At the grocery store last week I faced a daunting dilemma. Involving dip. You see, while roaming the aisles in the scavenger hunt that is grocery shopping, I was hit with a craving for my favorite dill dip. A craving that was not to be assuaged with promises of carrots or crackers upon arriving home. A craving that took control, pushing me and my objections to the side as it steered my cart in a straight line to the refrigerated dips.

I had no choice, obviously, but to lift a drum of dip from the shelf and place it in my cart. But as I reached toward the stack, I wavered. Because there among the tubs was a new option, a fat free option.

Everyone knows that nonfat versions sacrifice taste and texture. There's a reason even health-conscious recipes recommend using lowfat. And low is, in fact, my status quo. Between the three, I'll always choose lowfat. But there was no middle ground this time around. It was all or nothin'. And so I wavered.

First I told myself that I was purchasing this product to satisfy a craving, and since a craving is concerned with taste, I should buy the full-fledged fat variety. But then I visualized myself lifting chip after chip to my mouth, each straining to accommodate the ungainly glob of dip that overwhelms it (as is my routine). I grimaced in guilt at the scene, and elected to eschew the evil of the full-on fatty for its skinny sister.

Back in my car, I ripped open a bag of chips and lifted the lid off the dip in delight. (There was no waiting for home. Such cravings must be appeased immediately.) My first dunk was a nervous one for fear of being foiled by inferior flavor. I lifted the coated chip to my lips and let out a relieved sigh. It tasted great! The very same! Yipeee, let's hear it for fat free! I swallowed smugly and smiled.

And then my throat was overcome by an acrid aftertaste.

Despite this, I proceeded to pop the potato crisps, dip-covered, into my mouth. Each initial taste was true to its roots, and The Craving didn't care about the consequences. And soon, the dip's undesirable esophagal effect was barely noticeable.

I continued to chomp until a different complaint caused me to stop. The snack was stale. Moments ago the chips had been satisfactorily salty, but now the chips lacked zip. I cast an accusing glance at the crumpled bag, but then I realized the blame belonged to the dip. I hadn't acclimated to the aftertaste after all. Instead, the pungency had numbed my tongue.

Lesson learned: No matter the nutritional sin. Nonfat never again.

One of the true joys in my life is making a trip to our safe deposit box. It's the wannabe spy in me. On Alias, practically every episode includes a safe deposit box scene. There's always some file or computer chip that the CIA needs to recover before the enemy does, and it's always been hidden in some unknown safe deposit box. And so there's a race to decrypt some code that reveals at which bank in which city the safe deposit box is located. And then there's a race to find the key to the box. Or sometimes, when they're really desperate, Sydney will sneak into the bank vault and take a teeny explosive out of her purse and stick it on the door of the safe deposit box and fucking blow open that shit. Usually only to find that the box is empty, that the enemy found the key and has already snagged the contents.

(A few weeks ago my dad's safe deposit box wouldn't open. It was stuck, and so the bank had to call someone to get it open. He was telling me about this and I said, "Ohmygod, did they blow it open?! Did someone come with a magnetic explosive device that they attached to it and then did they say, 'Everyone stand back!' while they detonated it?!" And he replied, "Um, no, they called a locksmith." And I was like, "Oh. Well that's lame.")

But with those tv scenes playing in my mind, I can't help but get into spy mode when I go to the bank to open our box. I will walk up to the counter, lean towards the bank teller, and say quietly, soberly, and with the slightest hint of urgency, "I need to access my safe deposit box." The teller's face always transforms from a "How can I help you?" smile to the "This is a very serious matter" expression. Which is why I so much enjoy visiting the safe deposit box - because the details of everything around me fit right in with my spy scenario: We gain access to the vault via a metal door that's a foot thick. The box requires two keys - mine and the bank's - to open it. I have to sign something saying I was there. And the bank employee handles the situation with such gravitas - she leads me there briskly, she doesn't make chit-chat, and once she has pulled the metal-hinged box from its slot, she hurries quickly out of the vault to give me privacy. As if she knows that I don't want her to witness me retrieving a top secret file or a potentially world-destroying computer chip. Or, you know, my passport.

And of course it's always something mundane that I'm fetching or filing. But still, I stand there stiffly while the teller walks out, my face blank, revealing nothing. And then I do a visual scan of the room, checking the corners and glancing over my shoulder and sometimes even peering quickly underneath the table. Because you never know when the enemy might be lurking, just waiting for their chance to snatch your marriage license. I move deftly and decidedly; this is not the time for slip-ups or hesitation. And when I've completed my mission, I slide the box back into its slot (but not before completing a thorough examination of the space to ensure that none of the sides have been compromised), lock the door, and tuck the key in my bra. And then I slip, unseen, out of the vault. I sneak along the far wall of the lobby until I'm out of the building, and then I hop in my car and make my getaway.

I've recently taken up reading poetry. I read a variety of poetry as an English major, of course, and always enjoyed it, but never read it on my own. But recently, for reasons unknown to me, I've been craving verse.

What I like about a poem is that it's a puzzle. It takes figuring out. It takes focus. Poetry keeps my mind sharp. And open. And there is such delight in it. Such economy and beauty. Poetry is an incredible craft. I've been reading it before bed, and it has been the perfect way to end the day because it both presents a challenge and soothes me before sleep.

I bought Word of Mouth and loved it. It's a compilation of poems featured on NPR. I always enjoy hearing poets read their work during that segment, and I was thrilled when I happened upon this book at Barnes & Noble. And I definitely recommend it as an excellent collection of (and introduction to) contemporary poetry.

David Lehman is the poet I liked immediately upon hearing him read his poems on NPR. Part of the reason I bought Word of Mouth was because his poems were included. Recently at a book fair, I found two of his books of poems, The Daily Mirror and Valentine Place. I bought them both. I was especially intrigued by The Daily Mirror because it's the result of an experiment he began - to write a poem every day. It is, as he calls it, "a journal in poetry." I loved the concept, but many of the poems, honestly, didn't resonate with me. Nor did many of the ones in Valentine Place. There are some gems, but overall he proved to be not the right fit for me.

That's okay - I've got several more books by other poets stacked on my nightstand. And I'll happily take your recommendations if you've got any.

I've been sick. The flu or something. (Not E. coli, although I joked to Rob that it might be. Which isn't funny, except that with me it would be. Because I'm a wee bit obsessive in the kitchen about salmonella and the like, wiping the counters furiously with antibacterial wipes any time the teeniest drop of egg yolk is on the counter and insisting that Rob use a different turner on the cooked meat than he did on the raw meat (and NO, rinsing doesn't count). Rob thinks I go a bit overboard, but I'm all, "Rob, we could get salmonella! Or maybe even E. coli!" And he's always like, "People don't actually get that stuff." But oh! They so do! Front page of CNN.com, sucker!)

Anyway, I've been sick. Lying on the sofa staying home from work sick. Hence the silence around here. I've had nothing to say and no energy to say it. And then Tuesday night our DSL modem died. So our server was down all day yesterday, which means that not only were our websites down, but also our email was down and we, obviously, had no connection to the wonderful world wide web. I spent the day at home - still sick but starting to feel a wee bit better - and I was completely miserable the entire day. Not because of the being sick thing, but because of the no internet thing. HOW DID PEOPLE LIVE BEFORE THE INTERNET?! Every damn thing I went to do, I couldn't. I couldn't catch up on blogs, couldn't read the news, couldn't access the bread recipe I needed, couldn't watch videos, couldn't look up a phone number that wasn't listed in the phone book, couldn't track my packages, couldn't shop. Not to mention the trillion questions that crossed my mind that I couldn't research. I finally dragged my sorry ass into work just so I could get connected.

We got a new DSL modem late last night and things are mostly up and running again now. Which is not to say that I'll be online tonight because today? Today?! TODAY is the return of television! Fabulous, beautiful television! The Office! And my dear, glorious Grey's! And ER WITH JOHN STAMOS.

Last evening Rob and I fell asleep on the sofa while watching tv. This happens to us pretty much every time we have wine for dinner. Wine used to make us giddy but now it just makes us tired. Same with life. I think that means we're old. Anyway, after a nice dinner with wine, we'll retire to the living room and snuggle up on the sofa to watch something on tv, only to wake up three hours later.

(Did I really just say "retire"? Like I'm an 80 year-old woman in a floral house dress suggesting we take our tea into the parlor?)

The problem with this cozy little routine of ours is that we wake up well past midnight in the stupor that comes from having been sound asleep, only to realize that we are not in bed and that getting there will require The Routine - the face washing and teeth brushing and birth control pill taking, etc. (I will admit to sometimes being so stupefied and sleepy that I skip The Routine - except for the birth control pill taking which, even with a half-numb brain, I'm able to recognize the importance of. Sometimes I'm tempted to postpone the pill-taking until morning but then I remind myself that if we had a kid I would be THIS TIRED TIMES TEN.)

Usually Rob is the one who wakes up first and has to rouse me from sleep, only to discover that his wife has been transformed into a fire-breathing dragon who will singe the eyebrows off anyone who dares disturb her slumber. But recently I've been the first to stir from our Napa-induced naps and proceed to get exasperated by Rob's orneriness. Last night was no different. He refused to get up no matter what I said, now matter how meanly I said it, no matter how many times I called him a dickhead. (What? I'm not exactly in my best frame of mind at these moments, either.) Eventually I gave up and decided to check my email before shutting down my laptop. But when I did, I got a server error.

"Rob, our server is down."

He opened his eyes. "What?"

"I'm getting a connection error."

And dude shot off the sofa and stumbled hurriedly downstairs to fix it, like the world was about to explode and he had only two seconds left to hit the big red ABORT button in our basement. "Sonofabitch," I muttered. Not because I clearly play second fiddle to a fucking server (although, you know, that too) but because, shit, why hadn't I thought of that before?!

fondue, french bread, and flowers

been reading: The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

I read this novel straight through in one sitting, while flying home from Dubai. I rarely read books that way and wouldn't usually recommend it, but this novel seemed suited for it. The characters are so compelling that I wanted to join their world for awhile. I was sitting in 38A, but I was really in Tiburon, South Carolina. Harvesting honey.

A coming-of-age tale, this novel is about a young girl who has lost her mother and is searching for maternal love and simultaneously searching for herself. But at its heart, it celebrates the strength of women. This novel is perhaps the most feminist I have read, although it is not overt. It doesn't need to be - the metaphors speak for themselves.

At the center of the story is the sisterhood. They are Ya-Ya in their devotion to each other and their reverence for life. They are independent women, but they always return to the circle for wisdom and compassion and renewal.

This novel was recommended to me by a woman who is both my friend and my mentor. She has guided me along for years, often without even knowing it. I cannot imagine a more appropriate person to have recommended this book.