaction of a blizzard warning that the weather services posted this morning, Melissa and I braved the crowds to attend the grand opening. I honestly did not know that that many people lived in southern Maine, much less (a) near enough to Portland to (b) go out in the snow and (c) park on streets because the lot was full in order to (d) shop at a store sarcastically referred to as "Whole Paycheck." But shop they did, and so did we.

I have not yet recovered from the chef-wannabe heaven I found myself exploring this morning. Our Whole Foods has things I've never seen, even at the big River Street store in Cambridge. In addition to the usual salad bar, for example, this store boasts an antipasto bar, a soup bar, a separate chowder and stew bar, a make-your-own trail mix bar (aside from the bulk foods aisle), another salad bar focused on prepared dishes, an Indian food bar (no, really), and a dessert bar, plus a hibachi grill, a trattoria, a dim sum and noodle counter, and an actual sit-down sushi bar.

I won't even get into the outstanding produce, butcher shop, seafood counter, and cheese counter -- or, as I like to think of it, la fromagerie.

Or the freshly made (in-house) gelato.

Going to shop there today was kind of my Valentine's Day present, inasmuch as it's not the type of store where I would ever shop for staples. However, a lot of the prices in the produce section, and the specials in seafood -- I didn't shop meat or gourmet cheese today -- ran the gamut from "reasonable" to "less than the big supermarket." (Red seedless grapes for $1.50/lb definitely beats the local grocery stores, at least at this time of year.) I also found items like baby french carrots and pattypan squash, which I've never seen, in season or out, anywhere else, and for which I've actually been harboring the perfect romantic-meal recipe, and locally-made marscarpone cheese for my made-from-scratch marscarpone-swirl brownies.

Melissa and I had a blast. I can't wait for the crowds to die down so I can explore without actually having to smack people upside the head in order to reach the portobellos.

such a child of the eighties

From Reuters, we learn that The Police have a sense of humor about reuniting. Or are just desperate for money.

From Defamer, we learn that most of the entertainment bloggers are pretty much the same age as I am ("Dune's Feyd-Rautha, the band leader from the Dennis Miller Show, and an unnamed drummer have announced their intentions to embark upon a worldwide tour as a musical act. This "super group," as it were, will travel under the name of The Police. Should be interesting.") and can make that joke far more amusing.

Donations of Bonnaroo tickets welcome.

it's because i used to eat gin-soaked olives out of parental martinis

My next vacation?


Clearly, London.

lousy smarch weather

I'm sorry, WCSH News, but if this is "unseasonably cold," just when would it be, well, seasonable???







Thank heavens Jim did not decide to apply to law schools in Alaska. Lordy.

best thirty seconds of the whole night

target audience = me

Pedigree, the dog food brand, has been running an ad campaign to promote their dog-adoption drive. There are several that focus on individual dogs in shelters (all have since been adopted, I learned on the website). One ad, however, gets me every time. It shows several dogs in shelter pens, most with that typical kind of confused look that dogs tend to have, with a voice-over of the dogs' shared internal monologue.

I can't remember it verbatim, but it ends, "I don't know how I got here. I just know I'm a good dog, and I want to go home."

AUGH! Heart...knotting...need...doggy...

(The pup above, by the way, is a Scotch terrier mix named Oatmeal, also now happily ensconced in a loving home.)

Look, I'm not a psychotic activist with an all-consuming passion for the fauna of our world; Lord knows I've yet to meet a spider I don't wish dead several times over. However, I've lived for too long in pet-prohibited buildings, and I feel, very strongly, that lacking something that comes from having a furry little face to greet me at the door. I always had a dog growing up, and as soon as I'm allowed, I will always have pets from this point forward. For a little food and shelter, we get unconditional love, and I can think of few things more wonderfully solid in our increasingly disconnected electronic age.

If you feel so inclined, you can donate to the adoption campaign at Pedigree's site. Or spread the word to friends who are looking for pets, or just give your own furry companion an extra scratch behind the ears or belly rub. They should know just how lucky they are, and I think you should too.

how my husband shops for groceries

Jim: "So I was leaving the beer, and I was looking at the list as I prepared to go up to food storage, over to the cheese and back down through frozen, when I realized I had forgotten the chocolates. I would have to backtrack! But then, see, I noticed the seasonal aisle right on my way, with all the Valentine's chocolate. And I thought, "Ah-hah! I know I can find something here." Isn't that great?"

And I used to wonder why he still talks about the day in Paris when we forgot the good map at a café.

yip yip

These things scared the bejeepers out of me when I was a child.

My husband had never seen them until tonight.

Enjoy.

PETA is coming for my soul

Tonight I made mussels again. I have done this only twice in my lifetime -- prepared mussels at home, that is -- a fact which shocked (shocked!) the Freeds a couple of weeks ago. Alisa and I, you know, both adore mussels, and I think our husbands are on the positive side of "liking more than normal," so it's odd I never took the plunge (...hee!) and made them at home.

However, making mussels does take a fair amount of planning. They are not the kind of protein you can bring home and keep in the fridge for a day or two before you get around to cooking them, so it's really one of those things where you have to be shopping with "What am I going to make tonight?" firmly in the forefront of the mind.

They were delicious a couple of weeks ago, though, thanks to Jim doing the hard work of debearding, and I decided to make them again tonight, so I went to Wild Oats to procure some good Prince Edward Island specimens.

I had a coupon to use, so while I was there I also splurged on some lamb rib chops.

This got me to thinking about when my parents or my aunt and uncle would send solicited, or unsolicited, packages of meat (hi, Mom!). The meat in all its forms was uniformly fantastic, but I was particularly entranced by the gorgeous frenched rack of lamb, which really did not seem to be beyond the realm of reasonable price, even compared to that available in this here neck of the woods.

I started surfing around Lobel's tonight, then, to see what I could find.

Frankly? Their rack of lamb is obscenely affordable, unless I've been going to the wrong butchers up here, and I'm not implicating the marked-up grocery stores in that comment (I'm looking at you, butcher-on-Brackett-whom-I-won't-name-here-for-liability-reasons). So forget the financial implications -- it's tax time, after all, and we're due a big refund -- I'm thinking it's time to order* something delicious from The Powers That Be.

Dinner's at 7, if you're interested.


*Ordering postponed until we determine definitively if, and what, our tax refund will be. IRS, are you reading? Good.

an open letter to my best friend regarding the possibility of a party chez elle

That is all.

why i love laura soto

On her primary artistic choices in decorating her apartment:

Laura: "I like a whole lot of crap going on...and a donkey."

Me: "Well, there ya go, then."

procrast in motion

What I need to do:

Prep 1000 pages (give or take) of new SAT teaching materials.

Watch the DVD of Broadway Junior's "Disney's Aladdin" to learn the choreography I'll be teaching.

Copy-edit a 215-page manuscript in my new job as a freelance book editor.



What I am actually doing:

Looking up recipes for bourbon-pecan pie, blackberry trifle, chocolate bread pudding, and the best method of making my own breadcrumbs.

Wondering if Rachel's and my in-laws' recent adherence to the first phase of South Beach has triggered a previously-unknown inherent sadistic urge to cook carbohydrates.

It's not that I can't focus. I'm supremely able to fixate on a single concept, such as "Bread! Yum!" It would seem, rather, that I am singularly incapable of focusing on what actually needs my attention.

Pecan pie, anyone?

cute for the common cold

I definitely default to needing extra cuteness in my life when I'm sick:




The January kitten on my kitten-a-month calendar;






More kittens, on a birthday card from EB;









The flowers Jim got me to cheer me up;






My first subscription issue of Food & Wine, which came with an offer of two free issues of Real Simple.




"Wait a second," you're thinking to yourself. "One of these things is not like the others." Well, I take my cues from Mr. Carroll:

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less."

Sounds good to me. Kittens and gourmet ingredients both fit the "cute" bill on days like today, when I need to escape the bonds of sinus congestion.

Unless I stumble on a recipe for marinated tabby with edible flowers. Then I'll know I've got to cut back on the pseudoephedrine.

what did i ever do to you, el niño?

It's sixty-three degrees out. An azure sky filled with cotton-candy clouds lightly caresses southern Maine.

I'm wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea, trying to pronounce my sibilants and liquids* clearly, and attempting to keep the contents of my sinus cavity and lungs firmly where they belong. Worst of all? I'm going to have to miss out on the Freeds' glorious hasenpfeffer.

I've clearly pissed of the weather anomalies in charge. Great. That bodes well for the year.


*To the linguistics experts among my reading cohort (of which there are several): Apologies for messing up my articulation nomenclature. I did the best I could in the germ-induced haze.

happy birthday to sneeze

My birthday present to myself was to wait until after January 2 to contract the Head Cold from Hell that everyone else in my immediate vicinity has had.

However, now that I've done so, I have to seek out entertainment that I can enjoy while bundled on the couch, clutching a mug of tea.

Thank heavens for the internet.



I, too, dislike the piece of music in question with a fair amount of fervor. But whether due to this guy's hilarity or the Dayquil (or both), I could listen to the version(s) of it in this clip over and over and over again.

Welcome to twenty-eight.

young enough to get (gift) carded

Functional and cute outfits I should buy with my Banana Republic gift cards:



Adorable but entirely unneeded bag I want to buy with my Banana Republic gift cards:

I should not be allowed to shop on the eve of my birthday. It makes the irresponsible choice far too tempting.

happy happy

We went to Lyette and Jay's wedding last night on Cape Cod.

The Greek Orthodox ceremony was fascinating (and beautiful). We gave the Freeds a ride to the church, and on the way back the four of us tried to remember when the split between the Catholic and Orthodox churches happened.

The conversation went something like this:

Alisa: "That wasn't all that dissimilar from the Catholic ceremony."

Leigh: "I guess that's not all that surprising, right?"

Jim: "Wait...who was Justinian?"

Dick: "The pope, or the emperor?"

And so on. Yes, we're that geeky.

Anyway, we returned to the lovely Coonamessett Inn, and in true Mercier/Spiros form, we celebrated. (Read: much food, wine, and awesome music. Woo!)

Lyette and Jay just glowed. It was a great way to start a holiday weekend.

Mazel tov, y'all! And happy new year!

maize

A few years ago -- OK, more than a few, since it was before I knew him -- my husband got his parents a stovetop popcorn popper for Christmas.

After his mother made some pretty fantastic spicy popcorn, Jim became enamored of the popcorn popper. He wanted one. A lot.

More than life, libery, and the pursuit of happiness, or at least so it seemed.

All season long, I've been telling folks at work -- both of the coworker and customer variety -- that my husband has wanted a Whirley Pop for years. I got assorted reactions to this statement, mostly of the "You look so young, you can't possibly have known you husband for years unless you married him when you were both underage" type. (I generally ignored those.)

It's true, though; Jim has been jonesing for a stovetop popper pretty much as long as I've known him, and I kept shooting it down. I like my microwave popcorn just fine, you see, and I just couldn't conscience anything more.

But.

Today, when I got in to work, I was put on the task of repricing all the post-Christmas sale items. It was mostly cookbooks and random holiday food items, but one thing jumped out at me.

Whirleys were down to $11.99 (and on that I get a 20% discount).

I hemmed.

I hawed.

I got Jim a Whirley Pop.

And I have to say? He looks pretty happy right about now.

all i want for christmas

My parents got me a crepe pan, collapsible silicone measuring cups and colander, and a fondue cookbook.

My husband got me an electric garlic roaster.

My in-laws got me chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate.

My parents got me a fantastic clothing gift-card.

My husband got me makeup and a makeup gift-card.

My in-laws got me a makeup gift-card.

Do you think I'm predictable?

I do.

I also think it's time to hit the gym.

And then the mall.

the best things in life are fried

Last night I made a gazillion latkes, and now my house smells like fried oniony potato. Yum.

I've actually never made latkes before, despite their ovewhelmingly delicious nature. (Does anything take as well to frying as a potato? I think not.) I have extraordinarily fond memories of scarfing up perfectly crisp potato pancakes in my grandma's kitchen every Chanukah. Mom reminded me this morning that my grandfather actually did the frying, which I can vaguely recall; more, though, I see both Gram and Poppoo in my mind's eye doing a complicated dance around the stove, trying to stay out of each other's way -- and most likely failing, but that was all part of the fun.

I did not follow my grandma's recipe exactly, since she used to use Crisco and I used vegetable oil last night. I also chose to forgo the time-honored secret ingredient of so many Jewish-family latke recipes (knuckles), so I chucked the box grater and used the grating disk on my Cuisinart for the first time ever. Spinny! Woo!

Yes, I have a warped sense of what is and is not fun.

And what is fun? Making several batches of regular potato pancakes and several of potato-zucchini pancakes with accompaniments of applesauce, sour cream, and horseradish sour cream. I also served a smoked salmon cucumber roulade, but I think I rolled it the wrong way, so when I tried to slice it it kind of, um, fell apart. (My guests and I inhaled it anyway, so I can assure you it still tasted good -- it just looked terrible.) Seems there's just something about having a bunch of good friends over for a lot of latkes that makes it a party.

There's also just something, at least with me involved, about it not being a party until something runs wildly amok. Last night, that moment came after the menorah candles burned out and we lit all the other candles -- and, briefly, the tablecloth, which was the second casualty of the night. It followed closely on the heels of the first, a wine glass, unfortunately full of wine, that fell prey to the power of the Wii-mote.

(Given how many wineglasses I have destroyed in my life just through my own klutziness, last night's Nintendo-related accident is still, to my mind better than putting a big hole in a wall we don't own, shattering a television set, or tearing one's rotator cuff. And I usually burn me when entertaining, not an utterly replaceable piece of inexpensive fabric. So I'm not unduly perturbed, I gotta say.)

I even found myself inclined to load up some holiday-ish music. The playlist comprised Hanukkah Rocks and New Orleans Christmas (thanks Rachel!!). The cheesy carols playing on endless loop at the mall get to me -- not that I have any experience hearing the same fifteen songs over and over and over for nine hours, no, not at all -- but last night's combination was the perfect musical antidote to all that.

My original reason for the having the party, I can now admit, was slightly selfish. I've been feeling rather Grinchlike lately, almost like I've been caught out of time in an entirely different part of the year. Having friends over, though, makes a holiday out of any moment. So while I still have to break out The Messiah at some point this week, and there's no snow on the ground? Last night was a pretty great holiday.

maybe choosing to take pucks to the head is a sign

I am not entirely sure what this phenomenon says about me, given that my favorite players are always goalies.

In fact, interviewing CuJo was far and away the highlight of my brief career as a sports -- all right, a hockey -- columnist. This is, I should add, the same career (for the illustrious (snrk!) establishment of the John Burroughs World) during which I actually finagled a press pass and got to sit in the fabulously luxurious press box at a Blues game in the then-new Kiel Center. I did so on a night that will live in my memory as the night I met Bobby Hull, who was drunk and hit on me while his son scored a double hat trick. I also met Bobby Orr, who was a true gentleman and herded the lascivious Hull away from the wide-eyed, relatively freaked-out girl in the elevator who was frantically taking notes on a steno pad, which she only had because she thought it was somehow reporter-esque.

Not to say I didn't turn the experience into a column. I did. No one much cared, including me.

But the day I got to linger outside the locker room after pre-skate and ask what had to be the dumbest questions ever ("So, uh, do you get tired during games?") to a young and probably at least moderately unbalanced guy who had the image of a rabid evil dog painted on his helmet?

Pure joy. Did I turn it into a column? Probably. Did anyone care? Hells yeah. CuJo was a god back then.

Goalies may be crazy, but their fans? Positively wacked.

warning: theatre geek-out

Oh Doogie....



(Although the best part might be stage veteran Megan Mullally nearly losing it when they hit the counterpoint.)

either they like me, or i'm a pushover

Speaking of aprons, if you need me over the next few weeks, you might want to try Williams-Sonoma at the Maine Mall at the following times:

Thursday 12/7, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Friday 12/8, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Monday 12/11, 2 p.m. - 6 p.m.
Tuesday 12/12, 12 p.m. - 5 p.m. E.T.A.: 11:30 a.m. -6 p.m.
Thursday 12/14, 1 p.m. - 6 p.m. (Happy birthday, Mom!)
Friday 12/15, 11 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.
Saturday 12/16, 1 p.m. - 9 p.m.*
Tuesday 12/19, 12:30 p.m. - 6:30 p.m.
Wednesday 12/20, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Thursday 12/21, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Friday 12/22, 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Saturday 12/23, 10 a.m. - 5 p.m.

On the upside, the net pay just might cover everything I've bought there this season. Woo-hoo!

*I don't normally work this type of late-ending shift, but I traded with a friend who forgot she needed that day off. Might as well, right?

i think i need a new apron, too

I woke up this morning to snow.

I am overwhelmed by a desire to spend the day baking.

Betty Friedan is probably spinning in her grave because of me.

Still, I bet she'd like my cookies.

"choose monkeys or penguins"

But what if I wanted one of each?

In reality I neither want nor need these, but I do think they are the cutest things I've seen in the "entirely non-essential gadget" category in a long long time.

Plus the ad copy is unintentionally hilarious. Good times, good times.

ho there spirit, weather wander you?

Tuesday, November 21st: Earliest snowfall in decades recorded in South Carolina (during our visit there).

Thursday, November 30th: Between one and two feet of snow predicted for St. Louis and other parts of Missouri and the Midwest.

Monday, November 27th throughFriday, December 1st: Highs in the upper 50s to 60 in Portland, Maine. No snow yet this season.

That alternate universe on DS9 is starting to sound more and more credible

an utter and complete nonsequitur

Because there is nothing for post-Thanksgiving recovery like Tim Gunn, Stephen Colbert, and Thomas Jefferson.

our reservations are only for two, thanks

I would put money on the idea that the timing of this article will inspire even more grandbaby-lust in my dad. "Look! The Times says Charleston's a great place to go with children!" (He's adorable when it comes to wanting grandkids.)

Which is indubitable, as I can attest -- I loved going to Charleston with my parents and paternal grandparents when I was younger. You can look out over the water and see Fort Sumter, then wander past the beautiful pastel-colored houses surrounding The Battery, where actual Civil War-era cannon still stand on display. The weekend open-air market has a number of Gullah arts stands, while the longest continuously operating Reform congregation in the United States is just off King Street. Plus the weather is usually gorgeous and the city is fantastically walkable. It's very much a southern Boston in terms of history, but friendlier.

Of course, Dad will likely follow up his original comment about children with, "So when are you having one?"

I have run out of pithy responses to that question, but I can say for sure that somewhere between the law-and-policy schooling, the moving, the full-time working, and the new ponderings about the Culinary Institute?

Yeah, we'll get right on that.

justify my love

It's never too early for a New Year's Resolution, right?

Well, perhaps it is, especially given that I neither believe in the institution nor actually ever feel like resolving anything come January 1st. (Really, does anyone? Is anyone even awake on January 1st?)

However, an e-mail I received today from Wine Spectator's Sips and Tips prompted me to change my mind just this once. So, here goes:

I resolve to try every wine on this list before the next year's results come out.

Which is really just a seasonal way of justifying my desire to host a blind tasting party. Who's free in January?

Á votre santé!

just because it made me laugh

southern comfort

I am so very much looking forward to Thanksgiving this year.

I always look forward to Thanksgiving -- it's by far my favorite winter family-gathering holiday. This year it holds even more appeal, for several reasons:

1) We get to spend time with my parents at their house. Which contains them, the dog, a heated pool, and a jacuzzi. I may never leave.

2) My mother actually delegated responsibility to me for several holiday meal dishes. I will be making a salad of haricots verts, toasted walnuts, blue cheese, and dijon vinaigrette; roasted butternut squash with shallots and sage; and my soon-to-be-famous cranberry relish, which actually consists of opening a few jars of Apple-Orange Cranberry Relish and putting it in a bowl. (I don't work on commission; it's seriously that good.)

3) We are going to spend two nights in Charleston to celebrate our first wedding anniversary. We are going to stay at a lovely inn (that also has a heated pool), eat ridiculously sublime food and walk around one of the most architecturally wonderful antebellum cities in the nation.

4) Did I mention staying at my parents' house? With the pool? And the jacuzzi?

Mom and Dad have invited an assortment of friends to join in the turkey-day festivities, which makes me happy, because I think Thanksgiving is always a "the more, the merrier" situation. What can I say? I like parties.

Then again, I stumbled upon Banana Republic's new "Celebrate"advertising campaign, and -- seriously? What were they thinking? First of all, at least one guy in the picture looks like he's ready to leave, given the scarf, and the human being with its back to the camera is, from that angle, entirely androgynous; I can only assume it's female because it's carrying a purse. One girl looks angry, bored, stoned, or all of the above; one girl and one guy are staring longingly at the androgyne; another girl is staring longingly at the first starer; and none of them appears to be interacting in any way. They don't even seem to have coordinated on the dress code, which, come on, Banana. This is no way to sell clothing.

Moreover, if any party I ever hosted looked like that one? I think I'd become a hermit. Or get all new friends. Yargh.

is santa on PB's catalogue list?

After six months of occasional (read: obsessive) scrolling though our honeymoon pictures online, I finally got my act together and started printing some of the ones I would eventually like to frame and display.

That's the good news. The bad news, of course, is that now I need frames.

I'm not normally picky about my picture frames -- the more minimal, the better, at least if you look at the art already hanging in our apartment. When I was most active in photography (back in the pre-digital days of high school), I displayed a lot of my work, but never framed, only matted. I'd like to say it was all to highlight the primacy of the art, but really it's just because that was what we could do in the darkroom.

So now I'm actually trying to have confidence in my ability as an artist and give some of my work the credence it deserves, while being both creative and conscious of interior design in not only our current home but also in whatever home(s) we may occupy in the near or the distant future.

If you made it through that sentence without gouging your eyes out, you probably understand why I've come thisclose to just hurling the prints out the window and forgetting I ever had this idea.

Pottery Barn, however, has a series of multi-size opening frames that come in black or white and accommodate the collage-like display style I'm looking to achieve. They epitomize my personal framed-art design aesthetic.

They are also slightly outside my price range.

Still, I went to the mall yesterday to acquire the three-opening white wood frame for a few of the 4x6 prints I have. It looks fantastic. And despite our recent absurd eucational spending, I need not cringe every time I look at it, because I did not spend my own money.

When I started my seasonal job, you see, I learned that gift cards from one Williams-Sonoma store are accepted at the others. My brain immediately translated this nugget of information as, "I can shop at Pottery Barn!" So I hurried to the frame section, gift cards clutched in my hot little hand, and now have a pretty fantastic start to capitalizing on the one artistic hobby for which I have a shred of actual talent.

I have my eye on the multi-size nine-opening black wood frame for my next project -- which, sadly, my gift cards will not quite cover. However, the other piece of information I learned is that if I were a long-term employee, I would also get my discount at the other stores. It would not be gift-card-funded, but my brain immediately translated this second nugget of information as, "I could shop with abandon at Pottery Barn!"

I may have found incentive to stay on.

a generally perfect evening

Chinese food. Yummy, spicy, prepared-by-other-people Chinese food. Enough for leftovers.

Election coverage. Stephanopolous, Williams, Colbert, and Stewart in particular.

And the cherry on top? Britney dumped Kevin. My faith in the universe is moderately restored.

i'm surprised they didn't just ask for our firstborn

Dear Multiple Prominent Graduate Schools of Law and/or Public Policy,

Tonight, after much sweat and toil over testing and personal statement writing, we threw wads of cash at you as the last step of a concerted effort to get you to accept Mr. Maltese as a student. We wrote checks and gave you the embossed numbers from several different pieces of rectangular colored plastic. We did this all for the privilege of waiting to hear if we will be packing our bags and moving to your location sometime next summer.

Here's the really funny part: If you do in fact grant admission to your illustrious halls of learning, we don't recoup our wager. It would seem only fair for you to then throw wads of cash at us. This is, after all, the premise of the state lotto and the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes.

But for you, that's not how it works. (Are you dealing with a slightly different demographic? Hm.) If Jim actually gains entry -- thanks to his stellar background and hard-working nature -- into your exclusive club of academe, we actually get to throw more cash at you for the next four whole years!

Clearly -- despite the elusive and only vaguely possible promise of merit scholarships -- you have worked this out to your advantage. You are indeed very clever. I doff my hat.

As for my next order of business (post-hat-doffing, that is)? I'm going to go cut up all my credit cards and place an urgent call to Ed. If you need to reach me tomorrow, check the library. I seem to remember a children's how-to book for turning straw into gold.

Yours,

Leigh

...which is why we're friends

If you thought I was the biggest grammar nerd in your life, then you haven't met my best friend.

I trust everyone to go read her fabulous piece. Or at least to rethink his/her stance on prepositions.