THE USUAL

Is anyone else embarrassed by a routine?

I frequent a coffee shop near my workplace. Not every day, but a few times a week I wander over and get a tall single latte and, often, two citrus almond biscotti. Not too long ago, one of the baristas looked up and saw me at the counter. "Your usual?" she asked.

My usual?

I almost fell over with embarrassment.

Yes, I always order the same thing, but someone noticed it and dubbed it my "usual"? Oh man.

I meekly assented as she turned her back to make a tall single latte, no sprinkles.

After that, I'd walk to the shop hoping there'd be a different barista on duty — one who'd ask my pleasure as though I might say anything at all. One who didn't have me pegged. A double iced Indonesian, for example, or a chocolate egg cream.

Probably half the time there was a different barista and I felt OK — unconstrained — ordering my usual. But then, another day, there she'd be. Recently, before she could say "the usual?" I blurted out, "I feel funny ordering the same thing all the time." She just waved her hand and said, "There's nothing wrong in knowing what you want."

I took some comfort in that, but nevertheless ordered a peach scone instead of the two biscotti — just to put her on notice that my usual could become unusual at any moment. I could throw her a curveball. She'd better be ready. But as I left the shop with my peach scone, my soul was crying for the biscotti. And, who was I kidding? I might bring myself to vary the snack, but I wasn't going to budge on the single tall latte. I would still have a usual — just a usual with insignificant variations. She knew it and I knew it.

And I also knew that she undoubtedly fixed "usuals" for people all day long, some maybe twice a day for years running, and no one batted an eye. The usual was usual.

The usual is even sort of enviable. I remember watching old movies and being impressed when the bartender knew a customer's usual. It denoted a familiarity, a special relationship, a belonging.

So why do I have a keen sense of embarrassment about being someone with a usual?

CLUELESS

I have this habit when reading to make a list of interesting words I encounter. Usually they are words I don't know the meaning of, like "embrocation" (the act of rubbing a part of the body with a liniment) or "susurration" (a whispering sound), and sometimes they are words that I know the definition of and really like but never think to use — words like "baleful," "asperity," "sang-froid." Writing them down is a reminder to look them up and/or to use them.

What I overlook is perfectly ordinary words that I say all the time but never think about. I've been reading this nonfiction book called "The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher: A Shocking Murder and the Undoing of a Great Victorian Detective." It's about a famous 19th century murder case that inspired not only the development of modern detective work but also the creation of modern detective fiction. There's a great passage about mystery jargon that discusses the word "clue."

The word "clue" derives from "clew," meaning a ball of thread or yarn. It had come to mean "that which points the way" because of the Greek myth in which Theseus uses a ball of yarn, given to him by Ariadne, to find his way out of the Minotaur's labyrinth. The writers of the 19th century still had this image in mind when they used the word. (such as the common image of "unraveling" a mystery).

Most people probably already know this, but it was new to me and is a reminder that occasionally I should investigate words that I imagine are completely familiar to me.

AN UNDERSTANDING

Today a student told me that he has two tests for whether a relationship with a girl can go forward:

(1) Is she OK with cats? She doesn't have to love them, but she can't hate them. A lot of girls, he said, make a point of saying that they HATE cats. These girls do not understand that after they have uttered those words that the rest of the date is just a polite formality with no chance of a future.

(2) Does she eat candy? She doesn't have to "stuff her face with sweets nonstop," but she has to enjoy candy. People who can't enjoy candy are lacking some fundamental appreciation of life's sweetness, which will surely show in other aspects of the relationship. I found this rather touching, as this kid is drop-dead handsome, the kind of guy you'd expect to have a real tall, skinny, knockout of a girlfriend, the kind who's constantly counting calories. But as gorgeous and svelte as she might be, it's a no-go if she doesn't eat a fair amount of candy.

I don't know how he came by this hard-won wisdom or why he felt the need to share it with me, but I found myself agreeing with him. I even offered, "I couldn't stand to be with someone who drank soda first thing in the morning. I really require a fellow coffee enthusiast."

"Oh yeah," he said, "I totally get that."

And I think he totally did.

HOLIDAY

I can never think of anything to say to my hairdresser, Ryan, and, luckily, we seem to have reached an understanding over the years that we won't struggle to drum up small talk. I can just sit in the chair and relax under his gentle attentions, and he can have a break from his occupational chitchat. Occasionally some topic presents itself — the lyrics of a song on the stereo, some dramatic weather visible through the windows, a snippet of conversation from elsewhere in the salon — and then we can chat easily and naturally. Sometimes he becomes quite carried away with an opinion and talks at length, halting his swift scissor-work to gesture broadly with both hands and to catch my eye in the mirror. He understands that I delight in gentle mockery of the salon culture, and he readily indulges me with whispered asides and raised eyebrows. But mostly we say very little and are happy that way.

Yesterday when I got there Ryan was busy highlighting a client's hair, a bizarre, almost medical-looking procedure involving big cardboard tabs and stained elbow-length gloves. So he instructed the new guy at the front desk to shampoo and comb me. I like how "shampoo" is used as a verb in beauty shops but not really anywhere else. The new guy's name was Todd and he had a tall blond pompadour that knocked me out. His eyes were big and blue and fairly bloodshot. He called me "sweetheart." And I knew right away that conversation was going to be expected of me. "What are you doing this afternoon, doll?" he asked as he squirted a blob of shampoo into his beefy palm. I'm never in the mood for a whole bunch of questions about myself, so I turned the tables and began interrogating him. When had he started at the salon? Where was he from? Etc. I found that a single question could launch him into a lengthy, florid monologue, so I was relieved of having to say anything myself beyond a monosyllable of polite interest and a quick follow-up question to instigate a fresh soliloquy. Todd's story was that he had been at the salon five or six weeks, beginning as a part-timer and then going full-time. When I asked, "Are you from here?" he said, "I'm from here now." And that made me laugh and suspect an illicit, colorful past, which maybe also explained the pompadour — an attempt at a bold new identity? This impression deepened when Todd mentioned his wife. It was hard to imagine Todd with a woman, frankly. Maybe this wife is just a beard for the new life? Or maybe not. I always enjoy when people who look totally gay aren't and vice versa. Especially vice versa. It keeps things fresh.

Todd told me how he had grown up in San Diego and still went "out there," with the wife of course, to see Mom. But he hated California and was always ready to get back on the plane after three days. Everyone there, he claimed, was rude and in a hurry and no one had time for anyone else. This is kind of my take on life in general, but I kept the observation to myself because I didn't want to get him on a tangent. "Rude" and "in a hurry" led to how California was also "way too expensive" and "plasticky." I was starting to really like Todd — a hairdresser with a giant bleached pompadour complaining earnestly about the superficiality of human existence.

When Todd was done shampooing and combing me out, he deposited me back with Ryan. We settled into our silent routine, but all that chat from Todd had made me feel a bit more social than usual, so I tried to think of something to say to Ryan. I asked him if he was going to do the Easter thing with his kids, and this turned out to be exactly the right thing to send him on a rant. Turns out he can't stand holiday traditions that are mainly commercial orgies, how all these religious holidays have a secular, Hallmark counterpart that is actually the REAL event, how grocery stores recolor and repackage the same stupid candy so that at any given time of the year there's the same crap with a different wrapper, how holidays are really just a goofy excuse to overindulge. I was voicing my agreement with "yeahs" and "sures." And this conversation took us all the way to the blowdry.

When Ryan clicked off the dryer, I heard Todd telling a customer that he was from San Diego but whenever he visited there now he was ready to get back on the plane after about three days. He didn't like it because everyone was always rude and in a hurry and didn't have time for anyone else.

FOUR AND COUNTING

Massachusetts

Connecticut

Iowa

Vermont

HARVEY THE CHEEWAWA

This is so I don't have to look at those underwear anymore.

Harvey the Cheewawa is the latest addition to the household — an unplanned one, as it were, but not unwelcome.

In this photo he is using Mabel, as he uses all of us, as a pedestal and lookout point. Haughtiness and Paranoia will be the twin towers of his personality, I predict — with a spectacular bridge of Charm connecting them.

I'm trying not to be one of those daft Chihuahua people. Trust me. There is minimal dressing up and even less carrying around in cute totebags. On one of the few occasions that I took him out in his chi-chi carrying case, which I did not buy but just happened to get as a gift years ago for a different dog, some dillweed said to me, "Hi, Paris." Oh brother. I do not consider Harvey an accessory just because he happens to be highly portable and feels like cashmere and matches everything.

More on the tiny guy later as I digest his emerging worldview and his impact on our domestic economy (so far, two towels shredded, one sweater sleeve unraveled, one bedspread corner tattered, some lost sleep and lots of stain removal. I'm sure Ben and Erin can add to this list as co-guardians).

THOUGHT-PROVOKING OR JUST THOUGHTLESSLY PROVOCATIVE?

Am I just too fussy, or is this trend of using female undergarments to "raise awareness" a little misguided?

I walked past a "Panty Line Project" today on campus that is meant to draw attention to sexual assault. As the name suggests, it was a bunch of women's underwear on a clothesline. I looked at it for a moment — and at the earnest young students behind the brochure-filled table — and walked away feeling a bit queasy. What, exactly, do underwear — or their word, "panties" — have to do with rape? I guess someone was thinking, "Underwear contain the genitals and the genitals are involved in rape, so let's use underwear as a symbol." Deep thinking, there.

But, come on. Are all the young college men passing this display of intimate apparel going to stop and think, "Hey! Rape is really horrible!" Or are they just going to snicker and experience that feeling they get when they walk by a Victoria's Secret window?

Underwear, especially women's, is so sexualized in our culture (not without reason) that when you see it, you tend to think sex, not sexual assault. Romance, not rape. And those aren't thoughts that you really want passing through someone's head in the context of violence, are they?

Then there's the use of the word "panties," which is probably even more highly sexualized than the garment itself — the way that it's ubiquitous in porn, the way that it sounds kind of icky on the lips of grown men as though they're talking about little girls, the diminutive, dainty "-ies," the infantilizing, fragile image it creates of women in certain contexts. I'm not opposed to all uses of this word. I'm just saying there's a time and a place and a way of saying it. And a display about rape ain't it.

The Panty Line Project reminded me of the recent "project" that stretched a line of colorful bras across the river in an attempt to raise awareness about breast cancer. I had the same feeling about that. What do sexy bras have to do with women dying of breast cancer? Does seeing a lingerie display really make people stop and think about the tragedy of cancer? What does the fact that a bra contains the breast have to do with anything? If we wanted to raise awareness about brain cancer, would we put up a bunch of hats, just because they're a garment associated with the head? If we wanted to raise awareness about a leg disorder, would we put up a bunch of pants? Or is it really just the sexualized nature of the bra that we're relying on here? The built-in provocativeness of it? And isn't the reaction you thereby provoke consequently kind of cheap? Bras are essentially about boobs. And breast cancer is only superficially so. Breast cancer is about life and death.

And more to the point, isn't there kind of an inherent sexism in all this? I mean, if we wanted to raise awareness about testicular cancer, would we put up a bunch of sexy men's underwear? Or if we wanted to raise awareness about priests assaulting little boys, how about a row of little-kid "undies"? Um, I don't think so. That would be freakin' creepy. So why is it deemed OK, or even clever, to use sexy undergarments to draw attention to deadly serious issues involving women? (Employing the tactics of the awareness-raisers, I include some gratuitous images of underwear to grab your attention and make you think seriously about this question.)