I have such noble intentions.  I understand that new acquaintances might not always deduce that.  For instance, that woman I called out on the corner of Broadway and Houston for throwing her cup on the ground might have been surprised when, after I called her lazy before realizing she was hammered at five on a Monday afternoon, received my middle finger and a laugh in response to her threat, “I’ll clean you so bad you won’t even know!”  Certainly a small handful of supervisors and employers have been unsure of how to assess my exuberance, vehemence, volume, and proclamations at holiday parties.  But I almost always start out on the right track.

Such is my way, I’m a bit ashamed to confess, with my gardens as well.  To reach my flagship model, I have to scooch around Rachel and Tim’s hand-me-down futon, clamber over the garden paraphernalia and assorted whatever “stored” in that corner, thrust open the ancient window, leg it out on to the fire escape where I clamber over more paraphernalia, drop the ladder, and climb down.  Every year I tell myself this is but a small hassle, and it’s not like I’m trying to grow dates in the West Bank.  Continue reading →