The Ashes of Atrocity

A vary wise Rabbi once said that "You have to look hard to find the sparks of divinity in the ashes of atrocity."  This morning at the most massive garage sale ever, I looked through the ashes, piles of ashes, but was unable to find anything particularly divine. I found some mildly entertaining things, but nothing descended from Olympus or anything. Oh well. A few of you dear readers have just had the beginnings of your Christmas presents acquired. The rest of the Christmas shopping will happen over Halloween when I go to Northampton, the mecca of holiday purchasing.

I guess you could call the season here Fall, but it's just not the same. Right now, it's like 78 degrees and all the trees are still bright green. No fun at all. Where's the brisk wind, the orange foliage, the smell of dirt, the pumpkins? I have a Vermont fall desk top picture, so every time I open my computer, I feel closer to home.

Also, another thing to make me feel far from home, there are Republicans here. I know, scary right? I mean, there are like 5 at Smith, but they're pretty under the radar, so basically, I've never met one. They walk and talk and it's a little terrifying. I saw someone with a "Friends don't let friends vote Democrat" tee-shirt the other day. I thought the saying went the other way. Also, Nobama is very popular. Who are these people? We should put them in Tartarus (look it up) where all the other ashes belong.

Sarah Galper: Burglar at Large

So last night, I walked home from the restaurant in the pouring rain at midnight. I love taking the metro home in the middle of night (no it's not creepy) and then walking home (even though my feet always hurt from working). I had an umbrella, but I was totally hyper from work and I felt like getting wet, so by the time I got to the house, I was completely soaked. I had had a great night. There was a really fab wedding party who listened to the Grateful Dead in the party room all night, and there was a really sweet couple having their 50th wedding anniversary. It was the night of love. Then I had all these great conversations with my two favorite buss boys, Josue and Edgar. Then to top it all off, I sat at the bar after all the people had left, with Christopher the head chef (the one who swears) and talked about my really hot rain-boots with the skulls and roses.

Also, I thought it was only my high-school friends who liked to poke me and sit on me. Then I thought, oh, you know Smith and Village Harmony, of course they like to do it too. But NO. Apparent it's EVERYONE. Yeves, the french waiter who reminds me of my father but with a snobby french accent, loves to poke me in the side, sneakily on the go in the middle of the dining room floor so I can't say anything. Edgar sat on me half way through the evening and refused to get up. And then, when I was walking to the metro with Josue, Edgar snuck up behind me and bear hugged me around the middle. Needless to say, I screamed, and everyone on the street probably thought I was being molested.

So then, I get home, it's midnight, and I'm VERY wet and a little cold and the door is locked. It is so ridiculous that I have to laugh. Of course, Symon, who is usually up until 1, is apparently asleep and when I call John's cell in an attempt to NOT wake up the entire house, I hear it ring and then see it through the window next to the stove. OK. Now what? I know that there is probably a spare key, but I don't know where. SO. I very ingeniously decide to break in. I simply lifted the screen next to the door, pried open the window, stuck my freakishly long arm through the window, and undid the dead-bolt. Tada! This morning, John showed me the spare key.