This morning I was cranky.

And for no good reason.

It was the kind of mood where I would think, “I wish I were listening to my favorite CD right now.”

Then I would realize that I already was.

Sometimes I drive myself crazy.

My Travelocity Fare Watcher says that prices from LAX to Moscow have dropped to $441. That’s pretty darn good!

When I went to Russia the first time, in 1991, I had to pay $1200.

For some reason, I was talking to my bus friend Rufina about Russia today. I was telling her about how we carried eggs home from the market.

It is my impression that supply lines in Russia have always been bad. This was especially true when I was living there, 91-93. There were rations in effect for us. FLour, salt, sugar, tea, candy, you had to have ration stamps for all this.

After a few months, the rations stopped. But that didn’t mean that supplies were readily available. One of the commodities that was hard to find was eggs.

Eggs were precious.

They weren’t around very often. I took me a while to realize how long they weren’t around. We’d been there for a few months, and I think I asked about where to buy eggs.

“They will be coming later.”

So I waited. I didn’t really think about it, but one day I was walking down the Prospect, and there was a huge line.

THe natural thing to do when you see a line in Russia is to get in it. You have to be prepared to take opportunities when they arrive.

I asked the people in line what was being sold, and it was eggs.

The line was amazingly long. I was surprised, because I hadn’t seen this kind of line before.

I had already learned to carry a string bag in my pocket. You had to be prepared to buy enough of what you needed whenever it appeared.

But how do you carry eggs home?

They didn’t have then in dozen cartons like in America. We were only allowed to buy 20 eggs each, because it was only fair that everyone got a few.

Believe me, I had my doubts about carrying those 20 eggs back to the apartment. First, would the mesh of the string bag let the eggs slip out?

Apparently not. I watched all the people ahead of me walking out with a string sac of eggs, gently laid together.

I guess the point was to walk slowly and carefully.

Neither of which I am good at.

But these were eggs! Eggs were precious.

I purchased my eggs, and slowly and tenderly laid each one in the sac. I held the sac carefully away from my side, to avoid bumping into it.

Visions of the mess and tragedy that would ensue if I tripped and fell kept me very focussed.

One foot in front of the other, I walked the few blocks to our home.

I believe we ate our last few eggs that night, the ones from the last shipment.

I wonder if they sell eggs in cartons there now?

Probably.

In November 2000, I had a chance to visit Manhattan. It was for work, and no one else wanted to go. I was thrilled at the chance to spend what amounted to a week in New York City, on the company tab. They put me up in a Madison Avenue hotel, right below Rockefeller Square. While I was there, all the Christmas decorations were put up. The streets were bustling and beautiful.

But I was alone.

I got off the airplane in JFK and made it to the taxi line alone. Me and the cab driver talked as we drove to the hotel, and I checked in alone. My beautiful hotel room was filled with only me.

I found dinner alone, and I walked to the office building where I would be working. The dark streets were lit and the tall mirrored building waited for me.

It’s easy to work fast when you work alone. After I did my day’s work, I went alone through the subways and stopped to hear the street musicians play. I could stay and listen as long as I wanted.

I went alone to the empire state building and looked out at all those millions of light across the sky.

I went to the U.N. just to see. I went to Central park, and bought a knish, and later a hot dog.

I loved Manhattan. The kinetic thought-energy was electrifying. It helped that I knew my time was limited, and I had so much I wanted to see.

But it was very strange to be so alone in this huge mass of people. I wanted to strike up conversations with strangers, just to hear the sounds of my own voice, and to know that I was still there.

People were streaming all around me; passing on sidewalks, sitting on the subway–people seemed to be piled up on one another like iguanas in a pet shop. I breathed the air that millions exhaled, and walked through the space their forms had blocked milliseconds before.

New York is a big city.

Humans are social animals, so they say.

I am a very social animal, I think. I like having lots of people around me. That’s one of the things I like about California. There are simply more people to be around.

Being a teenager is a time when you are especially concerned with the social aspects of life. Boy, I sure was. I was like a throbbing antenna, aware of every shift in social winds.

When I was forced against my will to be homeschooled, I knew my social status would plummet and never recover. My parents, excited about how great teaching me at home would be, didn’t believe me. “You’ll be fine!” Mom said.

Thus began my four years of jockeying for a position in the tight cliquey circle of teenagers from the small private school I had left. Any position. I had to make sure not to lag too far behind when the group was lining up to file into rows of chairs at events or in church. I felt humliation and self-loathing as I pushed my way forward in the line so that I did not get stuck on the end of the row. You could not hear anything or be included when you were on the end.

Teenagers can smell self-loathing like wolves smell fear. My insecure position did not go unnoticed.

Since my days were long and empty, the catty comments and cold-shouldering doled out by my “friends” were constantly on my mind. Which were intentional? What did they really think of me? How could I win back favor and be respected?

Once, after a few years of this wore on, an occasion arose. We were going in to a church event. I say “we”; in reality, my group of friends were already lined up with a few new people to make things lively. For some reason, I had been left behind the group. I stood at the door of the auditorium and looked at the girls lined up in the pew. They were already sitting down. I was filled with shame at the thought of squeezing in, unwanted, to be tagged on at the end. I would inevitably spend the time looking at the back of some more fashionable shirt as its wearer turned away from me to talk with the rest of group.

I hated feeling this way. I wanted nothing more than to be included. But experience had taught me that I could only expect humiliation.

Suddenly, I was mad! Those girls had no right to treat me this way. I might not be able to be included in the conversation, but as least I could be excluded with dignity:

I COULD SIT ALONE.

The idea was as revolutionary as the apple falling on Newton’s head. Fear and excitement shot through me–my heart was pounding. Did I really dare to be alone? If I sat alone, would the girls then be so relieved to be rid of me that they would forever more exclude me?

But the idea gave me so much more self-respect. I did not have to walk in and take the blows to my feelings. NO! I could be alone.

I marched down the aisle, past the group and sat alone near the front. I felt my back prickle, sure that they were all staring at me. I stayed for the service. I watched everything, finally able to notice what was going on. Once the absorbing distraction of my friends was gone, I realized that a lot of other things were happening.

I felt somewhat exposed, as if I were naked. Like a hermit crab rushing from one discarded shell to a new larger home. At the end of the service, I felt renewed. I learned that there was the option of being alone.

I met some new friends this weekend…Amy and Jamie. Amy just moved here from Virginia. She is aspiring to be…a singer? an Actress? whatever works.

She was aspiring for a long time to live in LA. Now she is, so she feels like she’s made serious progress.

Her full name is Amanda, but she doesn’t like it. She said that she went by “Amanda” for a brief, weird period in time. Apparently, the guy she was dating knew a different Amy that treated him badly. He didn’t want to call her Amy, too.

That relationship ended.

But Amy was thinking that she might need a new name for her new city.

“What do you think?” she said. “I want something more powerful! Amy is a very passive name.”

Jamie was having nothing to do with this. “Your name is your name. You are who your name is. You can’t just change it!”

Well, that’s not my philosophy at all! Those of you who know me understand that I have unique naming conventions. MURPHY is not my real name…

So I looked at Amy and tried to think of more powerful names. “Rebekah?” I said.

“Hmmm…” was her response.

“Well, let’s see…you want powerful names…maybe a verb.
I have it! ‘Di’ as in Diana! That’s a powerful name!!”

Jamie didn’t think that was funny, but _I_ thought it was hilarious.

This got me thinking about action verb names. Right then, I couldn’t think of any other feminine names that were action verbs. Jamie wasn’t playing, anyway, so I let it drop.

But TODAY!

While setting up a video conference for someone my new conference producer appears on the TV screen and introduces himself, “Hello, This is Neil. I will be your producer today.

“Neil?” I said. “That’s one of those cool action verb names.”

Neil himself was very cool. I told him that there weren’t very many female verb names, and about Amy, nee “Di”.

So we both started thinking of names. I told him they were mostly masculine names. “Like Stu.”

He smiled. “Yeah… And Phil!”

That made me laugh.

But Neil was challenged now. He had to think of girl’s names.

“Carrie!”

“Ooh! good one.”

Neil works in a big conference support pool, so he got the other guys involved in coming up with names. I walk like a wraith from conference room to conference room, so I didn’t have any help. He starts calling out the suggestions:

“Nick!”
“Bob!”
“Chuck!”

“Oh yeah!” I said. “Mark! How could I forget my own brother’s name?”

Things were quiet for a while. We were thinking.

It took us a while, but we came up with these names:
Neil
Carrie
Mary
Stu
Phil
Barry
Nick
Pat
Bob
Mark
Di
Chip
Chuck
Flo
March
Carol
Chase
Mike

And, after some discussion, we included:
Eddie
Peg
Jimmy

We were concerned that Peg and Eddie might be nouns, and Jimmy may be one of those names that became a verb because of the person who first performed that action. “To Jimmy” a lock…It may have become a verb because of the original “Jimmy” who invented that action upon the lock.

ANYWAY.

It was very amusing. And Neil was a great sport.

It’s cold outside, and my coat smells like a skunk farted on it.

I noticed the smell yesterday. I’ve been wearing the coat for months. It’s a nice warm wool blend coat, grey and tailored to just above my knee. Very cute.

But as I was waiting at the bus stop, I smelled it. The bus came right then, so I was distracted.

The smell came with me on the bus. Now, powerful smells on the bus are not such an extraordinary thing. With all the people riding, you learn to let these things pass.

The smell came with me to work. It was undeniable now.

WHAT was that smell coming from? I was wearing a cute vintage blazer. It’s vintage, maybe it smelled.

I sniffed it thoroughly. No, it didn’t seem to have a strong odor. The most I could detect was a slight dusty smell.

The smell I smelled had strong sheep tones. It had to be my jacket. I smelled and smelled and resmelled the collar. I couldn’t seem to find the source of the powerful stench that surrounded me when I wore it.

The only explanation I could think of, was that it was the kind of smell that faded with deeper sniffing. Like, you could really smell it when you weren’t paying close attention, but if you sniffed harder it lost the edge.

I decided that I would sponge the coat down with some ammonia. That would un-stench the coat nicely.

I checked every cupboard in my house. I have furniture polish, copper polish, Tilex, some cleaner a guy sold me door-to-door, PineSol and scrubbing baking soda. But no Ammonia. I swear I had a big yellow gallon of it. II must have thrown it away when I moved.

So now I am wearing the stinky coat again today. It’s cold outside! This close proximity has given me more opportunity to search for the source.

Eureka. The left front, starting under the armpit and moving forward. It’s not on the right side.

It’s unmistakable. I had been limiting my sniffs to the collar area, around my head. I didn’t think of the pits.

I suspect the cat may have played a part in this extreme centralization of stink.

Maybe not, though. It smelled much more sheepish than cattish.

Perhaps it was damp in that one area and some kind of sheep-stench bacteria set in.

Well, what’s to be done? I’ll be celebrating the New Year in a skunk-fart coat.