Letter from Asbury Park

 I think there is something valuable in a misanthropic outlook; if you have low expectations, then you'll rarely be disappointed.

That said, I'm haunted by one character in a Nicole Holofcener movie. It's Frances McDormand; she is so deeply bitter, she seems gratified whenever she finds a new reason to complain. There is one scene where she goes with her spouse to a diner, and no one pops up to refill her coffee. A curtain of madness descends over her beady eyes; she becomes drunk on her own fury. It's not that she is wrong to feel annoyed; it's the *depth* of the irritation that is troubling. When I watch that, I cringe, because McDormand reminds me too much of myself.

So here's a sunny, radiant story.

On my birthday, I wanted to go for a swim in the ocean. I planned to remove my wedding ring, because it sometimes gets loose on my bony finger, even after a re-sizing. I announced my plan, then yanked on the ring--and, finally, I watched as it sailed off my finger and buried itself in a desert-sized "patch" of sand.

Here's where this scene becomes something like a Hollywood musical. "We'll find it," said my husband calmly. "We'll pick up special *hunt* equipment, at Target, if we have to."

I began clawing at my wrists.

"I'm not sure what you lost," said a reasonable woman on a nearby blanket. "But there's a guy over there, with a metal detector."

And the guy was recruited to our cause; soon, his little wand began to buzz. He pulled out a strange wire bucket--made a scooping motion--and handed me my ring.

I try to remember this when I feel myself morphing into Frances McDormand.